Emancipation

[Magus]

Magus had sat on the floor with his back to the wall gazing at the key suspended between his thumb and forefinger for what felt like eons. Who in the Omniverse would want to set him free? Lud had betrayed him and being locked up was probably better for the old bastard than Magus’ death would have been, if what the monster who’d created all of this had said was true.

So then, who? The quiet boy, Link, had wandered off sometime before Magus’ misadventure with the Rathalos – even when they were together, they could hardly be considered anything more than partners of convenience.

The imprisoned wizard pondered this thought for a long time: who helps a man who’s done nothing but make enemies since he’d arrived?

This person must have had at least some connections; the key had been hand-delivered to him inside a facility meant to hold someone like him. They didn’t have enough influence – or didn’t want to exert it – to have him formally released, so that meant the person helping him was either a powerful political figure working off-the-books, or someone with criminal ties.

Maybe there were others in the People’s Army who’d been slighted by their ‘illustrious’ leader. His fight with the two bounty hunters who’d brought him in must have gotten the people talking. The destruction they’d wrought in the city was pretty impressive – maybe someone important had taken notice.

Maybe Omni was just fucking with him.

The corner of his lip curled into the slightest snarl. Omni would have to wait. He glanced up at the closed slit in the door through which the old jailer had taunted him and through which his meal, complete with key, had passed through.

His eyes drifted back down to the key, and then back up again. He’d noted what he was looking at already, but he couldn’t help but keep checking to make sure that there indeed was a keyhole. On his side of the cell. What rare moron designed this thing?

He let the key drop into his palm and closed his hand around it. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. He thought of the glowing sigil on the key and the name that accompanied it. It buzzed in his mind and his flesh. It was good magic. Clean. Carefully crafted. He hadn’t ascertained what the key actually did yet, but Magus was confident in his appraisal of the key that it would do whatever it was supposed to do – hopefully it really was to open the lock and whatever magical seals there might be on the door.

But he couldn’t try it yet. If he’d been served a meal only moments ago, chances were good night hadn’t yet fallen; not many prisons he knew of that would have had someone available to serve a hot meal after dark.

Shirt missing, chest covered in bandage wraps, bruised and battered. Tired. Magus drifted to sleep sitting up against that wall and didn’t wake up again for a long time.

- - - - -

It was rare that Magus was confused. It was a feeling that made him uncomfortable. Inadequate. And those were feelings he was unaccustomed to.

It took him longer than usual for him to collect his bearings. Waking up in an unfamiliar, pitch black room would do that to a person. But it wasn’t just the confusion of not knowing where one is. It was something else. Something more.

Shit.

It was the Black Wind. Or rather, it wasn’t. He couldn’t feel it. And that made him afraid. Magus had very seldom been made to be afraid. He’d never experienced not being able to hear the Black Wind. It was always there, even if it was almost impossible to hear.

Now it was gone.

His skin prickled and he felt a cool chill sweep up his back and settle into his gut and lungs but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Magus exhaled through pursed lips and opened his eyes. He breathed a silent sigh and shuffled to his feet.

He used the glow of the key’s magic symbols to light his way to the door. It was infinitesimally dim, but it was enough for him to find the keyhole and insert the key. Magus reflexively shielded his eyes with one hand as he turned the key with the other.

Somewhat surprised when he heard a heavy clunk, the mage pulled the door open and stepped out into the dim light of his cellblock. Or rather, his cell. There was nothing else here except a tiny landing and then a set of stairs leading up.

Magus slowly made his way up the steps, his body seemingly distorting, blurring and fading away, with purple vapour pouring off of him like smoke. All of it faded away quickly, and soon he had disappeared entirely, and the only trace of him were his footsteps as he slowly drudged his way up the stairs.

Magus smiled, though not even he could see it. He’d been meaning to try this for a while. The wizard had managed to make himself incorporeal and invisible without having to step into the Plane Immaterial. Escaping imprisonment would certainly be made easier this way.

The Fiendlord stepped out into a small, dimly lit cellblock. It was a similar story to the floor beneath, only instead of one cell, there were ten, and no other rooms or exits anywhere, except yet another set of stairs up. They must have put Magus underground. The people on this floor must have been the most hardened of criminals to end up down here, and that gave him an idea.

In a puff of purple smoke, Magus appeared. There were no staff down here, no guards. And – he turned a palm upward and with a tiny whump, a ball of black flame roiled, angrily suspended in the air above his palm’s flesh – no bewitched room, either.

“Heh.”

He lazily flung the negative energy at one of the doors – solid metal, with a slot that could be opened from the outside, like the one from the cell he’d been locked in. The ball exploded on contact with the heavy lock, blasting the heavy door wide open.

“What in the goddam hellfire-?!”

It wasn’t exactly heady conversation, but Magus would take it. “I’m staging a prison break,” he said without moving from where he stood, unable to see into the cell. “You’re welcome to come with and help, or stay here and rot.”

A short, thin man, pale from years of isolation from the sun, staggered out into the corridor. He was haggard, with long, wild hair and a beard to match. He wore nothing but a pair of sack-cloth pants. Scars criss-crossed his arms, chest, and back. Gruesome burns marred his face and hands. “Nah, I’ve had enough of this place,” the man grunted, looking Magus up and down. “You the one they sent to the pit, ain’tcha? Hmm… yeah, you are. I heard the commotion they made about you. I’m Waylon. What’s the plan?”

“I’d planned on setting the other nine of you free before-”

“Five.”

“Hm?” Magus crossed his arms and arched his eyebrow; he wasn’t fond of interruption.

“There’s only five on this floor besides me. We been dyin’ faster than they been replacin’ us. Only real fuckin’ depraved fuckers get tossed in here,” he drew out ‘depraved’ mockingly. “N’ we get forgotted about even when we supposed to get free. Folks die here. Figured I’d die here. Probably still will but maybe now it’ll be with a knife in my back and my hands on ol’ Gutless’ throat.”

“Ol’ Gutless?”

“Jailer on duty tonight. That skinny old fucker lordin’ his keys around like he’s some kind of big-time operator. That piece of garbage takes meals away, has us whipped and beaten, just for lookin’ at him funny. But you look him in the eye an’ threaten ‘im,” he jerked forward, raising his fist to make his point. “An’ he flinches, even through four inches of steel.”

“Gutless.”

“Gutless.”

“The other five, then. Can we trust them to help?” Magus asked.

“I ken so,” Waylon stated. “What’chu say, boys? Wanna get out of this goddamn hole in the ground?”

Hollers and whoops of affirmation accompanied with pounding on the doors seemed to act as confirmation in this place.

“Very well, then,” Magus agreed. “All of you; get away from the doors or you’ll not make it out of your cells.”

The wizard lanced four more of the doors with his Duskstrikes and levelled his hand at the last one.

“Uh, wizard,” Waylon raised his hand to get Magus’ attention. “Maybe you wanna leave that last one.”

Magus sighed. “And why is that?”

“He’s a fuckin’ monster,” came the gravelly voice of a huge, pale, bald man who emerged from his freshly opened cell. He had to duck and twist his body to the side to get through the doorway. The men who’d had to put him there in the first place must have had a terribly miserable experience.

“It’s true,” Waylon affirmed as the others filed out.

A svelte, strong-looking black man, cut up and burned like Waylon was, stepped out into the corridor. Across from him, an old, shambling dwarf appeared. He suffered the same injuries as the rest, including a long gash across his right eye that replaced his sight with a grey iris.

When nobody else emerged, the dwarf hobbled over to the last cell that had been blasted open and poked his head inside. He shook his head and pursed his lips. “Dead. Dinnae survive the bang.”

“Unfortunate,” Magus responded. “We should move. No doubt the guards have heard all this noise and are going to come looking.”

“Guards is yella,” Waylon said. “They fixin’ an ambush for us, most like.”

“Aye,” the dwarf rasped. “Not just guards either, gents. Soldiers be stationed here, too. Ones with real combat training.”

“I can handle some clanking swordsmen,” Magus retorted.

“Aye, judgin’ by how ye bewitched yer way out a wizard-proof cell an’ blasted reinforced steel like it were twigs, it’s not hard to see yer no haver,” the dwarf agreed.

Magus turned over the thought of leaving the ‘monster’ Waylon alluded to behind. If this band of thugs thought the man needed to stay locked up, perhaps Magus wasn’t meant to set him free. Still, someone who’d make men like these so afraid could make a powerful ally…

There would come a time to make that decision but it wasn’t right now, he decided. The Fiendlord led the way up the steps, in front of his new soldiers. As he’d expected, hushed discussion and the scuffling of feet shivered in his ears. Magus put out a hand behind him, signalling the other prisoners to stop, before he continued up the stairway, vanishing in a haze of purple smoke.

Invisible, he silently crept up the last step and onto the landing, peering out into the next cellblock. Guards, some armored and some not, had established a perimeter by entrenching themselves behind overturned tables and stacks of boxes and barrels. A number of crossbowmen lined the fortifications and the rest were armed with swords, axes, and clubs.

Interesting. ‘Ol’ Gutless,’ as Waylon called him, seemed to have lived up to his name. Magus couldn’t spot the old man anywhere in the room.

He made his way closer to the perimeter, careful not to let his footfalls make any sound. He couldn’t just kill them. Not with magic, anyway. The whole point releasing the other prisoners was to make this all look like a jail break.

But he doubted the others could hold their own against this kind of a welcome on their own. He would have to intervene. Carefully.

He reached for his karambit and found it missing. He sneered at the guards, even though they couldn’t see him. What was the point of taking a knife away from a man who could will another into existence.

Magus begrudgingly held out his hand and, with a sigh, he waited. He watched Omnilium bubble and burst from nowhere into two shimmering lines, extending up and down. While he did this, he began to expand his Miasma’s influence in the room, holding its effects back to keep his presence hidden. In time, his hand closed around the handle of the club he’d made and his Miasma was ready.

He appraised the primitive weapon with a dismal look on his face. It was no scythe but he couldn’t risk pinning a murder on himself – it was not enough to kill any witnesses; the powers that be in Camelot would assume Magus was behind it unless someone said otherwise, and that meant at least one person would need to survive to spread word that the wizard had killed no one. Being hunted and then captured had slowed his progress entirely too much.

A thin, greasy grey mist filtered in near the ceiling, settling lower and lower until it darkened in a thick, greasy haze that descended upon the guards. Panic and shouting erupted as Magus slipped over the improvised perimeter and raced through the guards to stand behind them.

He was lucky for them to not notice him, and he didn’t waste the opportunity. One of the axemen had backed away from the others, and toward Magus, who stalked up behind him like a big cat before savagely bludgeoning him near the base of his skull, knocking him out cold without so much as a gasp. The man crumpled to the floor, unheard over the growing cacophony before him.

[Magus]

The thick haze and the ensuing confusion it caused served Magus well; the men were breaking formation, separating from one another in the inky blackness of his Miasma. Although they hadn’t begun to suffer from the sickness that made up the more deleterious effect of the unnatural haze, it wouldn’t be long.

Orders and shouts of panic were drowned out by shouts and hoots from those locked away in the cells, banging away at the bars. None of it mattered; the only thing he needed to focus on was escaping this place.

Magus crept up near another of the guardsmen who had stepped just a little too far from the others and raised his blackjack. This one wore plate-mail and a helmet, but the back of his neck was exposed all the same. He swung it down but the guard saw it coming and blocked it – but he’d done so with both hands, dropping his sword in the process.

The wizard snaked his leg around the guard’s and planted his heel into the back of the man’s knee, forcing him to fall on it. The armor posed a problem for Magus; he couldn’t simply beat this man into submission.

He grimaced as he clasped his hands on the guard’s forehead and chin. With a sharp twist and sickening crack, the armored warrior collapsed. The Fiendlord hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, but nobody had seen it, and anyone could have done it – so long as he left no evidence of magic on his victims.

He picked up the fallen man’s sword and stepped away again. The men seemed to collect themselves and form up along their barriers. The commotion settled down enough that Magus could pinpoint the voice of one man who shouted orders at the others. He told them to hold the line and to keep a lookout for anything in the shadows – and told them that they were likely dealing with the spell-caster who had just arrived.

Magus breathed a sigh; he supposed it was fairly obvious that he was involved. Too bad; his error meant they all needed to die. He just hoped there’d be someone else who wasn’t quite this clever – or clever enough to keep his damn mouth shut – to serve as a witness.

For now, though, he would just wait. He watched them; some in plate armor, some in leathers. Archers still lined the over turned tables, barrels, and whatever else they’d cobbled together to block their escape.

Magus picked up the axe from the guard he’d struck unconscious, and then slowly made his way toward the fortifications, arms full. They’d clumped together now, and seemed to be succumbing to the Miasma; they didn’t seem nearly as vigilant now, and it was a breeze to climb over the makeshift fortifications unnoticed and sneak back down the stone steps from which he’d come.

His haggard entourage awaited him at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him with earnest expressions.

“I’ve made them weak,” Magus said. “Sick. But there’s a lot of them. Archers and swordsmen, as well as other less competent men-at-arms.”

The wizard handed a sword to Waylon. “I collected these,” Magus declared, passing the axe to the dwarf and the club to the so-far silent, dark-skinned man. Magus looked up at the gigantic one who had yet to be armed. “I’ll make you something more appropriately sized. What kind of-”

“No blade necessary,” the hulking, veiny, pale man rasped. “Wasn’t necessary for what I did to get locked in here in the first place. Won’t be necessary now.”

Magus nodded. “When we go up the stairs, you’ll see a thick fog. I’ll make it disperse as soon as you step into it; you’ll be totally exposed, but your enemy will be disoriented and feverish. The condition won’t last, so we need to do as much damage as possible to them as quickly as possible before the effects fade. Incapacitate or kill them; it doesn’t matter.”

The wizard turned and strode back up the stairs and into the haze without another word. The guards were noticeably ill and some had broken rank to try and escape. One had actually been foolish enough to climb over the fortifications and come toward Magus, shambling away from his comrades.

Magus was happy to relieve the imbecile of his responsibilities by driving his knee into the man’s gut, doubling him over before wrenching the sword out of his hand and spearing it through his gut and out his back. Before freeing his blade from the dying man’s torso, he turned to see his de-facto soldiers blindly stepping into the Miasma.

“They’ll be right in front of you,” Magus hissed. “Keep your eyes open.”

The deadly Fiendlord tore his sword free from the gurgling guard and charged ahead, slipping into the realm of the in-between just as the Miasma cloud suddenly dissipated, revealing four escaped prisoners and about a dozen nauseous, feverish, armed fighters.

As Magus leapt over the barricades, the armed escapees charged them in slow motion. The wizard ran past the armed welcoming committee – again – and spun on his heel after passing by the trooper furthest back from the others.

He leapt back into the material plane, slashing his sword across the man’s back, cutting him down instantly. He lunged forward and plunged his blade into another of the sluggish and feverish guards, twisting it up and eliciting a sputtering cough of blood from his freshest victim.

The gigantic convict Magus had liberated led the charge, racing toward the fortifications toward the guards. Sickly and nauseous, the crossbowmen fired bolts somewhat haphazardly, but a couple pierced him in the chest and shoulder.

Neither bolt seemed to faze him, however, as he drove his good shoulder straight through one of the overturned tables, propelling it through the air like it was made of cardboard. Like a rampaging gorilla, he clamped his palms over the faces of two of the prison guards and lifted them right off the ground right before slamming them both headfirst into the stone floor.

Waylon darted out from behind the hulking killing machine, swiping his sword at an armoured soldier who parried the attack and slashed at him, only to be staggered by the dwarf’s axe which suddenly found itself buried in his side. Waylon beheaded the man with another swipe before leaping deeper into the fray.

Although the more deleterious effects of the Miasma were quickly wearing off, the guards had been taken by surprise and were flanked. It wasn’t long before the rest of them were butchered like the others, until just one remained.

The quiet prisoner jammed his club into his throat and then struck him across the face, dropping him to the floor before bludgeoning him again and again until the man was nothing more than a badly pulped corpse.

The five of them took a moment to collect themselves, huffing and puffing in the midst of the gruesome slaughter they had just perpetrated. Blood and gore was splatted everywhere; bodies lay contorted in haunting displays of death and agony. Not a single one had survived the brutality.

“Goddammit,” Waylon muttered.

“Yeah. What a mess. All these people,” the giant sighed, gazing upon the devastation they had wrought. Magus could see genuine regret in his eyes. And shame. He felt it too, but he pushed it out of the way. It was a necessary evil; it had to be done.

“They were gonna cut us all down; we could nay do anything about it. It’s only right that we get out of here and do it quick, afore we get too bloody sentimental,” the dwarf spat.

“Indeed,” Magus agreed, retrieving a set of keys from one of the fallen. He tossed them to Waylon. “Set everyone on this floor free; let them arm themselves and lead the way out of here. We’ll reduce this place to total chaos. It will be impossible for them to spare enough resources to look for us all.”

[Magus]

He’d expected more commotion. He’d expected more whooping and hollering. In-fighting. Vulgarity. He’d expected to see the people Camelot had despised so much that they’d locked them away in a dungeon hidden from sunlight act like despicable filth. He’d expected them to live up to society’s expectations of them.

What he got instead was a much more solemn display. There were some laughs and words exchanged. But mostly, the prisoners picked up weapons, helmets, pieces of armour; anything they could get their hands on.

The blood and bodies stained in a way that would mar this already-foul place for a long time; Magus knew this. He felt it. Yet such a fate befell all who stood against him.

“You are all filthy, bedraggled creatures,” Magus began to a chorus of angry murmurs. A couple of newly armed prisoners already made to ready their weapons against them, but he continued before they had the chance to interrupt him. “You all bear the signs of abuse; malnutrition, bruising, scars. This place is disgusting, and they make you rot in it. Cold and dark, without even a window to remind you of the world you had left behind. How long have you been left here? Years? Decades? Long enough that it would have been less cruel of them to simply have slit your throats and be done with it?”

Now an angry swell of support began to rise through the cellblock as people voiced their approval.

“I suspect many of you didn’t deserve to be put here in the first place. I suspect many more of you have suffered punishments disproportionate to the crimes they tell you you’re guilty of.”

More voices joined the rising crescendo.

“I’ve been wrongly persecuted, as well,” Magus continued. “They put me here because I annoyed someone in a position of power. They sent bounty hunters after me; innocent people died because someone’s ego was damaged. They’d have left me to rot like they’d left all of you.”

The rising tide of vocal emotion pitched into a different kind of anger. Anger directed at him. Magus put his hands up in a gesture meant to defuse the situation.

“Do not misunderstand me. There is more to my story: you see, I believe I was betrayed. Have any of you heard of the People’s Army? They claim they fight for democracy. For equality. I believe they had a hand in sending the bounty hunters who put me here, and I am… angry.” he clenched his teeth and glared out at the crowd of haggard, beaten-down prisoners before he suddenly raised his voice into a shout. “And I think you’re angry! I think you have been betrayed by your own people, and I think it’s time to fight back!”

A roar of approval echoed all around him. Some banged swords against shields; others rattled their weapons in the air.

“And I’m giving you an opportunity. We will get out of this place, of that I have no doubt. But this is merely a skirmish. My brothers in shackles, I am going to war, and I would like for you to come with me. After we are free from this place, I am going to hunt the leader of the People’s Army down, and I am going to bring unfathomable suffering upon him before I send him screaming from this mortal coil,” he paused. “Society has decided they do not need you. They do not want you. So come with me. We’ll take the People’s Army for ourselves. We will build an army for people like us. No more suffering under the thumbs of the lofty. If you are with me, you’ll follow me follow me when we’re out of here. If not, that is your decision. You are all free men, once we get out of here.”

Another peal of approval rumbled around him and quickly subsided to quiet murmurs of discussion.

“Now, to work. I will head upstairs and scout what lies ahead. Prepare yourselves; there may yet be more fighting ahead of us. I will see you again soon.”

Magus strode toward the ascending stone steps as he slowly faded out of sight in a puff of smoke and purple motes. Waylon could hear the heavy footfalls of the mage’s boots as he strode, invisibly, up the stairs.

“Goddamn Primes have all the luck.”

- - - - -

The invisi-wizard stepped out onto the next floor and saw a pitifully small group of guardsmen up there waiting for him behind a pair of locked, barred cell doors. Only two crossbowmen were left; the others had swords and axes.

And there, cowering behind them, was the old man himself. That crooked old fuck who had come to taunt him at his cell door. The one Waylon and the others called Ol’ Gutless.

Magus prowled toward the door, hesitated a moment, and then simply walked straight through it. He breezed through the second one much more confidently and chuckled in low, dark tones, eliciting the typical reactions of surprise he’d expected.

Ol’ Gutless stammered out a demand to know who was out there, clutching a hatchet to his chest in a manner that suggested the man hadn’t much combat experience, even in his better years. The guards around him raised or drew their weapons; the two crossbows swept the area in front of them.

“I think you know who I am,” Magus responded from a different spot in the cavernous gallery. He took his time sauntering to another point near the group’s right flank. “I am the one called ‘Demon King.’ And I am very, very angry.”

“Wh-What do you want??”

“Same thing everyone wants,” the voice came again, this time from a different spot, prompting the crossbows to swing again toward him. “To be free. To make my own decisions, to pay back the people who have wronged me.”

One of the bowmen let fly a bolt that whizzed through the air and slammed into the wall, splintering on impact and clattering to the floor, broken and useless.

“Show yourself!!” roared one of the guards.

“If I did that I’d have to kill all of you.”

“So what, then?” the old man inquired. “What do you want from us?”

“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors keeping my friends locked downstairs onto the floor in front of you, and then-”

“I cannot!” Ol’ Gutless bleated after a moment’s onomatopoeic bluster. “As on official in the service of-”

“I want you to throw the key to those big cell doors onto the floor in front of you. And then, all of you are going to lay down your weapons, turn around, and lie down on the ground.”

“And- and what if we refuse?”

“You all know why they locked me away down here. You all know what I can do to all of you if that is what you choose.”

A long, pregnant pause drew out between Ol’ Gutless and the invisible man. He clenched his hatchet tight to his chest, sweat prickling up on the back of his neck as he considered the Demon King’s words. Finally, he must have decided that his life was worth more than his oath, as he cast the hatchet onto the floor with a clatter before fishing down the front of his shirt to reveal a key suspended by a necklace. He didn’t bother unclasping it; he just broke it with a sharp tug and threw the key, broken necklace and all, onto the floor in front of him.

“Lower yer arms, men.”

“We can’t just-”

“Lower yer arms, dammit!”

They did. Some set theirs down carefully, some threw theirs down, frustrated with their orders. All of them turned away from their weapons and got down on the floor, hands over their head. Lastly, Ol’ Gutless did the same.

A loud ker-clank! of a lock being opened sounded out, and the tell-tale sound of a jail door being opened rattled out. The same series played out a second time and Ol’ Gutless knew both doors had been opened. He was sure that the invisible man had gone back the way he’d come. But he dared not look.

His bony fingers interlaced behind his head suddenly felt fat as sausages, pressed up against his scraggly white hair. He trembled and worried and wondered if he’d go home to his sad, empty apartment ever again. If he’d ever see his sons or daughters again. Hell, he even wondered if he would ever find himself at the bottom of another bottle again.

His train of thought wasn’t permitted to travel much farther than that, however, as he heard the scuffles of footsteps approaching from behind. Dozens of footsteps.

Soon, the armed prisoners were all around the pitiful remains of the prison guards, and Magus was there, standing over Ol’ Gutless.

“Get up, old man.”

In spite of the great fear welling up in his throat, he did, and Magus grabbed him by the neck and pushed him past the others.

“Is there anyone else here who’ll stand in our way?”

“N-No sir, nobody. Our last line of-”

“Show me the way out of here. Try anything and it will be a long time before you’re dead, and only a short time before you wish you were.”

“Yes, okay, okay.”

“Hey,” Waylon interjected. “Whaddya want done with this lot here?” he gestured at the guardsmen with his weapon.

Magus looked down at them and reconsidered his plan for a moment. But just a moment.

“Kill them.”

[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.

[Magus]

He closed his scarlet eyes and tilted his head back. The wind caressed his exposed skin and fluttered through the fabric of his clothes. He took another deep breath and relaxed while he exhaled, taking stock of his new surroundings.

Lush, green grass waved toward him as the wind wound through it. The trees hedged a circling line around the prison, all shivering in the night air. Their boughs and branches rocked back and forth, leaves dancing in the dim light of the orange glare of the blood moon.

Shouts, bangs and thuds along with the clashing of steel sounded mutely through the barred windows of the big stone-brick building. Reinforcements would be coming soon, but this place would be in blazes by then and his plans had already been set in motion.

The wizard disappeared through the trees and into the darkness.

- - - - -

Magus trudged through the woods for two nights under the light of the moon, resting in the day time to avoid being spotted by troops who were no doubt searching for escaped prisoners such as him. Being on the lam was rather easy, however, when one could literally summon a simple shelter and a hot meal every day. He lived fairly comfortable for a man skulking in the woods, and by the next sunrise he was confident enough that the guards had lost him that he took to the main road – disguised in simple traveller’s robes, of course.

Magus made his way into a small village as the sun had hardly crept above the squattest of the village’s buildings. Things were quiet, but even in the early twilight before dawn, people had begun their days and the wizard could hear the first signs of a village awakening; people were talking, carts were trundling through dirt paths, and a distant clanging of metal against anvil rang out from some far corner of the place.

He confidently strode into the town square at the heart of the tiny village to get a bead on the place. None of the shops had yet opened and the stalls stood empty, but one of the flyers on a nearby notice board caught his attention.

PRIME TOURNAMENT AT THE COLOSSEUM

Are you the strongest Prime in Camelot?

For just a short time only, test your mettle against the mightiest warriors Camelot has to offer! Master swordsmen, arcane spellcasters and all manner of strange and wonderful combatants come together to duel for their chance to be number one.

Fame and fortune await the winner; death and dishonor await the losers.

Magus ripped the parchment from the noticeboard and studied it a while longer. The prisoners he hoped to lead against Lud would respect his leadership more if word of his abilities spread throughout Camelot.

Maybe.

He neatly folded the parchment in half and then in half again, before tucking it away in a pocket. Before going to any Colosseum, he’d first set about getting a lay of the land since his escape. It would be good to know if he was being sought after specifically.