Either way, the removal of the queen upstairs had dented their plans.If they had escaped while Gwendolyn had been in the cells with them, he and his men could have ensured she was safe.Now, if they managed to escape, their actions could alert the guards in the upper reaches of the castle, and they could whisk her away.
Or worse.They could use her life to bargain and return them to their cells, or simply punish them for their actions and slice her throat.
It added a whole new level of jeopardy to what was already a mission with the odds stacked against them, and the chance of death almost a certainty.
But what was the alternative?
Rot in these cells?No.Kellan and his men would rather die trying than live out their days like vermin.The queen would have wanted nothing else.She had said as much in her smuggled notes.
And the time had come.
Between them and their network of help within the castle, Kellan had mapped the guards' rotations in his mind: four brutes on the night watch, two at the corridor's end, the rest dozing in the barracks above.Shift change came at the witching hour, when fatigue dulled reaction and eyes.That's when they would strike.Mira would whistle close to the vents, the sound carrying to one of the dungeons at the far end.The prisoner in that cell would alert the rest with three raps on the bars.Then chaos would ensue as the gods of vengeance favored the bold.
His thoughts flickered to Gwendolyn.Her last message had been simple, but it stirred in him all the emotions of why he loved her, and what made her and his guards worlds apart from the treacherous heathen who had put them in chains: "For the Ring."
Aye, for the Ring.And for her.
A faint scrape echoed from the cell to his left, Joren, testing his lockpick fashioned from a splintered bone shard and twisted wire from his bootlace.Good man.The others stirred as well, aware the time was approaching.
Kellan licked his lips.Inaction was torture.Worse than anything Aldich’s lackeys could dish out.Despite the obvious risks, not to him, or even his men, but to Gwendolyn, this was the best he had felt since he had been forced to drop arms at King’s Court.
His ears suddenly picked out something else from the far end of the corridor.Was it Mira’s whistle?His ears strained awaiting for confirmation.
Then it came, in the form of three sharp raps on the iron bars.
All along the corridor came the answering sounds of his men putting their plan into action.His own pick held between his teeth, he jabbed it into the lock on his manacles, the mechanism yielding with a softclickthat sang sweeter than any ballad.Then, at the door to his cell, a grinning Shield Guard appeared, holding the smuggled key in his bloodied fingers.He inserted it into the lock, and the door swung open on oiled hinges—greased by fat smuggled from the kitchens.He was free.He looked down the dimly lit corridor and his heart surged with pride as his men, battered but nowhere near defeated, stepped out, one by one, rubbing their bruised wrists, rolling their shoulders.
"Steel yourselves," he murmured.They armed themselves from the guards' forgotten bounty—a loose dagger here, a belted sword there, pilfered during interrogations when the brutes grew careless.He waited, impatient, desperate to begin.Then, when the sixteenth and last man emerged, he made the signal for the next step.
The diversion: simple, brutal.
Kellan nodded to Tomas, who vanished into the gloom toward the far grate, a flask of lamp oil clutched in his fist.Moments later, a muffledwhoosherupted from the depths—a blaze kindled in the sewers below, flames licking up through grates to paint the ceiling in hellish orange.Seconds later, shouts erupted from the watchroom: "Fire!The pits burn!"Boots thundered, the four guards bolting toward the inferno, keys jangling at their belts, attention purely on the fire.
Kellan struck like lightning's shadow.He lunged from his cell's veil, an iron bar wrenched from the door in his fist, smashing into the first guard's helm with a sickening crunch of bone and metal.The man crumpled, blood sheeting his face.An axe cleaved the second guard's shoulder, his howl cut short by a dagger in the throat.The third spun, sword half-drawn, but Tomas—emerging from the smoke like a wraith—tripped him into Kellan's waiting grasp.A twist, a snap, and the neck gave way.The fourth, wiser or more cowardly, fled toward the stairs, bellowing for aid.Kellan hurled his bar; it whistled through the air, connecting with the fleeing man’s back.He toppled, the keys skittering across the stone.
Kellan snatched up the ring of keys as a glass shard ended the grunts of pain of the guard."No mercy for traitors," he growled.He watched as the dead men were stripped of their weapons and armor."Ready?"He eyed his men, and was answered with sixteen curt nods.
Pride bloomed within him.He knew the inactivity had hurt them as much as it had himself.He also knew that they were fully aware of the risks but would rather grab a one in a thousand chance of freedom then succumb to the prospect of seeing their days out in those cells.
He turned smartly and led them to the corridor’s end, the map of the castle in his mind.They took the stone steps two at a time as it coiled upwards.The castle above stirred, servants' cries mingling with the alarm bells that signaled the fire.
The top of the winding staircase ended in a locked door.Kellan inserted the key and twisted, his heart leaping at the sound of the rusty bolt sliding along stone.The door swung open to reveal the undercroft—a vaulted maze of barrels and crates, lit by the ruddy glow of the spreading fire coming from the grates in the floor.Two guards patrolled here, lanterns swinging, their chatter dying as the Shield Guard erupted from the shadows.Both fell under a torrent of blows from swords and axes alike, barely having a chance to parry the first blow before half a dozen others followed.
"Press on!"Kellan roared, stealth and silence no longer needed.They burst into the great hall, a cavernous space of faded tapestries and oaken beams, where the castle's heart should have beaten but now echoed hollow.Servants scattered like startled pigeons—maids with trays of midnight wine, ostlers reeking of hay and horse— their eyes wide with terror."Harm only the guards!"Kellan cried, knowing that among these people were those loyal to the crown, some of whom had put their lives on the line to pass messages, steal supplies, and pass down information.
A dozen guards appeared, summoned by the bells and cries.They halted when they saw the prisoners, shock on their faces quickly turning to anger and hatred.They formed a ragged line before the tower stair, pikes leveled, faces pale under flickering rushlights."Traitors!"their captain spat, a red-haired brute with Aldrich's serpent sigil on his breast."The council's justice awaits!"
Kellan laughed, a bark like shattering ice."Traitors?You've chained your own queen.I am going to make you pay for that, with your blood.For the Ring!"He charged, the Guard a behind him.
All hell was let loose.The pikes of the castle's guards were thrust at the onrushing attackers, some shattering against shields improvised from barrel lids.Axes and swords rained down on them, the momentum giving them extra force.To his left and right, Kellan saw his men wield their weapons, their blades finding flesh, severing limbs, smashing armor.Fury of being imprisoned and tortured, finally finding an outlet in savagery.Kellan was a colossus amid the fray, his sword a reaper's scythe—parrying a thrust, riposting to gut another, then wheeling to brain a third with the flat of his blade.
The castle guards were no match for the maelstrom that had been unleashed upon them.Five fell outright, three yielded with hands raised, the rest fleeing into the night-shrouded bailey, their cries swallowed by the cries of the wounded and the melee spreading through the rest of castle.The servants, wiser souls, had melted away or, in bolder cases, offered aid: a kitchen boy had attempted to trip the fleeing guards, receiving a kick and a shove for his efforts.Kellan spared a nod for him, his chest heaving, sword dripping."You've done well," he told the boy, clapping his shoulder."The queen remembers the faithful."
His eyes quickly appraised the damage.One of his men had received a slash to the stomach and was receiving aid from a maid, who was holding a rolled-up cloth to the wound, its gray material quickly turning crimson.“Where is the eastern tower?”he asked her, knowing that was where Gwendolyn had been relocated to.
The woman looked up at Kellan with scared eyes, then nodded to a stairwell in the opposite corner.“There ma’ lord,” she said, before returning her attention to the man’s wound.
Kellan raced to the stairway, sword held in front of him, ready for more onrushing guards.He was met with no further resistance, however, as he climbed the spiraling staircase.Then the triumph of the escape and the way they had defeated the guards curdled as he turned a corner and stepped into a small landing.Ahead of him was a cell, its iron-bound door hanging ajar.Chains hung from the wall-ring, but their manacles were empty.
