Caladbohlg Chapter IX: The Dark Laird's Cruelty

The Dark Fairy Tale chapter

The journey was a hard one, one that tested Bradán to his very limits and left him gravely weakened. He was tied to one of the ox-drawn carts that were over-laden with spoiled, ranging from stolen temple goods. Goods which consisted of cups, bowls, plates, statues and other such goods, as well as slaves and food, with all these treasures closely watched by the Warlock-King and certain of his supporters. Pulled from his feet, Bradán was dragged from the south of Ériu towards the north.

After the first day of travel, he felt broken, tired and could barely feel his numb arms.

He had little feeling left anywhere in his body, or so he believed, his belief was proven wrong when the rope around his wrists was finally untied. Lying in the dirt, he could not see who it was that had untied him; all he could feel was a burning sensation from his wrists. Which he could already tell, were decorated with bright red welts, even though he was barely able to see, as his eyes had been closed for hours on end.

“Hey, lad, are you alright?” Haldor asked turning him over, so that he was resting on his back, “Bradán?”
Staring up at him, Bradán could only feel the soreness of his arms, the ache of his armpits and the numbness of his hands. Shakily, he tried to rise, yet failed to, his throat too sore and raw from all the screaming and pleading had done during the day, prevented him from being able to speak up either.

“Here, drink this,” Haldor ordered, accepting a clay goblet from someone, only to press it to Bradán’s broken lips, and tilted it a little, ensuring that a bit of water leaked into his mouth and down his throat.

The cool water was a balm, the likes of which was far more delicious than anything Bradán, had ever tasted before in his life. The water flowed too thickly and quickly for his throat to properly swallow it all, coughing he tiled his head to unwillingly spit it back out.

“Slowly, Bradán you drank too quickly,” Haldor informed him, a worried look on his face. “Give me one moment and I will come back with more.”

“Thank… you…” Bradán murmured gratefully.

Haldor grinned back; he patted him on the shoulder only for his eyes to snap up as the sepulchral voice of the Warlock-King was heard from the inside of the dark figure’s cloak, as he loomed above them from atop his black horse. “Nay, I agreed to one goblet, and you have given him that.”

“But he needs more!” The Northman protested feebly.

But the Warlock-King was not listening, his gaze having already moved on to the horizon.

“My laird, we will see to your tent at once,” One of the men that was part of the monster’s retinue, a gaunt, spindly creature dressed in rags and dirt uttered.

“Who is that?” Bradán croaked eyes on the king’s servant, frustration knotting his stomach.

“I do not much care, we must see about rubbing your wrists, to restore circulation to them.” Haldor retorted as he did just that only to turn to one of the captured slaves. “We need food, now.”

“Aye,” the young man replied shakily, before he turned to follow the Jarl’s son’s orders.

This would prove to be the last thing this slave did, as a shadowy figure appeared behind him, having left his horse behind, only to summon a blade to his hand from nowhere and nothing. A sword he stabbed the man through the chest with, only to withdraw it, and for it to vanish as suddenly as it had appeared.

“No food, until the men have eaten,” One of the Warlock-King’s men, one of the few Ogres that were in Ériu in the demonic man’s service growled for his laird and master.

“Then, hurry it up,” Haldor growled back at the guard with tusks, who snickered in response.

The servants of the dark laird of Amadan, turned and ran about here, and there, to and fro, until after almost an hour they had arranged the king’s tent, which was large, covered in furs and the size of a small house. To the relief of the guards who were swiftly served meat, which they set up on spits over the fires; they had started whilst the tent was being set-up.

Haldor blinked in surprise, when no one offered him or any of the other prisoners any of the food. Seeing this one of the Bairaz’s snorted with laughter at the expression on his face, and those of frustrated hunger on the other captives’ faces. Bairaz were a curious people whom Bradán knew precious little about, as they had the faces of pigs, were fat and almost as tall as Ogres. In Ériu they were most commonly seen, as being little more than the Warlock-King’s servants, while on the continent from what he had heard, from Lyr growing up, they served other such figures as guards and enforcers.

“We said men, not filth,” the Bairazian guard sneered at the Norseman.

Outrage flickered to life on the faces of those in chains, while anger sparked forth from deep within Bradán’s soul. It was bad enough for him to lose Lyr, and then to be tied to a cart and dragged along the road, now he must go hungry as well as endure mockery? It was more than he could endure. Once the guards had all been fed, and had begun to drift away to sleep, some of them tossed their scraps to the captives, with some of them fighting over even these measly scraps.

That is until Haldor called out to them, at first without too much success, only to stand up and shout out to his people and those who were not. “Enough! Cease this futile nonsense! Stop all of this violence!”

His words were followed by a few blows to the two men who chose to ignore him, only for a vociferous roar to follow, one that caught everyone’s attention this time. “Enough! This is what they want from us; to fight for scraps not unlike a pack of starved dogs! For shame! We have little enough food as it is, therefore let us divide it up between the women and children first, then when they toss the rest of the scraps to us, we men will eat.”

So forceful and confident was his speech and bearing, that all of the captives fell in line with his wishes. As he predicted several of the guards, tossed a little more of their leftovers once they too had finished, eating. None of the prisoners could say that they all ate, their fill that day, yet they all nevertheless ate. Bradán was amongst the first to eat when one of the captured women moved by pity for his suffering offered up some of the meat on a deer bone tossed her way, by one of the guards. It was not much, but after a day without any food whatsoever, it was practically a feast in his eyes.

It was only a pity that that night, like all the other nights that followed during the trip north, his dreams were haunted by the sight of Lyr covered in blood, his sightless eyes gazing up into Bradán’s. In a flash, he would no longer find himself in an Arn’s tent, but in Eibhlin’s fields where she along with all, those he knew he had killed, by telling the Warlock-King the location of Éodain, were. Those accusing eyes would haunt him to his grave, he knew. And none filled him with more guilt than the eyes of Ríonal and Muirgel’s, the grief at their loss was more than he could accept. In the day, it would cripple him, and at night it haunted him.

The second day when one of the guards would go to tie Bradán’s wrists, he would be stopped by one of the dread-king’s servants, who would politely if mockingly inform the guard that their master had different plans in mind for the lad.

“He wishes to see someone of nobler blood and mind than you, tie the whelp, you overgrown pig.”

“‘Noble blood’ my rear, if not I than who?” the large porcine man asked, in reply to his question, the personal attendant of the dread-laird’s gaze fell upon Haldor.

Having been observing them alongside the other prisoners of war, Haldor at first reacted with surprise, then bewilderment, at so many of their captors’ eyes resting upon him. He had evidently not overheard the exchange; Bradán glanced from the Warlock-King’s lackeys to the Northerner, with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He knew that this could not end well, and that there must be a reason for such a decision, even if he was ignorant as to why.

“You, come hither else I will go over thither,” the Bairaz ordered in a voice full of menace, a single finger crooked towards Haldor, signalling him to approach him. Haldor, head held high approached only to be forced to look up at the guard’s face, as he only came up to his chest. “Tie the lad’s wrists.”

Glancing from the guard to the lad, the Jarl’s son raised a single brow, before he grinned mockingly back at the guard, “Do you not know how to tie a knot?”

The guard growled furiously back at the younger man, who was saved from physical harm by the spindly man, to the guard’s left speaking up. “No, my master is afraid that Baronk cannot tie a knot properly, therefore he wishes to have you tie the knot.”

“I will not,” Haldor refused once again.

“If you do not, we are to kill three of your people present here.” The spindly servant’s rebutted, a wicked grin climbed its way to his face as he leant forward with a snicker.

Haldor was visibly stunned by this ultimatum, on the part of the dark-king’s men; his stunned feelings were nothing in comparison to how bewildered Bradán felt then. His mouth gaped open at these words. Seeing their horror, both of the Warlock’s men cackled, with Haldor glaring them with murderous fury.

“Well? You do know how to tie a knot, do you not?” Baronk demanded tauntingly with a loud bark of laughter, at the prince’s expense.

At that moment, Bradán hated those two more than he had ever hated anyone in all his life, the dislike he had felt for Éodain paled then in comparison, to these feelings of distaste, for the duo that had conspired against him and Haldor. What angered him even more were his own helplessness in the face of such wickedness, and what made things worse was that the likely victim of this latest act of savagery was him.

Resigned, Haldor took the proffered line of rope from Baronk with a large scowl on his beard face. Without a word, he stomped on over to stand before Bradán, what made the situation worse for the both of them, was the fact that Haldor wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Haldor, I-I am alright,” Bradán assured him, fighting to keep his voice from stuttering, so that he could seem braver in the face of their situation, despite what he had endured the day before.

Haldor nodded a little weakly, from behind him Baronk could be heard, “Make sure it is tied tightly, if not I will split his head open, from crown to rump.”

The ropes though Bradán did not say anything that day about them, were undeniably slightly tighter than ever before. That day was worse than the one before it, while Bradán managed to stay on his feet for long than the first day; he was still thrown from them, after several hours.

Every day that followed that one, saw Haldor tie his wrists, with the other prisoners too afraid to speak up in Bradán’s defence, most of them aware that Haldor had no choice. Things were further complicated on the fourth day, when those who fell behind, attempted to escape or who otherwise tried to commit some sort of ‘crime’, in the eyes of the Warlock-King and his men, were brought before him.

The whippings that were given, along with beatings which Haldor had to give undermined his relations with the other prisoners, as well as began to chip at his own self-confidence. The one time someone would refuse to deal out the punishment, the would-be victim would be killed out of hand.

All of this meant that by the time they had arrived at Amadan, not a single prisoner felt safe or undivided over the matter of their abusers or captors, with some beginning to associate more with the latter. Others hated both, and still others such as Bradán simply prayed that this nightmare would soon end. On some days, he would refuse to sleep, for fear of the nightmares that awaited him in his sleep, while other times once knocked or pulled from his feet, he would fall asleep against his will, and fall victim to newer, far worse dreams.

Amadan was nothing like he had previously imagined it to be, while he had heard stories of how the Romalians had been able to build using stone. Or of how the Ogres of Korax had retained or re-learnt the old art, he had never quite believed it until now.

Hearing of such a thing was one thing, to actually bear witness to it, was something else, given how majestic, the high stone-walls were. Looming high above these walls was the great tower, a large brick and stone building that was as black as its master’s heart.

It was surrounded by another high-wall, one that separated this bleak tower, this great temple to evil from the rest of the city, which lay next to the Walen River, with the tower at the heart of the city. The houses of most of the villagers were straw-huts with some stone dwellings for the wealthy, while the streets were covered in dung, mud and dirt.

Glancing around the town as he was pulled forward from the gates towards the high tower where there awaited them a small army of servants, who wasted no time in rushing out to begin unpacking the mules, carts and slaves. The dark-cloaked Warlock-King disappearing inside with the rest of those who had accompanied him, left to manage their own affairs.

Bradán for his part was left in the care of some of the guards, with it being Baronk who decided to simply have him thrown into the dungeon more to make room, he chained in the courtyard when one of the guards asked.

“Throw him down there,” Baronk ordered when one of the guards asked what to do with him.

The rope was cut and the lad was dragged from there into the deepest recesses of the keep, barely conscious he paid little attention, to his surroundings. To the three meter high pillars, the pointed arched doorways or even to the statues that aligned the halls, each of them frozen for all of time with expressions of horror and pain. Bradán did not have much time to consider this peculiarity, before there were few twists and turns in their path which was concluded, by with the lad dragged past the gates, which were closed behind him with a loud clang.

Bradán was not sure why the guards behind those gates snickered so, he was not even sure what it was that he should be thinking of or had been thinking before he was tossed away. One moment, he was falling asleep the next moment, he found himself on his back with his heart pounding and his eyelids heavy. Still, they were eventually lifted so that he was gazing up at a familiar, furred, feline face he felt certain he had seen before; he just could not place the face in his mind. It took some time and effort before he at last succeeded, in this endeavour. The face was definitively, he thought with a surge of relief; Fergus’.

“F-Fergus?” The name slipped out of his lips, before he could halt it.

The feline-like eyes that gazed down from above him blinked in surprise then in amused delight, with the Tigrun replying in a deep voice, “No, I am Ronald, his older brother. It pleases me that you know my brother it means you have gotten to know him very well. Rest now, we still have a fever to fight before you can tell me about, what torment his company could be.”

Bradán did as he was told for what must have been the first time, in years this time when he would awaken it would be to find that same face, this time he was not looking at him but at someone across the cell. A woman’s voice slowly made its way to his ears, with it being a softer voice than that of Eibhlin’s.

“You should be glad that he is not dead, it is a wonder his fever broke at all in this dung-infested hole in the ground, a true gift from the goddess.” She was saying with a placed smile on her face that could be heard even if it could not be seen.

“I would not place too much faith in your goddess given where we still are.” A third voice grumbled unhappily, a petulant undertone to his voice.

“Oh, cease your whining, we live do we not? Where there is life there is hope.” The same old lady from before scolded lightly, which earned her a scoffed retort which Bradán did not hear but knew must have been particularly rude, given the reactions it got.

“You do realize she is a Nun? She merits respect!” Another voice spoke up, outraged.

“Really Gaston, you can be as rude as my brother at times,” The Tigrun snapped with a shake of his head. “There are times I wonder if simply being down here has worsened your temperament or if you have always been this obnoxious.”

“And I wonder if all of you have ultimately become so acclimatized to this place that is if you began to enjoy this wretched place.” Gaston complained in an exasperated voice.

“No, we have not, it is simply that we realize that we have been here for some time and are likely to remain, for even longer and therefore we know that we should at least attempt to get on with one another.” The old Nun snapped impatiently at him, which while it did lead to quiet; it was a disgruntled silence the sort that is reluctantly upheld and little loved.

Opening his eyes, Bradán stared up at the Tigrun chained to the wall, sitting next to him; the maw was dressed in robes that were once impressive yet now almost little more than rags. Despite the ill-care and dirt on his face, he really did resemble Fergus to an almost uncanny degree. Both brothers were furred, strong-featured with steely jaws and chins, with perpetually creased brows, along with thoughtful eyes that were caused by years, of study, and their own innate intelligence.

 “You are not Fergus, but his twin correct?” Bradán said before he could stop or better word his dazedly muttered question.

“Correct you likely do not remember due to your fever but we have already been partially introduced, I am Ronald brother to Fergus.” Ronald said with a small smile, “I must ask how is my brother?”
“Well I think, he left in search of you.” Bradán replied slowly, as though afraid doing so might cause him to topple back down, he sat up with a slight groan. “Where are we?”

“Amadan,” Haldor answered from the other side of the cell, Bradán jumped having not realized he was there until then.

The young prince was indeed there, chained to the wall and with his face pulled down, into a dispirited, grim expression.

“Were none may escape from,” Gaston added without hope, chained a short distance away from Haldor. He spoke with a slight accent and had long brown locks and an unkempt beard that flowed down to his chest, as it to show evidence of how long he had been there for. “Or so I have been told.”

“Amadan?” Bradán’s voice shook, as fear began to grip his heart at the mere mention of the name, especially when he remembered all the old stories from when he was a child. The things Lyr, and other would tell them, before sending them off to bed, still chilled his blood. “But if we are here, then that means-”

“That we still are at the mercy of the Warlock-King,” Haldor finished for him, with a shrug. “And thus far, we have been hardly fed and thankfully left alone to be forgotten.

The fact that being forgotten was what they had looked to, hardly set Bradán at ease, especially when it meant that they may not in the end be fed. But between that possibility, and the stories he had heard, he was not sure if he should be pleased, or frightened. Being forgotten meant they may never be fed, and would starve in the dungeon.

“Can we escape?” He questioned a small note of hope creeping into his voice, hope that was soon crushed by Gaston.

“Good luck, Sadb and I have been here for years, her for fifteen years, and I for twelve. We have both attempted, to escape and do you know happened, when we did?” Gaston asked bitterly as he glanced over at Sadb, whom was staring at the ground with a defeated look, in her eyes.

“He is but a lad, leave him be Gaston,” She murmured weakly.

“All the more reason why he must learn that there are consequences here, lad when I arrived there were already five people here. When we attempted to escape, there were only two of us left, afterwards. One swallowed molten lead, another two were starved, with Sadb’s left foot being crushed while I lost my sword-hand.” Gaston explained as he glanced up at the stump left over where his right-hand, had once been.

Looking about the cell he tried to find some weakening or opening, in the dungeon. There were no windows but there was a short distance away, a small opening where water flowed, which had to mean they had some chance of escape through there.

“What about that? The sewage can we not simply swim away, through there?” He asked pointing at it, but even this idea was soon shot down, by Gaston who snorted at his question derisively.

“It is gated, where do you think we tried to escape through?”

“I do not understand,” Haldor commented perplexed.

“Non, I do not expect you to Northman,” the one-handed man sneered with a sigh of frustration.

“Nay, not about that, but about the fifth man, you said there were five including Sadb here. What happened to the fifth man?” Haldor wondered, his question won him a startled glance from Bradán, a sharp one from Ronald and an exchanged set of weary eyes from the two others.

“Did you see a spindly creature, full of contempt for others and always on the Warlock-King’s heels?” Sadb asked sorrowfully, her head dipped down in sadness as though it physically pained her to ask such a question.

“Yes, he was the one who fished me out of the water, after we were attacked on our way here.” Ronald said with a frown, he had apparently just realized at the same time as the new arrivals that, the monster’s slave was a former prisoner. “I see, but what did the dread-king do to him, exactly?”

“Wait, you do not already know their friend?” Bradán queried surprised.

“I did not care to ask about the previous prisoners, before now,” the Tigrun replied with what seemed to be a shrug of his own.

It was Gaston who answered honestly to Ronald’s question, a small bitter smile full of old pain in that grin, while his eyes gazed off into the past. “His name is Diarmuit, though now he is called Slaïm, because of how dirty he is, and how far he has fallen, as to the question of how, we do not know. In fact, he was the one, who concocted the last plan to escape from this wretched place.”

Still desirous of his freedom, he could do nothing save rest then, in preparation for the future.

He woke up with a start the next morning, covered in a cold sweat that made him shiver more than ever before, he glanced about him, unsure if he felt comforted to find those in the cell around him, or disappointed to find himself still imprisoned.

“Another nightmare?” Ronald asked him, “You seem to have a great quantity of those following after you.”

Bradán nodded quietly, feeling lost and alone despite being surrounded by people, he spoke up in a murmur since he did not know if everyone was still awake. “Are they asleep?”

“Aye and they are doing so about as well as you were until just a moment ago,” Ronald commented tartly.

“How can you tell? It is too dark to see,” Bradán said confused by his friend’s words, yet certain that the Tigrun was merely attempting to reassure him, as one might a child lost in the night.

“Simple; I can see better in the dark, than your people can.” Ronald explained in a matter-of-fact tone to his voice.

“Oh,” Was all the lad said in response or could think to say, his gaze became downcast, the more he dwelled upon his nightmares.

It did not surprise him that everyone else, had their own demons to contend with. Given that they had been at the mercy of the Warlock-King, for years in stark contrast to his mere few days.

Unable to sit about any longer, especially when he was as consumed by guilt, as he was filled with regret. A person of action, he hated loafing about and hated the thought of simply waiting for death, when there had to be a way out, some means by which they could slip away without their captors being the wiser about it.

The sewage was simply a simple hole in the ground, in the corner on the left-hand wall with water flowing through it. Some of it being dirty with upon closer inspection he could see that beneath where the wall loomed over the hole. There was indeed as Gaston had told him, a metal gate planted into the hole, with the water not very deep enabling him to see the bottom of the hole, where the gate met the ground.

 “If only the wall could be chiseled at or the gate removed,” Bradán told himself a sense of defeat, sinking deep into his heart, still as he had just thought to himself; he would not give up.

“I am not certain that way, is how I would escape,” Ronald informed him wryly.

“How would you escape?” Bradán asked genuinely curiously about how the Tigrun would do so.

Ronald considered his question at some length, a serious look on his face, suddenly Bradán felt pleased for his company, where Gaston had given up, Haldor was shattered and Sadb lost. It felt nice to have someone else who had yet to give up, or give in. When he did, at last answer it was with a great deal of heaviness. “I am not certain I could escape to begin with, as I need my staff. But let us say theoretically, that I had that in hand, we still may not be able to escape.”

The question of the staff and what he meant by it must have shown itself on his face, because Ronald smiled a little, a wry bitter little one as he spoke up once more. “You see lad, I am a sorcerer.”

“A sorcerer?” Bradán murmured fearfully, for years he had been told countless tales of the evils of magic by the monks of the monastery, most notably Brien and Lyr. Both of whom claimed it to be a foreign art that, had been brought to Ériu and the demon worshipping Warlock-King. He had heard tales of how they drank blood, devoured children, destroyed temples and scorned the Grand Divan’s sacred word.

Seeing him shiver in fear and freeze where he stood, Ronald frowned in quiet worry as though something more than the threat of the Warlock-King, weighed upon his soul. “Do not worry, I am no monster. We magi have strict rules of our own, ones that prohibit me from doing anything you likely imagine me capable of. Besides, without my staff I am helpless for I am a staff-magi.”

The explanation did not fully reassure Bradán who continued to feel nervous over the fact that Ronald could wield magic, yet something in his tone disarmed some of Bradán’s concerns.

Cautiously, Bradán asked after the one piece of information that Ronald had just given up that he had never heard of before. “What do you mean, by ‘staff-magi’?”

“There are three ranks of sorcerers; those who rely upon staves, namely they channel their power through the staff. Then there are hand-mages, who channel magic via their hands, and finally thought-mages who channel magic directly into being through no intermediaries.” Ronald explained at some length.

Despite himself, Bradán could not help but find this explanation fascinating, he still was not certain if he could trust the Tigrun but the knowledge that he may not have a choice stuck with him and would not budge from his mind. It was rather akin, to a sliver he once had as a child that, he could remove, well until he went crying to Lyr for help.

“I am not certain I like it, but I do not know if I have any other choice but to trust you.”

“Thank you, Bradán, you will not regret such a choice, I sweat it,” Ronald promised him, just as the door to the cell burst open.

Both of them jumped, so sudden was the slamming of the door, with Bradán leaping on over to sit next to Ronald.

“Hello worms, I have your meal for the day,” It was Baronk who spoke up, his voice full of scorn as he tossed a single bone, with upon closer inspection, half-rotted meat on it.

“This is cannot be real food,” Bradán exclaimed upon crawling nearer to the hunk of bone and bug infested ‘meat’.

“What of it? Real food is for those who work,” Baronk sneered only to study Bradán carefully while the lad glowered back at him. “But you know something? We may have something you could do, to earn a bit of food.”

“And what is that?” Bradán demanded impatiently, not trusting the piggish guard for a single heartbeat.

“I am not certain; I like your tone, just for that I think I will leave you to think about what you did wrong, for the next day or so.” After he had finished speaking, Baronk was gone and the door was closed and locked behind him.

“Wait!” Bradán called out after a second glance at what Baronk had given them.

“You should never openly glare at the guards,” Gaston scolded him sleepily, with a huge yawn splitting his face.

“Baronk always was slime,” Sadb agreed with him, only to add. “He will be back though, as he needs someone to clean the other cells for him, and his men.”

“That is the task, he had in mind? It does not seem so bad,” Bradán commented with a raised brow in her direction.

He spoke too soon though, for she already knew his question before he had finished speaking it, with the old woman speaking up to answer it, just as the last words left his mouth. “Oh, it seems like good honest work, and yet it takes considerable time, with those chosen, rushed by the guards who follow you about with whips, which they are not in the slightest shy in the usage of.”

Her explanation pulled a wince from Bradán, who could not deny that such treatment sounded terrible. A whip was entirely different even to his stubborn, defiance-oriented mind.

However, there was one thing on offer that Baronk, had said that had gotten his attention and still had it, in spite of the threat of a beating; food. They had no food, and needed it badly if they ever wanted to escape, this wretched place.

“But we are being offered food,” He pointed out, eager to argue in favour of this plan that had begun to take root in him.

“It is not worth the pain, no be content with-” Sadb began to say yet Bradán could not contain his incredulousness at her words.

“But we need food! Why be content with what is less than dirt?”

“I see you have already made your decision, very well but know that you will later regret it,” Sadb told him coolly; evidently she disagreed with him, but knew that he would not budge.

The next day, Baronk came back as expected, this time though he did not offer any food, instead he jerked a large, fat finger at Bradán only to jerk with his thumb for the lad to follow him.

“Good luck, you will need it,” Gaston said as he passed by him, to leave the cell, for the first time since they had met, there was a note of respect in his voice.

These words startled him enough to make him pause only for Bradán to prompt him forwards, “Hurry slave.”

Bradán bit his lower lip in frustration at the word ‘slave’, barely stifling the urge to shout out at Baronk that he was no slave but a free man. But doing so would only hinder his efforts to get food for him and his cellmates.

The task given to the prisoners, of the dungeon was on the face of it simple, easy to accomplish yet the task was complicated by how dirty the dungeon was, and by how infested with vermin and bugs it was. As if to add to these problems, the guards whipped those who had to mop or take soapy clothes and get on their knees to clean the floor too much and far too harshly.

On his first day cleaning the lower levels of the fortress of the Warlock-King, Bradán discovered this truth for himself, when he would err on his first day. At first, he was lined up alongside the other prisoners who were in total ten, in number with far more in the huge hallway, lined with cells to either side.

“You, the babe, you will clean up the western hallway starting with the black-cell.” Baronk instructed before he gave out the rest of the captives’ their own assignments.

His words confused Bradán who did not know what to do, while they were all lined up at the center of the bottom-most floor. Where the stairs met the dank basement area where there were a few wooden tables set up, with games of chance and food on them. There was a very clear divide between west and east-wings. He did not know what the head for the guards meant by the ‘black-cell’ or if it was permissible for him under the circumstances to ask about it, yet he still tried.

“Where is this ‘black-cell’?” He asked one of the guards nearest to him, deciding to risk asking one of the lower-ranking men with the thought that he would be more understanding of his confusion.

This was his first mistake of the day, which resulted in his first whipping, it was only three lashes, yet it was more than enough to teach him all he needed, to know about these men.

“Hold him! He just defied orders!” Shrieked the lean human whom he had spoken to, with the nearest two prisoners to the stunned lad grabbing him, before he could react in his shock, at this sudden accusation.

“What? Nay! I do not know which cell is the ‘black’ one, for they all seem dark to me.” Bradán tried to explain himself, but the guard was not interested in reason.

“Turn him,” the guard shouted, an undertone of dark excitement in his voice, with those who had grabbed onto Bradán doing just as they were told, with the lad starting to resist.

It looked as though, he would struggle free from their grasp, but a third prisoner hurried forward to help them, hold him in place for what the guard had in mind.

The first lash was weak and did not penetrate the cloth of the robes that still cornered the majority of Bradán’s body. It was the second blow which sent a ripple of shock and pain through him. The third lash sending him to his knees, with an even greater cry than the prior one.

“Wait, Colin we need him to clean the cell, you could whip him, should he slip up once more.” Baronk said suddenly, stopping the shrill guard from whipping him further, to Bradán sincere gratitude and relief.

“But-” Colin began to say.

“Do shut up and follow orders, you sorry-excuse for a rat.” Baronk growled at him, the menace in his voice enough to dissuade him from further violence. “Let the lad go, the black cell is the westernmost cell, anymore questions and I will whip you, myself lad.”

Bradán failed to find his voice, as his back continued to throb with pain, still he did succeed in hearing Baronk’s words. He then moved at first a little gingerly, then as he began to feel the pain recede a little, with a tad more confidence. The guard, who had just whipped him, glowered at him all the while that he handed him his bucket full of water. And a ragged weather-beaten thing that was supposed to pass for a rag, that Bradán was not certain could scare flies or spiders let alone dirt.

Despite his serious doubts, he let the matter slide; it was more important not to stand out in that moment. The black cell as the guards called it was not all that intimidating in appearance to Bradán’s mind. The cell interior was as dark as one might expect, from a cell with such a name.

“Get inside you knave!” One of the guards growled behind him, which the lad hurriedly did, putting the bucket down near the entrance, he began to use the rag as best he possibly could.

At first he did not notice anyone, nor did he much care to, focused as he was upon the task before him, which given how dirty the cell was, was by no means an easy task. Because the guards were preoccupied elsewhere, he was mostly left to himself, which suited him just fine. Eventually, when he began to realize the futility of his attempts to clean the cell, boredom set in and he began to glance about him.

This cell was about twice the size of his own, most of the walls for their part were free of manacles, in contrast to the small one in the east corner, of the dungeon, which he had been forced to reside in. Bradán was not certain if the size was supposed to be a good thing or not, given how too much time spent alone in such a place, might begin to make it seem double or triple in size, to one’s mind.

“Hello is someone there?” Someone spoke up, from the other side of one of the large pillars that ran along from left to right in this cell, holding the ceiling in place.

At first Bradán did not know if he should answer or not, but then after a few seconds something in his mind remembered something about that voice. When the stranger repeated his question, Bradán knew that he had definitively heard that voice somewhere before. The only thing was that he could not quite place it, despite his best efforts.

It was only when he glanced around the corner of the large pillar and laid eyes for the first time upon the ruined figure chained to the wall of this cell that, he realized where he had seen and met this man before.

The man who sat limply with his arms chained above his head, was almost as gaunt as Slaïm, with skin pockmarked with bruises, cuts and scars, with a thick beard and hair that ran down to mid-back that was dirtier it seemed than the floor itself.

Recognition flared up in Bradán’s mind, as white-hot worry flashed through him, with the man’s name falling from his lips before, he could stop himself. “Fionnán?”

Fionnán heard him, with his head rising ever so slightly. It was not enough to signal good health but enough to convey more than his cracked voice, or broken skin could. A pitiful sigh escaped his frowning lips, eyes searching through the darkness for the person who had just spoken his name.

When his eyes finally landed upon Bradán, it was with visible disbelief that he murmured, “Bradán? Are you really there?”

Seized by worry, Bradán threw aside his pitiful, tortured rag and raced over to Fionnán’s side, unable to believe that Ríonal’s husband was still alive. “Fionnán, how are you still alive? And how did you happen to find yourself in this horrible place?”

“Bradán? Is that really you?” His best-friend’s husband asked desperately, as the very being of the lad’s spirit was shaken to its foundations, at seeing this bright bear of a man brought so low. “I was sure that-I have dreamt of seeing someone from the Cloister for so long, yet dreaded it all the same.”

“How did you find yourself here?” Bradán repeated urgently, wincing at the sight of Fionnán’s wounds which were far worse upon closer inspection than they appeared from a distance.

“I was in Fialinn when it was captured, and the Jarl at last capitulated to the Warlock-King, I was caught up in the midst of those who had no wish, to surrender to him, and was captured then came to his attention when I attempted to escape but as I knew who the traitor amongst us was, I was left alive at his mercy and his master’s.” Fionnán explained eyes downcast in a manner that seemed at odds with who he had once been.

“Traitor?”

“Aye, I know it was the one they now call Slaim, I found him sneaking out of the cell and later when cleaning overheard him, talking to Baronk.” Fionnán informed him, blinking furiously to try fight off his tears that had come against his wishes and left him looking more broken than before. Bradán was silently for some time, not certain of what to do or say that could make his friend feel better, if such a thing could ever be again. At last just as the silence stretched along for what felt to him longer, than the time needed to compose one of the great Dorisian epic poems that Brien had loved to read at times. And also loved to recite to some of the children, Fionnán spoke up once more, a desperate edge to his voice once more. “Tell me Bradán, Ríonal is she well? I must know that she is well, and that when you were caught at the cloister that-”

“I was caught near Dúntaobh not the Cloiser,” Bradán interrupted without thinking only to immediately regret it a moment later when he saw a wave of relief the size of a whale pass over Fionnán’s face.

“Then she could still be alive, and well? Praise be to the gods!” Now the husband of the woman Bradán considered one of his dearest friends truly began to weep, so great was the joy he felt, “And my mother and children?”

This question was one that Bradán had deep down dreaded to hear, certain that they had both died because of his actions. He could not bring himself to feel anything other than pain, shame and guilt. He had also been raised to believe that one must always tell the truth, yet to do so now did not feel right. Bradán could see from the hope and desperation, on Fionnán’s face that to snatch away his hope now would kill him.

Full of remorse over what he had done to his friends, Bradán struggled with the knowledge that yet another life was in his hands; why him, he asked himself. Had he not already proven his unworthiness? He had failed Lyr betrayed the monastery, and now had to lie in order to cover for his own sins, as well as to protect the man from the dispiriting knowledge, that his family had very likely, all been slaughtered because of him.

Swallowing his guilt, he tried his best to smile lightly in order to complete the lie, and protect both of them from his multitude of mistakes. “They were very healthy last I saw them, Eibhlin was complaining and fussing over everyone as she always does.”

“And my child? Male or female? Please tell me Bradán, I do not care which sex it is, so long as the baby is healthy.” Fionnán asked promptly as desperate to know the truth about his family, as ever.

Bradán answered after thinking rapidly, this time he did not shy away from Fionnán’s gaze for a single second. “Lad, one named after your father and doted, upon by his sister and mother.”

A few more tears of joy escaped from the older male’s eyes, as he smiled at the lad before him, a world of reverence and gratitude in his eyes. “Oh, thank you, goddess bless you lad! I can die at peace now.”

“What?” Bradán said dumbly, having tried to avoid this very possibility; he could not fathom how exactly he had arrived at this very fork in the road. He tried to appease his friend, to keep him from death, only to in the end be the cause for Fionnán’s death. “Nay, I only-”

“It is alright, Bradán I have found peace, thanks to you, which means that in return I must plead with you to find some way to escape and to-” Fionnán was saying.

“Hey, where did the whelp run off to?” Cold be heard from the entrance of the cell. Bradán felt every hair on the back of his neck stand on end, as he remembered where he was, and that Baronk had already given him one warning, and was therefore unlikely to be so kind this time.

He gaped, frightened of what was surely to come, when it did he felt his stomach shrivel up inside of him, as Baronk stepped forward into view, to pick up the fallen rag, then glanced from side to side, only to glower at him.

“There you are, you little whelp, think you could avoid hard-work do you? Come hither, I have twenty lashes that think otherwise.” Baronk growled at him, as he advanced upon the shrinking monk.

“No wait, I was only-” Bradán began to stutter, full of terror.

“Come hither!”

“Wait, it was I who distracted him, punish me instead!” Fionnán wailed to no effect, for Baronk had already seized Bradán by the arm and begun to drag him out from the cell.

Fionnán’s cries ringing behind them, Baronk dragged the dazed lad to the center of the dungeon floor. Those twenty lashes were a burning, welt-making reminder of both how far Bradán had fallen and of how much stronger, than Colin, Baronk was.

Once he had finished Baronk took one long look at the fallen, bleeding lad, and muttered to two of his men. “Take him back, he has finished for the day and give him some bread. Bread the size of his fist, for those who can’t finish the cleaning and meat for those who do well, as I always say.”

So consumed was he by the burning sensation on his back that it was all he could do to limp back to his cell, where he fell to the ground with a loud groan. Next to him, Gaston eyed him, this much he could see, yet he could not tell what sort of face he was making.

“I must say, I did not expect you to be returned to us so soon,” He commented with a slight shake of his head. “What did you do? Refuse to continue cleaning after you saw how much was to do?”

“Gaston be kind, it is not as though you lasted very long on your first day either,” Sadb scolded him, her voice full of pity.

After that Bradán was barely conscious of what transpired that day after being given his small slice of bread which he ate slowly without being fully aware of it until it was gone.

The next day was when the knowledge of what had happened the prior evening or was it morning? No matter, it was then that it truly struck him, the lack of real food, the knowledge that Fionnán was alive (if barely) and the lashing from Baronk, all blinded him to his immediate surroundings for the first few minutes that he struggled groggily to full wakefulness.

It was then as he lay in the muck and mire of that stinking, disgusting excuse for a cell that he realized he had to escape. He had never so keenly felt before then the freedom he tacked then and had once taken so much, for granted during his days at the monastery.

The only question was how to seek the falcon’s path of freedom and escape this place of lost souls? It came to him in a flash of light when he remembered the drainage in Fionnán’s cell, almost twice as high as the one in his own cell. All around him, he could see that those he shared his cell with, were in far worse condition than he was. The only ones to his mind that were, possibly also in somewhat good health were Haldor whom was still recovering from the trip there, and Ronald whom had no magic without his staff.

“Does anyone know if the cell in the west-wing has a gate in the middle of its sewage?” Bradán asked of those around him, while he sat up with a wince.

“Why?” Gaston asked suspiciously.

“Because-”

“Because he obviously schemes to have us swim through the aforementioned sewage,” Ronald interrupted gnawing on his lower lip, full of disdain for the idea yet tempted by it, “Still, I shant’ leave without my staff.”

“Likely it is kept with the Warlock-King’s affairs in his quarters, which if you ask me, means it is as good as forfeited.” Sadb insisted impatiently to the visible annoyance of the Tigrun whom gave her in return a look so foul it could have killed, not that she was finished speaking. “Not reclaiming it could much good for you, given how vile those demonic arts truly are.”

“Yes, of course, it is especially vile in comparison with the good you and your fellow charlatans have done.” Ronald sneered.

“Charlatans?! Have you no shame? Those who follow the Canticle of the gods-” Sadb began to speak, her voice choked with rage at his words.

“Not my gods,” Haldor muttered almost more to himself.

“You are a heretic, what would you know?” Sadb snapped without thought.

“Strong words, given you live in a land full to the brim with heretics,” Ronald retorted evenly.

“Enough! Why should we care at such a time, such as this over who is a heretic? Let us escape then heap hatred upon one another, until we fall to the ground dead at one another’s hands.” Bradán growled at them, having lost all patience with the lot of them.

To his private relief, he saw Haldor thinking as he regarded him, while Ronald bowed his head in shame over his infantile behaviour. Even Sadb appeared to be thinking over what she had said to the sorcerer and the Northman, it was some time before someone broke the silence that followed.

“It has been attempted, and failed to succeed then, therefore why should we bother to attempt to do so again?” Gaston demanded irritably.

“Because who wishes to die here?” Bradán snapped back at the foreigner, who fell silent at his words, emboldened by this fact, he added hurriedly. “And the only reason you failed was because of betrayal, this time it will be different.”

“What a bull-headed lad,” Gaston commented with a slight shake of his head.

“Do you have a plan in mind?” Haldor asked him.

Bradán felt his spirit immediately plummet to the bottom of the seas, at this question. In truth he had no plan, only the desire to escape and to help Fionnán do so as well, and the knowledge that everyone was staring at him, expectantly did little to help his confidence.

It was Ronald who came to his rescue, a heartbeat later by suggesting a plan in a quiet yet confident voice that made all of them forget their, recent disappointment. “I may have an idea, which will require us first to determine whether or not there is a gate in that sewer. In the meantime, another one of us will need to steal the keys, to our chains and cell.”

“That is all?” Haldor queried doubtfully.

“I would like to see you do better, no matter what we do we will need the keys and to know if that sewage is gated or not. It is only after we have those two things in hand, will we be able to properly plan our escape.” Ronald stated with a flash of his eyes at the Norseman, before he was beset by the chief problem of his plan.

“Wait, how will the guards not take notice that the keys are missing?” Sadb questioned a frown in her voice, if such a thing was possible.

“Aye, which is why we will need to move quickly,” The sorcerer told her dryly before he added, “We will need a diversion, any ideas?”

They all remained quiet, pensively so, as they fought to come up with a good diversion now, once again it fell upon Bradán to come up with just such an idea. It was then, when he recalled the most important ingredient to cooking meat; fire. He remembered it only due to the growling of his stomach, and the memory of the meat Baronk claimed the harder workers would receive.

“We could set our cell or some other part of the prison aflame,” Bradán suggested, deciding to be the one to shoot into the dark in the hopes of either sparking a better idea, or by his idea happening upon the ultimate solution to their current problems.

What he received from them instead was a collection of stunned stares from his fellow prisoners. This time rather than react with uncertainty or doubt they responded with genuine consideration and delight, visibly pleased by his suggestion.

“Fire, hein? It could work,” Gaston remarked only to smile a little. “We will need to decide upon volunteers for the next cleaning took later in the week. This will likely, be the most dangerous element of our plan. And if such is the case, we must bear in mind who will likely be allowed or disallowed where.”

“What do you mean?” Haldor asked curiously.

“Simply this; Baronk will not for example allow Bradán near the black cell or myself near the guards’ post due to his actions the other day and my prior attempt, to escape.” Gaston explained thoughtfully.

“What this means is that those Baronk is not familiar with should volunteer for that cell.” Haldor said with a significant glance at those around him, this was but a mere precursor to him volunteering himself, for that very task. “It is for this reason I shall have to do it.”

“You have but a one in tenth chance to being chosen, which is why several of us should volunteer,” Ronald rebutted thoughtfully.

“But will that not draw suspicion upon us by the guards if too many volunteer?” Sadb pointed out reasonably, yet the Tigrun was prepared for that very argument.

“If we wish to hurry, and improve our chances, then we will have to draft every man in this room.”

“‘Chances’? You sound as though you are speaking of gambling.” Bradán commented startled by his choice in words which made him feel queasy despite himself about what they intended to do.
“Because we are gambling young Bradán, you see this plan of ours just as every risky decision in life, is simply a matter of throwing the die and praying for the best.” Ronald said soberly, a strange melancholy to his eyes and voice, which made Bradán long to say something kind to lift the Tigrun’s downtrodden spirits from the mire where they had fallen.

The trouble was that he had no idea of what to say or do for his friend or the others who soon contracted his quiet world-weariness. Even Bradán had difficulties fending off his feelings of bleak guilt and shame that had dogged him throughout the past weeks.

Not that this fact, changed in the next three days, those interval days were not ones filled with joy or excitement, at the prospect of escape quite the opposite. All of them, all but expected Baronk, and his lackeys to somehow all but read their minds, throw the doors open and from there to punish them all.

Yet this did not occur. To the contrary of their expectations, when they all complained of hunger and began to plead with him to allow them to do the menial chores necessary to earn some meat and bread, he snorted wildly with uncontrolled laughter. To the joy of the youngest male in the room, he was chosen without a second thought, with the pleasure of being accepted soon dashed when Baronk refused, to let Ronald join them.

“Never trust someone too clever, and who can read, write and use magic.” Baronk said to himself, his policy not one that Bradán could find fault with.

Though, there was one major issue with Baronk, one that he could not keep from blurting out, a question about, “But does he not work for the Warlock-King?”

His question which was directed at Gaston earned him a wryly raised brow from the older man, which served only to emphasize Baronk’s point and to answer Bradán’s question. While Ronald had not been selected, fate still seemed to favour them, given that three of them had been selected, though upon noticing Bradán. Baronk singled him out as the most unreliable of the slaves which drew a hiss of irritation from the lad.

“Send two of them to the black-cell,” Baronk declared with a scowl, “It has gotten plenty disgusting there lately, let us send… him and him.”

At first when he heard Baronk announce that they would send in two slaves to the black cell, Bradán could feel his heartbeat pick up with excitement. As visceral as his spike of disappointment was, he and his friends were in for some mercy from fate, when Gaston was chosen for that cell. With the quick-witted gaunt man scurrying off after the guardsman Colin, who still fingered his whip with the same expression of dark anxiety that, set Bradán’s hair standing on edge. This left Bradán and Haldor to be divided up. The former was to be supervised by the head of the guards, while the latter was placed in the hallway next to the guards’ room.

At the knowledge that he was to simply clean the area right outside his cell, Bradán felt his heart plummet to his feet, he had hoped to be chosen for the area near the guards’ room. But not only was he not chosen, but neither was Haldor.

Full of despair, he was soon set to his task which he tackled over the course of the next six hours. In need of a distraction Bradán, devoted himself to cleaning the dank, dirty floor until his fingers were raw, then beyond any such point until finally, they bled with many a whip blow sent his way by Baronk. The guardsman quickly grew bored, and took to first tapping his right-forefinger on the hilt of his long-sword, wherefore he took to kicking at some of the dung only to grow tired of this also.

“Your fingers are bleeding,” He grunted eventually, apparently less equipped to manage the tedium of the silence between them, than the lad himself was.

It was on the tip of Bradán’s tongue to answer sullenly, to ask why should Baronk care? It was not as though it made a difference to the porcine guard that Bradán’s hands bled, and ached. Especially when it was essentially Baronk’s fault that his hands were bleeding because of the cleaning he had done.

“Arrogant little turd, do not just ignore me!” Baronk growled after several more minutes of quiet.

“What would you have me say? I am aware of the blood there,” Bradán replied quietly expecting a blow yet unable to keep some bite out of his voice.

“So you can talk after-all,” Baronk uttered back slightly less annoyed than he normally was, “You know that you should try to be less stupid, given how you have already earned quite the lashings last time.”

“If you believe so, then I really must endeavour with all of my soul to do so,” Bradán muttered more weary than sarcastic something which earned him a slight snicker from the large guard. “Why serve the Warlock-King?”

“Aye he is, but just as he regards my people as little more than thugs to do his bidding, he is no worse than the other rís who are of a mind that my people are less than dirt.”

“I still think there is no one worse than your master,” Bradán retorted evenly, unable to imagine the dread of Ériu in anything remotely resembling a positive light.

“I did not say that he was good, he is the worst person in existence but what of those who think less of my people, who act with more callousness towards them? They can hardly be better.” Baronk clarified morosely, as though he were hemmed in by his options or choices in life.

Bradán thought about those words at some length, he had never given such a thing so much thought. Never considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe some of the followers of the Warlock-King had good reasons to follow the dread-king. After some consideration, he arrived at the conclusion that there had to be some other choice. There had to be some great laird who was more considerate towards Baronk’s people, than the Warlock-King. “What of the Northmen?”

“What of them? They are foreign, and have taken just as much actions against my people as yours have,” Baronk answered with another of his famous snorts, which expressed either the utmost contempt or disbelief in the options proposed by Bradán.

Annoyed by his lack of openness towards others and the possibilities open before him, Bradán felt a sharp pang in his heart, against Baronk which was difficult to suppress. It threatened to garner him another series of lashings he knew he was better without.

“What if there was some laird who had tamed them and was open to your people?” The question was answered with a doubtful look which told him that Baronk could hardly imagine it, and therefore had just answered inadvertently that query.

“There could never be such a laird, it is a child’s notion,” Baronk declared with the utmost finality, the sort that signalled an end to a discussion, “I think you have done enough.”

Bradán stared after him for some time, not comprehending what had just happened; did he just have a civilized discussion with one of the Warlock-King’s guards? It was a strange moment, when he realized that simply serving someone did not mean one was the same as them.

It was also as he stared after the head of the guards that he heard that familiar clicking noise that accompanied Baronk everywhere. It was then that Bradán realized what they had all failed to either notice or recall in their desperation for freedom; that the keys were right there before his eyes, on the Bairaz’s belt-line.

There was nothing more he could do for the day though, while some were to continue cleaning late, into the next day, having been dismissed Bradán, could not continue to work.

Once the door had clicked or more aptly slammed shut behind him, he sagged to the ground in defeat, with his back to the wall, next to Sadb. The old nun gave him a long look, one which was compassionate as well as curious, not that Bradán knew how to respond to it, so weary and hungry was he.

“How did the cleaning go, Bradán?” She asked gently.

Searching for words, Bradán found himself at a great loss for them not that he should have worried given that Sadb and Ronald were of an impatient temperament. Both of them thus, waited for some time for the exhausted injured lad to answer.

“It was alright, just strange is all, but never mind that, I now know where the keys to our locks are; Baronk has them on his person at all times.” Bradán said at last after what must have been almost an hour or so, “What do we do now?”

Silence. Visibly stunned and disappointed by the news neither of the other two knew how to answer that difficult question, knew how to solve this particular riddle instantly.

Ronald after some minutes of deep reflection heaved a heavy sigh, and then he answered in a quiet, solemn voice, “We must steal it from Baronk, without him noticing it.”

“But how could that be done?” Sadb cried out silently at him.

“I do not know!” Ronald hissed back, only to add heatedly, “Were my wrists unshackled, I could certainly do it but now? I do not know, we require a thief, yet seem to direly lack one, the closest thing to one in our possession, being Gaston.”

“He cannot steal, he is a knight though, there are in many cases, few differences between a criminal and a knight. Theft is in Gaston’s eyes completely unacceptable.” Sadb retorted tartly.

“A ‘knight’?” Bradán asked feeling stupid for not understanding the term.

“A mounted warrior of sorts, some of them believe in an old honour code, whereas most do not.” The Tigrun responded only to ask Sadb inquisitively, “What is a Gallian knight doing in Ériu?”

“Apparently he served the Grand Divan, who sent him here to ascertain if the Warlock-King was real and was a demon, or if he was just a rumour.” Sadb explained grimly, “The trouble is that he was captured before he could hurry back to the Continent to warn them, of our plight.”

“But surely his absence has been noticed, and they’ll send someone after him soon,” Bradán insisted innocently, his hopes though were unreasonable things, with little chance of survival.

“That was a dozen years ago, and in that time his holiness likely passed on.” The nun pointed out.

“Or lost interest given how tempestuous Quirinian and Parmenian politics can be,” Ronald added cynically, his criticism of the Temple earned him an angry scowl from wise old Sadb, one which was heartily ignored by the sorcerer.

“What of his family?” Bradán asked, though no longer hopeful, he was now brimming with doubt, he still felt compelled though to ask while his mind went over the far more weighty issue of the keys to the dungeon.

“I do not really know,” Sadb confessed in a startled voice, as though she had never thought about it before, and was only now aware of that very fact.

She did not say much more about it though, favouring the company of her innermost thoughts, it was Ronald who next spoke up, eager to discuss the subject of the keys once more. “What of the keys, how will we steal them?”

“I could,” Bradán volunteered, “I have some experience stealing, fish and treats from the kitchens.”

Ronald stared in surprise, having it seems not expected the youth to be the one familiar with some minor experience in stealing out of all of them. “Very well, if you think you can do it, it is not as though we have any other choice, now how do we distract him?”

“The fire,” Bradán suggested at once, eyes gleaming and heart tight with certainty as an idea began to slowly trickle into his mind. “It will distract him, and while he panics I will trip and press or to be more apt, will fall onto him.”

Sadb and Ronald exchanged a vulnerable, wordless look of shame, displeased he knew that he would be the one brushing so closely with danger itself. Yet as the latter had already stated; what other choice did they have?

In time, the others were brought back and to the surprise of Bradán a plate of food was brought forth for all three of the men, who had worked so tirelessly for the guards. Who left immediately afterwards, leaving the prisoners to their own devices, with the captive quick to begin devouring the meat, potatoes and carrots given to them.

At the first bite from his mutton, which exploded with flavour, the lad felt his eyes widen with surprise. It was a first for young Bradán, and one he treasured, for monks as you well know are forbidden to eat meat. Aware of this, yet eager to try this forbidden food, he had all but dived forward to try, only to almost purr with the pleasure of its flavour.

But seeing the state of Ronald and Sadb, both of whom had not been given any food whatsoever, Bradán felt a wave of guilt sweep over him, when he realized just how much more than them, he had in that moment. The memory of how Lyr had shared his own food with those less fortunate, in Dúntaobh. Then, he remembered how he would spoil, the children by giving them small loafs of bread, in-between meals, over at the Cloister-by-the-Sea served as an example to him. Setting aside some of his food, Bradán stepped on over to sit near Sadb, in order to offer up his vegetables up to her, aware that as a nun sworn to the goddess Brigantia, she could not eat meat.

“Here, take my carrots and potatoes, those that are still left,” He murmured to her, drawing upon himself a grateful smile from her, one that warmed his insides.

“Thank you, lad,” Sadb replied gently, far too hungry to refuse, once she had finished eating, he noticed, Gaston and Haldor staring at him in surprise.

Neither one of them, having thought of sharing their food with those still chained to the two walls. His actions did not seem to affect Gaston all that much; if anything he shook his head and chose to ignore him. It was Haldor, who gave a nod of approval, though unable to offer up his own meal, as he had already finished it, by then. What little remained of the lad’s meal was given to Ronald, who was as grateful as Sadb for this priceless gift.

After a few minutes, the cell door was opened so Baronk could take back the plates and to chain the unresisting men back to their respective walls. None of them was to say anything to the Bairaz who raised his brow a little bit at the lad, when he noticed Ronald swallowing some meat with a line of the animal’s sauce on his chin.

Bradán ignored his amused gaze, more interested in finding a clean part of the floor to sleep on, with the next day being when they had intended to escape from the dungeon.

It was shortly after, the guards would offer up the rotted food that was normally given to the captives whom did not touch it this time, at least not with the desire to eat it.

Some flint or what looked like it, in hand that, Haldor had found lying next to him, Bradán began to try to light a portion of his torn upper robes, he had kept at first to try to keep warm with, then later for this exact purpose.

He could not say for how long, he was at work, striking those stones together over and over again. Only that it took some time, and that his raw hands were rawer for it, yet when the first embers appeared, Bradán nearly shouted out of joyful relief.

The fire was lit, with Bradán blowing on it, and stepping back, only to glance over at Haldor who waited patiently, “Wait for it to grow.”

“Just not too long,” Gaston murmured nervous, obviously uncomfortable with the usage of fire in their escape attempt.

Bradán waited impatiently for the fire to stoke up a little more, stepping back increasingly more, the larger it grew, until at last Sadb swallowed a little coughed and let out a penetrating scream. One that left the ears of everyone there (Ronald in particular) ringing, as the word fire echoed down the hallway, “FIRE!”

“Nicely done,” Haldor muttered wincing in pain.

“Thank you,” Sadb said dryly, only to glance over at Bradán, “Now you try lad.”

“FIRE!” He hollered now too.

It took little time, before there was the sound of someone approaching, and keys being thrust into the door’s lock. The door was thrown open, so that Baronk entered the cell with an expression of dismay that rapidly turned into one of stunned horror.

“How did that happen?” He asked incredulously, as he yelled back over his shoulder, “Fire! We need water you fools!”

“No idea, help!” Bradán lied as he cried out for help, only for the Bairaz hurried away, only to return a moment later, taking the keys away with him to the irritation of the lad.

When Baronk returned with a bucket full of water, to throw at the fire, Bradán made sure to do as he had been instructed before this day, in order to see about tripping and falling against Baronk. Aware of where the keys were, he had them pulled off the belt, of the Bairaz in a flash, before he was shoved aside by the annoyed pig.

“Out of the way, idiot!” Baronk growled, not giving him a second look, as he cursed as his water failed to subdue the disobedient flames.

The fire was still growing, with Bradán knocked aside, next to Sadb and Gaston, whom Baronk was not watching he moved to unlock the shackles to. Barely managing to breath at all, as he did so, fearful that the Bairaz who had hurried out of the room, to fetch more water, would return. Sweating, he also began praying under his breath, at the thought of the fire, perhaps burning them also.

To his satisfaction, Sadb’s chains soon gave a slight click, signalling that she was now free, with hesitation he leapt from her side, to Gaston’s to unlock his one shackle. Turning it first left then right, as he had done in a blind panic, with Sadb’s shackles, he soon had the Gallian free.

Only to shrink away, as Baronk hurried back with another bucket of water, one that had far more effect than the previous bucket-full had, only to flee to the door, in order to go fetch another bucket. Seeing this, Gaston ushered Bradán towards Haldor, while he himself tore a strip of his own cloth off his chest, in order to press it into the fire.

“What are you doing?” Haldor hissed at him.

“Ensuring that they are busy with another fire, while we free you two fools,” Gaston grunted back, just as Bradán moved to free Ronald.

The door was made of wood, it caught fire with the flames not spreading as quickly as they expected, as Baronk and two guards rushed into the room, to almost put out the flames at the back of the cell. The prisoners, keeping their arms above their heads, in the hopes of fooling them, were to rely upon the shadows to hide the fact that they were no longer shackled.

Ronald soon reaching down to grasp something within the folds of the robes that covered his left arm, only to pull out a bottle hidden there (he had claimed it from the guards). It was only when the guards raced away, with the Tigrun pouring some of the contents next to the fire at the back of the room, only to toss the rest of it once it was almost completely empty into the flames.

Haldor was soon released, and after rubbing his wrists to restore some circulation, he let out a gasp which caused Bradán to glance behind him only to understand his horrified reaction. The fire had begun to regain some of its size, because of Ronald, who sniffed a bit in satisfaction, as he had poured some of the black contents in his bottle, which led the flames towards the door.

“What have you done?” Sadb demanded in exasperation.

“Saved us all,” Ronald retorted, just as Baronk rushed towards the room, with several of the guards in pursuit, while the prisoners returned to their original positions, except for Ronald who hid behind the door, just as the guards raced in, only to scream as they caught sight of the flames.

To the horror and fury of Baronk, the man behind him tripped on the flames by the door, and dropped the bucket of water.

“You clumsy oaf! Go back! Now we must hurry back!” Baronk bellowed, as he moved to race on over into the room, just as Ronald extended his leg.

Baronk tripped over him, and fell into some of the smaller flames, with a scream that stunned Bradán.

Not that any of his comrades remained stunned or hesitant for very long, with Haldor grabbing the lad who still held the keys, by the elbow. Ronald took the keys from Bradán, just as he closed the door, and locked it, only to pull the keys out and hand them over to Bradán.

“Why do such a thing?” Sadb asked incredulously, “What if he burns to death?”

“Why should that interest us? Now hurry it up,” Gaston growled crisply.

Most of the guards were either still asleep or rushing to and fro, in search of more water, with which to initiate their attempts to put the fire out. Haldor seized a length of his own cloth, dabbed into some of the flames that were licking away at the door.

“Do you have any more oil, Ronald?” He asked curiously.

“Nay, I only stole the one bottle from the guards, awhile back, but I know where they keep the rest.” Ronald replied just as several of the prisoners who weren’t shackled in their own cells, called out to them.

“Let us go!”

“Take us with you!”

On and on went the cries, with Bradán glancing all around him, only to nod to himself, and rush on over to one cell to his right, in order to unlock and pull it open.

“Bradán what are you doing?” Gaston hissed at him.

“Simple, we need a diversion,” Bradán retorted over his shoulder, as he urged those inside out, “Quickly get out, you know where to flee!”

This piece of logic in mind, the others shared a glance, just as the guards took notice of them standing outside their cell. But it was too late, as they gaped at them; a flood of five prisoners stumbled and ran out from the right, of the prisoners.

Bradán then moved to free those across from the first cell he had opened, with this cell even more filled up, with a total of ten people in there, who weren’t shackled. They were all leprous but that just added to the terror the guards reacted to them, with.

As the prisoners rushed towards the guards, Bradán worked to unlock a third cell, with the lad all but tossed aside by the prisoners in that cell, who were far less grateful than the previous two groups. While he did so, Haldor and Ronald blended in amongst the two prior groups, only to turn to the left just as the first clash between guards and captives took place, with a fire soon exploding out of control amongst where the guards tended to sleep and stay.

Having freed enough captives, not just for a diversion, but also for his conscience, Bradán hurried after his friends, who stepped around the overwhelmed guards. Some of whom were trampled or torn to shreds, by the enraged, desperate prisoners.

Just as the small group had manoeuvred themselves towards the far ‘black cell’ where Fionnán was to be found, there was a cry from Bradán’s left.

“Wait! Please, do not leave me here!” Someone cried out, sniffling with Bradán startled by this particular voice.

“Do not listen to him, We are almost safe!” Gaston cried out, desperate for freedom.

But Bradán couldn’t hear him, glancing over he listened again, and realized just why this voice had disturbed him so. It was not the fear there, but the youth of this plaintiff. He couldn’t be older than Colum. And the memory of his friend, of how he had likely died, filled Bradán with remorse, with grief and guilt.

If there was one thing Bradán was familiar with, and knew he had to work towards, it was atonement. To leave another child to face destruction, after he had inadvertently condemned those who had raised him, or been raised alongside him was beyond the pall. He had to help.

“Alright, give me one moment,” He assured this person, as he hurried on over to the cell, in order to quickly unlock it.

“Please do not leave me,” The lad pleaded.

“I will not, what is your name?”

“Tadhg, son of Conn.”

For some reason that name sounded familiar to Bradán’s ears, but he brushed the thought aside, for there was no time for this. Behind him, his companions huffed at him impatiently, as the battle behind them worsened.

“Hurry Bradán!” Ronald called out to him, just as the door was thrown open.

The lad Tadhg, was a short and must have once been plump, he was also blonde of hair, blue almost grey eyed, and had a kindly look to him. Without hesitation the lad, was on the verge of tearing off, towards the guards just as four others moved past him.

“Thank you!” Tadhg uttered, just as Bradán handed the keys over to Sadb, who immediately began working to open Fionnán’s cell-door.

“Wait! Not that way,” Bradán hissed grabbing the startled Tadhg by the arm.

“What are you doing, Bradán?” Haldor now asked him, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“We cannot let him flee towards the guards.”

“Why?”

“He is different, he is but a lad, and therefore I refuse to let him die.” Bradán stated firmly, meeting the Northman’s gaze defiantly.

For a moment they clashed, but a second later the clash came to an end. Haldor was to silently admit defeat first, just as Sadb cried out with relief. The door swung open, just as elation filled them all, with Tadhg gaping at them as he was all but dragged by Bradán into that cell.

“This is a dead-end,” He protested helplessly.

“Nay, it is not,” Bradán shot back, just as the door was closed behind Ronald who came last.

Sadb hurried past one of the columns, while Gaston hurried over to the water, and without hesitation leapt into it, with Ronald soon following with a frisson of disgust. The water was putrid, but it had no bars keeping them from the freedom they craved so much.

“What is happening?” Fionnán wondered, bewildered by the sudden fracas and franticness of those in his now crowded cell.

“We are escaping,” Bradán informed him, as he helped Sadb with the locks, just as Tadhg was guided to the water by Haldor.

“What about them?” Tadhg asked confused.

“Shut up and go, we have no time for such talk,” Haldor said shoving him into the water, before he too turned to them. “Sadb, you are next, then you Bradán.”

“Not without Fionnán,” Bradán insisted stubbornly.

“You will be the death of us all,” Haldor grumbled as he nodded, aware that he could not argue or prove himself more stubborn than him, then.

Sadb was soon in the water, struggling until Haldor moved to help her, only to hesitate while Fionnán groaned as the shackles were unlocked. “Leave me, Bradán.”

“Never,” Bradán retorted stubbornly, “You have too much to live for.”

“Hurry you two,” Haldor said crisply, as he glanced over towards the door, worriedly, “Help Sadb Bradán, while I help your friend.”
There was a sudden noise by the door, a series of cries and screams, which worried Bradán who stared, in that direction. He knew then, that time was up, he could almost feel in his bones as he met Haldor’s gaze only to leap to his feet in order to race over and shove Haldor back.

Falling back, he lost his footing, just as Sadb struggled alongside him, unable as she was to summon up the strength to properly swim.

“Hurry, you two!” Bradán pressed them, just as Haldor bellowed his name.

Moving on over to Fionnán, he lifted him up and over to him, with the older man too tired and weak to resist, shaking his head a little side to side, in an attempt to refuse his kindness. But Bradán wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Unfortunately, Bradán had underestimated the guards and overestimated his friends, as the door was torn almost off its hinges, just as Baronk appeared in the cell.

Bradán moved towards the water only to be headed off and tackled to the ground, just as he was about to leap.

“They are escaping!” Bradán struggled futilely as the cry went up.

He tried to kick at Baronk, but that was futile, as his legs were caught. Desperately he tossed Fionnán into the water, only to let out a cry, as the other man was caught midair, and pulled back up, as he cried and screamed out himself.

“Let him go! It was not his fault!” He hollered desperate for Bradán’s safety rather than his own.

“Let me go!” Bradán shrieked futilely.

“Be quiet and stop struggling!” Baronk growled at him, only to strike him with his upraised right fist, in the side of the face.

Bradán saw stars, and groaned, only to feel himself get lifted as ordered were given to return him to his cell, regardless of the fire that they were still struggling to put out there.

But there came a chilling moment for the guards, one that Bradán missed, as he was forked over to a new set of guards, and Baronk moved up the stairs and away with a small group of Bairaz people. Why he did so, did not really occur to Bradán, who was only now recovering from his surprise and pain, since the Bairaz was by no means puny.

“Nay, take him to the Warlock-King,” Came the order, it was Colin who had spoken, with the guards soon carrying him up a series of stairs, then through two-three halls.

Only now shaking and struggling once more, he almost broke free twice. But it was too late. They were now in an audience chamber, built of pure marble and stone, with the floor fine and grey, while there were immense pillars holding up the high ceiling. A ceiling that was almost a hundred meters high, while the hall itself was the same amount of distance wide, and almost twice that in length, from the door to the steps.

The steps at the back of the room, were large almost a third of a meter high each, and with each step about half a meter long. They were made of grey stone also; over-all Bradán had never seen a grander, if more lifeless hall in his life, every other building he had ever set foot in was made of wood.

To his consternation, there were a series of guards, currently running in and out of the room, via one of the wooden doors to the left of the hall (there were four doors two to either side or the high gates at the front of it). Fionnán and Bradán were tossed down, so that they lay down at the foot of those steps. Steps that led to a high golden throne almost ten feet tall made of the finest craftsmanship imaginable.

Gaping up at the shadowy figure, seated upon that throne, Bradán felt his stomach shrink and shrivel up within him, just as he was struck in the back of the head.

“Do not look upon him directly, worm!” Colin yelled at him, only to deliver a kick to his side.

“Leave him alone!” Fionnán cried out desperately, just as he was subjected to a series of blows of his own.

“Hold.” The Warlock-King ordered briskly, with that one word halting all of the guards, who all shrunk away, in terror.

The slimy Slaïm by his side, the Warlock-King waved someone far off, with the slave cackling as he hissed at the two terrified men. “You must now suffer the ultimate price for this insult, to your master’s hospitality.”

Bradán felt fear and resignation war within him, with the lad certain he knew what this meant. It meant that he would soon, be slain. He doubted it would be slow, but he was ready to accept it, to give his soul to the gods, anything to escape this madman and horridly lifeless place.

There was a sizzling sound that caught his attention, one that sounded familiar as though there was something that had been heated to a lava-like temperature and was only now cooling. Next to him, Fionnán stiffened, as he too caught sight of what chilled Bradán’s own blood, a second later as he too glanced to his left.

Carried on a long metal pole, were two iron shoes that had been heated in a nearby fire, in another room, with the two shoes connected by a simple chain. Bradán felt terror grip his heart, as he stared towards those two shoes.

Swallowing heavily, he shrunk away, only for him to hear Fionnán swallow and shout at the Warlock-King, “Not the shoes, please!”

“Aye, the one who did this shall dance, for the master!” Slaïm howled with glee, as he snickered at their expense, as the two of them now stared up at him and his foul master.

Bradán felt his blood chill and his face grimace in horror. To wear those would be to wreck his feet, he couldn’t imagine such a fate. The pain would likely be the sort that would stay, with a man for a lifetime.

He felt tears of fear begin to well up, as he soon vomited from just the fear, while Fionnán glanced over at him, then back up at Slaïm, with a strange look on his face. The expression on his face was a mixture of defiance, and acceptance, almost peaceful resignation.

“I did it,” Fionnán admitted, earning for himself the stares of all present. “It was my hope, to secure Bradán’s freedom; I cooperated with some of those in the cells next to his, and in the same one as his. Punish me.”

“In that case you shall dance,” Slaïm crowed happily, he soon let out a loud yelp of pain when he was struck in the side of the face, by his owner. Falling to the ground, with that one blow, he lay there for some time, whimpering in agony.

Studying Fionnán closely, the Warlock-King did not utter a word in that moment. While Bradán gaped in disbelief at his friend, wondering briefly why he would lie about such a thing. Only to realize, what it was that the older man was trying to do; protect him, from the iron shoes. Caught between his fear, and his desire to help Fionnán fell silent, mouth opening and closing, as shock and indecision soon gripped him.

Disappearing from behind them, the Warlock-King stepped past them, moving between them with the confidence and regal certainty of a king. As he did so, he spoke once more in his terrifying voice, “Kill Fionnán.”

“What?! But why?” Bradán cried out.

“He lied,” Was the simple response as the black king then added, “But as you die Fionnán, so too will your defiance. But die, with the knowledge that your friend, shall dance for us.”

“NAY! I beg of you! NAY!” Fionnán yelped as he now tried to regain his feet, his eyes on Bradán, as he reached for him.

“Nyhahahaha, you love fire so, what is so wrong with wearing the master’s special shoes?” Slaïm jeered cruelly, as he pointed at them.

But it was the last thing he did, as a sword was soon thrust through him, by the spineless Colin, while Slaïm waved the iron-shoes over towards Bradán. Staring at his friend, Bradán felt tears well up in his eyes, pity and grief overwhelming him.

He was soon distracted though, as he was held down and soon lifted up, by almost half a dozen guards. Just as the iron pole was unlatched from the shoes. As he screamed, yelped and threatened them, he was lifted and forced to wear those iron shoes.

“NAY! PLEASE!” Bradán pleaded in the end, just as they slid on, and as his flesh burnt and sizzled.

The scream that was torn from his lungs, echoed down the halls. He wore those shoes for almost an hour, during which time he did dance. And scream. As to the stench of cooked flesh, it remained for some time after his screams had come to a stop.