Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening

Darkness had fallen again when Jac touched Donal’s arm.

“Do you hear it?” he whispered.

Donal nodded, motioning him to say no more and glancing around at the other two. Ethan seemed to be fast asleep, while Kitti was huddled in the corner, a quivering little bundle of grief, wracked now and then by heart-broken sobs; since Targon’s death she had been inconsolable. They had each tried to comfort her and had met with little success, and in the end, unable to do or say anything to help, they had decided that the wisest course was to leave her alone with her sadness and her memories.

“Let her hug her sorrow to herself,” Jac had told them gently, the distress both for Kitti and for Targon etched on his own so very young features, and painfully visible to Donal and Ethan, “Her loss is too cruel and her grief is all she has left of him now; it is all the memory she has and all she has to hold on to.”

Donal nudged Ethan awake; they might need all of their wits and strength for whatever was approaching from outside.

“Something comes, something very skilled at being quiet; be ready, my friend,” he murmured, putting a finger to his lips as Ethan became alert almost at once. Donal could see, not without a twinge of regret, how his friend had adapted and changed, how he had grown tougher and warier since the day they had arrived in this unforgiving new world. His smile, his laughter was still there, sure enough, but there was a harder edge to it now. Was the gentleness being scorched away, Donal

wondered?

“Someone, or something, is coming near outside the door. Whatever it is doesn’t want to be heard,” he whispered.

“Can’t be a guard then,” said Ethan softly. Although all seemed quiet to him, he knew enough by now to trust readily and without question to his comrade’s instincts and suspicions; their guards would have no need to be secretive, he thought, they could have had us killed anytime they wanted.

“Might be something even worse,” said Jac, taking his position behind the door.

Like an Assassin’s tread, thought Donal, memories of a desperate midnight skirmish in the dark and perilous streets of Acre flooding back to him; he wondered briefly if he still had the scar behind his left knee where the invisible knife-thrower had tried to hamstring him, or if it had faded and disappeared in the same way as the rest of his old life. He gestured to Ethan to stand on the other side of the door from Jac. Donal crouched in the darkest corner of the cell, and they waited in silence.

Concentrating, with all his senses sharpened by the darkness, Ethan now thought he could hear stealthy footsteps approaching. They stopped, just outside the door, he fancied, as if whoever was outside was uncertain about exactly where he was, and was making absolutely sure that this was the right cell and the right door. Then they heard the bolt begin to move. Their visitor was doing his very best to be quiet, but even so the heavy bolt squealed and protested as it was drawn back. The door opened slowly and a tall hooded figure stooped under the doorway and stepped cautiously into the cell. Ethan moved quickly, grabbing the man from behind and pinning his arms firmly to his sides even as Jac whipped out a previously concealed stiletto and held it to his throat.

To Ethan’s surprise the intruder didn’t struggle, and offered no resistance whatsoever. Donal stepped forward then to confront him, peering closely under the hood.

Even in the dim light of their tiny cell at night-time the others could see the Irishman’s expression swiftly change from grim suspicion to disbelief and then to delighted and bewildered surprise.

“Buichos le Dia!” he said in amazement, “It cannot be you! We saw your death on the sand.”

The intruder gave a soft laugh and threw his head up; the hood fell back, revealing a familiar face. Familiar, but changed, transformed, utterly changed.

“Targon!” gasped Ethan and Jac together. Kitti stopped her sobbing and peered up at him in shock, an unlooked-for hope brimming in her wide tear-stained eyes.

“Targon? Can it really be you?” she whispered, as if she could hardly dare to believe it was true, and not just yet another evil trick of the Inquisitors.

“Yes, little one, it is me, Targon, come back to you,” he replied in familiar husky tones, though less laboured than before. He smiled then, a bright, laughing smile and they saw, beyond all deceit, even beyond all hope, that it really was their friend, returned to them again, come back from the dead.

It was Targon, but now changed, changed almost beyond recognition. As Kitti rushed over and buried herself in his arms, the others marvelled at him. No longer bent and stooped, no longer wheezing or gasping for breath. but tall and straight and fine as a tree. What had happened? What sort of miracle had brought their friend back from the dead and so mysteriously rid him of his terrible, crippling deformities?

Targon held up his hand, forestalling the rush of questions.

“We’ve no time for talking now; questions can wait till we get out; if we get out, that is. I think I can guess the way; there was only one prison guard and I’ve made sure he’s well secured. They won’t be expecting anything on the outer walls – no-one has ever escaped from here before, I heard a guard say, so they may be trusting too much to their reputation, but there are guards and Inquisitors everywhere. Now follow me, and be quiet!”

Quickly they filed out into the corridor, Donal taking the rear, Kitti following directly behind Targon and holding onto the helm of his cloak as if afraid he would disappear again if she let him out of her sight. At the end of the narrow corridor was an even narrower staircase, winding sharply upwards. As Targon began to lead Kitti up the stairs Ethan hesitated, looking at the five other cells in the dank miserable corridor. During their imprisonment he had heard the doors of these cells opening and closing regularly, so he knew that they were not the only prisoners in the dungeon of the Inquisitors. All the doors were like the one to their own cell, wooden and massive, with huge rusted bolts.

“Ethan, what are you doing? This is not the time for day-dreaming,” hissed Jac, “Let’s get out of here; we must leave at once.”

The American didn’t answer, but instead turned to the nearest cell and tried to open the door. The huge bolt turned, but refused to move backwards, and the squealing it made as it turned seemed as loud as a siren.

“You are a fool,” said Jac, grabbing his arm, “You’ll have us all taken. That racket will rouse the whole garrison. Do you think they are all asleep?”

“Then go on without me,” Ethan said through gritted teeth, as he continued to strain at the reluctant bolt, “There’s other poor guys in these cells and I ain’t leaving till I’ve let them out; they deserve a second chance as well as us.”

Donal said nothing, but went to help him; then Targon and finally an exasperated Jac joined them. Together they strained and heaved at the massive bolts, and gradually, one by one, the bolts gave in and the cell doors swung open. The first cells were empty but from the next one two small and ragged figures staggered out, looking at their rescuers in confusion.

“They are of the Dran, the Mountain-folk,” whispered Kitti to Donal, “The Inquisitors persecute them wherever they find them. Targon has encountered them more often than I, and has a smattering of their tongue.”

The final cell was the smallest and most foul-smelling of all, but just as Ethan had decided it was empty he saw the straw in the corner of the cell rustle. Gently pulling it back, he saw another Dran, this one extremely frail and elderly, and obviously very sick. He beckoned Jac over, and the young healer knelt down in the fetid straw to allow himself a closer look. After a brief examination, he looked at Ethan and shook his head hopelessly.

“He is beyond my powers, Ethan, and will very soon die. I wish I could tell you something better. We cannot help it; we’ve no choice but to leave him.”

Ethan stared at the little wasted body, and his expression grew grim and fixed.

“Not hardly,” he said, “I ain’t going without him.”

He reached down and lifted the little Dran in his arms, heedless of the stench; slime dripped from the rags.

“You’re coming with me, little pal,” he whispered.

“It’s no use, Ethan,” protested Jac, “You can’t carry him all the way, no matter how strong you are.”

Ethan did not reply, but carried his little burden out into the corridor in silence. He went back for a moment into their original cell and soaked a rag in what was left of their water supply. Touching it to the tiny Dran’s lips, he was disappointed when there was no reaction, not even an attempt to swallow; the only sign of life was the rise and fall of the little chest and the faintest whisper of breath.

“I’m sorry Ethan, I truly am,” said Jac more gently this time, “But it is truly hopeless.”

Ethan ignored him as before and shouldered roughly past back into the corridor. Kitti and Donal saw his expression, and said nothing.

Targon was talking to the other two Dran; he turned to his companions.

“They have been here for many months, but they are used to being underground and if we can get them out of the dungeons they think they will be able to sense a way out.”

He turned to the Dran again and whispered something; the others saw him gesturing towards Ethan’s burden, and saw the Dran shake their heads.

“They say you should leave the old one,” he said, as the Dran became visibly agitated, “It will be a burden and will slow us down, and they say they can sense the guards stirring.”

“Not hardly; I ain‘t taking advice from the seven dwarves,” said Ethan.

Targon led them up the steps, which Donal remembered from their blindfolded excursion, as it was narrow and wound round and round in a spiral. The Dran followed him, but they seemed exhausted and their pace was slow. One of them peered more closely at Ethan’s burden, then said something to his companion in a surprised tone. Trying to understand what they were saying, Ethan stumbled once on the worn steps; reflexly the little creature reached tiny, frail arms around his neck. Ethan, his resolve again stiffened, held on even closer and even more protectively.

At the top of the steps Targon halted to allow the others to catch up. Donal pushed forward to the front of the company, almost falling over the legs of a guard who was lying trussed and gagged under a wooden bench.

“The horses,” he said to Targon, “Have you any idea where they were stabled? We’ll need them to have any chance of escape, and the packs and supplies might be with them.”

Targon nodded; “I passed a stable on the way in; the horses might be kept there. I can find the way as far as that, but after we may have to depend on the Dran.”

Targon led them quickly along a series of narrow, branching, but fortunately deserted corridors. The walls were of stone, rough and with no trimmings, as if they has simply been hacked out of the rock with a great blunt sword. Here and there low wooden beams braced the ceiling and in the darkness they had to duck sharply to avoid them. Despite his earlier efforts to familiarize himself with the corridors and stairs Donal soon became completely disoriented, but it was clear that they were heading constantly upwards into the more frequented parts of the fortress; they were more and more often forced to stop, hiding in the darker passages as patrols of ordinary guards, sometimes with an Inquisitor leading them, marched by. Peering from their hiding places Donal remembered Eavesdropper’s warning all too well; in the presence of an Inquisitor even the toughest-looking, most heavily armoured guards seemed to cower in fear.

“They carry terror with them like a cloak,” he whispered to himself, reflecting how accurate the innkeeper’s words had been.

Eventually, slipping and stealing from dark corridor to dark corridor, they came to a wider courtyard where they could smell stables close by and hear the distant clip of hooves on a stone floor.

“Wait here, and be quiet,” murmured Jac, and he stole forward like a shadow. They saw him glance quickly round a gateway, then beckon them forward with an expression of relief.

“The horses are there, and with only two guards, neither of them Inquisitors,” he said, “I don’t think they are armed, but we mustn’t let them call for help or summon aid.”

Donal peered cautiously through the gateway; all the horses were tethered against the far wall of a small courtyard, and close by there was a heap of what might be their packs. The guards were strolling around at ease, and obviously not expecting any trouble. They were dressed in simple chain mail, not the crimson robes of the Inquisitors, and they were talking casually to each other, although Donal did not recognize the dialect.

He nodded at Jac; as the guards passed the gateway, Donal and Jac slipped in quietly behind them. Donal clubbed his man heavily on the back of the head with his fist and the man fell slowly, slumping to the floor without a sound. Before the other guard could react, Jac had leapt on his back and sliced his throat with a small, wickedly barbed knife. The guard tried to cry out, his mouth gaping helplessly open, but only a gurgle came and he collapsed limply on the ground, the blood bubbling and pooling under his face. The others ran to the horses and to get their packs, but as Ethan passed the guard’s corpse, he grimaced in distaste.

“You kind of enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he said to Jac.

“I had no choice,” protested Jac hotly, “If he’d sounded the alarm we’d be trapped here in moments. Would you have preferred that?”

“Leave it be, Ethan,” interrupted Donal, “It was necessary; and if we are to escape, we will likely see many deaths yet, perhaps even our own,” but both Jac and Ethan thought he sounded doubtful.

“May be this guy had a wife and kids,” said Ethan, “Maybe he’d had no choice. Working for the Inquisitors or not, he still didn’t deserve to die like a dog.”

Jac’s face was ashen.

“You shame me, Ethan,” he murmured, “I didn’t have Donal’s strength to knock him out with one blow, but I do enjoy it, don’t I? I enjoy it far too much.”

He bent down briefly to look at the guard he had slain, heaving the body over so that the face stared upwards, the eyes blank and unseeing. Then, with a shake of his head, he went to saddle his horse.

Dead men tell no tales, thought Ethan, as Kitti came running over to him.

“The horses are all well, and the packs are all here,” she said, “And the Jewel; even your spear is still there - they must have thought it was only a toy,” she laughed. Ethan smiled broadly, pleased that his horse seemed to have come to no harm.

They tried to set the old Dran on Parsifal’s broad back but even his huge frame proved to be too insecure and uncertain a vehicle.

“I’ll just have to keep on carrying him,” said Ethan, resignedly.

Targon and the other Dran were arguing. The mild-mannered Targon seemed unusually angry; the others had never heard him speak so fiercely before.

“What’s the problem with the little guys?” said Ethan, “They seem real excited about something.”

“They know a way out,” Targon said, “But they won’t show us as long as the elder,” he indicated Ethan’s shabby little burden, “is with us. The Dran do not care for their sick and their old - they consider them ill-starred and a bad omen, and they say she is very sick and very old and will bring us only ill fortune if we insist on taking her along.”

Ethan looked at the little creature with a new light in his eyes.

“Well, whadda you know,” he said, “So you’re a little old lady. Now I’m even more definitely sure I ain’t leaving you behind,” he said louder, “even if I do have to carry you all the way on my own.”

“Do not worry, my friend Ethan,” Donal reassured him, “We all get out together or not at all.”

The others nodded their agreement, even Jac, and Targon turned back to the Dran, then cursed loudly. The two little men had disappeared, as if into thin air.

“Can you believe it, after us risking our lives to free them? They’ve gone,” hissed Kitti, her good mood evaporating at this betrayal, “Probably down some trapdoor – those treacherous little cave-rats, we should have left them to fester.”

“There’s gratitude for you; I can’t wait to meet those guys again,” said Ethan, “Anyway, what the heck, I didn’t want to go with them anyhow. Let’s go back to plan A, and get the hell out under our own steam; and let’s do it pronto. But how do we find our way out from here?”

“What about trying the mind-meld again?” suggested Jac to Targon, “The horses won’t have been blind-folded on the way in, so you might be able to learn something.”

Targon was doubtful; “Indoors they often get confused and their understanding and memory may not be too dependable. Still, it might prove useful; maybe give us the general direction to go at least”.

“Get on with it then,” said Ethan impatiently, “And for Pete’s sake don’t take as long as you usually do.”

Ethan was watching in some frustration, as Targon’s face assumed it’s familiar mask of intense concentration, when Donal came up to him looking satisfied.

“The guards had a fresh water supply,” he said, “It tastes clean; we should see if your new charge might drink of it.”

They found a small ladle and this time the cold water on her lips seemed to rouse the little Dran; she managed to swallow some of it, and her eyes opened briefly, revealing irises of a startlingly opal blue, which fixed curiously on Ethan’s bemused but smiling face for a long moment. Then she mumbled something inaudible before settling back, more contentedly now, into Ethan’s arms.

“There you are, what did I tell you, little lady; you’re feeling better already. Wait and see, you’ll be alright now, up and running around in a jiffy, I’m sure”, said Ethan.

Targon had come out of his brief meld.

“As I suspected, the horses are confused, and their remembrance is unreliable, but I think we have been lucky; the outer gate is very close and may not be so heavily guarded. Though it was hard to be sure,” he said, a puzzled expression appearing on his face, “Their message was weak, and at the end the meld faded and I lost the contact with their thoughts altogether. But I think I understand why; I believe the dragon may have exacted a price.”

“Oh Targon, no,” cried Kitti, “Do you mean you are losing your power to meld? Will you lose your sharing with the wild creatures? Surely not after all you’ve been through. How will you bear it?”

Targon only laughed loudly, and despite their dire situation, ran over to her and swept her effortlessly up in his arms, whirling her round and round.

“The price was very fair, little one, and more, so very much more than fair,” he smiled, “Look at me! And look at me again! I can stand up straight and tall, I can breathe freely and without pain. Kitti, my little one, I would pay the same price a thousand times over. No, I was wrong; it was perhaps an exchange, but not a payment, for one does not pay for a gift, and surely not for such a simple, priceless, beautiful gift. The gift of the dragon; how many have been as fortunate as I?”

They reorganized quickly; Targon leading again, Donal, Jac and Kitti guiding the horses and Ethan taking the rear with his little burden. Despite his best efforts he began to drop back, and now began to really appreciate what it must have been like for Targon on all their travels; always at the rear, always trying doggedly to keep up, always fearful of being a burden and of slowing the others down. And now, ironically, it was Targon himself who was leading the way and forcing the pace with new-found energy. Jac, who was second last in the line, looked back with concern at the ever-widening gap between Ethan and the rest of the company.

“We’ll have to slow down,” he whispered to the others, “else Ethan and his new friend will get left behind; Donal and Targon will have to take turns carrying her; Ethan can’t do -.”

“Who goes there?” a demand interrupted him from up ahead, “State your business!”

“Kitchen detail,” shouted Donal briskly, pushing past Targon to see how many guards barred their way. He knew than even a moment’s uncertainty from the guards might prove to be precious; perhaps give him enough time for a decisive strike.

Jac was behind him, his little knives probably aching for a target, although after Ethan’s words at the stables Donal wondered if Jac might now be a little less bloodthirsty. But to his surprise and relief, before him was no great watchtower, no well-guarded gates of steel. Instead there was just a small untidy chamber with three guards, none of them wearing the robes of the Inquisitors, and at the far side of the chamber a small open gate. And through the gate Donal could see open country; trees, a waxing moon, even a few late stars. He had never really thought they had any chance of escaping from this grim fortress, but now, suddenly, hope flared again in his heart; Targon had come back from the dead to release them, and their luck was holding and they had found a relatively unguarded way out. One last push, he thought, unsheathing his broadsword deliberately, and we’re away and free, under the stars again and on the road to the sea.