Tallowcross

Chapter 2: A Dungeon in Enemy Territory

Chapter 2

A Dungeon in Enemy Territory.

(Tredigern Castle. Home of the Third omeHBaron of the Nadalm-Hai.)

Grant backed off in surprise when the bar moved. He flashed a look over his shoulder, but the rest of the men in the dark cell were still fast asleep, nestled on their dirty straw piles. A thin shaft of moonlight illuminated the stone floor, falling upon the unconscious figure of the Priest, his tattered robe pulled over his head.

Grant turned back to the window and thrust the bar back in place. With a renewed enthusiasm, he pulled again, and it moved more than a finger-length, sending small chips of stone into his face and tumbling to the floor.

Grinning widely, his powerful arms began to worry the bar back and forth in its new slot on the base of the window opening. As the bar ground into its foundations, it became freer until with a sudden crack, he pulled it loose from the window.

Dumbfounded, he stood, looking at the two foot length of iron. He held it up to the faint light of the outside world, and grinned.

"Grant?"

He whirled round to see Curran, pushing himself up on one elbow.

"What have you got there?"

"Nothing to worry about lad." Grant let the bar rest at his side. "Get your rest, you'll need it."

"Aye, sir."

Curran nestled back in his straw, and before Grant turned to the window, his snores had re-joined the others.

Grant lifted the bar again, and felt the weight in his hand. "Just like a sword." He whispered. Swinging it one way then the other, he kept his arcs low as to avoid the ceiling. His muscles protested, but he persisted, and soon stood in the centre of the dark cell, sweat glistening on his dirt-ingrained chest.

He turned to the window and blew the dust from the groove on the ledge. With a careful angle into the top opening, he replaced the bar, and sat beneath the window. New pieces of stone under his body made him smile rather than wince, and he dozed until morning.

The usual changing of the guards in the main hall roused him. They were never quiet, and this morning was no exception. Their ribald jokes drifted down the hallway to their small cell.

Grant got to his feet, grabbed the bar loose again, and fastened a sackcloth curtain over the window, darkening the cell. With the bar behind his back, he walked round his cellmates, gently kicking them awake. Curran and the priest yawned and silently got to their feet. The other three needed more encouragement.

"Move!" Grant hissed as Scandal and Maglen resisted his urgings. He helped Fegrick's wincing figure upright, ready for the morning's ceremony. Fegrick had been beaten by the guards just two days ago, and he was obviously still feeling the effects of their ministrations. "Listen up! This morning we break out. I will take the man who moves the curtain. The others are yours."

The five stood to attention before the key was inserted into the door. Their faces feigned downcast and oppressed, but Grant knew their hopes would be high, and senses alert.

"Be ready my friends." Grant said, showing them the bar from the window. "Look frail, but be ready."

The jailer pulled the cell door outward, and looked pensively into the cell, then shook his head as he saw the rough curtain.

"I've fucking told you before." He strode to the window, and his two henchmen grinned as they followed their leader. "Someone will take a beating over this!" the jailer said as he pulled down the makeshift curtain.