Tales & Treasure Chapter 22

Vidmar - Beneath Yimser

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Water dripped onto his head. The darkness of his cell concealed everything. He raised his hand in front of his face and saw nothing; he remembered he was missing two fingers on that hand, so he waved. His useless thumb, ring, and pinky finger flashed by like two bats chasing a fly. He almost smiled. Vidmar knew the key to escaping captivity was to stay sane. The slow torture from the dripping water was not a good start. Water found a way to drip onto him no matter where he moved. He decided that water splashing onto his shin was the least annoying spot to endure the torture for now.

“Kandrian’s ball sack, I hate these fucking holes,” A deep voice bellowed.

“Kamet,” Vidmar called.

“He lives. You had me worried,” Kamet said.

“Where are we?”

“Yimser’s asshole. But honestly, I liked the company of those pricks at Geoff’s better.”

“So, we are still in Yimser? What happened? Is Alcin here? Did they capture Vatis?”

“One at a time, Vidmar,” Kamet laughed. “Shit, fuck these damn holes. The bottom of my cell is like Numerian cheese.”

“I’ll trade with you. I’d rather have holes than these tiny leaks dripping water onto me wherever I go; I hope it’s water. It smells awful.”

“Deal. Let’s put in the transfer request next time we see a guard.”

Vidmar rubbed his head. He felt a tender lump just above his left temple. “So, first question, are we still in Yimser?”

“Yes,” Kamet said. Iron bars creaked as the big man shifted against them in his cell. Vidmar heard his leather pants scrape against the stone floor. “Wait until I get my hands on that stupid, purple-hat-wearing sack of shit.”

“Did you say purple-hat-wearing?”

“Yes, the dumbest hat I’ve ever seen.”

“I knew I should have killed him,” Vidmar said. He bent forward. Water dripped onto his neck, tickling his spine as he returned to a comfortable position.

“You know him? I thought he was just one of Alcin’s lackeys,” Kamet grunted.

“Yes, at least I think so, Zidane. A Gar smuggler, he tried to rob Vatis and me on the road.” Vidmar scratched his chin. “That’s the last skirmish of my life when all my skills and limbs were intact against armed men anyway. You would have been impressed. Me and Vatis against Zidane and four or five guards, well, just me. Vatis was useless except for distracting Zidane.” Vidmar recalled his encounter in the forest with Zidane, sparing no details.

“You sure know how to make an enemy. Remember Gibbon, the one who called himself a knight? He hated you,” Kamet said as Vidmar finished his story.

A dim light swayed into the dark cellar. Two long shadows followed it. “Vidmar, Vidmar, Vidmar,” a shrill, familiar voice called before two lanterns appeared. The sound of boots against stone grew louder as they approached. The voice cackled with laughter as Zidane’s skeleton-thin frame emerged from the darkness.

“I’m going to kill you, Vidmar,” Zidane said, crouching in front of Vidmar’s cell. “God’s, I’ve wanted to say that to you for a long time. Look at you. I can’t believe people feared you. You look like a stick that lost a fight with the wind. Didn’t your mother tell you to eat your vegetables?”

“Hello, Zidane, you look well, like a fourth son grasping for your unloving father’s attention,” Vidmar said. Kamet coughed a dry laugh.

“Shut up, you overgrown shrub,” Zidane barked, turning toward Kamet.

Vidmar chuckled. “Clever.”

“You two are having far too much fun; perhaps we should let the hounds down here to play for a while,” Zidane sneered.

“Aye, sir, they haven’t been fed in days. I’m sure they would enjoy it,” one of the guards escorting Zidane said.

“I’m rather busy. I don’t have time to train your dogs, Zidane, but we would like to request to trade cells. I’ll take the one with the holes, and Kamet will take the leaky one.”

Zidane hit the iron bars of the cell with his palm. The lock rattled. Interesting, Vidmar thought. “If Alcin didn’t want to kill you himself, I’d do it right now,” Zidane shouted. He smacked the bars again. A rock fell from the ceiling, bruising Vidmar’s shoulder as it rolled onto the ground. Vidmar grabbed the stone before Zidane noticed. The stone wasn’t large, but it had a jagged edge that could be useful in a pinch. Better than nothing.

“So loyal,” Kamet said. “You’d make a great dog yourself. I’ll get you a collar to match that hat of yours.”

Vidmar snickered. Kamet laughed so hard he nearly choked. “Alcin didn’t say anything about you.” The twang of unsheathed metal sliced through their laughter. “One more word, and I’ll fill those holes with your blood.” The iron bars cried as Zidane scraped his blade against them.

“What do you want, Zidane?” Vidmar said.

“I want to kill you. I thought I clarified that, but Alcin wants to finish what he started. You know how he is,” Zidane paused. Vidmar couldn’t see his expression in the dim light, but he could almost feel Zidane sneer. Ding, Ding, Ding, Dong went the bars of his cell as Zidane dragged his blade across them. Vidmar noticed a different sound each time Zidane hit the furthest bar. Also interesting. Vidmar focused on the steel while Zidane rambled off numerous threats from Alcin. “He had your fingers made into dice, but the annoying part is, the smith only had enough bone to make a single die, and what games can you play with a single die?”

“Shadow,” Vidmar said coldly.

“Nobody plays Shadow.” Zidane's arrogance wavered.

Vidmar remembered the only time he played the ancient game. His stomach sank as the guards pointed at him. He could hear them snicker as he rolled a two. His opponent's wicked, toothless grin was scarred in his memory as he threw a five. Shadow was less of a game and more of a death sentence.

Two players rolled one die and fought to the death using whichever weapon the die chose. Roll a one, and the player fought with nothing more than their fists; a two, and they could use a small knife. A three was a sword, four a mace, five a crossbow, and a six was a spear. He remembered playing with the small, dull knife. The comforting feel of steel between his fingertips. Guards and prisoners chanted in a circle around them. His bare feet were so cold that they burnt against the icy stones in the courtyard. A guard shouted the rules with bard-like gusto, but Vidmar didn’t listen. He watched his opponent crank the heavy crossbow. The barbed tip pointed at Vidmar’s stomach, but it wavered. He didn’t hear the click of a fully wound crossbow. His opponent's finger trembled above the trigger, waiting for the signal.

“I have,” Vidmar said.

Zidane huffed. “Liar.”

“Call me a liar, but there isn’t much in the way of entertainment on Jegon. Every few days, the guards would pick two prisoners to play. I won a two against a five. The crossbow jammed, and my knife found its mark.”

“Is there nothing the great Vidmar can’t do?” Zidane mocked.

He remembered the snapping bolt and the collective gasp that followed. Vidmar seized his opportunity and charged after his opponent, screaming. Even though his opponent was twice his size, fear glossed over his green, bloodshot eyes. He threw the knife. It stuck in his opponent's thigh, but his assault was only beginning. He spun and pulled the blade from the big man’s quivering leg. He ducked. The crossbow swooshed over his head. Vidmar turned again and slashed the back of his opponent's knee. The tendons snapped like a cut bowstring. The other prisoner collapsed, and Vidmar mercifully ended his life by slicing his throat. Dark red blood pooled on the frost-covered ground. Haunting lifeless steam rose into the air around his victim, leaving a ghostly trail into the dark sky.

“I was never very good at cooking.”

“Enough,” Zidane yelled.

He remembered the sound of guards groaning as they lost their bets. The other prisoners cheered. None of them had bet against Vidmar. They knew better.

“Come,” Zidane ordered his guards, their heavy boots clanging against the floor. Desperately, Vidmar pressed against the bars. Zidane limped. He watched their lanterns swing down the corridor; their long, jagged shadows melded into the darkness.

“Why are we down here? Alcin doesn’t leave Haran,” Vidmar called as the lanterns disappeared. Water dripped onto the top of his head.

One lantern bobbed quickly back into view. Zidane’s sinister grin appeared in the light. “Our ship is being prepared. I’ll be sure to find a leaky cell for you.”

“I request one with fewer holes,” Kamet said.

“My dear barbarian. I have made special arrangements with a sailor particularly fond of keelhauling, and you are lucky enough to have a cage on the ship's bow. That is, until we get out to deeper waters. Then you can begin scrubbing barnacles off the bottom of the ship with your back,” Zidane said. His high-pitched laugh sounded like a goat choking. “Come. We have more preparations to make.”

The lanterns disappeared, leaving Vidmar and Kamet in darkness once again. Vidmar moved back against the wall and positioned his shin under the drip. The steady tap, tap, tap, and Kamet’s slow breathing were the only sounds Vidmar heard for a long time until Kamet broke the silence.

“Vidmar, what’s keelhauling?” he said in a low voice.

“Not something you have to worry about. We are not getting on that ship.”

---

“Give up. It’s not going to work.” Kamet sighed. Vidmar had been sawing the hollow bar with a small rock for hours. First, he tried to pick the lock using a pick woven into his hair, but after several attempts, the lockpick slipped from his grip and fell into the darkness. Lockpicking seemed to be an unrecoverable skill. So, he turned his attention to the hollow-sounding bar. He tried wriggling it free first, a strategy that seemed promising but yielded little results after a half hour. Then, he tried the sawing method. Cramps coursed through his bleeding left hand, and the rock kept slipping from his mostly useless right hand.

“Just tell me what keelhauling is so I can pray to the right god,” Kamet pleaded.

“You don’t pray,” Vidmar said, trying a new grip by pinning the stone against his palm with his two remaining fingers. He tried a backhanded sawing motion that worked slightly better. He didn’t know if he had made any progress. The work rendered the annoyingly consistent drip obsolete, but his damp shirt clung to his back. The bar seemed weaker. One strong kick should knock it out. Then, there would be enough room for him to squeeze through. He didn’t know how he would break Kamet out. One thing at a time. “I’m close.” He sawed until the rock slipped from his fingers again. He slid back and lined his left foot up with the bar. He rocked and kicked with as much force as he could muster in the tight, dark space. The bar sprang free and clonked against Kamet’s cell. The metallic twang echoed like a bell.

“Shit. It worked,” Kamet said.

“You had doubts,” Vidmar whispered through gritted teeth as he squeezed between the wall and the bars. He stretched and dusted himself off. “I hope that wasn’t too loud.” Vidmar picked the bar up and listened for commotion in the direction where Zidane and his guard had disappeared. Again, the only noise he heard was the dripping of water and Kamet’s raspy breathing. He waited.

“How are….” Kamet began.

Vidmar hushed Kamet like a mother soothing a crying baby. He waited. He stepped further down the hallway. Heel, toe, heel, toe, moving silently closer. He listened. He heard nothing except the slow drip of the water in his cell. How far down are we?

“What’s the plan?” Kamet whispered. Vidmar hushed him again, poking him in the chest with his ersatz weapon. “Stop that. If someone heard, they would be down here by now. How are you getting me out?”

“Every man for themselves,” Vidmar whispered.

“Funny,” Kamet said seriously.

“Well, I can try to pick the lock. It will be easier from this side,” Vidmar said. “But I have to find the damn pick.”

“Stop whispering. We were talking before; Zidane can’t hear us,” Kamet said.

“Fine,” Vidmar said in a normal tone.

“Can you pry the lock open with that bar?” Kamet asked.

“I sawed this with a stone. I don’t think it can handle much force.”

Kamet exhaled. “Damnit. Crassus would have lost his mind if he saw how you broke out of there.”

“These new homes are like children, getting weaker with each generation,’” Vidmar said, mimicking the old mason’s raspy voice. “I think he would have been impressed. A cripple breaking out of a prison cell without picking the lock or outside help. He would have scrutinized the stability of the cell, though.”

Kamet tested each bar on his cell by jostling them back and forth. “Of course, no luck for Kamet - as usual. You remember when you and Elisa were sparring, and you tried to trick her with one of her spinning lunges, and you knocked over Crassus’s limestone. His face was as red as an apple, but he blamed me. I spent the rest of the day shoveling stones while you two went off doing whatever,” he trailed off.

Vidmar lost the will to speak. Her name had that power over him - the sweet, loving sound of her perfect name made his eyes water. His stomach dropped through the floor, leaving a tight knot that slowly made its way up toward his throat. He closed his eyes and saw her wavy, black hair whirling through the air; its vexing, shimmering beauty constantly distracted him while they sparred. He never doubted his choice to betray Kandrian; he only regretted that he fell in love with his sister while in his service. Perhaps her decision to stay with him was better, Vidmar thought. Better for Emre, maybe, but not better for me. She is the only thing keeping that monster tethered between this world and madness. His remaining fingertips were ice; the frost expanded into the joints in his wrists and elbows. Vidmar scowled in the darkness, clenching his jaw to push the rising knot back into his stomach. The sound of the rotten-smelling water dripping onto the floor was the only noise breaking the silence. The uncomfortable quiet lingered until a metallic creak interrupted the steady drip, and a dim light emerged down the corridor. Instinctively, Vidmar scrambled back into his cell. His damp shirt ripped against the stones as he slid through.

Two elongated shadows appeared in the orange light. Vidmar could see Kamet pressed against the bars of his cell. He avoided eye contact. Two guards in light infantry armor approached cautiously; their chainmail jingled. Zidane was not with them. Short swords hung loosely from their belts. Each guard threw a loaf of bread and an apple into the cells like they were feeding rabid dogs, careful not to get too close. The bread must have been a week old; it sounded like a stone as it hit the floor. The apple hit Vidmar in the chest. It wasn’t much better; bruised and misshapen, it felt more like a ball of clay than an apple. The guards turned on their heels and began marching away. Vidmar had to act.

“Impressive swords. I bet they don’t see much action,” Vidmar said.

One of the guards stopped. He was twice the size of the other guard, but the smaller guard spoke. “Deliver the food. Do not engage. Those are our orders.”

The big guard brushed the smaller one aside. “I don’t take orders from Zidane. Major Aislin didn’t seem interested in their petty squabbles. Besides, what’s the harm? They aren’t going anywhere.”

“No, we aren’t,” Vidmar said. “This is quite the prison you have here.”

“This isn’t the….” the big guard began.

“Fergus,” the undersized guard whispered harshly. Not at the prison. Good to know.

“It doesn’t matter, Liam. I’m just going to have a bit of fun with the only man to escape Jegon,” Fergus said wickedly. “I’ve heard everything about you, Vidmar or Davas or whatever you call yourself, and, boy, Zidane doesn’t like you.”

Vidmar adjusted the grip on the weapon behind his back. The guard stood in front of Vidmar’s cell but didn’t notice the missing bar. “Well, we aren’t exactly friends, but exemplary guards like yourselves surely have better things to do than tend to that maniac's needs.”

“Fergus, let’s go,” Liam said. “We have to report to Zidane.”

“I. Do. Not. Take orders from fucking Zidane,” Fergus said, unsheathing his blade.

“You know that blade looked more fearsome in its sheath,” Vidmar said, feigning disappointment.

“How does it look now?” Fergus said, pushing the tip underneath Vidmar’s chin.

“Fergus. Enough!” Liam yelled.

Vidmar rubbed his chin against the blade. “Oh, thank you. I’ve needed to shave for days but don’t have the time.” The lantern’s light reflected in Fergus’s eyes like tiny flames. His nostrils flared. Good.

“I’ll give you a fucking shave.” The sword pressed against Vidmar's throat. He winced at a slight prick and felt blood begin to trail down his neck. Now. Vidmar sprang back. As he hoped, Fergus tried to push the blade into Vidmar’s neck, exposing his hand as it moved to the prisoner’s side of the bars. Vidmar struck his hand with his makeshift weapon. The bar snapped in half, but Fergus dropped his sword. It clanged against the stone floor. The lantern clipped to Fergus’s belt oscillated as he tried to recover the sword, but Vidmar was too fast. He dropped the bar and grabbed the blade with his left hand. It felt strangely comfortable, like meeting an old friend, but he didn’t have time to reminisce.

Liam pounced to Fergus’s side. “I told you to leave him alone.”

“Shut your mouth and give me your sword. He’s dead,” Fergus said.

Liam reluctantly handed his sword to Fergus. Vidmar was right about one thing. These guards didn’t see much fighting action. Their slow exchange was enough of an opening for Vidmar. He thrust forward, stabbing Fergus in the gut. The blade nearly slipped in his hand as he pushed it through the poorly-made armor. Fergus collapsed to his knees. Liam stood, shocked. Fergus reached for Liam desperately, their doe-eyes trying to comprehend this turn of events. The other sword ricocheted off the stone floor. Vidmar tried to kick into Kamet, but it only made it halfway. Fergus choked on his blood as he fell onto his stomach. Liam’s lips quivered; he looked for his sword, giving Vidmar enough time to slip out of the opening behind Liam.

“Go on. Pick it up,” Vidmar said.

Liam didn’t pick up the sword. Instead, he raised his hands and scooted away from the desperate man, grasping at his leg. Fergus croaked. A dreadful sound Vidmar had heard too much in his life, his last blood-soaked breath. His forehead squished dully against the stone as he died. Vidmar watched Liam’s hands. They were stiff and frozen with fear, not relaxed, playing coy. He wouldn’t try anything, but Vidmar didn’t take chances.

“Let him out and get in,” Vidmar said, pointing at Kamet’s cell.

“I don’t have the key,” Liam said. His voice cracked like a child’s.

“Does he?” Vidmar said, nodding toward Fergus but never taking his eyes off Liam’s hands.

Liam nodded.

“Well, get them.”

Liam’s arms trembled as he bent down and reached for Fergus’s belt. The big man’s body convulsed, and Liam shot backward.

“They do that sometimes,” Vidmar said. “He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?” Liam stuttered.

“Yes, I’m sure. Now grab the key, unlock my friend, and get in the cell.”

Liam’s head bobbled as he crawled toward Fergus’s body. He winced and unclipped the key.

“Good. Now unlock the cell and get in,” Vidmar said.

Liam’s fingers shook as he tried to insert the key. He kept missing the narrow hole.

“Give it here,” Kamet said, ripping the key from his hand. He reached through the bars and slid the key into position, turning it carefully. It clicked, and the door swung open.

“Thank you,” Kamet said to Liam as he pushed the guard into the cell. “Watch out for the holes.”

Kamet locked the door and picked up the sword from the ground. “Hello, friend,” he said, looking at the blade and twirling it through the air.