Interlude the Second II: Vector of Escape.

  Varos leaned against the iron bars as he witnessed the former inquisitor gulp down the contents hidden in an unassuming waterskin—an elixir of healing. The gentle, golden light emanated from the centre of his being and spread through his extremities.

  A tentative layer of fresh skin slowly painted the healing glow, which melded with the soft moonlight filtering from the corridor, as the fresh and old scar wounds from two weeks of torment were over.

  For a few moments, perhaps closer to a minute, Dreth’s eyes focused not on the faint tingle left of the healing concoction, but on the stub on his left hand, as if disappointed by its amputated state.

  After all, if he still bore the mark, he could have easily healed the wounds he sustained from his tormentors—as exemplified by the brilliant scheme that resulted in his confinement within these austere metallic bars.

  Varos gazed at the same sight, clearing his throat before he broke the silence. “Brother… I regret I wasn’t present at your tribunal.”

  Dreth looked up at his former superior, the one who oversaw his trials, his training, one among the chorus of voices who had consistently celebrated the young initiate’s aptitude and dedication to Vireon’s justice.

  The usually stoic, strict, and sometimes irate demeanour now bore a look he’d never exhibited: regret.

  The prisoner in rags looked into the remaining eye of the silver-robed visitor. “It mattered not. The blackguard’s words held too much sense, too much truth in the eyes of those present.” As his eyes traced the floor, with a bitter scowl on his face, he struggled to keep the curses from escaping his lips.

  “And you believe that to be true? Just? The sentence imposed upon you? Varos’s voice was quiet, as if he were inquiring in a reassuring tone.

  “For our great empire, it is only natural. A mere acolyte, bearing the blame so that the experienced and more devoted among us shall continue to weed out the parasites within our sacred lands…” his reply came stiff, almost as if reciting a passage from the holy tirades.

  Varos let out a sigh, somewhere between acknowledgement—both of guilt and agreement with the truth of his former subordinate’s words.

  Dreth then shuffled closer to the inquisitor, his voice lowering further, now a bare whisper, yet the words intense.

  “I just want to know, did we catch him?” The tightness in his voice hinted at a plea rather than an inquiry.

  Varos remained silent, the absence of words all but acting as the courier of his answer.

  “With the wounds from his maniacal firestorm, he could not have got far, even on horseback.” Dreth’s eyes traced the walls, as if seeing an illustration of something.

  Then he shook my head. “Apologies… I have overstepped my bounds again. I am no longer a servant of the light.”

  He grasped the shredded clothing he was attired in. I am merely...

  “You hold value—your words are evidence of that.” Varos’ words came firm, resolute.

  Dreth’s brows furrowed, unable to decipher the immediate meaning in his former superior’s words.

  The inquisitor took a deep inhale before his next words came forth. “Brytic—Captain Thorne believes we can intercept him before he reaches the Ventharian border.”

  “Venthar…?” His eyebrows were now contorted, with his eyes darting within their sockets as he began to process the information.

  From the corner of his vision, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on the corner of the eyepatch-clad inquisitor, which was likely the figment of Dreth’s imagination.

  “You do not seem convinced.”

  Dreth’s head did not rise to meet his visitor; his words were directed at the floor. “That same scepticism earned my current state,” his voice floated off in a whimsical lilt.

  “By the eye of truth, you know those words to be false. Your plan was well-conceived; you deduced every decision he would take.”

  “And yet I did not predict his desperate ploy—I knew of his skills from the savage; I heard his serpent’s tongue for myself in the tunnels during your interrogation. Despite that, I did not react or prepare for that eventuality; I considered the inescapable noose sufficient; that was my failing.” His reflections were coloured with bitter regret.

  “You would have required a seer’s sight to predict that eventuality. No one could feasibly expect him to wield such power just weeks after absconding from divine service.” Varos gave an emphatic shake of his head as he muttered under his breath. “As much as Brytic insists to the contrary…”

  “Your assurance does little to lift the burden of my pain.” A smile could not be traced on his lips, yet despite his words, the pain felt lighter in his body.

  “I hope they suffice to coerce your reservations beyond the thresholds of your mind: is there any reason to doubt his vector of escape?” Varos wrapped his gloved fingers around the cold iron bars.

  “Why should my assessment hold any weight? The captain has a network of information at his disposal and actively leads the hunt.”

  “You were the last to acquaint yourself with the fugitive and his comrade—you have demonstrated you understand him better than either of us,” as he leaned closer to the boundary that separated freedom from incarceration.

  “So riddle me this… if you were Selriph Daryth, where do you think he’d go?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Dreth slumped into a contemplative, reclusive posture, and recollections surged forth, accompanied by three resolutely delivered words that sounded almost like a statement of fact.

  “Certainly not Venthar. “

  As his mind drifted to the conversation with his prey, the woodsman, ensnared by their ‘shared’ desire to save their ailing ‘comrades’.

  ***

  [Two weeks prior, the warehouse in the old docks district]

  “Gather what we need—after tonight, we will not return here,” as the half-elf’s voice rang through the warehouse, receiving nods from the six figures in the shadows, rummaging over sacks and crates containing weapons, reagents and supplies.

  “Liira and Vazz, focus on the non-perishable food we have. We have at least a dozen mouths to feed, and we won’t be able to stop for supplies until we reach Tam…Tam.” His orated stance faltered as his memory stuttered.

  “Tamros, my friend. He will have what we need, the woodsman said low, a hint of amusement in his voice as he placed his hand on Dreth’s shoulders.

  Or rather, ‘Derren’ as he had introduced himself to him.

  The ignorance of the Shera merchant’s name? This was also part of the performance.

  So was the next move, as he gestured to his two comrades on the upper mezzanine of the warehouse, a drow wielding a heavy crossbow and the human with the bow.

  “Brakus, check our way is clear, and for any unwanted eyes on the way to the tunnels.”

  The drow’s eyes lit up in recognition of the coded words—they were to expect their anticipated guest’s arrival soon, and he was to inform his comrades lying in wait once he made his appearance.

  Then the dark-skinned figure nodded as he stealthily made his way through the upper platforms of the warehouse, making an exit through an open window at ceiling level, towards the streets of the old docks, distinct.

  ‘Derren’ clenched his fist, beseeching the deities above that he had accounted for all aspects of his plan; after all, it was entirely possible the runaway mage would adhere to his self-preservation and decide to flee through the tunnels rather than come here to confront him and his savage comrade from the forest.

  He turned to the woodsman, barely concealing his gloating as he asked in a casual lilt. “You are certain this friend of yours will have the steeds required for our friends?”

  “Yep, plenty. The outpost has a good set of fine mounts—if you have the coin.”

  “That we can provide, as ‘Derren’ gestured to one of his allies hunched over a wooden casket.

  He approached the solitary desk on which the map was situated. “If this breakout is successful, we will be indebted to you and that bright friend of yours.” Derren forced a smile onto his face.

  “Bright… but…” Hagan’s voice trailed off as his face sank.

  “My apologies, did I say something wrong?” Derren’s voice piqued with curiosity—part genuine, although part rehearsed. After all, it didn’t take a telepath to know that despite the boy’s presence in the city, it wasn’t entirely due to the rapport he had with the individual in front of him.

  “I… just worry that he’s not as dedicated as we are. He almost wanted to turn back when we saw what happened after Rymar attacked. “Hagan looked down as his voice became low, almost inaudible, the words seemingly meant for himself.

  “And that bothers you somehow…?” Derren’s words were intoned as a genuine query—after all, he was gaining valuable information about this person and Selriph’s relationship. Along with a potential explanation for what drove the cautious fugitive, who had outwitted them twice, into this foolish endeavour.

  “Of course it does; you feel it, don’t you? Your friends are a day from meeting their end on the noose. If someone thought of scurrying off without trying to save them…?” Hagan did not meet Derren, but instead landed on the figures who were busy with their ‘preparation.’

  They did not indulge him with an answer—too engrossed in their work.

  Hagan’s eyebrow twitched at the silence that met his open query.

  The half-elf interjected before any foolish words were coerced out of his compatriots. “Of course it does—but only as long as we accomplish our mission today. Your friend’s protest will not matter. “

  Derren approached the woodsman cautiously, picking his next words carefully. “Some people just don’t hold the same values as us—that is why we fight,” as he placed his hand on his sword hilt.

  The woodsman scanned the half-elf’s figure, unreadable thoughts churning behind his irises.

  “Suppose you’re right. He is Vickthar’s apprentice after all,” he gave a slow shake of his head.

  “And I take it your old friend will not be joining us in our fight when this is over…?” Derren’s voice trailed low in a deliberate act to portray disappointment and anticipation of the answer.

  “Oh no, our fighting days are long past.” A chuckle came from the woodsman.

  “So what will you do…?” The question he posed now seemed at first like a superfluous curiosity; after all, he had to prepare for Selriph’s inevitable appearance.

  But it also held an element of contingency—if ‘Derren’ had indeed misjudged Selriph’s caution, he was likely already on his way out of the city.

  In that situation, he had to know where he’d possibly head.

  This line of inquiry was the way to attain that, without having to witness the brutal methods of interrogation that the Blackguard captain employed on the old mage.

  “Head back to the Shera woods. Vickthar and I have a lot of catching up to do,” his voice trailed off in a nostalgic afternote.

  “And the ru — the boy?” Derren barely concealed his flinch; the rest of his words came out.

  Hagan paused briefly; however, it was difficult to determine if this was due to Derren’s near-verbal error.

  Then he replied. “What else? He will learn everything he needs from Vickthar and scurry off to his freedom,” his voice stated it as if it were a simple fact.

  Derren’s word came through strong. “Freedom…? We can help him with that, just like the innocent folks caught up in Rymar’s mess—”

  Hagan cut him off. “He won’t want that kind of help—he wants completely out of the empire. Crazy, if you ask me,” the woodsman whispered, his lips releasing a wisp of breath as he gave a tiny shake of his head.

  I just need the right words…

  Derren paused for the briefest second, organising the words and tone carefully in his mind before letting them loose to the woodsman. “Out of the empire…? Where would he go?”

  “Ask him; I cannot read that boy’s mind—at first I thought he had a heart, but he seems equally cold-blooded…”

  No! Not this again. I care not about your dysfunctional sentimentality for the runaway; I need information. Especially if he doesn’t show…!

  “I can help him. I want to help him. I can give him a steed, help him go to where he wants to be.” Derren’s voice shook, partly because he wanted to portray a shaking plea, but also because of his barely restrained frustration with the woodsman.

  The woodsman trailed off whimsically. “Hah, suit yourself. If you want to spend gold on the boy, give him a horse? We can keep them at our lodge until he decides where to go.”

  What…? How could that meticulous runway not settle on his next course of escape…?

  Derren gazed at the door—the anticipated guest hadn’t arrived yet.

  This is a distraction—I have been more direct. All I have to do is maintain the pretence.

  “I… some among the ones we rescue may desire the same freedom the boy seeks. If you can tell me where he’d want to go, we can contact our comrades in other cells in the empire.”

  The woodsman shrugged. “You are an interesting one.” His eyes gazed up and down, appraising the bandaged form of the half-elf.

  Derren, or rather Dreth, simply stared back, willing himself not to clench his toes or his fists.

  Hagan stared at the table. “All I know is he is going to find the mage guild—Vickthar told him that.”

  Derren’s voice lowered as he carefully chose and curated his response. “Venthar then? The birthplace of… Magic.” The last word left with a hint of uncertainty.

  “Hah! No. Vickthar would sooner bury himself in mud than allow his apprentice to go there,” a fleeting smile playing upon the savage’s lips.

  “Then where—”

  Clakunk, krrr

  In that moment, the conversation faded as if snuffed out like a candle flame, and all heads turned towards the source of the sound.

  The door had been jiggled, the metallic locks emitting a long, drawn-out groan.

  A few seconds trickled by, and then a youthful voice, though muffled, announced itself perfectly from the other side of the wooden doors.

  “Hagan! I’m here, let me in!”