The Man with Many Names

Prologue: 

The steady tapping of water was all too familiar to Anir’s aching ears. So too was the tremulous shivering of the torches, clutched by iron talons upon the dark stonewall. Anir clenched his jaw as he breathed in the stale air, rank with the smell of man. His back was moist with sweat and his ratty linen garb lay over his gaunt body in tatters. Stomach grumbling, he clawed at his thin skin, fingers like ravenous vultures.

Anir’s cell was small. A ruddy orange glow splashed over the dark corner, pulsing with heat. The warmth felt like god’s grace as it flushed over his pale skin, but Anir knew well, the gods were all dead. I killed them, remember, he cursed at himself. Even so, the warmth was his only solace from the bitter cold that gnawed at his skin each day and night. His body calmed as a breathe of warmth swelled in the dark cell, and receded, taking the warmth with it.

The rusted iron bars screeched ajar as his cell flushed black, grinding against the grey stone floor, damp with grief. The guards shoved in a man, it seemed, through Anir’s damaged eyes. He was young, with a pale face and greasy black hair. He cursed as he smacked against the unyielding floor, clothes wet and heavy. The bars shrieked close as the young man pounced from the floor and onto the gates with a clap. The guards sniggered as they walked up a set of stairs, the man’s curses following them until what sounded like a door clapped shut.

The prisoner collapsed to the hard floor, and Anir watched him beat his fist into the bars one last time. The sound faded, and the silence returned with the incessant patting of water on stone. Anir slumped forward from the wet stonewall, slithering out of the shadows that veiled him. The torch pulsed red, and the cell burned with warmth. Anir tilted his head as the man picked himself up, angry, eyes ablaze with a wicked fire that shimmered in a congealed pool of dark blood.

“What have they gotten you in for?” asked Anir, resting his scarred back against the iron bars of his cell. “I’m told the Antarrians have been quick to punish men of late. Is what I’m told of any truth?” Anir was a well-spoken man, he always was, and quick of tongue, if need be.

The man sighed, hunching his back. “I’m curious as to how you know such.”

Anir gestured to the congealed blood. “You are not the only one to share this cold place they call a cell with me.”

The man shifted oddly.

“Do not worry yourself,” Anir calmed. “It was not me who killed him. He was thrown in with a monstrous cut across his side. Died in about two days, if I remember well. Now, I’m curious, forgive me, but how did you get thrown into this wretched hellhole?”

“Supposedly,” said the man. “Calling the prince by his true name is a crime nowadays.”

“From Antar then, I’m guessing.” Anir shook his head, calculating the man. “Might I ask what you called him? Last time I checked, his name was Prince Carnic.”

“A bastard,” said the man, smirking. He glanced casually at Anir. “I reckon the name fits better on the damned boy.”

“I’ll have to agree with you,” said Anir. “Though it’s gotten you thrown into this place for the deed.”

The man nodded. “It might not be as grand as Anir got himself locked up for, but, hey, I’m no Anir am I.” He laughed.

“Aye, Anir,” sighed Anir, with a look of false wonder. “What do you remember of him? I’m afraid, as it seems, my memory isn’t as good as it was before I came here, but I do remember the name, just not what it belongs to.” He was a fair liar too, said it without a disturbance in his face.