"Ivah?" His voice is barely a whisper, rough from thirst and exhaustion and days of screaming that no one cared to hear. "You're... how did you...?"
"I came for you." Ivah crosses the cell in three quick strides, dropping to his knees beside Bellamy and immediately beginning to work at the shackles with urgent efficiency. His fingers move over the locks with desperate precision, years of experience with such mechanisms serving him well. "I'll always come for you. Always."
The iron falls away with soft clinks that sound like freedom, and suddenly Bellamy's arms drop to his sides as circulation returns to his hands. He flexes his fingers experimentally, wincing at the pain but clearly relieved to have movement again.
For a moment he just stares at Ivah as if afraid this might be another dream, another manifestation of the hope that's sustained him through six days of hell. Then something breaks in his expression—the careful control he's maintained, the protective walls he's built around his heart—and he collapses forward into Ivah's arms, clinging to him with desperate strength.
"You came," Bellamy breathes against his neck, his voice breaking on the words as relief wars with exhaustion and residual terror. "I thought... I was so afraid you'd never know what happened to me. That you'd think I'd just... abandoned you."
"Never." Ivah's arms tighten around him, one hand tangling in that dirty golden hair while the other spreads across Bellamy's back, feeling the tremor in his frame that speaks of trauma barely held in check. "I'm here, and you're safe now. Nothing else matters."
His hands move over Bellamy's body with careful attention, checking for serious injuries beneath the obvious bruising and surfacedamage. Ribs that feel intact despite the discoloration, no obvious breaks or deep wounds, nothing that suggests permanent damage to bones or organs. But there are other kinds of damage that don't show so easily, wounds to the spirit that might take much longer to heal.
"Are you hurt?" he asks quietly, his voice gentle despite the fury building in his chest at what's been done to the man he loves. "Did they—did Kent—?"
"I'm fine." Bellamy pulls back just enough to meet Ivah's eyes, his hands gripping the front of Ivah's leather tunic as if afraid he might disappear like smoke. "I'm fine now. Nothing else matters now that you're here."
There's something in his voice, a careful emphasis that suggests things might have been much worse if the rescue had taken any longer. The bruise pattern on his face, the way he holds himself, the particular kind of wariness in his eyes—all of it speaks to experiences that Ivah doesn't want to contemplate but knows he'll have to address eventually.
But alive is alive, and whole is whole, and anything else can be dealt with later when they're both safe and far from this place of suffering.
"Can you walk?" Ivah asks, helping Bellamy to his feet with careful attention to his obvious weakness.
"I can do whatever I have to do to get out of here." Bellamy's legs shake slightly as he stands, muscles weakened by days of confinement and poor nutrition, but they hold his weight with stubborn determination. "I've been dreaming of nothing but escape since they brought me here."
Ivah removes his traveling cloak and wraps it around Bellamy's shoulders, noting how the warmth and familiar scent seem to steady him almost immediately.
Then Ivah draws one of his axes, the familiar weight of it reassuring in his hand. The steel gleams in the torchlight, and several dark stains along the blade attest to its recent use.
"Stay close to me," he says, his voice taking on the authority of a military commander. "We're not safe until we're well clear of this place, and there are going to be a lot of very angry people between us and freedom."
"I'm not going anywhere without you." Bellamy's voice is stronger now, some of his natural resilience beginning to reassert itself as hope replaces despair. "Lead the way."
They move through the dungeon corridors like avenging spirits, Ivah's remaining men forming a protective circle around their rescued prince with the disciplined efficiency of elite soldiers. Behind them, the bodies of Kent's guards serve as grim testimony to what happens when someone threatens what belongs to the Barbarian King.
"Sir," Korrath whispers as they reach the main corridor, "sounds of fighting from above. Harwick's people are engaging the garrison."
Ivah nods grimly. The diversionary attack has begun, which means their window for escape is both opening and closing simultaneously. Soon, every soldier in the castle will be rushing to repel what they assume is the main assault, leaving their escape route temporarily clear. But if they take too long, if they're caught in the corridors when reinforcements arrive...
"Valdris, take point," he orders. "Madden and Gareth, rear guard. We move fast and quiet until we reach the tunnels."
They climb toward freedom through stone passages that seem designed to trap and confuse, past chambers where other prisoners might be suffering in darkness and despair. Ivah files that information away for later consideration—if Kent is holding political prisoners, there might be diplomatic benefits to liberating them as well. But right now, all that matters is getting Bellamy to safety.
The prince moves beside him with grim determination, weakness and exhaustion warring with the desperate need to escape the place that's been his personal hell for six endless days. Every step takes him further from the nightmare and closer to the life he thought he'd lost forever.
Above them, the sounds of battle grow louder—steel on steel, shouted orders, the screams of wounded men. Harwick's diversion is working, drawing attention and resources away from their position.
But diversions don't last forever, and soon King Kent himself will discover that his most valuable prisoner is gone.
When that happens, all hell will break loose.
Chapter 17
The sound of steel ringing against steel echoes through the castle's stone corridors like thunder, punctuated by shouts of command and the clash of arms against shields. Harwick's diversionary attack has begun in earnest, drawing the bulk of Kent's forces toward the outer defenses where the general's men have made themselves visible and threatening.
"That's our signal," Ivah says grimly, quickening their pace through the winding passages that lead up from the dungeon levels. "The whole castle will be roused within minutes. Every guard, every soldier—they'll all be moving to repel what they think is the main assault."
Bellamy keeps close beside him, moving with determination despite the obvious exhaustion in his frame and the way his legs occasionally shake with the effort. The familiar weight of Ivah's cloak around his shoulders seems to give him strength, and his green eyes have regained some of their natural fire now that freedom is within reach. But Ivah can see the cost of days of captivity in every line of his body—the weight loss, the careful way he holds his ribs, the unconscious protective gestures that speak of abuse barely endured.
