Phyr’s gut ached from a combination of dread and the truncheon’s constant prodding. Solomon had gotten a bit too comfortable whacking him with the wooden club, and just being inside a prison again had set the old dark elf’s nerves on a razor’s edge. He hated the mildewy, sickly smell of the place. He hated the way the guards sneered at him as they passed them by. He hated the uncontrollable feeling that he would never leave this Thayne-forsaken place.

“I hope you’re better with that pig-sticker than you are with the truncheon,” Phyr commented as Solomon unveiled his knife. “Otherwise we’ll end up with screaming guards and blood everywhere.

“Don’t you worry about my skill with a blade,” Solomon grunted back, “just concern yourself with finding the prisoner. He should be in their most secure cell, wherever that is.”

“This way,” Phyr said, turning down a hall which led to a descending staircase. They always kept the highest value prisoners in the bowels of the jail, with as many doors as possible between them and the outside world. The man and the elf sauntered down the stairs together. Phyr reached beneath his jacket with his lone left arm and pulled out his heavy iron bayonet. They followed the hallway at the foot of the stairs and then paused just shy of the next corner.

“There’ll likely still be a pair of guards between us and our goal,” he whispered, leaning so close to Solomon he could smell the man’s pungent odor. “We can’t just bypass them like we have the others, or they’ll hear us breaking into the cell and raise the alarm. We’ll have to take them down. Let me go first. Wait for my distraction.” Solomon nodded, white-knuckling his butchers knife and following a few steps behind Phyr.

The old Alerian held his dagger in an icepick grip against his body so its blade was barely visible. He shuffled around the corner and through an open doorway, which, as he’d anticipated, had two guards flanking it on the far side. Phyr got a full step past them before they snapped to attention.

“Hey, who let yew outta’ yer ce-” the guard collapsed soundlessly as Phyr turned and slammed the butt of his bayonet into the man’s temple.

“What?” the fallen man’s compatriot gasped, reaching for his sword and inflating his lungs to raise the alarm.

Solomon appeared behind him like an ill omen. The butcher’s knife flashed in the torchlight, and a gaping gash appeared across the guard’s throat. It spewed crimson across the wall in a ragged line. Solomon held the limp man up for a few moments before dropping him in a pool of his own blood.

“How’s that for pig-sticking?” The human asked, wiping his blade on the guard’s uniform.

“You could have used the truncheon,” Phyr pointed out.

“A bit squeamish, are we?” Solomon taunted.

“I lived in a place that makes Dour Garrison look like a pleasant inn for over thirty years.” Phyr deadpanned. “I watched while a gang of orcs held me down and chopped off my arm with a blunt axe.”

Solomon paled slightly at the notion, but did not respond. He took the lead, striding confidently down the hall. Phyr shook his head. An aged human, Solomon was still young by elven standards.

They rounded another corner and found a long row of empty cells set against the hard stone wall. All were empty, except the last, which contained the lumpy shadow of a single man, apparently asleep.

“Hey, wake up,” Solomon whispered through the bars, “we’re here to break you out.”

“He may have difficulty rising,” Phyr commented mildly. His azure eyes could see deeper into the shadows than Solomon’s. A jolt of surprise and confusion lanced through his veins.

The body inside the cell had no head.