Page 33 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

The dog tilted its head up at its master’s labored breath, and Absolon scratched its ears, gently, lovingly. He had always been capable of such tenderness.

Ragnar couldn’t let himself get distracted by memories. “Then what?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. You have thirty days.”

Thirty days? Why so many? Why not now? I could fight now. After thirty days in here…

“I was right to call you coward. You are not the Absolon I knew. The Absolon I knew would not baulk at slaying his enemies, would not hesitate and need to build his resolve.”

“My resolve is as strong the walls that will keep you here until your last day arrives.” He snapped his fingers and the dog ran out. He closed the door and turned the key. The sound scraped down Ragnar’s spine like a bony claw.

What deprivations did Absolon have in store? He didn’t hurry to the food though his stomach ached for filling. He had to make use of every moment.

He explored the limit of his tether, at first unsteady on his legs, but he regained confidence. How long would it be before Absolon returned? A day? A week? And what nature of jailer was he? Ragnar would have once believed him to be kind and gentle to some—at least to him—but with the look in his eye and the rage he had exacted on his band, he could not count on the false hope that Absolon was anything like the man he had once known.

The bread and water had been put at the very edge of his reach which measured shy of halfway to the door. He walked this half-circle from one wall to the next, right to left, passing his rations until at the other side sat a second bucket, empty, which he could use for his latrine. Both wooden buckets had rope handles. Apart from a couple of hay bales moldering on the far wall, there was nothing else of note that he could touch or pick up. Whatever else had been kept in there had been taken away to make way for the prisoner.

He walked as far from the wall as the chains allowed, then turned and leaned back to test their strength. Unlike the lock, they were newly cast iron. No rust had yet poisoned them, but he wrenched against the sticking place. All to no avail. He went to the wall and probed where the ring had been embedded in the stone. He scrambled through the grit until his fingers cut and bled but could not loosen its hold. Ignoring the dull throbbing in his head, he gripped one chain and levered himself against the wall with one foot, then two, and heaved with all his strength. It would not budge.

Absolon had built his prison well.

Ragnar paused his attempt and returned to the bucket of water. He sat cross-legged, scooped out a handful, and drank. It was fresh. He took another and another, washing away the acid burn in his throat. His body cried out for wine, but his head assured him water was best. He needed to remain clear of mind to plot his escape, because while his chains may appear immovable, no prison could hold a man forever.

He wiped his wet hands on his dirt-and-blood-stained shirt, then picked up the hunk of bread. Expecting it to be stale, he was surprised to find it had some give. He put it to his nose and inhaled the scent of rye. Fresh! A village must be nearby because Absolon had never shown much aptitude for cooking. But wherever it came from, Ragnar’s hunger clawed for it. He broke off chunks and stuffed them in his mouth.

Lost in the pleasure of food, no matter how simple, he forgot where he was or how he had come to be there. His throat bulged with the speed with which he ate, and it was only when he was more than halfway through the small amount he’d been given did he force himself to stop. How quickly had he turned into an animal! He was barely better than that dog.

He stopped chewing.

The dog.

Absolon had always been soft when it came to animals. He’d named this one Trogen—“faithful”—and there had been affection when he’d scratched it ears. Ragnar held up the remains of the bread. There was still enough to entice the animal. If it was eager for sick, it would find bread irresistible.

* * *

The day stretched long.Ragnar remained attentive to any sound that reached his ears and his hand opened and closed around the smooth side of the piece of pewter plate he had bent and broken free from the whole in the time that had passed. Absolon stayed away. The dog barked a few times, hours apart, but its excited yapping was distant.

If he lightened his breathing and listened carefully, he could hear the wind blowing through trees and the intermittent bang of a wooden window shutter left to flap in the breeze. No sound of running water reached his ear so perhaps the farmstead had a well. Wherever he was, he was not in a city nor a town. He was not close to a village. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with little to draw people’s attention. The longer he listened, the more certain he was that Absolon lived alone. Or if there were other souls around, they were also captive.

The only other sound of note was the caw of ravens as they circled overheard, sometimes disturbed by the dog barking after them. He counted thirty cries across the day and struggled to not believe the old superstition that ravens were the ghosts of the murdered.

If they were, then they should cry not for him but Absolon.

Either way, they provided no comfort for Ragnar’s soul and only helped to strengthen his resolve to escape.

Night came with no sign of Absolon. Ragnar would not wait any longer. Absolon had given him thirty days and he would not waste one waiting. The small window showed only the palest change in the gloom as the stars appeared, otherwise he existed in darkness and would use it to his advantage.

He stuffed the makeshift weapon into his waistband, probed for the bucket of water, and pulled it back to his spot by the wall. He searched for the other, hurling piss against the opposite wall, and taking the bucket with him like a spider collecting flies.

He picked up the first bucket and smashed it against the wall, the crack of wood satisfyingly loud. His heartbeat ratcheted up with the action he’d taken, driven with the determination to break free. The pieces clattered to the floor at his feet. He paused to let the noise settle then picked up the second bucket and did the same. He listened. If Absolon had heard, he’d made no move towards him, but that could be changed. He felt for the biggest pieces of broken wood, hefted one in his hand, and used the window as his guide to the door.

With a deep inhale, he opened his mouth and shouted for Absolon at the top of his voice. He kept up a string of curses and jibes, calling him coward and ingrate and bastard, calling him unwanted and weak, digging through all the small failings he knew cut Absolon’s heart to ribbons and used them to flail his jailer. He stopped, gave the silence enough space to grow, then hurled a hunk of wood at the door. It hit with a thud, too light to believe it were a fist if thought about too closely, but in the moment, it might grab Absolon’s notice and he may think he’d gotten free.

He threw another piece and shouted again of how he’d broken his bonds and that if he didn’t let him out of there soon, he would kill himself then Absolon would be unable to wreak his revenge. He threw another piece and watched the window.

A glimmer of light appeared. He’d come!

He threw another piece and kept up his yelling while grabbing the remnants of bread and holding them in his hand for the dog to sniff and find.

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