But the future had soured mid-sip.Midway through the evening, a heaviness had crept into his limbs, his vision blurring at the edges like ink in rain.He remembered one of the men had risen, clapping Proudlock's shoulder with false camaraderie."Rest well, hero.Dawn brings rewards."Then...nothing.A void, until now.
Panic clawed at the edges of his mind, but Proudlock shoved it down, years of soldiering honing his instincts to a razor's edge.He was alive, that much was certain—the pain proved it.Bound, yes, but not gagged; his mouth worked freely, though his throat rasped like sandpaper.A dungeon, then.Not the palace cells, with their iron-barred civility and daily gruel; this reeked of deeper shadows, the kind reserved for those the powerful wished to forget.Aldrich's doing?Or Elowen's?The lady's spies were legendary, her webs spun from whispers and daggers alike.But they wouldn’t dare.
Would they?
Proudlock twisted against his bonds, testing the ropes—tight, knotted by expert hands, but not unbreakable.He could work them loose with time, if no one came first.
A low murmur intruded on his thoughts, faint and ragged, like the death rattle of a man on the field after a lance to the gut.It came from the right, beyond a wall of bars he could now discern as faint outlines against the gloom.Another cell, adjacent to his.Proudlock froze, straining his ears.The sound repeated: a wet, gurgling wheeze, followed by a scrape, as of cloth against stone.Not one voice, but two—overlapping, indistinct, laced with pain.
Proudlock's blood ran cold.He knew those voices, even mangled by agony and shadow.Garr and Skarn.The burly mercenary and the wiry veteran, two of the dozen he'd handpicked for the northern ride—not from Thorgrin's loyal Silver, but sellswords with loose tongues and looser morals, bought with promises of gold and glory.Proudlock had seen them settled in the palace barracks, dosed with enough wine to dull their nerves but not their memories.Loose ends, he'd thought them, but necessary shields.Aldrich had agreed:Use them, then cut the strings.
But what had happened since he had left King’s Court?Had they been so stupid to allow the whole plot to unravel in the short time his back had been turned?
He shifted closer to the bars, ignoring the scrape of straw against his cheek, and whispered hoarsely, "Garr?Skarn?That you?"
Silence fell, heavy as a shroud, broken only by the drip-drip of water.Then a cough, wet and choking, from the next cell."Proudlock?Gods' piss, it's you.They got you, too."
Relief flooded him, sharp and fleeting."Aye, it's me.What in the hell happened?Last I remember—"
"The Stag," Skarn rasped, his voice a dry scrape, like boots on gravel."Your ale...or ours?Doesn't matter.Hooded bastards, three of 'em, offered round after round for the heroes.We drank, boasted a bit—y'know, the King's last stand, the beasts' claws.Next thing, darkness.Woke here, chains and all."
Proudlock's mind raced, piecing the fragments together.This was not the hand of the crown.If they suspected anything—and why would they—they would not use a poison in a draft of ale.They would face them front on, with a legion of the Silver headed up by that smug bastard Kellan.
The sound of a key being turned stayed his thoughts.There was a rusty creak followed by the noise of a heavy door being opened.He twisted in his restraints and peered through the gloom to see if it was his, his mind racing ahead.They must have realized their mistake.
But his ears told him it was the door to the cell next door, not his.There was the noise of two metal bowls hitting the floor.
“Room service,” laughed another voice, a new one.
“Untie us, how can we eat like this?”he heard Skarn ask.
“You want me to spoon feed you?What do I look like?Your ma?”
A second later, the door was slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.
Proudlock turned, waiting for his own door to open, his stomach telling him it was hungry, despite the nausea of only a few minutes before.
He strained his eyes at where he guessed the door to his cell was but there was nothing.The only noise that of Skarn and Garr slurping down whatever gruel passed as breakfast in this hellhole.He imagined them on their hands and knees eating like dogs.
"Listen," Proudlock hissed, straining against his bonds until the ropes creaked."We need to—"
A gurgle cut him off, low and final, like a bellows deflating.Garr—or was it Skarn?—choked, a wet rattle bubbling from his throat.Proudlock's stomach twisted."What—?Garr?"
No answer.Only the gurgle, fading to a wheeze, then silence.The darkness seemed to thicken, pressing against his skin like a living thing.Heart pounding, Proudlock twisted his body, ignoring the burn in his shoulders, and wedged his face against the bars.The gloom in the next cell was a shade lighter, enough to make out shapes: two forms slumped against the far wall, chains glinting dully.Garr's bulk was unmistakable, even in death—his massive frame twisted at an unnatural angle, head lolled back, mouth agape in a frozen snarl.Something dark pooled beneath him, vile smelling and spreading, catching the faint gleam from a slit high in the wall.
Skarn lay beside him, smaller, curled like a child, but no innocence in his end.His hands clutched at his gut, fingers slick and black in the dimness, ropes of intestine spilling through a ragged tear in his tunic.He'd clawed at himself, Proudlock realized with a lurch—poison, not steel.The gurgle had been his last breath, internals dissolving from whatever toxin Aldrich’s men had fed him.
The realization hit Proudlock like a lance to the chest, stealing his breath.Betrayed.There was no other explanation.The word echoed in his skull.He should have known.He was seen as no different than those curs in the cell next to him.He had played his part, delivered the King and his belongings, and how do they repay him?
With a stinking dungeon and certain death.
Rage surged through him, hot and clarifying, burning away the fog of the poison.He twisted savagely against the ropes, the fibers fraying under his straining muscles.Years in the army, in the service of the crown, had left him no stranger to bonds; these were hasty work, meant to hold drunks, not desperate men.He would be free in no time, and he would show them the mistake they had made.
Voices echoed from the corridor beyond, low and booted, a guard approaching with the casual stride of a man on rounds.Torchlight flickered, throwing long shadows that danced like imps across the stone.Proudlock froze, sinking back into the straw, feigning the slump of the drugged and broken.He still worked on his bonds, his arms becoming freer by the second.
The footsteps halted outside his cell, keys jangling.
No doubt he had come to serve him his toxic breakfast, but he would have another thing coming.He wouldn’t find Lord Proudlock as much a pushover as those two fools.
