The Bringer of War

The burly guard stood splay legged on the edge of the moat, adding his own filth to that already swirling in the murky waters below. It was a good twelve feet from his boots to the water, and the splashing echoed loudly throughout the courtyard. It was more than sufficient to drown out the whisper quiet sound that the Roach’s feet made as they flashed over the flagstones. She got to the edge of the moat and sprang nimbly across the ten foot span, hitting the other side with only a slight sound. She rolled into a somersault to absorb the momentum and landed in a crouch, concealed by the moon shadow of the Tower. The guard shook himself twice and re-sheathed his weapon, turning about to continue on his rounds. He passed within a few feet of the diminutive woman, but her dark clothing and low profile caused his eyes to roam right past her.

As soon as he had disappeared around the circumference of the Tower the Roach went to work. Digging within the loose folds of her midnight hued garments, she withdrew a pair of leather thongs with small curved spikes in the center. She slipped them onto her hands, with the spikes arranged in her palms. In a few seconds she had similar devices hooked onto her feet.

Stretching out, she found purchase by digging the spikes into the mortar between the massive blocks used to construct the tower. Keeping herself plastered tight against the cool stone, she began to rise into the humid night air. It was painfully slow progress, as she strove for silence. Twice she had to stop her progress completely as the guard came back around her side of the Tower. She clung to the rough hewn surface, tenacious as her namesake, until the man was past.

It was nearly fifty feet up the tower when she got to the lowest window. Finding the shutters open in an attempt to cool the structure off, she crept silently into the room beyond. The door was closed, but a few seconds of prying at the jamb with a thin bar of metal and she was standing in the hallway that ran between the twin cells. She began to pad up the spiral staircase at the eastern end when footsteps made her scramble for cover. She had not time to run back down the hall to the cell she had broken out of, and the bare hallway was bereft of anything for her to wedge herself behind. She bent her knees in a crouch and leaped straight up, grasping the narrow edge of the door frame with her tiny fingers. In a moment she had pulled herself up into the ceiling corner adjacent to the door, scrunching herself into a ball.

The footsteps belonged to another guard, this one yawning sleepily. He shuffled down the stairs past the floor she hid on, drawing a sigh of relief from the little woman. Adroitly she dropped to the floor when his footsteps no longer echoed in the still air.

Creeping cautiously up the stairs, the Roach flitted from shadow to shadow, never allowing herself to be in the torchlight for more than an instant despite the lack of any other eyes present. Still, she made impressive time up the stairs, coming to the top floor where her quarry was being held in less than a dozen minutes.

There was a guard on duty here as well. He sat in a chair positioned next to an arched window, taking tokes on a corn cob pipe. Once in a while he would send a stream of white smoke out the window, seeming to amuse himself by watching the way the wind tore it away. The man had a mug of mead sitting on the windowsill, which he took a draught from as she watched.

She crouched in the shadows and waited. The Roach knew his type, and sure enough her patience was rewarded when the man was loudly snoring in the chair.

Carefully walking heel to toe, she trod on her soft shoes to the sleeping guard’s side. She filched the key from his belt ring without a sound, aided as much by her small fingers as diligent practice. Using a thin piece of wire, she also wrapped the crosspiece of the guard’s sword to its sheath. Though the man could probably free it eventually it might buy her a few seconds, and a few seconds were often the difference between life and death.

The Roach padded before the cell she believed to hold Lord Mannix. She extracted a small flat flask and opened it, dribbling a few viscous drops of liquid onto the door’s metal hinges. Another dollop went on the key she bore, and in a few seconds the massive door was unlocked with only a slight click, and swung open slowly with nary a creak.

Within, Lord Mannix stirred as the light spilled into the otherwise dark chamber. He rose into a sitting position, rubbing his tired eyes as the Roach entered the room and shut the door behind her.

“Hello?” he said, his voice making her wince. “Is someone the-”

Lord Mannix felt the bed stir ever so slightly and then there was a hand clasped over his mouth.

“Silence, old fool,” said the Roach. “You are being rescued, but I will leave you here to rot if you awaken the guard.”

Mannix tried to struggle against the grip, his sleepy brain not quite comprehending. A sharp poke in his ribs ended his movements.

“I will say this once more,” said the Roach “you are being rescued. Make a sound and I will leave you here. Nod if you understand.”

Mannix, his eyes unable to make out much in the dark, nodded as best he could.

Once he was released he turned about on the bed, fixing the little figure in black with an incredulous stare. Squinting in the meager light, he managed to make out enough details to note her diminutive size.

“Are you a child?” he said in a whisper.

“Don’t whisper, fool,” said the Roach. “It carries further than speaking softly. Get dressed.”

Mannix had dozens of questions on the tip of his tongue, but the memory of sharp steel in his side kept them there. He put on a pair of trousers and a b lousy shirt. He was putting on his boots when the Roach gingerly opened the door a crack and looked out into the hallway. The guard still slumbered, head lolled to the side as a line of drool ran down his chin.

“Come quickly,” said the Roach, motioning him to follow. Mannix crept with as much stealth as he could muster, but his footfalls seemed jarringly loud to her. A nervous glance at the guard showed him to remain asleep.

The pair made their way to the stairs. The Roach went ahead first, her small feet moving in a blur. Mannix strove to keep pace while keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible. They passed by a landing, then another, and then a third.

“How far to the bottom?” said Mannix, breathing a bit harder than normal.

“Silence!” said the Roach. “Did you not count the floors on your way up?”

“I wasn’t conscious at the time,” said Mannix more quietly.

“Did you hear that?” came a gravely voice from one of the landings they had just passed.

“Sounded like someone in the stairs,” said another.

“Fool,” said the Roach as an armored man clanged to the doorway. She dragged Mannix out of sight, but not before the guard caught a glimpse of him.

“Stop!” yelled the guard. “Raise the alarm! The prisoner is loose!”

Their rapid footfalls were drowned out by the alarm bell that soon echoed throughout the stone walls. All pretense of silence flown, the Roach flew down the stairs, counting three more landings. When they were on what she hoped was the seventh floor she stopped, wildly gesturing for Mannix to follow.

“Come on!” she shouted.

“This is not the bottom,” he said.

“It is our path to freedom,” she said. “Come now, or I will leave you!”

The Roach spun about, facing a room full of kitchen equipment and an empty hearth. Two guards were rapidly standing up, knocking over the bottle of spirits they had been sharing as they fumbled to draw their swords. She took off at a run, dashing straight at her much larger adversaries. One of them managed to get his blade free and took a wild swing that would have taken her head from her slender shoulders. Tucking her chin to her chest, she rolled her body into a tight ball and somersaulted under the blow, rising to her feet nimbly. A small, curved blade appeared in her hand and slashed out once. The guard collapsed to the floor, legs spastically jerking as he tried in vain to move them.

Mannix saw the other guard free his blade and bear down on the little woman. With a shout he flung himself at the man, crashing into his chest. The two of them went down in a heap and began struggling for the sword.

The Roach used a heavy iron pan to send the maimed guard to dreamless oblivion, then turned to help Mannix. The guard was much larger, and was getting the better of the noble. She leaped onto the table they had set their drinks upon and then jumped back down...right on the man’s face. The back of his head cracked soundly on the stone floor and he went limp beneath Mannix’s body.

“Let’s go,” she said, dashing across the kitchen to a metal plate set flush against the wall. She heaved with all the might her impish body could muster and swung it open on a hinge. A foul odor greeted Mannix’s nostrils as he approached the waist high opening.

“In there?” said Mannix, looking into the dark tunnel. It sloped almost immediately at a sharp angle, slick with greasy refuse. “You must be jesting!”

“Now, old fool,” she said, casting a nervous glance at the door. Booted feet tromped loudly in the stairway, and alarmed shouts joined the cacophony created by the ringing bell.

“Preposterous,” he said “they have used it as a garbage chute, and worse...to dump out chamberpots as well.”

“Fine,” said the Roach “I suppose we’ll find another way out. Reach in there and get my rope, will you?”

Mannix bent at the waist and reluctantly thrust his torso into the opening. He braced his hands on the relatively clean outer edge, frowning as he strove not to breath through his nose.

“I don’t see a rope,” he said.

“Of course not,” said the Roach, who had retreated a few feet away. Breaking into a run she sprang across the few feet separating them and leaped into the air. She drove both her feet into his rump and kicked hard with her legs. Mannix was shoved hard into the chute and began sliding rapidly down it, his mouth open in a terrified scream.

The nobleman slid through foulness he could not have imagined, including a muddy brown pile whose aroma left little doubt as to its origin. His torment was brief, as after a dozen feet he was suddenly sailing through the open sky, the flagstone courtyard more than sixty feet below him. He had only two seconds to appreciate his plight before he splashed down hard in the moat’s murky waters.

Gasping, he shoved his head above the water and spat out a fetid stream of brown water. He swam to the side and tried to find a handhold, but the green muck encrusting the rough stone made it impossible.

“Help!” he cried, but knew his voice would not carry far or be heard above the alarm bell.

A splash behind him covered him with more filth. He turned about to see the Roach’s masked head sticking out of the water. She swam towards him and pushed both their bodies against the edge of the moat.

“Shh,” she said when he began a sputtering condemnation of her falsehood. “You are alive, and should you wish to remain so must do exactly as I tell you. Can you swim?”

“Aye,” said Mannix “I’ll bloody well swim away from this filth!”

“There is a tunnel a hundred feet from here,” she said pointing roughly west. “It leads to the sewers that run below Fort Drakken. We will have to go beneath the moat to enter.”

Mannix wore a terrible, pained expression at the prospect of swimming beneath the fouled waters.

“It is that or you can return to you cell,” said the Roach.

Mannix almost took her up on it, but the thought of Katherine made him reconsider. For her, he’d swim a mile beneath a river of shit.

“Let us be done with it, then,” he said grimly.

They slowly swam towards the Roach’s secret exit, aided by the current. He did not have to ask where the tunnel was, because he could feel it pulling water from the moat.

“It’s bad to open your eyes under this kind of water,” said the Roach, taking his hand. “I will guide you through.”

“How will you see?” he said.

“I will not,” she said “I know the way well enough.”

Tightly clamping his eyes shut, Mannix allowed her to lead him beneath the fetid waves. He went with the current and found himself pulled along behind the slight woman. His head scraped against something wet and muddy, and then he felt stone beneath his feet. Standing up, he found that the water now reached only to his waist. He opened his eyes but still could not see.

“Where are we?” he said, his voice echoing in the dank darkness.

“In the sewers,” said the Roach.

“Have you a torch?” said Mannix, then winced. “Sorry, a foolish question, for it would be quite wet by now.”

He heard a hard scuffing sound, looked in amazement at a spark that flashed in the darkness. It flashed two more times and then he was blinking at the painful light from a burning brand.

“It would be,” she said with a trace of mirth “if I had not wrapped it in an oil cloth sack.”

Mannix scanned his new surroundings with gratefully restored vision. They were in a rounded tunnel, half submerged in water. The ceiling was a few inches above his head, the stones ancient and stained. He swallowed in apprehension as he realized that meant the water sometimes reached the top of the tunnel.

“The water will not rise, will it?” he said fearfully.

“Not unless it rains heavily,” said the Roach, pulling him along behind her. “Come, it is not safe to be covered in the shit of others, oddly enough. We must get you dry, clean and safe, my lord.”

“Who are you?” said Lord Mannix. “Who hired you to break me free?”

“The first question has no answer,” she said “though some call me the Roach. The second is easy enough; Your daughter.”

“I thought the Roach a legend,” he said.

“I prefer it that way,” she said “and if you could not mention the Roach in your daring rescue, I would appreciate it greatly.”

“It was a daring rescue,” he said as they splashed through the darkness. He squinted down at her small figure, a look of concern on his face. “My, but you are a tiny one!”

She stopped in the tunnel, nearly causing him to crash into her. Her eyes were narrowed though the slits on her mask, and he fond himself blanching a bit under her fierce, dark gaze.

“I am four feet, five inches tall, sir,” she said “more than the minimum height for entrance to the Royal Cavalry. You did not think me small when I was dragging you from prison.”

“No,” said Mannix “no, I did not. My apologies, lady, I will not be so rude again.”

The eyes softened just a little.

“Come,” she said “we must away. There are other dangers than shit and rats in the Fort Drakken sewers. Dark deeds are afoot beneath the castle walls, I fear.”

“You are more right than you will ever know,” said lord Mannix grimly.