Chapter 41. Escape

alling.

He tumbled through empty air amid the flash and glitter of sequins and glass jewels, his hand outstretched as his mother swung past him on the trapeze.  A look of horror marred her delicate features as their hands touched, fingers slipping over wrists, grasping and failing to hang on.  Armand continued plunging downward feet first.  He saw no netting, only the seething blackness of the sea.

The deathly knell and glassy chiming filled his ears as he struck the water, his cry silenced as he plunged beneath the surface.  Ashekoroth surrounded him now, drawing him down, stealing his breath.  He would never see sunlight, would never again walk beneath the stars.  Despair chained him in the depths as his lungs heaved breathlessly, his chest burning. 

Weeks of helplessness, hours of slow torment.  He was forgetting himself, yielding.  And yet something snapped as he teetered at the threshold of oblivion.  His feet struck the ocean floor and he rebounded, his heart fought within him like a panicked animal.  Rising up through the water he struggled toward the surface, his face emerging to the slap of waves.  Gasping and choking he drew breath.  Sweet breath of life.

Give me breath that I might dwell in the flesh,
Give me eyes that I might see.
I am the shaper and the binder,
Come to me, my love, come to me.

Threnody was with him, close and desperate, struggling against her bonds.  Ashekoroth was gone, his taint falling away as the plaintive chiming of the sad music rolled over him.  Treading water, he gazed down at his breast and watched the inscriptions that had been painted upon him melting away into the water.  The enchantment that rendered him helpless faded and died. 

His heavy limbs could not long withstand the cold of the surging water.  There was a shore, a thin beach of black sand littered with the leavings of storm and wreckage.  Weary though he was, Armand swam toward it, gasping for breath and longing for sleep when his feet and hands finally grated against the rocky sand.  He struggled seal-like out of the water and lay there shivering.

And then the wind was in his hair, chill and revolting.  He hated its touch and he tried to roll away, alarmed when he discovered his arms and legs were splayed taut around him.  Chains and daylight, the smell of lavender perfume mixed with musk.  Layla.  She was touching him again.  Blindly he rose from the enchantment and lashed out at her.  His captors were stupid.  Not all circus performers specialized in acrobatics, he sneered, drawing a cunningly made clip of metal disguised as a cufflink from his blouse with a deft curl of his fingers.  Such simple locks and they opened effortlessly to his expert probing.  One after another they fell away and he reckoned he may have beaten his old record even though it had been years since he had performed his escape routine.

Only an idiot underestimated a mesmer, he mused as Layla traded places with him and lay struggling in his bonds.  He slammed the door on her, a wicked smile turning his lips.

He leaned back against the door and probed with his mind to get his bearings.  His long abandoned body felt weak and unsteady, unaccustomed to exertion.  His only defense over the past days or weeks had been to withdraw into the safety of his inner darkness.  Rather than allow Ashekoroth to learn his true nature and violate his mind, Armand had bided his time, surfacing occasionally to get his bearings.  Today there was an absence of the vile man.  And today he would make his escape.

Armand was not a fool.  Though he considered himself an above average if not superior mesmer, he had to concede that Ashekoroth possessed inhuman, possibly demonic powers.  Armand was not afraid to face a fair challenge.  He had bested many a man with his sharp reflexes and intuitive grasp of magic, but a foe that could so easily step past his mental defenses and dismantle him from the inside could not be faced head on.  As much as he longed to attack Ashekoroth, doing so would only play into his hands. 

Right now his best option was to put distance between himself and the horrible man.  Unsteady and weak, his first concern was food and water even though he was not in any way hungry.  As he shook loose of the enchantment, the faintest hints of a headache gnawed at his mind.  He was dehydrated, his lips were chapped.

Armand detected someone lurking in an adjoining room.  He focused, grateful to find his talents returning to him so easily.  It was a human mind, bright and scattered with future fear, current anger and past regret.  He stalked toward it, an incantation ready to strike.  The warmth of a hearth radiated from the room him as he strained to see into it without drawing attention to himself.

He recognized his fellow prisoner but did not know his name.  The man was powerfully built, a day laborer or perhaps a warrior.  His black hair was disheveled and unwashed and he stank of sweat.  He was stripped down to a dirty linen tunic and coarse brown pantaloons.  His boots were marred with impressions of armor that had once overlain them, greaves perhaps.  And he was chained like a dog to the fire grate by a leash of heavy links and a slaver’s collar.  Layla had linked his wrist and ankle shackles together so the poor man could not even rise to his feet. 

“I’ve taken care of our friend, Layla,” Armand said, startling the man as he stepped lightly into the open and appeared just out of reach across from him.  His imprisonment did not necessarily mean he was benign and Armand was legendarily mistrusting of strangers.  Before Armand did anything rash, he had to ensure that letting the man go free would benefit his own escape, “I am Armand LeBlanc.  And you are?”

“Tyhric Wolfblade,” the man rasped, his long silence having marred his rich baritone voice, “You’re the man they’ve been keeping asleep.  I carried you up the cliff from the dock.”

“Yes, that would be me,” Armand shrugged, “I’m awake now and mad as hell.  Are you interested in escaping?”

Tyhric snorted in amusement and rose awkwardly to sit with his back pressed to the wall, holding out his bound wrists.  Armand sensed the man’s relief and lack of guile.  He was scared of Ashekoroth and had somehow been misused by him.  And the welts on his body had no doubt come from Layla’s cane.

“If you release me, I’ll do whatever I can to get us out of here.”

Armand tossed the stolen keys to the man and moved past him to explore the rest of the house.  There must be food and water around somewhere.  Layla was decidedly human and Tyrhic looked hale enough.  He discovered a small kitchen with a clay oven and a currently cold cooking hearth.  An iron pot dangled in its sooty throat containing a crude mixture of congealed beans and rice with shredded pieces of salt pork.  No doubt it was a remnant of the prior evening’s cooking adventure.  It was disgusting, but it would have to do.  He needed the energy and he was in no position to turn his nose up at it.  Tyhric appeared, rubbing his chaffed wrists as Armand choked as much of the horrid concoction down his throat as he could stand.  It took several long swallows of tepid water to wash the taste from his mouth.  He paused, grasping the clay water jug distractedly as he scanned the kitchen.

“I think I’ve only seen them feed you once in the last week.  A wise decision,” Tyhric said, reading the distaste in Armand’s expression.

“Help yourself, I’m done,” Armand murmured.  If he never ate beans again it would be too soon.  What he really needed now was some black Elonian coffee.

Still, with each swallow of water he felt more whole and focused.  The food, disgusting though it was, did give him back a measure of strength.  He would need it once he was on the run.

“We’re on an island,” Tyhric said, frowning as he gazed into the pot and turned his nose up at it.  He did, however, take a long drink from the clay jar when Armand passed it to him.

“Fine, we’ll look for a boat then,” he replied coolly, opening cupboards and drawers as he surveyed the kitchen.  He laid out a dishcloth and piled items into it: a decent knife, a small wooden box containing matches, a candle and a wooden bowl.  He opened the door to the pantry and gathered up three empty wine bottles for want of anything else to carry water in.  Happily their corks appeared to be in good working order.  He placed the bottles beside the other items and searched the pantry for food that kept well and did not require preparation.  That left two slabs of salty cured pork and a crusty white round of cheese that he hoped was still edible.  Enough for three lean days.  Just as well he was accustomed to a measure of privation on his journeys.  His friend Mog would be crying like a girl at this point.  He smiled to himself at that thought.

“As far as I know, there is only one place to moor a boat and the one that brought us here left after we disembarked.

“Ashekoroth will be arriving in a boat, I assume?” Armand said flippantly. 

He felt the queasy shift of the warrior’s mind at the mention of their captor’s name.  He was reassured to see that his talents were intact but at the same time it was unsettling to have his worst fears about Ashekoroth confirmed.  They were up against something far more powerful than two, let alone one, of them could handle.  And they were still inside his lair.

“Yes, most likely,” Tyhric agreed.

“Then there is a way off this island and we’re going to figure out how to take advantage of it.”

Tyhric looked mildly vexed, annoyed that somehow Armand seemed unaware of the implications of what he had just said. 

“Unless you have a better idea, that is.  I suppose we could just sit here and let him find us,” Armand replied to the man’s silent protest, “But as far as I’m concerned, if Ashekoroth wants me for some perverted scheme, then he is going to have to take me by force.  And frankly, if it comes to that, I’ll make him kill me this time.”

“Aye,” Tyhric replied, “You are right, my friend.  I am unwilling to serve him again in any way.  Perhaps there are weapons stashed in this house.  I will go seek arms and ready myself for a final confrontation.”

“Good,” Armand said, “If you find, Layla, however, leave her be.  I’d much prefer Ashekoroth deal with her.  I sense he has little patience for failure.”

Tyhric snorted with grim laughter.

“I think we could become fast friends, Master LeBlanc.  I like the way you think.”