McIan
Journeyman
Darro had been scouting the area for several days, watching those coming in and out, taking note of each one, keeping to cover, what little there was. His memory was keen; his mind and eyes sharp – those were among his many talents and native skills. The Yew prison which was the target of his examination and observation was not something to be sneered at; it was an enormous, imposing, edifice built of thick granite blocks, having limited, controlled, access, and was heavily guarded at all times. He knew at once his task would not be easy. In fact, it may well nigh be impossible, even for one such as he: a gargoyle, well-versed in the lore of stone. He could, however, fly to any point on the roof of it effortlessly. It was the one place left unguarded.
His task was to weaken the stone so that he might get through it and successfully rescue a prisoner, a dwarf of all things. He knew from information received via extortion or bribery, that he was kept on the top floor – which made things easier. He knew precisely which cell was his, and he knew the schedule and rotation of the guards. There would be one, at least, who would deliberately be “away” or would, supposedly, not oppose him when entry was affected.
All was at hand: the concoction, the spell, assisting his native skill of manipulating stone. It would be dark soon and he was ready.
Galbin Glowbeard, so named because in his younger days when he worked as a blacksmith he found innumerable ways of setting his thick, long, reddish beard on fire. Most often it was a stray ember that set it alight, but sometimes he simply got too close to the fires of the forge. He swore he would cut it one day, but then, why bother, as much of it burned off so regularly there was no need.
This day he was far from any forge, and that was the last thing on his mind. He was a seaman by trade, an unusual vocation for his kin, but one that he loved. He loved to fish. He became very good at it. Later he learned he could detect the “feel” of treasure lying on the bottom of the sea, and ditched fishing for treasure-seeking. He had earned quite a living by it, but the thirst for more and gold was never sated. He fell in with bands of pirates, loosely cooperating with those he favored most. He did not care if he was liked or not; he gave his best to whoever paid him the most or had the most to give, for besides his work as a fisher of treasure, he could fire a bow with consummate skill, even with one eye patched.
Now, however, he sat in prison dungarees, shackled to a cell wall in the most formidable prison in the realms. Few had escaped from it and those who did had outside help if they did. He had no such expectations, as he had few, if any, real friends. His erstwhile employer, the pirate queen Suka, probably had learned he was jailed and might find it amusing. His primary benefactor, Damian Racsen, would too. He knew nothing of any worth on either of them, so they probably would not care if he rotted within these walls forever.
Already Scar and the Warden, Itannar, had interrogated him thoroughly several times. They admitted he would stand trial even if he confessed but things would go better for him the more he told them. So he blathered about all kinds of things, but never provided any incriminating evidence on anyone. Why make enemies needlessly? He faced his predicament stoically; he was a dwarf, after all, and would outlive all these pathetic land-lubbers.
One day a young lady appeared at his cell door. The guard unlocked it and let her in, watching her closely. Galbin did not recognize her, but she pretended to know him, so he played along.
“Greetings cousin Duffy! I brought you some home-baked bread. Your favorite! I also brought word from your father. He said he is doing everything he can to get you out of this. He knows you have been framed and will spare no expense to prove it.”
In pretense, Galbin (who took the name Duffy as alias) looked up at her and gave a broad smile. “Ah, lass… ye’r a sight fer sore eyes, ye are! Thankee fer tha food; whas I gets here inna fit fer rats!” He took the basket of rolls, removed the thin, white, kerchief covering, and began gobbling them down. “Aye! No’ tha’s good it is!”
The guard, standing behind her turned around as if on cue; his back to them. As he did, the woman leaned forward closer and pointed to one of the uneaten rolls. “You’ll like that one,” she whispered. She stepped back. “I must be going now. They don’t give us much time. I will be back in a day or two with more, if they permit. Take hope dear friend!”
She left the cell and the guard closed the door. He and Galbin locked eyes. The guard winked before he escorted her down the hall.
He took the roll she had indicated and turned his back to the cell door. As he sat on his bunk, he split open the roll carefully. In the center of it was a flat strip of uncooked dough about the size of a gold coin.
Galbin grinned, leaned over, and took a pinch of dust from the corner of the wall by his bed. He sprinkled it lightly over the surface of the dough. When he had finished, a single word appeared in rune script:
“Tonight.” Without hesitation he tossed it into his mouth, swallowing it whole.
His task was to weaken the stone so that he might get through it and successfully rescue a prisoner, a dwarf of all things. He knew from information received via extortion or bribery, that he was kept on the top floor – which made things easier. He knew precisely which cell was his, and he knew the schedule and rotation of the guards. There would be one, at least, who would deliberately be “away” or would, supposedly, not oppose him when entry was affected.
All was at hand: the concoction, the spell, assisting his native skill of manipulating stone. It would be dark soon and he was ready.
* * *
Galbin Glowbeard, so named because in his younger days when he worked as a blacksmith he found innumerable ways of setting his thick, long, reddish beard on fire. Most often it was a stray ember that set it alight, but sometimes he simply got too close to the fires of the forge. He swore he would cut it one day, but then, why bother, as much of it burned off so regularly there was no need.
This day he was far from any forge, and that was the last thing on his mind. He was a seaman by trade, an unusual vocation for his kin, but one that he loved. He loved to fish. He became very good at it. Later he learned he could detect the “feel” of treasure lying on the bottom of the sea, and ditched fishing for treasure-seeking. He had earned quite a living by it, but the thirst for more and gold was never sated. He fell in with bands of pirates, loosely cooperating with those he favored most. He did not care if he was liked or not; he gave his best to whoever paid him the most or had the most to give, for besides his work as a fisher of treasure, he could fire a bow with consummate skill, even with one eye patched.
Now, however, he sat in prison dungarees, shackled to a cell wall in the most formidable prison in the realms. Few had escaped from it and those who did had outside help if they did. He had no such expectations, as he had few, if any, real friends. His erstwhile employer, the pirate queen Suka, probably had learned he was jailed and might find it amusing. His primary benefactor, Damian Racsen, would too. He knew nothing of any worth on either of them, so they probably would not care if he rotted within these walls forever.
Already Scar and the Warden, Itannar, had interrogated him thoroughly several times. They admitted he would stand trial even if he confessed but things would go better for him the more he told them. So he blathered about all kinds of things, but never provided any incriminating evidence on anyone. Why make enemies needlessly? He faced his predicament stoically; he was a dwarf, after all, and would outlive all these pathetic land-lubbers.
One day a young lady appeared at his cell door. The guard unlocked it and let her in, watching her closely. Galbin did not recognize her, but she pretended to know him, so he played along.
“Greetings cousin Duffy! I brought you some home-baked bread. Your favorite! I also brought word from your father. He said he is doing everything he can to get you out of this. He knows you have been framed and will spare no expense to prove it.”
In pretense, Galbin (who took the name Duffy as alias) looked up at her and gave a broad smile. “Ah, lass… ye’r a sight fer sore eyes, ye are! Thankee fer tha food; whas I gets here inna fit fer rats!” He took the basket of rolls, removed the thin, white, kerchief covering, and began gobbling them down. “Aye! No’ tha’s good it is!”
The guard, standing behind her turned around as if on cue; his back to them. As he did, the woman leaned forward closer and pointed to one of the uneaten rolls. “You’ll like that one,” she whispered. She stepped back. “I must be going now. They don’t give us much time. I will be back in a day or two with more, if they permit. Take hope dear friend!”
She left the cell and the guard closed the door. He and Galbin locked eyes. The guard winked before he escorted her down the hall.
He took the roll she had indicated and turned his back to the cell door. As he sat on his bunk, he split open the roll carefully. In the center of it was a flat strip of uncooked dough about the size of a gold coin.
Galbin grinned, leaned over, and took a pinch of dust from the corner of the wall by his bed. He sprinkled it lightly over the surface of the dough. When he had finished, a single word appeared in rune script:
“Tonight.” Without hesitation he tossed it into his mouth, swallowing it whole.
