The Blackfire Annals: Chasing Ghosts

“Carsten,” Arcaena said, “may I speak with you privately for a moment?” The dwarf nodded, stepping away from the gathered crowd and into a corner. Once there, the dark elf unloaded the thoughts roiling in her mind.

“You cannot stay behind,” she exploded in a fierce whisper, emphasizing her point with a sharp chopping gesture. “Doing so is out of the question.”

“I didn’t couch it as a question,” Carsten pointed out.

“So you intend to commit suicide by prison guard?” She asked hotly. “You know you will not survive, and neither will anyone you take with you.”

“My survival is not in question, Arcaena. Our control over these prisoners is. If they perceive us as unwilling to do the things we ask them to do, we may very well lose control of them, and that could be dangerous.”

The dark elf put her hands on her hips. “You will not listen to me, no matter what I say, will you?” Carsten looked up at her, his eyes glowing with an unsettling fire.

“What am I supposed to do?” He asked. “Let them die alone?”

“What good does you dying with them do anyone?” Arcaena countered. “You are worth nothing dead.”

“Implying that I have worth now,” Carsten snapped bitterly. “Wake up, Arcaena. You, Edessa, Thomas…you are all royalty. Even Rolfe, whoever, he is, holds value for someone. Your people need you alive and whole. Me…nobody will be shedding tears over my bloody corpse, elf. No one. My family will not even know where I breathed my last. And my dispensability makes me ideal for this task.”

“But you are indispensable,” Arcaena protested. “No matter what you may think of yourself, there are people in this world who need you.”

“Even if I am not,” Carsten replied. “Turning my back on these people would be wrong, and I could never live with that decision.”

“How can you be so concerned with their lives?” Arcaena asked. “You barely know them.”

“Life is not merely precious because we have had little part in it, Arcaena. All life has value, and such that I would gladly die for anyone here.” He looked up at her and gave a sad half-smile. “Fear not. I will return to you four. I promise.” And he turned away to one of the walls, which housed a variety of weapons. Swords, axes, spears, bows, whips, maces, clubs…there was no single denomination or make of weapon that was unrepresented. There were also chain-and-scale-mail breastplates in neat rows, and they appeared to be good workmanship. Carsten took one of these vests, one of a coppery red color, and fastened it around his shoulders. Then, he discarded the pitted and scarred longsword he had taken from the guards and took a double-edged dwarf war sword from the rack. He lashed it around his shoulders, from which he could easily draw them at need. He reached for a belt strung with a variety of knives, and tied this firmly about his waist. Beside him, he saw Arcaena putting on a suit of boiled leather and chain-mail armor. She also grabbed an elven composite bow and two quivers full of arrows, which she strapped across her back. The others followed their lead, arming themselves from the guards’ arsenal. Thomas took a shirt of faded yellow scale mail and a broad, single-headed battleax from a peg on the wall. Edessa, meanwhile, took a long, wicked-looking spear out of a barrel in the corner and a suit of tightly woven steel rings. Rolfe chose a set of double-edged short-swords and a suit of boiled leather and plate armor in mottled brown and grey. The other prisoners chose a wide array of weapons and armor.

“If you go with them,” Arcaena whispered to Carsten, “I am coming with you.” Carsten shook his head.

“I cannot allow that,” he said. “The other group needs a solid tactician for a leader, and I do not trust anyone else with the task. Lead them out. We will follow as we can.”

“You will not follow,” Arcaena replied. “You will die. Do not attempt to deceive me. You do not intend to survive.”

“I do intend to survive,” he countered. “And I will.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Listen up! We will divide our force evenly. I count about thirty-four prisoners alive. That means sixteen of you will come with me, and the rest will go with my friends to the exit marked on the map we received. Anyone who comes with me increases the likelihood of his or her death tenfold. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety, including my own, and that is why I will only accept volunteers. Any who are willing to lay down their lives to cover the others’ escape, step forward.”

Four orcs stepped forward. One among them, a grey-haired titan compared to his comrades, spoke up. “My brothers and I would gladly lay down our lives in defense of these here. We stand with you.”

“And us,” said a dwarf, stepping forward. “Us dwarves got to stick together, you know?” The rest of the dwarves in line, except Thomas, joined him. This brought the total up to seven fighters; three men who came next made it ten. Two dark elves joined them, totaling twelve. Finally, five more men stepped forward.

“We want to help you,” the leader said. “And we will give our dying breaths to do so.”

“Right, then,” Carsten said. “That brings the total to seventeen. Now, about how we are going to cause trouble…” He looked over into one of the corners, where a large and nebulous pile of something was stacked and covered with a thick linen sheet. “What is that?” He asked. One of the dwarves shrugged.

“That’s what happens when they finish with the stuff you cook up in that mill,” he replied. “I can’t read what they wrote on the side, but they’re really careful with the stuff.”

Carsten nodded, walking over to the stacked barrels. He flipped off the sheet and knelt beside them, staring intently at the words etched with charcoal pencils on the side. Suddenly, he broke into a malevolent grin. Reaching out, he pulled what looked like a thick coil of rope from behind the barrel in front of him. “This is it,” he murmured. “This is the stuff we need to cause some serious trouble.”

“What is it?” One of the men asked. Carsten pointed to the black script on the side.

“Explosives,” he answered. “A load of the deadliest mixture of chemicals known to man.” Carsten looked at one of the dwarves. “Is there a set of tunnels that runs under the stables?”

“Actually, there’s a tunnel that opens just below them,” the dwarf replied. “Why?”

“Grab some of these barrels and lead on,” Carsten replied. “Time to blow something sky high. But before we go…” Carsten and Arcaena carefully laid out their plan. The dwarf’s diversionary force would blast the stables to bits, after which they would force the gates open and escape, slamming the portcullis behind them. Arcaena would lead the other half of the group to the surface through the tunnels marked on Issavea’s map.

“Are we sure we want to do this?” Arcaena asked, for the last time. Carsten raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want to take a more direct approach?” Carsten asked. “The only other tunnels to the surface lead to the stables or to the great hall. Coming up through the stables would be unwise, given that reaching the gate would put us directly in the line of sight of the south tower. If there is even one guard in there, he will see, and we will all be doomed.”

“And the guards will not see the explosion?” Arcaena asked.

“I intend for them to see the explosion,” Carsten replied. “I do not intend to be spotted before our charges go off. If we exit from the front of the stable, we will be obscured temporarily from their line of sight. By the time our charges go off, a few antlike figures running through a courtyard will be the least of their worries.”

Arcaena shook her head. “S still think this is foolish. Are you even sure that you can trust Issavea?”

Carsten’s eyes narrowed. “I do not. That is why I am taking all of the prisoners, not just the five of us. And that is why I chose to execute a diversion. That, and the protocol for a disturbance within the walls is to call the guard from the first wall to the nearest tower. In this case, that would be the south tower.”

“And if they spot you before they return?” Arcaena asked.

“Then we will probably die,” the dwarf answered. “It might not be diplomatic to say, but then again…” The dark elf shook her head, resigned.

“Fine, then. If you must do this, then do it quickly.” She slipped her bow over her shoulders and turned away. “I will be careful, and I ask that you to do the same. Although I think you quite foolish all the same.”

“Then lean over my corpse to say you told me so,” Carsten snapped. “But I will not turn from this course. It may be potentially lethal, but the greatest risks often hold the greatest promise of reward.” Arcaena scowled.

“You do not have to be unkind about it,” she protested. “I am just concerned about you. Perhaps you ought to consider that.”

The dwarf shook his head. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “I half think you right to do this. But I cannot well let these men go it alone on the plains. According to your map, the tunnels are within sight of the inner walls.”

Arcaena nodded. “I know. It is only…I did not put so much energy into keeping you alive to see you kill yourself now.”

Carsten smiled. “Then fear not. I will do no such thing.” He gestured to the prisoners in his group. “Come now. We must go. Time is of the essence.”

The tunnels that led to the stables had few guards, and those that patrolled them found themselves outmatched by the sheer number of prisoners. The captives had agreed to haul seven barrels of the explosive powder with them, in addition to a firestarter kit that they had found in the room. The tunnels wound up and up, in a nigh endless, dizzying spiral. In the torch-lit tunnels, the packed earth around them seemed to constrict, and a few men began looking around uncertainly. Claustrophobia, although unknown to dwarves and dark elves, afflicted many of the other races, and they made no bones about the fact.

“We shouldn’t have come,” one man said. “These tunnels feel wrong.” Carsten turned to look at him.

“Having second thoughts?” He asked.

“My second thought are having second thoughts,” the man replied. Carsten smiled.

“You will be perfectly fine, I promise. Just follow my lead, and try not to do anything incredibly stupid. You should survive.”

“Should?” The man echoed. “What you mean is that you don’t actually know what’s waiting for us up there.”

“Your cell was nice and safe,” Carsten replied, turning around. “You did not complain when we set you free. So, if you expect to make it outside these walls, follow as you agreed to do and shut up.” And he turned around and kept walking, adjusting the keg of explosives on his shoulder as he did so.

Tunnels, below the castle

Arcaena stopped before a fork in the tunnel, consulting her map. The other prisoners followed her lead, halting as she read.

“That way,” she said, pointing to the right. “We should start travelling uphill soon.” She started moving again, and the others followed suit. In truth, she was not at all confident that she was reading Issavea’s map correctly. Perhaps the greatest evidence that the woman was blind was her inability to draw a coherent map. The instructions and writing on it were cryptic, and Arcaena’s sense of direction, keen though it was, had completely vanished in these claustrophobic tunnels. The torches came now at longer intervals, adding the chillingly constrictive effect of the subterranean journey. Edessa especially seemed uncomfortable; her eyes darted nervously around the shadowed corridors.

“This looks like a good spot for an ambush,” she murmured. Arcaena nodded.

“I know what you mean,” she replied. “But I followed the map.”

Edessa shivered. “Did you ever consider that Issavea might have been trying to trick you? Trick us?” Arcaena frowned.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “It has.”

“But?” Edessa prompted.

Arcaena sighed. “I cannot help but wonder what she would gain by doing so.”

“Maybe she intends for some of us to escape,” the Huntress suggested. “That some leave and others remain behind.”

“What good would that do?” Arcaena asked.

“That would depend on those she recaptures,” the other returned. “I do not suggest we turn back, my friend. But I would advise caution; I distrust that woman intensely.” The dark elf lowered her eyes.

“I do not, either,” she whispered. “And that, more than anything else, troubles me.”

Stables

The tunnels opened directly inside the stables, through a grated trapdoor at the rear of the building. Carsten flipped it open and hauled his keg up the ladder, grimacing at the protestations of his biceps. The stables had orderly, cuboidal stalls that housed the gryphons, and Carsten could hear the animals’ noisy greeting calls. Several enclosures at the back, however, were stone instead of wood, and guttural snarls and hisses emanated from them.

“Dragons,” one of the elven captives announced. “These are the ones they use to track runners. We should put a few extra kegs inside their pens.”

“Are you daft?” asked one of the dwarves, uncovering one of the fuses. “Dragons are almost completely fireproof. You’d need one huge explosion to kill them.”

“Still,” Carsten mused, “we cannot well have them follow us. So…” He drew one of his war swords and vaulted over the stone wall in front of him. “Wish me luck. Get those kegs set, one at each pen. Just like we said.” The other captives stared after him.

“I can’t believe he just did that,” one of the men murmured. “That’s suicide.” The prisoners obeyed Carsten’s injunction, dropping kegs beside each pen and uncovering the fuses. Taking the remaining four, they tied them together using a coil of rope at the front door of the stable and rolled them to the rear. Suddenly, a loud shriek split the air, and Carsten emerged from the dragon’s holding area, his war sword and armor spattered with blood. There were slash marks on his face, but he looked triumphant.

“That could have gone better,” he said, spitting out some blood of his own. “At least he died.” The other captives stared at him.

“Y-you-you killed it?” A man stammered. “What-how-that’s impossible.” Carsten shrugged, vaulting over another pen’s stone wall.

“Nothing is impossible,” he replied. “Just highly unlikely. Now start preparing those fuses. This will only take half a moment.” The prisoners heard the dragon roar, heard Carsten yell in pain, and then that ungodly shriek again. The dwarf appeared again, more bloodstained if that were possible. The fuses were armed and ready, and several orcs stood by them dutifully.

“Shall we?” One of them asked. Carsten nodded.

“Everyone, by the entrance. When I say, run like the devil himself is behind you.” Carsten went over to the kegs at the back of the room and removed their sleeves, watching as the black, pitch-like substance covered his hands. Removing one of the firestarter kits from his belt, Carsten lit the fuse, watching as the points of fire diverted along separate routes. Then, he turned and followed his own instructions as he made like fury for the exit. The fireworks, to the least, were spectacular. A column of brilliant orange flame shot skyward, easily reaching fifty feet up in the air. The resultant shockwave pitched all the prisoners several yards, most of them landing harmlessly in snowdrifts. Carsten pulled his head out of his new abode and spit a congealed mass of precipitation from his mouth. He was certain that this was the yards that they let the gryphons roam freely in, and that snow tasted like a little more than frozen water. Even though it was at least April by now, The Everwinter Waste lived up to its name. Bare earth was a rare sight there, especially with the ground frozen as it was. The other prisoners were standing up around the yard, dusting themselves off and picking up weapons. Alarm bells had already begun their maddeningly loud pealing, and Carsten heard shouts from inside several towers. The prisoners, according to their predetermined plan, had all gone to the southern gate, where they worked to get it open. Slowly, and with many sounds of protest, the portcullis slowly lifted, revealing a thick double-paneled wooden gate.

“Get it open,” one of the men said. “The guards won’t be long.”

Tunnels, below the castle

Arcaena led the prisoners through the tunnels, now carrying a torch. Wooden slats now supported the sides of the earthen corridor, and several times large stone blocks protruded from the tunnel walls. This indicated that they were now moving through the castle’s foundation, a sensation that caused Arcaena to look up furtively, as though the tunnel roof might cave in. Such a thing would not be unheard of; tunnels collapsed all the time, with fatal results. Suddenly, she felt the floor beneath her feet shake, and in the distance she heard a loud boom, followed by an ominous rumble.

“What was that?” One of the women asked. Several of the human prisoners were female, and these had accompanied Arcaena through the tunnels. A series of explosions followed, and suddenly the dark elf smiled.

“That would be Carsten’s distraction,” she told the human. “Fear not. The tunnel is quite safe.” But even as she said this, she looked up at the roof, wondering if there was any truth in those words.

Southeast Tower

Sadens, Issavea’s guard-master, shouted orders to the men hurriedly grabbing buckets of water and cold-weather gear from the racks on the walls.

“Get the buckets of water first. Weapons are less important. I want all of you to work on getting snow off the roof and melted down for more water. Move.” A small platoon of his men immediately left the room, buckets of water in hand. Although they might not be able to save the stable or the animals inside, they might be able to preserve the buildings around it. But not all of his men were grabbing buckets of water. One of the guards was looking out a high lancet window. Sadens barked at him.

“What are you doing? I gave an order, soldier.” The man turned to face him, a perplexed expression on his face.

“Sir, we may have a problem. It appears that there are men down in the yard. Had you sent guards earlier?” Sadens joined the man, peering out into the night. What he saw made his blood boil with rage. There were indeed men down in the yards, but they were not guards, nor were they working to put out the fire. Instead, it looked like they were trying to raise the gate.

“Send down to the dungeons,” he ordered. “I want to know what those idiots are doing while the prisoners run wild in the yard. All archers, to the lancet windows. Get whatever weapon you can find. Javelins, bows, crossbows, it makes no difference. Fire at will, and aim for the ones raising the portcullis. Kill them all.” The archers among his men went to the weapon racks and began to hand out their tools of choice. He watched in mute approval. Those upstart prisoners would pay for their presumption in attempting escape.

South Yard

After what seemed like an eternity, the captives turning the wheel managed to get the portcullis up. To prevent them from having to turn the wheel again, a dwarf wedged an axe in the spokes of the wheel that held the metal grate up. However, the wide wooden gate stood impassive, preventing their escape. Working together, an elf and a man removed the obstructing bar without much trouble. The lock, however, refused to budge, even after several concerted blows with a club from one of the orcs.

“How do we get through this?” One of the dwarves asked. A man with an axe stepped forward.

“Break it down,” he replied grimly. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to.” And, with that, he swung his axe as hard as he could against the gate. The blade impacted the wood, bit deep, and stuck fast. He pulled with all his might, and the gate finally relinquished the axe blade. The man swore at what he saw; the blade had barely nicked the gate.

“What do we do?” An elf asked. “We’ll never break through.” A dwarf raised his hand.

“Does anyone here have a dwarf-metal weapon?” Carsten, two orcs, and all the dwarves nodded. “Then gather round. All of you take turns slashing at the lock. It’s steel, so cutting it shouldn’t be a problem.” Carsten drew both war swords, the orcs unlimbered an axe and a spear, and the dwarves readied an assortment of hammers, axes, and spears. Carsten commenced the barrage of blows, aiming a powerful, dual-bladed slash at the thin part of the lock. The swords shrieked across the surface, but the lock withstood the attack. The orcs attacked next, axe and spear carving a wider gash in the hardened surface. The dwarves’ attacks finished the job, splitting the lock into two pieces. Pushing against the splintered wood, they swung the gate open, and the prisoners began to run through it. At precisely this moment, forty arrows arced down among the prisoners, cutting down three of the dwarves, a man, and an elf. Carsten looked behind them and up at the torch-lit southeast tower. Against the outline of the spire, he could see black flecks, another volley of arrows hurtling down at them. He heard the shout go up from one of the prisoners.

“ARCHERS! FIND COVER!” But that was not Carsten’s first thought. Shouts already came from inside the southeast tower, and they were closer than before It would not be long at all before Issavea’s guards entered the courtyard, and any prisoners caught there could expect a quick and bloody death. He watched intently, waiting for the last man to run through the gate. The red-haired dwarf did not follow, however. Instead, he drew one of his swords and threw it at the axe, holding up the metal portcullis. Both swords were bulky and, though well-balanced, were by no means weighted or intended for throwing. By some miracle, the weapon still impacted the axe holding the gate open, blade first. The sword’s edge sliced the axe’s head off, causing the haft to split and fall apart. Carsten broke into a run, hoping to reach the opening before the grate fell. But he was too slow, even if he had wings, he would never have reached the gate in time. The portcullis slammed into the ground, sending up a small cloud of white powder with the impact. Carsten stopped short, inches from the gate. The grate had sealed him in, and there was a storm of arrows arcing down from the sky.

Southeast Tower

Sadens watched in silent approval as the first barrage of projectiles streaked away. Although his men’s recurve bows lacked their usual pinpoint accuracy at this range, Sadens firmly believed that they would cut these upstart prisoners down. His archers loosed a second volley almost immediately; he had drilled them to arm and release in waves, hoping that at least a few projectiles might find their marks. As he watched, several of the small, dark forms below collapsed and did not move again. But most of them kept going, right out the gate into the night. Drawing his sword, he rushed down the tower stairs, yelling for several of his guards to follow. Even as they began to run, he knew the others would never reach the prisoners in time. But he could, and woe betide those he caught.

Tunnels

“There!” The shout made Arcaena’s heart soar. Ahead of them, she could see a patch of grey light in the middle of the darkened tunnel. The other prisoners rushed toward it, their exuberance contagious. And then they were out of the artificial, close darkness of underground and the wide, overwhelming shadows of the wintery night. Looking back, they saw the pillars of Frostspire Castle rising into the night at least a mile away. The first rays of dawn had already crested the horizon, and Arcaena thought she could see the edge of the sun over the mountains to the south. Edessa let out an explosive laugh, her sheer giddiness at escape resonating in the cold air.

“We’re free,” she exclaimed, her eyes bright in the dim light. “We’re free, Arcaena. Can you feel the joy?” The dark elf smiled in spite of herself.

“I can. Now come on,” she said, turning to the west. “We move on a diagonal. Just like we said we would. We meet with the others, and then we decide where to go from there.” The prisoners moved forward, eager now. After, all, they were free. It could only get better from here.

South Yard

The arrows slammed down around Carsten with vicious hisses and whines. Miraculously, not one impaled him, although several nicked him; one on the right ear, one on the same shoulder, and one on the left leg. Still, a few slice wounds proved infinitely superior to a shot between the eyes. Before the archers could reload, Carsten stepped out from beneath the relative cover of the gate, looking for any other possible way of escape. The walls were easily thirty feet high, and a fall from the top would kill him without a doubt. Still, one gate would not allow sufficient egress in the event of a siege, and the architects of the castle would have realized this. Therefore, they would have built at least one postern gate into the wall, and done so to hide it from the outsider’s eye. There! Right before the south and east corners of the wall, a small arch protruded from the line of grey stone. Carsten looked up at the tower; no more arrows were arcing down, oddly enough. He had expected another volley by now. Shrugging, he broke into a run toward the gate. His armor weighed him down, but only marginally. Dwarves often trained in armored runs, a skill that proved useful on long campaigns. Or heart-pounding sprints through inches of snow, which Carsten was attempting now. The arrows came, but the archers aimed over the wall at the fleeing prisoners, not the dwarf running through the courtyard. For a moment, he nurtured a seed of hope; perhaps there might be an escape from this nightmare. As he reached the gate, he saw that it was not to be. The gate was barred over with two thick planks of wood. Aside from that, when he tried the handle, he discovered that the gate was locked.

“You will find no escape that way.” The voice was soft, hissing. The very sound of it sent involuntary chills up the dwarf’s spine. He turned, facing the speaker. It was Sadens, the guard from Issavea’s chamber. But now, he looked far different; from head to toe, he wore sable and gold armor, and had a large axe slung on his back. The guard-master cut quite the intimidating figure in his battle dress, but Carsten was not about to be cowed. He had spent almost eight months in this man’s custody, and now here he was again preventing Carsten from leaving. Instead of fear, the dwarf felt a powerful, burning rage welling up in his chest.

“You might as well give up,” the guard commander continued. “You cannot escape. My men will hunt down and kill your friends. Consider saving yourself and us the trouble of doing the same with you.”

Carsten spat. “I would not give you the satisfaction of an easy capture. If you are not prepared to fight, I suggest you call reinforcements.” Sadens shook his head.

“Just you and me, dwarf.” He drew the axe and smiled wickedly. “I will get you through that gate. Forcibly.” Carsten’s sword was already in his hand, and he assumed a low plow stance with the weapon.

“Try it, please. I have wanted to pay you back for a long time for all of this.” And with that, the guard-master went on the attack, launching a wide horizontal slash. The dwarf stepped inside his swing and slammed the war sword’s bladed crossguard into Sadens’ gut. The man’s axe dropped like a stone, and he doubled over. Carsten stepped back, waiting for the torrent of blood that would surely accompany such a grievous wound. A slash like that would have eviscerated just about anyone, and the guard-master should have been no exception. But no blood or tissue fell to the snow; instead, he saw only wisps of a dark, purplish substance waft from the wound. Sadens slowly got to his feet, his lips stretched in a leering grin. The dwarf stepped back, confusion writ large on his features.

“Is that the best you can do?” The guard-master asked. “If so, you will not survive.” He casually spun the axe on his hand. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

“A man,” Carsten answered. “Nothing more.”

Sadens chuckled. “I thought as much. Your eyes govern your mind, boy. Remember that. But no, I am no mere man.” He swung the axe in an overhead slash, only for Carsten to sidestep and launch a thrust into the guard-master’s side. The dwarf immediately followed up with a punch, staggering Sadens as he ripped his sword out of the prison-keeper’s gut. Again, he saw the wisps of black streaming from the wound as its edges began to close together. The guard-master’s next swing came low, aimed at Carsten’s midsection. At these close quarters, the dwarf had nowhere to dodge. He slid to the left, but the axe blade still bit into his right shoulder, opening up a massive gash. Sadens almost immediately pulled back and struck Carsten in the side of the head with the hilt of the axe. The dwarf went down, and Sadens kneed him in the jaw. The blow slammed him into the stone staircase beside the door, and he lost his grip and fell backward onto the steps. The man towered over him, a wicked smile on his face. Without any hesitation, the guard-master let his axe fall in a decapitating vertical stroke. Carsten’s eyes locked on the rapidly descending blade. Without even realizing it, Arcaena’s face appeared in his mind. Her words echoed clearly. “You will not survive,” she had said.

I am truly sorry, he thought. You were right to tell me not to go.

Everwinter Waste, Outside Frostpire Castle

Arcaena and her group reached the established rendezvous point before the others, although this was not surprising. The diversionary force would most likely take longer, as they had a fire to start and a gate to force open. Judging from when she had heard the explosions, though, the second group should not have been far behind hers. One of the elves in her group suddenly gave a shout. Across the snow-covered plain, small, black figures could be seen running toward them.

“They are coming,” the female elf shouted. “They survived!” But as they got closer, a low rumble of surprise rose from the gathered prisoners. They had seen seventeen men take a different tunnel network; only nine approached them now.

“No,” Arcaena whispered. “No, no, no.” But as they came on, she saw that their eyes did not deceive them. Only nine of the other group had survived their endeavor, and those still alive looked quite ragged indeed. Even at this distance, Arcaena could see that a few had arrows embedded in their flesh, and almost all had slash marks on their faces. As they came within earshot, Arcaena called, “What happened?” One of the men called back.

“The guards fired on us,” he replied. “We did the best we could, but it was not enough. All the others are dead.”

The dark elf’s eyes swept those assembled here. She felt her heart sink as she realized that, while there were dwarves here, Carsten was not among them. “The red-haired one, Carsten. Where is he?” The man lowered his eyes.

“He closed the gate behind us,” The man replied. “There were already guards moving into the courtyard, and they would have given chase after they tended to the fire.” Arcaena felt a strange burning sensation in her chest and behind her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. Edessa stepped up and put her hand on the dark elf’s shoulder.

“I am truly sorry,” she whispered. “He will be missed.” Arcaena knocked the Huntress’s hand off of her shoulder with an angry gesture.

“He is not gone,” she said, more fiercely than she had intended. “We wait for thirty more minutes. If he does not appear by then, we leave.”

“We ought not wait,” one of the men said. Thomas’ eyes narrowed.

“He might have sacrificed himself to save you, and the first thing you say when he is peril is ‘Leave him’? You humans really are an ungrateful lot,” the dwarf spat. Arcaena leaned against a tree, steadying herself as she waited. However, she could not shake the feeling in her chest, one of agonizing fear that her patience might be in vain. And with it came a curiosity at her own reaction. Why was she so concerned? Other people had died, and yet for them she felt only passing grief. Why, then, did this one dwarf matter so much? It was the dungeon, she realized. She had spent so much time with only him that she had become more attached to him than she had to others. That, however, did nothing to ease the ache in her chest.