Emancipation

[Magus]

A long time passed in total silence with Magus violently pushing Ol’ Gutless ahead each time he’d stop or hesitate. The silence was uncomfortable but preferable to the screams and shrieks that were quickly replaced with the thwacks and squelching blows, and then the silence that remained.

It hung heavy between them. Magus considered that the feeble old man’s mind must have been racing over possibilities of what might be done to him. Honestly, the mage didn’t care; his decision had been made. There could be no witnesses who didn’t have a reason to stay quiet. Ol’ Gutless didn’t have enough invested in silence – fear only muzzled a man for so long.

Ol’ Gutless stopped by a narrow arch carved into the wall. Magus shoved him once more, but the old man stopped again.

“Move.”

“I…” the old man seemed to consider his words carefully, trembling as he did so. “So… there still are… some guards left.”

Magus grabbed a fistful of the old man’s shirt from behind, pulling up on it and choking Ol’ Gutless.

“It- I had to leave a skeleton crew to watch the other prisoners while we… prepared for you all.”

“How many are left?”

“Ah…”

“How many?” the Fiendlord spun Ol’ Gutless around and clamped his hand around the old man’s throat. Hard enough to hurt, but not quite hard enough to prevent the man from speaking.

“Eh… it’s just a man or two per block. This prison isn’t terribly large,” the old man sputtered, tripping over his words. “It’s two wings of cells connected to a hallway which splits off to a… I don’t know what you’d call it. It’s sort of an administration building with two floors. The first floor is for receiving and processing prisoners. There’s a set of temporary cells there. And then the second floor are barracks and whatnot for the guards.”

“Anything else?”

“The… the east wing has the kitchen for-” he gagged as Magus’ grip clamped his windpipe shut for a brief moment.

“Let me be quite clear, old man. I could not possibly begin to care less about a kitchen. I want to know about how many guards there are left and where, and I want an exit.”

“There… There won’t be any left until the hall. There’ll be one at each end of the hall, and a couple in the administration building.”

“And that is all of them? There is nothing else you have decided to leave out?”

“No, no sir. Nothing, sir.”

“Good. Then you’ll give the order to have each of the remaining men surrender as we reach them. We’ll secure them somehow and you’ll lead me to the exit and open it wide so that my new friends and I can-”

“Ah, hoy there. Whit like?” the gruff voice of Waylon cut Magus off. The wizard decided not to take offense and glanced over his shoulder at the rough-looking man with the wild red hair, his gloved hand still wrapped around Ol’ Gutless’ throat.

“What is it?”

“The lads, they dinnae ken what tae do. I say, if’n ye agree, that we free the lot of the men here and make haste out before any more show. Ol’ Gutless there has sent away for support already as sure as he’s shat his britches, I’d tie my sword to it.”

“Is that so?” Magus set his fiery gaze upon the trembling old man. “How long until back-up arrives.”

“Well- uh, it’s- it’s the middle of the night-”

“How. Long.”

“…I’d say a couple of hours.”

“Hours? Where are we? Not in Minas Tirith?”

“No, master. They thought you too dangerous to hold in the city. They had you put here temporarily. They was to transfer you to a mage’s prison on Dalaran in the morning. It’s never suffered an escape in all its time.”

“If only the wheels of bureaucracy had turned faster for you,” Magus turned his head back to Waylon. “Set as many prisoners free as you can. Burn this place if you can, have everyone scatter; they can’t go after you all if you don’t group up. Those of you who want to rejoin me, meet me in the woods to the north of Minas Tirith. I’ll find a way to let you know how to find me,” he paused. “Waylon?”

“Aye?”

“Can I count on you to show?”

“Aye.”

“Then go. I’ll ensure the way is clear,” Magus declared, shoving Ol’ Gutless through the archway and toward the hall. The ascended a short flight of four steps and he could immediately see over Ol’ Gutless’ shoulder a solitary guard armed with a halberd at the far end of the corridor.

As they drew near, Magus clamped his shoulder down on the old man’s shoulder. “Tell him.”

“Y-You there. Lay down your weapon.”

The guard stared at him, his expression quizzical. “But sir! He is the enemy.”

“Do as you’re told; don’t be a fool,” Magus looked the young whelp up and down. This pathetic urchin could hardly be older than 16, and yet was apparently fit enough for service in a dungeon for Camelot’s most depraved criminals. “Set your weapon aside and get on the ground, boy.”

After a moment’s hesitation, this kid did as he was told. He tossed his halberd aside and went to the floor.

“Hands behind your back, if you please.”

Again, the kid did as he was told. With one hand outstretched toward the boy and the other clasped around the front of Ol’ Gutless’ shirt, Magus went to work. Within minutes, manacles had attached the boy’s wrists and ankles together. He would be no more trouble.

The spell-caster pushed the old man ahead, further into the tunnel.

As they reached the intersection, Ol’ Gutless indicated they needed to turn right. Once they rounded the corner, her piped up again. “What’ll- what do you think the prisoners’ll do to him when they find him?”

Without hesitation, Magus reversed the question. “What do you think they’ll do to him?”

Silence.

Finally, they made it to the administration building, just as Ol’ Gutless had described. Only, he found a pair of weapons and a pair of helmets strewn upon the floor. A set of stairs led upward, and the six cells flanking them were all empty.

A great pair of doors stood fifteen feet tall and five feet wide each, with one opened wide enough for a man – or two – to pass through. Magus could see the soft glow of moonlight pouring in, carving a slot through the shadows of the big room they stood in.

“Your men as brave as you are that they would abandon your comrades in this time of duress?”

The old man said nothing, but gestured toward the open door. “There’re no walls around this place. Nothing to stop you from fleeing now.”

“Oh, this isn’t flight, old man. Simply relocation. I suspect I’ll be returning. Not here; I expect this placed to be razed to the ground before sunrise. But to Minas Tirith, I mean.”

“Of course, master wizard. I… I don’t suppose I’ve done enough for you to-”

“What? Forget you gloating over me when I was locked in that bewitched cell, cut off from my link to the black wind, the only sound I’ve heard since getting to this horrible Omniverse that reminds me I haven’t completely lost my connection with my reality? Or are you asking me if you have betrayed your men thoroughly enough for me to let you go?”

“I… I-I just-”

“And what then? Does a man called ‘Ol’ Gutless’ just agree to stay quiet, live out the rest of his years in some border town, never betraying his promise to a prisoner who spared his life in exchange for freedom?”

“Well, I-I’d never talk, sir, not never, I-”

Magus’ hand clamped around Ol’ Gutless’ throat again, much harder than before.

“I don’t trust traitors,” he squeezed hard and hoisted the feeble old man up off the ground as he struggled against Magus’ grip, thrashing his limbs about and feebly clawing at the wizard’s leather glove in an attempt to pry himself free of his incredibly strong grip.

The struggle subsided quickly, and soon Ol’ Gutless hung limply from Magus’ hand. The dark mage tossed the old man aside and pushed the ajar door wide open, stepping out into the cool night air, breathing in the fresh scent with arms wide open.

Freedom. And not a single goddamn witness to ruin it.