Chapter Four: Gammod-Dhol
Down the snow covered lane the carriage sped, at times slipping on patches of ice. Less traveled than other roads, the way north could be a risky journey for the incautious. The driver knew the perils and did not deviate from his course. He steered away from the mountains, avoiding the threat of avalanche. Neither did he cross the frozen lake that seemed to offer a short cut, but could not be trusted to hold the weight of those in haste. The path bent sharply and he slowed the horses to take the turn, then quickly urged them back to speed. He knew the road well enough to proceed swiftly, but today he went faster than usual. Even under normal conditions his master, Mirisinar, was an impatient man. Now, sitting in the carriage with an elf he had seized from the snow, he required a speedy return to his stronghold. With a few miles still between them and the citadel, the driver let his thoughts wander, attempting to guess what his master intended for the prisoner. No doubt he would announce his prize to those unfortunates he was acquainted with, perhaps inventing a tale of how he had bested the inhuman in some implausible melee. Or he might conjure a story about the men of Mor placing the elf in his dungeon until they can deal with him properly. Such a tale would win him considerable respect, but he must be sufficiently drunk to tell it, for the dark lords would not suffer the lie with good humor. Still, he might convince himself that he was something more than a subordinate. Perhaps his allegiance to their cause was of such value they could forgive a lapse in judgment. The driver wondered for a moment if Mirisinar was foolish enough to think he had won their favor. He shook his head. His master was not a clever man, but neither was he an idiot. He knew his place among these scoundrels and did nothing to incur their wrath. Nonetheless, he liked to pretend his authority was not hampered by the whims of Mor. He was no mere lackey, after all, for he governed a sizable portion of this great continent, or at least appeared to do so. Some knew he was little more than a mascot, chosen for his proper lineage to quiet rumors that sorcerers conquered the world, but there were still those he could persuade of his influence. The local nobility seemed to think he occupied a position of importance within Mor's hierarchy, but this was hardly a surprise, considering that he was a noble himself. Their belief in his potency confirmed their own significance. The fortress loomed ahead. Even a mile away it was an imposing structure that stretched farther and soared higher than any other building in Gammod-Dhol. Mirisinar had personally supervised its construction, hence its exaggerated size. It was an impregnable stronghold, built to withstand any assault. It was also, judging from the black and gold motif, a tribute to lords in the east. Opening one eye for a quick peek, Ebin took note. He was careful not to move. While unconscious, they had dropped him on a cushioned seat and left him leaning against the side of the carriage. Despite considerable discomfort, he maintained the position, hoping to surprise his captors at a suitable moment and make his escape. He was not able to see the man on his left, but did spy the man in front of him, a large fellow who sat back, staring out the window with a satisfied grin. He wore his fur coat half open, perhaps to show the amulet around his neck. He braved the chill air to display it. He seemed unarmed, but there was probably a knife hidden somewhere under that fur. There might be several daggers, in fact. The boots were long enough to store a good sized blade, but drawing the weapon would be taxing for a man of his girth. More likely it was tucked in a belt. He heard a gate rise. The stink of iron informed him there were many soldiers here. He did not hear voices, though. They were a disciplined army, or worse, they were the troops of Mor. His situation was not improving. A part of him wanted to leap from the carriage and take his chances running in the snow. He fought the impulse, knowing the futility of such a move. Behind them, the gate fell with a clang. The fortress was sealed. There was nothing to do now except wait. It was quite a predicament. With his wrists chained to his waist and his legs in fetters, Ebin had little cause for cheer, but he glanced again at the man in front of him, a vain, confident fool, and found a reason to smile. The carriage halted and, wasting no time, the driver leapt from his seat and opened the door for his master. The maneuver was executed with such haste, as if any delay might prompt the most severe punitive measures. Mirisinar stepped out of the carriage and, with a gesture, sent the driver scrambling to help the other man with the prisoner. Still pretending he was unconscious, Ebin was seized suddenly. The man who had been sitting next to him was quite strong. This was as he expected, for the tyrant in charge would hardly venture out without some brute at his side. The driver, however, took the elf's legs with some effort. His stride was slower. Ebin stole a quick glance at the man and saw that he was old. He had a slight frame and seemed ill suited for any kind of physical labor, but he took up this task without hesitation or hint of complaint. Plainly he had weathered burdens far worse than this. "Quickly," Mirisinar snapped. "To the dungeon." His tone was louder than it needed to be. Taking another quick look, Ebin saw his coat was still half open in the chill air, the amulet dangling conspicuously from his neck. He was exactly the sort of fool the lords of Mor employed. Imperious enough to exert some semblance of authority, but too vain to engender any real loyalty from his men. Someone they could dispose of without complication. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but had to risk another peek when he heard the soldiers. He waited for them to come closer and then he saw their black and gold armor. They were men of Mor. This was the worst possible scenario. It occurred to him this might be an excellent time to panic, but try as he might he could not get himself to despair. Neither fear nor dread took hold of him. In more agreeable company he might have sighed, but he was too rapt in his performance at the moment. He shut his eyes and kept quiet. He had been cast in the role of helpless captive and he was determined to bring as much realism to the part as he could. Of course, being bound in irons did lessen the chore of acting somewhat. As they entered a building he felt a new pair of hands upon him. Another man had come to add his strength to the task. Up a stair he was carried, then down a narrow corridor. It was cold here. He heard a key turning in a lock, a door swinging, and then he was tossed onto a wet stone floor. He waited for the door to slam, then opened his eyes. He was alone in a large cell. There was light. Sitting up, he found it came from a barred window. The portal kept the room chilly with frequent drifts of snow blowing in, creating a white carpet of dust on that side of the chamber. He looked at his hands. Tied so closely to his waist he could not raise them more than a few inches. The manacles were fairly standard. A single lock kept them closed and bound them to a chain around his waist. It had an average size key hole. Most likely it employed a very simple mechanism. If he had a proper tool, something slim enough to insert, he was sure he could coax it to unlock. How he would acquire such an item escaped his imagination at the moment. The door was another matter. He stood up and went to inspect it. Though barely ten feet away, shackled as he was he could only take small steps. He inched his way across the room and reached the metal door. As he expected, there was no key hole on this side. There was not even a knob. It was an impenetrable seal. Again, the thought came to him that he should take a moment at least to despair, but so foreign was the emotion he could only ponder it in the abstract. He felt a breeze at his back. Turning, he saw more snow drifting into the chamber. He judged the window was thirty feet from his position and began inching his way along. It was a tedious exertion that he was not used to. Deciding to hop instead, he spanned the distance with four leaps. He took some pleasure in this small victory, for he could not stomach sloth. He reached the portal and, taking hold of the bars, found they were structurally sound. A chill wind blew. He could not stay too long in front of the window where it was unbearably cold, but he glanced outside, taking in what sights he could. Soldiers stirred in the square below. He gathered from their nervous movement that word had spread an elf was their prisoner. Scanning the buildings, he found one decorated with flags and statues. Most likely the fool in command had his residence there. A gust of cold air made him hop away at last. Even at the other side of the chamber he shivered. He was about to chastise the architect when it occurred to him the window was not an ill conceived design, but a carefully planned device intended to keep prisoners sufficiently weak. There seemed to be no escape. Still, he could not shake the notion that his freedom was imminent. He must find a way out or, failing that, he must make a way. Footsteps. Two men came up the stair. He fell quickly to the floor, pretending that he slept. He must look as harmless as possible. Also, he did not feel like hopping down a flight of steps. If they intended to take him somewhere they would have to carry him. The door swung open. His eyes hidden in shadow, he spied them as they entered; one lean and tall, the other short and burly. Both had swords. He could almost hear the blades calling him, begging to be drawn and put to good use. Even with his hands bound he might liberate one from its sheath. But his hands were also tethered to his waist, eliminating any hope of wielding the weapon. Neither could his shackled legs employ the necessary footwork. The burly one took his arms, the tall one his legs. They both reeked of ale. Locals, obviously, and not the disciplined men of Mor. With some sluggish movement they carried him out of the dungeon, exchanging half intelligible grunts that he strained to understand. He listened carefully for anything that would inform him where they were going, but they only bemoaned their labors. Outside it was cold. They carried him in the snow a short distance to another building, the one adorned with statues and flags. He knew they were taking him to the man in command. He almost grinned. The prospect of seeing the bearded oaf gave him a strange delight. He also took pleasure in knowing what to expect from the encounter. No doubt the proud fellow wanted to savor his conquest. He might have gathered a sizable group to behold his elfin prisoner, carefully selected sycophants who would be quick to applaud his great deed. Of course, there was the possibility that he entertained the lords of Mor. That would almost certainly banish any hope of a pleasant evening. Humorless sorcerers could be such poor company and even poorer hosts. He doubted they would be in attendance. If they were here now they would be handling him with greater care. Even the most inept among them would not let two drunkards transfer a prisoner. But he knew they would be coming. As soon as this henchman of theirs finished his gloating they would come. A guard opened the door. This man was alert. Ebin closed his eyes as they took him into a room. Already he could smell the food. Scented candles were burning. He heard the bearded man's heavy steps. Heard him chuckle. "Seat him there," he said. Expecting no delicacy from his handlers, Ebin braced himself for an impact. A moment later he was dropped onto a chair. He opened his eyes and tried to look surprised. For a moment he considered adding fear to his expression, an ambitious choice, but decided surprise would be enough. He would try looking afraid another time, perhaps, after a few years of practice. "Good evening, sir," Mirirsinar greeted. He dismissed the two inebriated men with a wave of his left hand, his right held a chalice encrusted with jewels. He drank from it then put it down on a table that stretched more than ten feet between them. Every conceivable food was upon it, meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, berries, all handsomely arranged. There were ten empty chairs, five on either side. Ebin smiled. Men were so exceedingly predictable. Mirisinar sat back in his chair. With its high back it seemed more like a throne, carved with many intricate designs. The arms were inlaid with pearl. It might have stood out as a gaudy curiosity, but in this room of tasteless horrors it blended with ease. "I trust you slept well," Mirisinar said refilling his cup. "You had quite an adventure in the snow." He chuckled and drank his wine. With his other hand he absent mindedly fingered the amulet, once more on prominent display. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he stared at Ebin, looking like he applied his intellect to some great task, as if his discerning gaze might extract something useful. "We do not often find elves in these parts." His hand went to his beard. He paused a moment, still studying the inhuman. Then he laughed. "You are an odd fellow, I can tell. So quiet. Are you afraid?" Ebin raised his shackled hands. "Are you?" Mirisinar took another sip from his chalice. "You must understand, there have been reports of brigands roaming through these territories. Your folk are the most notorious thieves and vandals we have ever encountered. We cannot be too careful with your kind." It was an old lie and Ebin was not surprised to hear it, yet he was impressed by the man's quick delivery which seemed barely rehearsed. Finishing his drink, Mirisinar reached for a piece of bread. "What are elves doing here? "Here?" Ebin said with mockery. "I am the only elf here, or have you forgotten that I was abducted?" Mirisinar chewed his bread slowly, appearing quite composed, but a nervous hand went to his beard again. "As I have said, our survival demands certain measures be taken. You would not suffer trespassers on your elven isle." Ebin almost laughed. "Who is trespassing? I was brought here from Rian." "You are a foul, sorcerous elf. You have no authority here where men make the laws. Your vile magicks blight the earth and we are perfectly within our rights to arrest you wherever you are found." Ebin was deeply impressed. Any common fool could spout rhetoric, but to embrace it whole heartedly required an idiocy that was beyond the reach of most men. "How many came with you?" "Not many," Ebin replied. "What mischief are they working here?" "Talking to giants, helping mankind, the usual sort of mischief." Mirisinar grunted, finding no satisfaction with the elf's answer. Moreover, he was a bit confused by his apparent levity. He took a breath, and another slice of bread, before he continued. "You have come to spy on our affairs, no doubt." "We are familiar with your affairs," Ebin said. Another grunt from the man. "Elves like to pretend they are all knowing, but you are no wiser than men. You are an older race, perhaps, with some special arts, but it is delusional to suppose that you can foresee what men will do." "I certainly cannot," Ebin concurred, rattling his chains. Mirisinar sneered. "Elves know nothing of what comes." Perhaps with less wine and more sense he could have stopped himself from saying more, but at the moment his desire to tame the prisoner, whose arrogance he found repugnant, outweighed any prudence. "Though I do admire your penchant for black. That, at least, is ahead of the times." He laughed as he chewed his bread. "Of course, the people in these parts are not so stylish. You might try Hagron in a few weeks." He chuckled. "With a touch of gold you should blend in nicely." He knew he should hold his tongue, but he was so irked by this chippery elf that he let it slip, if only to erode his inhuman confidence. Ebin almost raised a brow, but kept his composure. Hagron was the seat of power in the west. If, as this underling implied, the black and gold armies of Mor were headed there, he needed to learn more. "You do not believe me?" Mirisinar said He eyed the man, careful not to lose his smile, for it seemed to goad this ill tempered oaf. "If you knew what comes." Mirisinar kept a grin on his face also, and a nervous hand on his amulet. He stared at the elf, trying to read his expression. "You think I lie," he said suddenly agitated. Without betraying his thoughts, Ebin congratulated himself for holding his tongue. He knew the information he needed would not be extracted with pointed queries. It would only come out unbidden. Plainly this fledgling tyrant wanted to boast of his knowledge. A clear path is all that was needed to elicit a spontaneous slip. "Think what you will," Mirisinar laughed, attempting to regain his poise. "Hagron is not invulnerable to attack. There is always a way in, always a door that will open." He refilled his chalice. "And for some of us those doors open quickly." His judgement clouded by a mix of wine and frustration, Mirisinar thought his remark trifling, but to Ebin it was the most significant disclosure. He knew the men of Mor were plotting to buy their way into the west. Mirisinar eyed the stoic elf. He smiled for a moment, affecting as much indifference as he could manage. Then he clutched his amulet with a sudden grunt. "Do you know what this is?" he said, losing his patience. "I doubt you have seen such a badge. Only a few of the nobly born bear the mark of Regent." He straightened in his chair, posturing as he spoke. "It is not given to fools." Ebin appreciated the irony, given that fools were in fact the likeliest candidates for promotion in these outer holdings of Mor. He took no issue with the point, however, choosing not to offend his well born host. Mirisinar stared at him for a moment, then reached under the table and produced a longsword. "Is this all you carry?" Ebin looked at his sword, suppressing an impulse to lunge for the blade. Bound as he was, he could take no immediate action. Mirisinar drew the silver from its sheath. "This is what you know?" He waved the blade in a mock display of swordsmanship. "Is this what you do?" "I hope not," Ebin winced. Mirisinar sighed. "I thought perhaps I had fetched something more than a crude swordsman, but it seems that is all you are." He took another clumsy stroke, as if exaggerating his ineptness would affront the elf. "I cannot say I know a great deal about swordplay. I have had some basic instruction, but the subject never held my interest," he said, nearly dropping the blade as proof. "I hardly have time to play with swords. Let soldiers toil with arms and maneuvers. One sword accomplishes nothing. Better to command a thousand swords." Ebin nodded, pretending to give his full attention to the man, but his focus was on the table, looking for any items he might put to use. "Any brute can wield a sword," Mirisinar continued. "Thrusting and slashing a piece of steel. What could be more primitive? It is a crude practice that no refined men would bother to master." He sheathed the sword. "We have neither the time or patience for such lesser pursuits." Although tiresome, the man's rant kept his attention on the sword, allowing Ebin to absorb his surroundings, but as soon as Mirisinar paused Ebin lifted his gaze from the table and gave another nod. "I'm sure you are a fine swordsman," Mirisinar said, "but what are you without your sword? I need no blade to exercise my skills." He reached for his chalice. Stealing another glance at the table, Ebin took note of every object within reach. An array of bowls and platters offered viable weapons for the creative, but he needed something smaller to pick the lock on his chains. Mirisinar took another drink. Looking at the cup, Ebin was seized by a notion. The idea was inventive, if not fanciful, but needed another component before it could offer even the slightest chance of success. Almost immediately, his attention turned to a burning candle. He watched it flicker, dripping wax into a saucer, and had to exert his will to keep from smiling. But was it a workable scheme? "A pity the others could not join us this evening." Mirisinar sighed. "I doubt they have seen an elf." The man was plainly disappointed. Even the most boorish host should be able to gather a few to his table. But given such short notice, perhaps none were able to attend. More likely they heard he had taken an elf prisoner and were not entirely in accord with his actions. Despite an obvious allegiance to Mor, many still nurtured a delusion of neutrality. Ebin might have taken some pleasure in the poor attendance, but he was actually quite ambivalent. He was grateful to be spared the wearisome talk of aristocrats, but also realized what a useful distraction they would have been. There were two items he needed. The candle was close enough. Even with his hands tied he could reach it. But the chalice was several feet away. The other cups were empty. He needed one that was full. Bad company was not something he enjoyed, but at this moment he would have welcomed a few dining guests. He bent his mind to the task of uncovering a solution, when a servant entered the chamber. The skinny lad carried a pitcher of water and some bread. He put the bread in front of Ebin and poured the water into a cup. In disbelief at his good fortune, Ebin could not hide his surprise. "You did not think I would let you starve," Mirisinar said, noticing his expression. "We are not barbarians here." Ebin nodded, barely listening as he reached first for the bread, and then, almost invisibly, for the wax on the saucer. It was a sleight of hand enacted so deftly it went undetected. He reached for the cup, but did not fill his mouth with water yet. The man was still talking and might expect a reply. "Get those two back in here," he told the boy. "Our guest will be returning to his chamber." Taking his cue, Ebin drained the cup. He was genuinely excited. Not only had he conceived a plan so incredible it strained his mind to ponder it, he was actually going to put it to the test. He hoped he would succeed, but even if he failed he must still applaud his imagination. "It has been a pleasure," Mirisinar said with a grin. "I do hope we will meet again." Ebin gave a polite nod. "However, I doubt that we shall. I have sent word to my superiors and they will arrive here in the morning. I still do not know how they can come so quickly when it takes my messenger almost a day to reach them on his horse." He shook his head. "They have their ways, I suppose. In any event, I wish you well and hope you will visit us again." This was serious. The dark lords were coming to seize him. It deserved a gasp, but with his mouth full of water, Ebin could only afford a furrowed brow. He was still enthused about his fanciful scheme, but considerably more anxious to see it through. He must be free tonight. The brutes were upon him now. Exercising no greater care than before, they grabbed his arms and legs and carried him out of the room. No part of their incoherent speech could be salvaged and Ebin wondered if the drunkards could properly negotiate the stair. But their gait was swift and steady and they delivered him to the dungeon without incident. They dropped him on the wet floor. The door slammed and he was alone again. Wasting no time, he got up and quickly got to work. He opened his left palm and found the wax he had stuck to his glove. It was not a large amount, but he was sure it would be enough. He inched his way toward the window as he began shaping the wax into a mold. He made a small trough that curved hook-like at one end. Into this he spilled the water from his mouth. Most of the water escaped to the floor, but the mold managed to hold a thin strip of liquid. He placed it on the window, making sure the wax stuck to the stone so that it would not be blown away. He stood a moment staring at his handiwork, then backed away from the window with a shiver. It was a cold night. That would work in his favor. In any event, he must wait now. He must rest also. The dark lords were coming on the morrow. He would need all his faculties about him if he must deal with those sorcerers. Of course, he intended to escape before sunrise, but there was always the chance his plan might fail. Perhaps another idea would come to him after a nap. He did not think so, but this rationale gave him a further excuse for sleep. He moved away from the window and settled into a corner. Still pondering his escape, he stayed awake for some moments. His thoughts turned to his captor upon his gaudy throne, and at last he fell asleep. Whatever concerns he had about his predicament, the memory of the tiresome fool quickly bored him to sleep. He stood in a forest, aware that he dreamed. Trees glowed all around him. He knew this place. It was the dryad's shimmering wood. He recalled how it appeared some years ago, when he and Efkin quested for the horn. At that time the mystical wood had seemed like a dream that materialized before them. Now, curiously, it brought an unusual reality to this realm of dreams. A wind sang through the trees. He felt a presence. Another breeze came and he imagined a voice in the whispering wind. It did not speak words he recognized, but the mere sound of it was reassuring. The dryad was cheering him, he thought with a smile. He was quite flattered. Still, he had to wonder why she had come to him. Was his circumstance so dire it prompted her personal attention? Would he escape this dungeon? He did not ask the question aloud, but gathered from the whispering voice it had been received nonetheless. He still could not interpret what the dryad was saying. Her sylvan song gave him strength. Another question came to mind. It concerned something she had told him years ago. She said he had not fought his greatest battle yet. Would this be his greatest battle? The instant he posed the query the wind fell silent. He stood a moment staring at the glimmering wood. And then it vanished. He awoke on the stone floor, aware of his shackles as he tried to stretch. He looked at the carpet of snow on the other side of the chamber and judged he had slept a good while. Rising, he made his way to the window. The wax trough was still there, right where he stuck it, but one thing had changed, the water had frozen. With care, he peeled the wax away to uncover the slim piece of ice that had formed. Then with two fingers he grasped the crystal tool and gingerly inserted it into the lock at his wrists. Even as he considered the implausibility of his scheme, he could not deny the perfection of his creation. It was slight enough to slip into the lock without being too fragile to handle. Now came the real test, the hook. Was it strong enough to move the lever or would it break? He probed for the mechanism and felt it catch. He applied a bit of pressure with no effect. He took a breath. A little more pressure with no effect. Slightly more pressure. Again, he applauded his ingenuity, marveling at the sturdiness of his makeshift key. It was a superb implement even if it was about to break. He was already pondering a new plan of escape, considering his options, when to his delight, the lever gave at last, releasing with a sharp click.
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