Pixie's Pad

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Alwyn’s eyes flickered open and focused on the mossy ceiling. Droplets of water trickled down white-yellow stalactites and dripped in staccato rhythm to the rough stone floor.

His head hurt, his skin was clammy. His heart thudded hard in his chest.

“I know, I know. Not quite the lavish standard of Darkshear’s tavern lodgings, is it?”

His neck hurt too, and he winced as he turned in the direction of the voice. A dark figure leaned against the back wall, one leg cocked up, hands tucked loosely into his waistband.

Alwyn closed his eyes again and swallowed dryly. “Where am I?”

“Why, Darkshear’s finest gaol, of course. It’s no surprise you were having nightmares, grim as our current lodgings are.”

“What?” Alwyn sat up, alert, and more fully absorbed his surroundings. He was indeed in a cell that contained nothing but the rough straw bed beneath him and a bucket in the corner. Dim yellow light illuminated an empty corridor beyond the bars. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it seems you were cracked pretty hard upside the head.” The figure stepped away from the wall and sauntered over to the bars. He seemed awfully casual for someone who was also locked up. “Which is consistent with their mode of operation. Whenever someone turns up into their dismal little town who looks like they might poke their nose in where it isn’t wanted, they’re sent to the tavern and then—well, you know the rest.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Alwyn’s eyes focused through the pain and studied the man’s features, highlighted now by lantern-light. He had a strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones. He was leaner than Alwyn, and possibly younger—or he’d had an easier life. His pale skin was smooth and unblemished, his long red hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Alwyn looked down at his own hands hanging in his lap, his skin dark and weathered. He curled his fingers into fists and looked away again.

“Me? Heavens no. I’m here to break you out.”

Alwyn looked back up at him. “Who are you, exactly?”

The man grinned, a sparkle in his green eyes as he leaned over and offered Alwyn his hand. “Dain Freemantle, Ranger of the Wilds, charmed to meet you and obediently at your service.”

Alwyn gave Dain’s hand a curt shake. Ranger of the Wilds—he’d heard of a group that called themselves that. They’d formed after the Great War, a rag-tag group of discharged Rangers—special-unit soldiers fighting for the King—who’d organised themselves into some kind of covert unit that kept an eye on things, mostly out at the far borders. The group had grown substantially in the years since the war, it was feasible they’d have caught wind of the same rumours that Alwyn had been sent here to investigate.

Still, he’d been a Ranger in the war, as Alwyn had. How much did this Freemantle know of what happened back then? Where was he stationed, when it had ended?

“I’m guessing you know who I am and why I’m here, if you’re really here to break me out.” Alwyn took a breath and then pulled himself to his feet. His head throbbed violently but he grit his teeth through it. It would pass; he’d suffered worse, though it had been a while.

“Indeed.” The briefest look of concern passed through Dain’s eyes as he watched Alwyn stand, and then his carefree grin was back. “Alwyn Jove, Imperial Warden, King’s business.”

No mention of his own past as a Ranger.

“And as for why I’m here?” Alwyn pressed.

“Trouble in the mines,” Dain said with a playfully ominous lilt. “I’ll explain, but not in this gods-awful place. Let’s get somewhere a bit more comfortable, shall we? I’ve got a ride waiting for us nearby, and our gear’s in a chest conveniently at the end of this lovely hallway.”

“Conveniently? I assume you have a plan to get us from this cell to our belongings, and then out of here entirely?”

“Of course, my dear man.” Dain smirked. “Be a sweetie and punch me, would you? Not in the face, obviously—must stay pretty for the lasses.” He winked. “Stomach’s fine.”

“You want me to hit you?” Alwyn arched his brow.

“Now you’re getting it! Yes—throw me a right hook, give me your best uppercut—just hit me. Come on, don’t be shy!”

“Fine,” Alwyn curled a fist, “if you insist.”

Ignoring the pain in the back of his head, Alwyn drew back and threw a punch from the shoulder right into Dain’s gut. The man doubled over, wind escaping in a rush through clenched teeth. He dropped to his knees.

“Guard!” He wheezed, and then paused for air. “Guard! This madman is attacking me! Guard! A little assistance, if you please!”

Alwyn rolled his eyes. Surely this wouldn’t work, surely the guards would be wise to this old trick. And yet, the silence outside the cell was broken by a distant muttering and heavy footfalls echoing down the passage.

Alwyn raised his fists. “Get up, you coward! Get up and fight me!”

“No, please!” Dain scrambled to his feet and backed into the corner behind the cell door. Alwyn took the cue and rotated to face the door, stepping to the back of the room.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?” The guard appeared; a chubby older man whose armour fitted him poorly over a massive beer-gut.

“Fight me, you pig!” Alwyn growled and then turned to spit at the guard. “If you come in here you’ll have some too! Come on, come at me! I’ll take you both down!”

With a sigh, the guard fished a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the cell. “Don’t get paid enough,” he muttered. “I’ll have your head on a pike, you keep this up, son.” The door clicked open and he barrelled into the cell with his pole-arm pointing at Alwyn.

Dain leaped onto the guard’s back and wrapped his arms around his thick neck, muscles flexing as he clung to hold on.

“Now!” He yelled at Alwyn, who dryly noted the complete absence of any further instruction or planning on exactly what it was that Dain expected.

Nothing for it but to improvise. The guard swung his pole-arm wildly; it wasn’t difficult for Alwyn to grab a hold of the staff of the weapon as the blade hissed through the air. He twisted it out of the guard’s grip, spun it carefully around in the tight space, and then jabbed the butt up under the guard’s chin.

The guard fell limp and Dain let him go to slouch unceremoniously to the damp ground.

“Lords, you’re good with a long pole, aren’t you?” Dain wiped his hands down on his trousers.

Alwyn smirked. “You have no idea.”