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And that was it—the thread that stitched a bunch of strangers together.
The shared hope of seeing loved ones again.
After I got down from the water bucket, the pugilist brothers and a few other brawny men began to break the buckets apart, creating a small pile of wood slats, as per my instruction.
While they did this, a group of kids came up to me, saying they were eager to help. So, I took a broken shard of flagstone and showed them how to sharpen the end of the wood into a small, hand-held spear—something Ezra had had me do frequently when I was a child, another part of my training.
Sometimes I had thought some of the things she taught me were useless, but now I’d praise the rock-loving woman’s name.
As I worked with the kids, Boy led another group in searching the walls for rocks suitable for throwing—although the Well was a vast expanse of nothingness, we’d use whatever we could to win this battle.
Even though not everyone had volunteered to fight, the majority had—more than I’d expected. I didn’t have time totrain everyone, so anyone who showed any type of promise was automatically nominated as a member of our last-minute army.
For the next four days—time I judged by my rounds of sleep—we prepared.
We sent the elderly and the young to the far side, where the torchlight grew dim, keeping those who could not defend themselves further away from the battle.
A group of us stood with our backs pressed against the wall on either side of the door. I raised my fist and kept it clenched, signaling my collared warriors to hold their positions as the sound of boots striking the floor echoed down the stairwell—a foreboding sound that grew with each passing second.
My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, my hand clenched so tightly around the sharp-ended wood slat that it would surely leave an imprint.
Power in numbers, that’s what we have,I repeated to myself, used it to tamper that small, criticizing voice that feared wood slats and rocks were not enough to fight against real weapons.
The door swung open, and the guards strode in.
When they all were fully inside, I dropped my fist and we charged. A mighty roar emitted from my throat, shattering the nervous ticking of my heartbeat in my ears and replacing it with the song of a warrior.
My group charged to the door, sectioning it off and ensuring the guards didn’t double back. We could not risk one escaping and warning the others.
The second group, led by the brothers, charged down the middle, separating the befuddled guards into two groups. The farmer’s group charged in next, halving the guards again. Divide and conquer, we scattered them like mice. And then we closed in, releasing everything in our arsenal—rocks, spears, and fists.
The soldier closest to me turned, his blade glinting in the flame-lit chamber, striking the head clean off a fellow prisoner. I didn’t allow my soft heart to take pause and mourn the loss of my newfound brethren, for there would be time for that later. Right now, I needed to focus—that was the only way I could ensure minimal casualties.
A female prisoner jumped on the guard’s back, her arms clamping around the guard’s neck. He stumbled back, unable to support both his weight and hers. He rammed his elbow into her, connecting with her ribs, and she fell to the floor.
Before he had a chance to turn on her, I was on him.
My fist groaned as I connected with the bottom of his jaw. He swung at another prisoner, his eyes held wide, frantic as he realized there were too many of us, and not enough of them.
Another prisoner caught his arm before the guard could deliver that fatal blow. Two more prisoners grabbed hold of him. And then another. And another. Until he was subdued.
We fought with our hand-sharpened spears, while they fought with their lethal swords. We fought in clothes drenched in blood, while they wore glistening armor. We fought for our loved ones, and they fought for their king.
And because of that final factor, this was a battle they would not win.
One by one, the guards fell. And when the battle was over, we raised our hand-sharpened spears and cried out in victory.
Hundreds of prisoners were on the move, and all of it was happening right under the king’s pretentious nose.
It had been just as Boy said. There was a massive painting of an old king not far down from the top of the stairwell, propped on rickety, screeching hinges. He swung it open with a big, toothy grin, took a step to the side, and gestured to the dark passage, like he had just performed some sort of magic trick.
In truth, what he did was so much better than that, because in that moment, one young boy had just single-handedly gifted hundreds of people their path to freedom.
Sage
Icould deal with the tight confines of the hidden passageway, and the darkness that exuded from it, but the never-ending cobwebs, thick and sticky and consistently wrapping themselves around my head, my torso, and my arms, as if they had personally taken it upon themselves to clothe me in spider-weaved silk?
Thatwas something I could do without.
