Dreisterne

CHAPTER 23

Harald sat rigidly against Keith's back, arms twisted behind him and bound to the same pole anchoring them both like common livestock. Around them, a makeshift camp sprawled in chaotic disarray. Tents were pitched at odd angles, half-cooked meat hung from smoky fire pits, and rough-looking men drank and jeered in the lights of campfires. A thick-armed sentry with a crooked nose, knuckled fists, and a blade at his hip, stood by the prisoners. He uncorked a bottle and drained half of it in a single, greasy gulp before fixing Harald and Keith with a sour look. He clearly did not like his job.

Harald shifted slightly, his breath calm despite the tightness of the ropes. "My good man," he called out smoothly, his tone urbane, "I must commend your vigilance. But I wonder: what precisely is the point of binding us here if your dear leader is absent from his court?"

The guard gave no reply. His eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent as he took another swig.

Harald continued, voice laced with silken sarcasm, "Why, surely it would be far more efficient to kill us now, ja? Out of sight, out of mind, as they say."

The guard grunted, his jaw clenching from his steadily eroding patience. He finished the rest of the bottle, tossing it aside before reaching for another.

"Or perhaps..." Harald said, drawing out the words with a smug curl of his lip, "...you're simply not permitted to act without orders. Though I suppose that makes you the best kind of foot soldier. Able to guard, but not to think-"

The guard turned toward them at last, scowl twisting his face. "Oh, shut it! Ya talk, an' talk, an' talk, and I can't even understand half of what yer blabbin' about!" He took a deep chug, dulling his impulse to shove the whole bottle down the throat of the Teutonian fop. After a while, he continued in a smug, almost conspiratorial tone. "The Boss don't want you dead yet. Likes makin' it personal, see? He gets off smashin' in skulls when they're still screamin'. Quite a show, that is." He cackled and jabbed a thumb at Keith. "Anyway, yer mate's got the right idea, shakin' like a kicked dog. I can't wait till the Boss gets here."

Keith glared at the man for that comment. "Nobody's shakin' here, mate," he grunted. "Also, I'd like to see how chirpy you are when I leave my bootprint on your face."

Before the guard could fire back, another rough voice called from the edge of camp. "Hey, Harry! Meat's burnin' again, ya bleedin' halfwit! Get over 'ere!"

The guard spat toward the fire pit and muttered curses, taking a swig off his bottle before sauntering off with his blade still strapped to his side, leaving the two Dreisterne members alone for the moment.

Harald exhaled through his nose. "As bright as a candle in a blizzard, that fellow. Say, Keith? Do you perchance have any hidden tools up your sleeve? Knives, picks, scissors, anything?"

Keith wriggled, huffing. "Sorry, H. I never thought we'd ever get caught up in this kind of mess. Hell, I can't even pick my nose with my toe, even if I tried."

Harald clicked his tongue. "Pity. Time for Plan B."

Keith had an inkling of what he meant by that, and his spine went cold. He turned his head as best he could, whispering harshly. "Uh, H? No disrespect to your skills with fire magic, but we're still tied up to a pole. I'd rather not break free looking like a kipper!"

Harald grinned. "Fortunately for you, mein Freund, my knowledge allowed me a certain level of...finesse."

The pyromancer closed his eyes and steadied his breathing rhythm. He pictured his mana like a quiet stream, flowing into his fingers, not bursting forth in flames, but to steadily channel heat like an iron poker. A faint warmth began to pool at the tips of his fingers, and he gently rubbed his middle and ring fingers against the first loop of rope. It was located so close to Keith's wrists that he could almost feel his skin burn.