Trik - Betrayal in Rule

Trik lay in a cell in the dark dungeon beneath the palace. He had not eaten nor drank in nearly two days, and his face was pale and sunken. A guard stood outside his cell, clutching a spear. Trik’s mind replayed the events of the previous days. Nob’s spell had worn off too soon. Nob the fool! Had Durben been captured? Why had Mortimer not killed him? Where was Durben? Was he alive? 

When three days passed without food and without water, Trik began to hallucinate. He imagined eyes peering at him from the shadows of the dungeon, eyes watching his every move.

On the fourth day, Trik lay against the bars of his cell, unable to stand, his eyelids fluttering. His lips were dry and cracked, and his throat was too hoarse to shout or even to speak. “Water,” groaned Trik, the word barely a whisper.

The guard posted at his cell did not move. The candlelight played on his face, making terrible shadows. The eyes peered from those shadows. “Your accomplice,” asked the guard, “where is he?”

But Trik said nothing, whether because he no longer understood the words or because he had not the strength to respond.

On the fifth day, reckoned only by the change of the guard, Trik lay on his back in the cell. He knew that he would die soon, and the demons in the shadows would take him. He heard the clamor of armor and boots and the rattle of spears against shields. He saw the cell guard drop dead before the cell.

“Hello,” said a voice that Trik did not recognize in his stupor. “Look this way.”

“He’s dead,” said another voice. “Let him be.”

“He’s not dead,” said the same familiar voice. “Look at him. He’s moving.”

Trik tilted his head toward the corridor, and his eyes peeled open. The guard lay dead on the floor, and in his place stood three of the Emperor’s soldiers and a young blond man wearing the armor and weapons of an Imperial Guard. “What have they done to you?” asked Durben. He turned to the soldier next to him. “Give me water.”

One of the Imperial Guards handed the young blond man a goatskin canteen. Another unlocked the cell door. The young blond man entered the cell. As he approached the elf, he dropped to his knees. “Here, drink this,” he said. He pressed the canteen’s mouth against Trik’s dry cracked lips. “Drink.”

Trik drank, slowly at first, and then faster, until he had drained the canteen. “Give me another,” shouted the young blond man. A guard handed him a full canteen. The young man again made the elf drink.

At last, Trik had the strength to get to his knees, and as he did so he looked into the eyes of Durben. “You’re alive,” he groaned.

“Yes,” said Durben, handing the goatskin canteen to Trik.

Trik drained it and threw the empty canteen on the floor. He looked about. There were three soldiers with Durben, each dressed as Durben was in the Imperial colors. “What took so long?” asked Trik, his voice hoarse.

Durben smiled. “Get to your feet,” he said. He stood and held out his hand to Trik.

The elf took Durben’s hand, and with some help, managed to stand. He glanced again at the Imperial Guards. There was blood on their armor and shields, and dents from the blows of swords. “What happened?” he asked.

Durben handed Trik a broadsword. “The Imperial Garrison is taking back the city,” said Durben, “but there is still fighting. And Mortimer has the Emperor locked in the palace with him.”

“I will kill him,” said Trik, and he stepped clumsily forward.

Durben grabbed the elf before he fell over. “First,” said Durben, “you need to recover your strength.” He put his shoulder under Trik’s arm.

Trik shook his head. “Help me out of here,” he said.

Durben looked at the guards. “Help me with him,” he said. “Let’s get him to the street.”