Paladin's Prize (Age of Heroes, Book 1) (24 page)

“I’ll take her in,” the warden said. “I could use a break from doing figures for our monthly supplies. You searched her?”

“She’s clean.”

“This way, Sister!” He beckoned her over.

As Wrynne hurried to join him by the closed inner portcullis, he shook his head at his men crowding around the table.

“Hoy! Look lively!” he barked at Gorland, gesturing impatiently to the heavy metal grate barring their way into the prison.

“Yes, sir!” The big guard, still chewing, hurried to crank the windlass, putting his brawn to good use. The razor-sharp portcullis slowly retracted upward.

Wrynne followed the warden under it.

“I’d hide my face if I was you,” he said, a ring of keys jangling at his side. “The scurvy rubbish in these cages ain’t seen a pretty lass in years, some of ’em. They got no manners on a good day as it is.”

“Thank you for the reminder. I will.” She drew her light gray scarf across the lower half of her face, but even this concealment did nothing to deter the prisoners’ interest as she followed the warden down the dark, dank central aisle.

He had unhooked the truncheon from his belt and gripped it in his hand as he marched ahead of her with a bellicose stride. With his good eye, he glanced over his shoulder every now and then, as though making sure none of the human flotsam and jetsam in the cells had grabbed her.

The place made her skin crawl and her stomach turn. The hideous stench of human waste was overpowering. She had no idea how many patients awaited her in the prison’s infirmary, but she did not see how
anyone
could be healthy here. Rats scampered along the dripping stone walls, from which torches jutted here and there. Their dim, flickering illumination filled the corridor with writhing shadows, and the shadows, in turn, made the forlorn, mad, and hostile faces that peered out at her from behind the bars all the more frightening.

The foul-mouthed prisoners filled the air with the deafening noise of their depravity, shouting such obscenities at her that Thaydor, had he heard it, would have surely unleashed the earthshaking magic bound up in Hallowsmite and rocked the whole prison to its foundations.

She did her best to block out the taunts and disgusting, futile propositions.

“Shut up!” the warden bellowed, but there was no way he could stop the indecent clamor swarming around her. “Just ignore them, mistress.”

“I am.”

Two prisoners tried to spit on her but missed. Not all of them were human. One aisle the warden led her down was reserved for inmates of other races. Here the bars were especially thick, doubly reinforced.

Inside were monsters.

She saw a couple of lumbering Urmugoths, a minotaur, and even a young cyclops nearly eight feet tall. She shuddered. Blackport Dungeon really was as notorious as its reputation.

Poor bard.

The warden knew the way well, marching through the dark labyrinth of his domain. She hurried after him, furtively scanning the cells for the famous redheaded Highlander as they passed.

Her bald, stocky escort made a right ahead, returning to aisles lined with cells with human prisoners. The men’s reactions to her were the same here—if they could still be called
men
in their debased states.

What have I got myself into?
A chill ran along her spine. She was going to have to treat some of these creatures. Touch them.

She tried not to recoil as they waggled their tongues at her, made obscene noises, and reached through the bars trying to stroke her. Though she managed to keep her panic at bay, she could not hide her distaste. How long did it take, she wondered, for such a place to warp a man beyond recognition? To think they wanted to put Thaydor in a dungeon like this …

Of course, if he got caught, then she’d get caught, too. There were similar establishments for women. She could not bear to think about it right now.

She suddenly shrieked when a bearded, rail-thin man with crazed eyes clawed at her with a garbled roar from behind the bars of his cell. Startled, she lurched away from him and tripped, inadvertently getting too close to the cells on the opposite side. The matted, dirty creature in the cage behind her grabbed the hood of her cloak and yanked her closer, trying to bite her face.

The warden was there in a heartbeat, clobbering the wiry arm holding on to her shoulder. “Don’t you dare!”

The prisoner let go, but only out of pain. While the warden screamed at him and swore to make an example of anyone who tried that sort of thing again, Wrynne stood trembling in the center of the aisle while they jeered at her from every direction.

“Silence!” the warden insisted. “This woman is protected by the gods, and moreover, you stupid filth, she’s come to help you! Anyone who tries another trick of that sort will be put on the rack! Do you understand me? Maybe I’ll just put you there for fun!”

For a moment, the whole row went silent.

“Thank you,” Wrynne whispered, sounding as shaken as she felt.

He snorted. “Your god’s mercy and your own is wasted on these vermin. You still want to do this, lady?”

She pressed her lips shut to avoid saying how she really felt and nodded. “To be honest, though, I don’t know how long I might last, so please take me to only your most serious cases first.”

He nodded. “We keep ’em in the infirmary. This way.” She heard him grumbling under his breath as he trudged ahead. “Never let no daughter o’ mine join the church if this is what they make ’em do…”

Then the clamor started up again, but at least now, none of the prisoners tried to grab her. Yet, as Wrynne hurried after him, the warden’s mention of having daughters suddenly made her wonder what her springing Jonty Maguire from jail would mean for the warden himself. And the captain, and the other guards. They would probably be punished…

Oh, Ilios.
They had done nothing wrong, simply trusted her. Believed her lies.

And for that matter, what about the Daughters of the Rose? Would there be consequences for her entire order because of what she was about to do, helping a high-profile prisoner escape?

Just when she was on the verge of losing her nerve and aborting the rescue mission, she heard a song floating down the corridor.

A rich male voice with a hint of a melancholy Highland brogue bounced off the stone walls, its strong, deep timbre weaving like the threads of a gorgeous magical tapestry, a note of beauty and sanity in a madhouse reaching out to steady her through the noisy assault of the other prisoners’ lustful obscenities.

“As I dreamt upon a night,

Forsooth I saw a seemly sight:

I beheld a maid so bright,

A rose she bore in hand…”

Her heart instantly lightened at the sound, for she knew she had just found her target.

The famous bard was in a cell ahead. Though she could not yet see his face, she saw his hands gripping the bars—somewhat cleaner than the other prisoners’ were, with the long, tapered fingers of a musician. He sang out in the darkness for all he was worth, and his music had its effect, stilling the savage foulness aimed at her by the other inmates.

“Her eyes, they were so lovely!

Her countenance so sweet.

Of all my care and sorrow,

She made my pain abate.”

“Stop that!” the warden scolded, giving the bars of his singer’s cell a good whack as he strode ahead of her. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Never mind that one, mistress. Merely the latest addition to our mad zoo. Thinks he’s something special. I’m sure he just wants your attention.”

“But I do! Verily! Pray you, sweet lady! Fair one! Angel of mercy, a moment of your time, I beseech you! Take pity on me…in the name of Ilios!”

Oh, you’re clever
, she thought in amusement.
As if you give a fig for Ilios when you’re known for wine and women. Nice flattery, though.

As Wrynne stepped alongside his cell, she paused, taking her first look at the wayward soul she had secretly come to rescue. Jonty Maguire was lean and sinewy, tall—though not the height of her towering paladin. He was dressed in a loose linen shirt that hung unlaced across his chest, and a Highland kilt so grimy it was impossible to identify the colors of his clan. A wild tangle of dark auburn hair hung to his wide shoulders, and his jaw was covered in a rugged reddish scruff.

“Please—dear lady.” He clung to the bars, his intelligent emerald eyes locking on to hers in soulful desperation. But not even the squalor in this place could dim the bard’s charisma. He was a good-looking man, full of fire and intensity, with an angular face that showed his every emotion, from roguery to despair—and even a blend of both, if that were possible.

“You sing well, sir.”

“Of course I do,” he said impatiently, speaking at a rapid pace, as though well aware the warden wouldn’t give them much time. “A month ago, ’twas royal ears that listened to my songs. Now I sing for the damned. I am Jonathon Maguire, lady. You’ve probably heard of me. Or not—it scarcely matters. I hate to trouble you, but can you get a message out for me? There seems to have been a terrible mistake—”

“No mistake,” the warden interjected, looking placidly amused. “They all say that at first. This one, though, he’s a right proper gentl’man. I’ll give him that.”

“Thank you so much for that, master warden,” the fiery bard said as though he could barely contain his sarcasm.

Wrynne fought a smile and gave him a soothing “Blessings of Ilios upon you, master bard.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, all knife-hilt cheekbones and dramatic dark eyebrows as he flicked his highly trained fingers once more around the bars and fixed her with a pleading gaze, hunching his tall frame down to try to cajole her. “I can give you gold if you like…a donation to the church!”

“Leave her alone,” the warden said in bored annoyance. “Come along, Sister. Your patients are this way.”

“Wait! I have another verse!” he pleaded, reaching through the bars of his cage, not in a threatening manner like the others had, but on a sudden inspiration, Wrynne pretended to be outraged when his famous lyre-stroking fingertips grazed the back of her hood.

“How dare you?” she bit back, pivoting and lowering her scarf angrily.
“Lugere aegritudine! Hic sum ut liberem te.”

“What?” His emerald eyes widened with abrupt astonishment.

“You heard me,” she said coldly, as though she had just given him the most withering of educated set downs.

He stared at her, then bowed to hide his grin. “My humblest apologies, lady.”

“Humph!” she said, turning on her heel. “You were right,” she told the warden as they marched on. “No manners a’tall.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I rebuked him, of course. Told him it’s one thing to be ogled by cretins such as these, but a gentleman ought to know better.”

Another lie.

The Golden Master would not be happy with her.

In actuality, her Latin words to the bard had been a terse command:
Feign illness! I am here to rescue you.

* * *

“What’s taking so long?” Thaydor muttered, his armor clanking softly as he paced.

“Calm down, she’ll be fine. Maybe they had more sick in the dungeon than we expected.”

“Aye, and what if she catches it?” he retorted.

“Then you’ll heal her,” Piero said in an ever-so-reasonable tone.

Thaydor frowned toward the dungeon. “If anyone lays a hand on her, I’ll burn the place down.”

“Stop pacing and get into position,” his old friend scolded. “She could pop into view with the bard at any moment. We’ve got to be ready to run as soon as they appear.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” one of the younger monks remarked.

Thaydor stifled a sardonic reply. Ilios wouldn’t approve of his unbrotherly sentiments toward the bard. He didn’t really
know
Jonty Maguire very well, after all.

It was just that some people had it so easy in life. Free to roam wherever they pleased—no cares, no commitments, no responsibilities—while he carried enough for ten men and had obeyed orders since he was old enough to walk.

He supposed if he were at liberty to do whatever he pleased, even
he
might manage to be charming once in a while.

Or not.

Ah, well. Sitting around playing music would probably bore him to death.

Come on, sweeting. Where are you?
Crossbow resting on his arm, he got into position with the others and waited in case she needed cover.

He suddenly wondered if Wrynne would think the bard charming. His frown deepened. Well, this was a new emotion…

Jealousy.

He scoffed at himself and shook his head. But if Jonty Maguire ridiculed him in front of his wife and made a fool of him, Thaydor feared he might temporarily turn into an Urmugoth and tear the merry scapegrace limb from limb.

Don’t push me, mate
, he thought, staring at the prison.
I’m a paladin, not a saint.

* * *

“I rather wish you wouldn’t have told me that,” Wrynne said, glancing from the warden to the evil-eyed prisoner who was strapped down in the next infirmary cot, waiting to be healed.

The warden shrugged. “Wasn’t sure if it mattered. Don’t worry, he’s been castrated since he hurt all them girls.”

Still
, Wrynne thought. She tried for a few moments longer, but the Light would not flow—the aura of evil around the pox-ridden man was too overwhelming, and maybe, deep down, she did not really
want
to heal him.

She gave up, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I tried. It won’t work.”

“It worked for all the others, bitch! Try harder!” the patient ranted.

“Don’t you dare talk to her that way!” the warden thundered, menacing him with his club.