Weekly Drabble #350: Search and.... (Patreon)

This week's prompt comes from Sam C with 'awkward rescue'. Enjoy!

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Search and....

The last of the guards in the chamber gurgled and jerked as Molax pulled the bloodstained end of his war hammer from the man’s chest. “Pah,” the northerner spat as the light faded from the man’s eyes. “More twigs.”

Hamish did his best not to roll his eyes. The barbarian was not with their group by choice. He was a former gladiator banished from the coliseum for excessive brutality. If Hamish were uncharitable, he would have said that the northerner never quite understood that many gladiatorial matches were staged – that would be in keeping with the common stereotype of dull-witted, bloody-minded northern savages. But Molax had a cunning mind beneath that outward layer. He had understood; he just hadn’t cared, thinking his popularity would let him flout convention to maim and cripple his fellow gladiators at will.

This mission was his chance to escape a death sentence for the killing of a more popular rival. It had been the start of a great story arc for the coliseum; the defeat of a Illderam champion at the hands of a barbarian, leading to a quest for revenge. Chariot and sea battles had been planned, culminating in a conflict between two armies with Molax and the Illderam gladiator at the center, with the latter emerging victorious over the savage. Instead, Molax had staved in the other man’s head in their first match.

Hamish, the young scion of a proud family hoping to raise their regard in court, objected to the northerner’s presence on principle and Molax had done little to change that opinion. In fact, he devoutly wished it was Molax among the casualties for this mission and not the other three men. Instead, it was just Hamish, Molax and the third remaining member of their party.

Rickon, an aged knight who Hamish suspected wanted to end his career with a victory rather than slowly fading away, was examining their surroundings, his sword already cleaned and back in its scabbard. At the outset of the mission, Hamish had looked down on the older man, thinking his age would make him a liability, but he had been swiftly proven wrong. With that age came experience and skill and the elder knight had carved through their enemies with a speed and lethality that Hamish had never seen elsewhere. Even Molax was impressed, the northern savage giving Rickon the title of ‘Old Wolf’.

“Have you ever seen so many mages in one place?” Rickon asked thoughtfully. He removed his right gauntlet, tracing his bare hands over the roughly-hewn stone walls of the underground hideaway. There were symbols carved around the doorways, more of them the deeper you went into the catacombs. He’d never seen them before. They didn’t seem part of the original architecture. In fact, from the stone chips the group occasionally stepped on, most seemed to have been carved recently.

Molax kicked a robed body onto its back. The man’s face was still frozen in his last look of terror as he’d raised his hands in a futile attempt to ward off the killing blow. “Didn’t help them, did it?” he grunted with amusement. “They’re even easier to break than the rest of you pampered Illders.” He spat on the dead mage’s chest.

Rickon’s helm turned towards the northerner, pointedly looking at the bandages wrapped around his right arm. “The rest of our group might disagree.”

The barbarian shrugged, unconcerned by the losses they’d suffered fighting their way through this unholy coven. “It’s done now, isn’t it?” He pointed his hammer, the head still caked with gore, towards the locked door that led into the cells. “All that’s left is to claim the prize.”

“Bring the princess back home,” Hamish corrected stiffly.

Molax shrugged again. It was all the same to him whether they were recovering some heathen Illder relic, money stolen from the southern king or a scrap of fluff and nothing so weak that she’d been kidnapped without so much as spilling a single drop of her captors’ blood. He’d heard rumours that the girl was touched in some manner How, he couldn’t have said and didn’t care. It would have been best for all if she were given to the wilds, but southerners coddled the weak. At least in this case, that was of benefit to him. He’d return to her father to be put back in her tower and he’d be a gladiator again.

“Come,” Rickon ordered. “Help me.”

Molax’s lip curled, but whatever comment on southern physicality he was about to offer faded as he tugged on the door alongside the Old Wolf, straining to budge it. It wasn’t until the pampered pup lent his efforts too that they were able to pull the massive metal barrier open, inch by squealing inch.

As they stopped to catch their breath, the men all shared a look. None of them had seen a door this heavily constructed, not even on castles expecting siege. What was it doing down in brigand-infested catacombs? Why was there a dungeon at all?

Hamish didn’t wait for anyone to ask either question. He stepped through the door, sword in one hand and a torch in the other, using it to light the wicks mounted on the walls as they passed. From ahead, he could hear soft, feminine sobs. His fingers tightened on his sword’s grip. “They were keeping her in the dark,” he growled.

They passed a number of empty cells, heavily barred and with thick doors. Rickon paused at several, examining the inscriptions around the locks and carved into the hallway’s pillars with that same thoughtful frown he’d been wearing since he’d first noticed the nonsense the brigands had scratched throughout the catacombs they’d taken over.

The men stayed quiet. They’d dealt with all the foes above them, but there was no telling if anyone remained here in the shadows. The longer such men were uncertain of who it was approaching them, the better the odds of the group’s success, but that caution appeared needless.

At the end of the corridor, they found the missing Illderam princess. She was chained to the wall by an iron collar and shackles around her wrists and ankles, heavy links of steel preventing her from moving more than a few feet in any direction. She was bent over as far as the slack in her chains would allow, greasy hair hanging over her face. Her bruised body was clothed in the tattered remains of her royal vestments and her form shook as she cried. The chains shifted with each sob.

The inside of her cell was decorated with more graffiti, painted and carved into the stone of the princess’s enclosure. There was no feeding bowl or water and only a pile of straw in the once place her bindings would allow her to sag down onto.

Hamish opened his mouth to speak, to announce themselves as emissaries of her father, ready to step forward and work on opening the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait,” Rickon said. His eyes were wide and darted about, but they did not look at the younger knight. They stared into the princess’s cell.

“Wait?” Hamish demanded, “Wait for what? We need to free her!”

“Maybe we do...” the other man said. With every word he spoke, his tone became quieter. “Maybe we don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They have her chained down,” the old man said, his voice less than a whisper.

“Yes,” snapped Hamish. “They took her prisoner, Rickon. We need to-”

“How many chains,” the other man asked, his words so soft that Hamish had to lean in to hear them, “do you need to hold a princess?”