As Zuzana crumples, Rakos whirls —to find big, burly Kaspar struggling with a burlap sack over his head. A lanky young man clings to his back.
“How does it feel now?” Bell hisses into Kaspar’s covered ear.
With a grunt, Kaspar blindly swings around. He knocks Bell into the doorframe, and Bell yelps but hangs on.
One glance around the cramped hallway shows Rakos everything he needs. He ducks to grab the nearest weapon—a long knife from Zuzana’s belt. The enclosed space makes it easy to lunge and sink the knife under the edge of the burlap, into Kaspar’s throat.
Blood sprays against the wall.
Kaspar collapses with a gurgle, and Bell falls against the wall. He clutches the doorframe, breathing heavily.
Zuzana’s flames are gone, but torches still illuminate the hall. Rakos gets his first good look at his trembling fellow prisoner.
Wide-eyed and bedraggled, like a fawn caught in the storm. Bell’s about four inches shorter than Rakos’s six feet, and lanky like a young deer too. A warm complexion gone pallid with terror. Handsome, in a fragile way. If Rakos met Bell in a tavern, he’d offer to buy him a drink.
Or maybe not. By the style of his soft silver-green coat and the tunic belted around his waist, the minstrel is Silaisan. Rakos generally only meets Silaisans on the battlefield.
Bruises bloom around Bell’s neck. He likely wouldn’t want anything to do with Rakos either.
No time to worry about that now. Head spinning, Rakos grabs Bell by the shoulder. “Come on,” he orders, already yanking him down the hallway.
Bell stumbles after him, gasping. “Wait, are they dead? Did you kill them?”
“Hopefully. Shut up and run.”
It’s been less than a minute since Kaspar opened the cell door, but Zuzana managed to cry out before Rakos silenced her. Rakos doesn’t know how many people are in the waystation. He needs to get out fast before Indra or whoever else arrives.
Most drasgard waystations are constructed similarly. Familiar dark stone walls and sharp iron edges everywhere. The dungeon sits two floors below ground, the supply cellar above it. Next are the barracks and kitchen on the ground floor, then the watch tower above.
As Rakos and Bell emerge from the dungeon, a wet hissing sound grows louder. Rain washes the waystation walls, and thunder rolls beyond. The sound muffles their hurried steps, and hopefully already muffled Zuzana’s cry for help.
Rakos drags Bell through the cellar and up into the kitchen before footsteps thud from the watch tower above.
“Zu?” a woman calls out. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”
Rakos takes a split second to look between the staircase, the barred front door, and the supply closet to the side. At least, he fucking hopes it’s a supply closet as he drags Bell over. They slide into the space, half falling on top of each other, and thankfully Rakos doesn’t have to tell the minstrel to be quiet again. Holding his breath, Rakos eases the door closed behind him just as boots clatter down the stairs.
“Count to thirty,” Rakos says.
Yes, it’s a supply closet. Shovels and hoes, sacks of seed or something. There must be a garden on the roof, like some of the other southern waystations. Rakos is more used to the northern ones, which don’t have the weather for that. There’s a window set high in the wall, rippling with rain.
“What happens at thirty?” Bell asks.
Rakos takes a deep breath, trying to concentrate. It’s harder when he’s not moving, inertia threatening to drag him back into sleep. “At thirty we run.”
Bell nods, before worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Your hair’s dyed.”
Rakos winks before moving to the shelves. “No, it’s all natural.”
Of course Rakos’s hair is dyed. Teal and blue, to match his Sarka’s scales. Though his roots must be showing by now, since he was due for a touch-up when these assholes abducted him. He inherited his natural ink-black hair from the Fellrian half of his family.
Rakos rummages through the shelves as quietly as he can. Hopefully the travel rations he shoves into his coat pockets aren’t contaminated. He wants a weapon with a longer reach than Zuzana’s knife, too, and settles for a garden hoe.
“You aren’t counting, are you?” Rakos asks, hefting the hoe. He shoves open the door. “Move!”
Halfway across the kitchen, Bell skids to a halt. “Bastard!”
“Hey, what did I do?” Rakos asks. He slams the cellar door shut and throws the latch. Might slow Indra down for a minute.
