Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

much time,” said a new voice, male and not as deep as the first. “We need to go, and quick.”
    “We’ve killed too many,” said the deep voice. “Thren will not be pleased.”
    “As long as we’ve got Robert, he’ll keep his displeasure in check. Now hurry!”
    The ache in Robert’s shoulders had begun to fade, and a dim part of his mind was aware that they were no longer dislocated. That knowledge was little comfort when he felt himself thrown over the shoulder of what must have been a giant man. The sudden movement churned his stomach, and he vomited all over the man’s back.
    “Lovely,” he heard his rescuer say.
    Robert clamped his teeth tight as his body bounced up and down with each hurried step. Someone was rescuing him, so screaming was bad, screaming was dangerous. Silence was golden. His muscles were aflame, his joints throbbed, but the only sound he made was a soft, quiet sob.
    To take his mind off the pain, he tried to visualize the prison in his mind. He had been there plenty of times, usually accompanying Edwin on some morbid jaunt past all the cells. The king had always been doubtful of his commands being carried out, so seeing men he’d sentenced actually being punished put a smile on his face. Those trips had given Robert ample opportunity to memorize the layout.
    From what he remembered, he was on the third level built below the ground. Beneath were two more floors, where the punishment was far more active and brutal. To get out, they’d need to pass upward two floors to the entrance. Each stairway was locked and guarded. But if he was being rescued, perhaps they had killed the guards, or rendered them…
    He moaned as the man carrying him skidded to an abrupt halt. The woman cursed. When Robert opened his eyes, his awkward position disoriented his vision, and he closed them to prevent another wave of vomit. The smell of it was still strong from the first time, although when he compared it to the stench of his cell, he figured he could endure it. Sounds of drawn weapons met his ears.
    “Who?” he asked. His voice seemed meek compared to the rest of the sounds around him. “Who sent you?”
    “Thren,” said the big man. “Now shut your mouth.”
    Robert wasn’t sure he could have spoken even if he’d wanted to. Steel rang against steel. He heard a man scream. Then they were running, his head bobbing up and down with each step. Stairs, Robert realized. They were going up a flight of stairs.
    More sounds of battle. It was so strange hearing the fight without a visual accompaniment. The sound of a sword striking armor could be good or bad. Each cry of death could be one of his rescuers, or a man blocking their exit. He found that his mind was too exhausted to hope one way or another. Honestly, he hoped they failed in their attempt, and he was killed along with the rest. Because if Thren Felhorn wanted him, then the only place safer than the Golden Eternity was back in his cell.
    A sound of trumpets flooded the prison. The big man carrying him swore long and loud. Robert was gently placed on the ground, ground that felt beautifully firm underneath his tucked knees. The stone was cold, but he didn’t mind. He shivered, and absently he wondered if he had a fever. No longer upside down, Robert slowly opened his eyes and watched the battle to save his life rage around him.
    A beautiful woman with raven hair twirled by a doorway leading deeper into the prison. Daggers flew from her hands, unable to score killing blows through the thick armor of the guards but stalling them nonetheless. Robert glanced the other way. Down past rows of cells made of thick stone and sealed wooden doors was the final set of stairs. Ten guards pressed their way down, but only four made it off the steps. Two men held them back, wielding long daggers with such precision that Robert knew they were men of Felhorn. One was a thin, wiry man with blond hair while the other looked like a dark-skinned giant. All three of his rescuers wore the gray cloaks of the Spider Guild.
    Robert closed his eyes as guard after guard died. With the trumpet sounded, they would come endlessly. Three against a multitude; Robert didn’t need all his wits to know the likelihood of escape. He waited for rough hands to grab his soiled clothes, or perhaps for a blade to pierce his chest. Death after death he heard, the cries a chorus of blood and skill. And then rough hands did grab him, but instead of hauling him back to his cell they