one himself.
Once the footsteps are out of hearing, we try the doors. The creak the door produces on the rusty hinges is horrifically loud. I’m careful to shut both doors behind us. The soldiers reappear moments later. There are only three, sent to find a rogue idiot and his sidekick wandering about in the lower levels of the Keep. They open the doors and enter the passage. Percival and I, however, are waiting just around the corner.
The first and second go down before they even know we’re there. The third, however, has a bow.
Percival yells and drops to the ground just before I pound in the breastplate of the guard. “Percival!”
The bowman, in his frightened quickness, did get off a shot, but it was not a very good one. The arrow sits in Percival’s calf, stopped before it breaches the other side of his leg.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Can you walk?”
He tries, but a small grunt of pain escapes his lips. He shakes his head.
Quickly I tear off a part of my shirt. “Should I pull it out?” I ask him warily.
He thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Just do it quick.”
He yelps as the arrow exits his calf. The head is sharp and not barbed, so the extraction was not as painful as it could have been. Then I tie the piece of my shirt tightly around the wound, throwing the arrow to the side.
I drag the bodies down the cylindrical passage a little ways and into a deeper pipe, where they sink into the depths of the water. It’s dark, and would be pitch black had the guard not brought down the torch that I was now using. Quickly I go back and shut the metal grates, where I left Percival.
“Well, that was fun,” I mutter quietly, referring to the whole incident. My words resonate eerily in the maze of waste passages.
“You have a twisted sort of fun,” replies Percival, leaning heavily on the wall. “Which way do we go?”
“The only way we can,” I reply, trying hard to push thoughts of my father out of my mind. “Onward.”
Averting the Storm
T o choose which way to start, I simply see which way the water is flowing, and I follow the shallow downward slope with my arm around Percival.
It’s wet and dangerous. There are some places where the water is rushing quickly underneath the rickety walkways.
We press on, following the flow of the water. Then, when we round a particular bend, I see light. It’s not sunlight, but it’s not moonlight either. It’s the light of a fire. A lit torch hangs at the far end of the passage, above and to the right of another grate.
The water pools in the general area of the grate, a few inches deep, but runs down and out of the passage like a tiny stream. It’s a beautiful sight after walking in the passages for nigh over an hour.
A large door almost blends in with the wall, though it is made of wood. Strips of metal run vertically and horizontally, holding the thing together. A large metal ring serves as the knob. One must simply pull, but there’s a problem: The door is locked. A small keyhole is barely visible in the dim light, just below the metal ring.
“What do we do?” asks Percival.
“What you do with most doors,” I answer. “We knock.”
My knocks reverberate throughout the passages loudly. Anybody on the other side definitely will have heard. After no answer, I knock again. To my surprise, a loud boom sounds from the other side and the door swings open. Several men stand with swords drawn, pointing them at us. One of them seems to recognize my face in the light.
“Who are you?” says one.
As the next speaks, I realize he is the captain to whom the Jarl gave the small ring of keys. “You’re the kid who killed the troll!” he exclaims. “Sheathe your weapons,” he says to the soldiers while sheathing his own sword. “But you stayed behind! What happened?”
“They broke through the gate and there was a short battle,”
Once the footsteps are out of hearing, we try the doors. The creak the door produces on the rusty hinges is horrifically loud. I’m careful to shut both doors behind us. The soldiers reappear moments later. There are only three, sent to find a rogue idiot and his sidekick wandering about in the lower levels of the Keep. They open the doors and enter the passage. Percival and I, however, are waiting just around the corner.
The first and second go down before they even know we’re there. The third, however, has a bow.
Percival yells and drops to the ground just before I pound in the breastplate of the guard. “Percival!”
The bowman, in his frightened quickness, did get off a shot, but it was not a very good one. The arrow sits in Percival’s calf, stopped before it breaches the other side of his leg.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Can you walk?”
He tries, but a small grunt of pain escapes his lips. He shakes his head.
Quickly I tear off a part of my shirt. “Should I pull it out?” I ask him warily.
He thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Just do it quick.”
He yelps as the arrow exits his calf. The head is sharp and not barbed, so the extraction was not as painful as it could have been. Then I tie the piece of my shirt tightly around the wound, throwing the arrow to the side.
I drag the bodies down the cylindrical passage a little ways and into a deeper pipe, where they sink into the depths of the water. It’s dark, and would be pitch black had the guard not brought down the torch that I was now using. Quickly I go back and shut the metal grates, where I left Percival.
“Well, that was fun,” I mutter quietly, referring to the whole incident. My words resonate eerily in the maze of waste passages.
“You have a twisted sort of fun,” replies Percival, leaning heavily on the wall. “Which way do we go?”
“The only way we can,” I reply, trying hard to push thoughts of my father out of my mind. “Onward.”
Averting the Storm
T o choose which way to start, I simply see which way the water is flowing, and I follow the shallow downward slope with my arm around Percival.
It’s wet and dangerous. There are some places where the water is rushing quickly underneath the rickety walkways.
We press on, following the flow of the water. Then, when we round a particular bend, I see light. It’s not sunlight, but it’s not moonlight either. It’s the light of a fire. A lit torch hangs at the far end of the passage, above and to the right of another grate.
The water pools in the general area of the grate, a few inches deep, but runs down and out of the passage like a tiny stream. It’s a beautiful sight after walking in the passages for nigh over an hour.
A large door almost blends in with the wall, though it is made of wood. Strips of metal run vertically and horizontally, holding the thing together. A large metal ring serves as the knob. One must simply pull, but there’s a problem: The door is locked. A small keyhole is barely visible in the dim light, just below the metal ring.
“What do we do?” asks Percival.
“What you do with most doors,” I answer. “We knock.”
My knocks reverberate throughout the passages loudly. Anybody on the other side definitely will have heard. After no answer, I knock again. To my surprise, a loud boom sounds from the other side and the door swings open. Several men stand with swords drawn, pointing them at us. One of them seems to recognize my face in the light.
“Who are you?” says one.
As the next speaks, I realize he is the captain to whom the Jarl gave the small ring of keys. “You’re the kid who killed the troll!” he exclaims. “Sheathe your weapons,” he says to the soldiers while sheathing his own sword. “But you stayed behind! What happened?”
“They broke through the gate and there was a short battle,”
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