Dragon Riders of Etrea—Chapter 1

Drip, drip drip.

Henrik ran his fingers through his short black hair and tried not to let the sound drive him insane. That was probably what they wanted, after all. If prisoners lost their minds, they would be a lot easier to deal with. A quick slice with a knife, a body dumped in the river. He wasn’t right in the head, the constable would say. We’re not sure what happened.

The dungeons in the city of Selfoss felt as old as time itself. Simple in design, just cold stone floors, walls, and ceilings with thick steel bars at the front of each cell, the centuries had slowly worn at them, creating leaks and drafts, making them the epitome of discomfort. 

Henrik shifted where he sat, trying to lean against the wall to get some rest. The stone was unforgiving, without even a smooth patch to rest his head against. That was also probably by design.

For two days he had sat in this cell with barely enough food and water and only a bucket sharing the area. It wasn’t emptied often, either. The guard had laughed when he told him that the slop buckets were only emptied when they were full. 

Henrik couldn’t help but feel this must be a posting for the worst of soldiers. Selfoss had a strong army, just like every other city, but the scumbags that worked as guards down here seemed like the worst of the leftovers. Fat stomachs, rust pitting their weapons, unshaven, undisciplined, and cruel. Of course, that could also have been by design. Why keep the best soldiers in a hole like this? No need for people to treat the prisoners with honor.

He finally found a somewhat flat place to lean his head and let his eyes fall closed. As exhausted as he was, he felt the heavy blanket of sleep start to fall over him almost immediately.

Dreams came quickly to him, and with the dreams, regret. Henrik had always had high aspirations and quick fingers, which resulted in him being quite the successful thief, especially impressive for a man of his large size. 

Those quick fingers had earned him quite a pile of money, which sat now in an iron-bound chest in the basement of his small house on the southern side of Selfoss. Fat lot of good it did him, sitting in a cell like this. Ambition had been his downfall. Or, perhaps greed was a better word. 

Ever since he was a child he had heard of the riches in Duke Ardun’s palace. Everyone knew the man was as rich as a person could be, even more so than the king of Etrea himself. Of course, with a fortune like that, Ardun had enough guards that it almost seemed like a personal army. And they were well-paid, so they took their job seriously. As such, Duke Ardun’s palace was probably the most difficult place to break into in the entire city.

Henrik’s mind was even sharper than his dagger, so after a month of studying the palace and the guard patrols, he set off to prove himself as the best thief in the city. He actually managed to bypass many of the guards—two had to be killed silently, there had been no way around it—and was sneaking out with his purse filled with gold when he was caught. He fought valiantly, but was quickly overwhelmed and knocked out. His face was still a mass of bruises.

It was customary to leave thieves in the dungeons for three days, for them to think on their crimes and for their accusers to have time to settle their emotions. At the end of that period, they were hauled before a judge, where they were given a sham trial. After that, they would usually have their right hand cut off, unless the judge was feeling particularly compassionate, or in rare cases the accuser would retract their charges and request a lesser punishment.

But Duke Ardun was not a kind man, not even in the slightest. Henrik knew what he was in for. When he woke, he would be hauled in front of the judge and most likely sentenced to death. He had seen a lot of excitement in his twenty-five years, but they were coming to an end.

A loud banging snapped Henrik awake. He glared at a passing guard, who gave a wheezing laugh as he banged a short club against the bars of the cell. The bastards were just dead set on making this as unpleasant as possible. Henrik tried to put the sack of lard out of his mind and leaned his head back against the wall. Even just a few more minutes of sleep would help take the edge off of his exhaustion.

“It’s time, Jalen,” the fat guard said. The sound of heavy keys rattling and the loud clunk of the gate being unlocked kept Henrik from falling back asleep.

“Please, it was all a big mistake!” Jalen cried. “I’ll sell myself into his service. I’ll do whatever it takes, just don’t take my hand!”

Henrik winced at the sound of the club striking flesh and Jalen’s resulting cries. The guard just laughed.

“I guess you need some more encouragement then, eh?” the guard asked.

“No, stop!” Jalen pleaded. “I’ll go, I’ll go.” 

Moments later he was limping along the path in front of the cells, clutching at a split scalp. He turned and saw Henrik sitting there and his face brightened.

“Henrik!” he exclaimed. “You can tell them. I’m a good man, Henrik. Tell them! Tell them I’m no thief!”

“Accept your fate with some dignity,” Henrik muttered.

The guard struck Jalen in the back with his club, sending him down the hallway. Jalen cried out and scrambled along, trying to stay out of the guard’s reach.

Henrik leaned his head against the stone and closed his eyes again. He knew enough of Jalen to know the man was a rotten apple. Jalen was a coward, and preferred to rob women and children as there was less chance of them fighting back as opposed to a man. He had been overzealous and robbed too many too often, and a woman caught him in the act. This particular woman pulled out her belt knife and drove it into Jalen’s thigh, then ran to the city watch. Jalen was a fool, and would get what he deserved.

Besides, robbing women just didn’t sit well with Henrik. He had put his share of men in the ground, but he had never even struck a woman. That was just plain wrong in his eyes.

At least with the guard taking Jalen topside, Henrik was able to get a few minutes of sleep. As tired as he was, that few minutes seemed to pour strength back into his limbs. Chances were slim at best, but he was devising a plan to get out of these dungeons. That slob of a guard wouldn’t stand a chance. 

Keeping the prisoners in a starved and exhausted state also made it hard for them to fight back. Well, they had never dealt with Henrik before. The guard was going to learn the hard way. 

Several minutes went by, during which Henrik slept like the dead. When the guard returned, he ran his club along the bars of each cell, purposely being an obnoxious asshole and keeping everyone awake. Henrik was looking forward to making his move.

His hand slowly moved down to the back of his right boot. There, barely noticeable, was a notch in his heel. He dug his fingernail at it for a moment, then pulled out a hidden dagger. It wasn’t particularly large, the blade only being three inches or so, but it was razor sharp and easy to hide. He was just glad they hadn’t taken his boots. The rest of his weapons were gone, of course, but as long as he had this, he had hope. Granted, as long as he had his fists and his wits he had hope, but the blade made it easier.

“You’re next, Henrik,” the guard said, rattling his club against the bars at the front of his cell. “I can’t wait for it. They’re going to wipe that smug look off your face and hang you in public. Thieving. Murdering two men. You’re in for it.” He drew a finger across his throat and barked a coarse laugh, showing his rotten teeth.

Henrik pulled the hidden dagger the rest of the way out and hid it behind his hand, then pushed himself to his feet. His entire body ached, both from the beating the guards had given him as well as from the stone floor, but he stood straight and tall and faced the guard down.

“Feeling a bit strong-willed today, are we?” the guard asked, smacking the club against his palm. “I think we can do something about that, if need be.”

“You won’t do anything,” Henrik said quietly. “You’re just a fat coward, stuck down here because you’re not good enough to be with the rest of the soldiers.”

The guard’s eyes bulged and he grabbed at the cell door with one hand and his keys with the other. Henrik’s hand tightened on the dagger. This was his chance.

The keys rattled once, then went back to the guard’s belt. “You ain’t gonna goad me,” he said, giving a greasy smile. “I know your type. You’re planning something, ain’t you? Well, none of that with me. Be glad I don’t get the spear and start poking holes in you.”

“I almost wish you’d try,” Henrik growled. He took another step towards the gate, glaring at the guard, but the guard just laughed and continued down the hallway.

With a muttered curse, Henrik slipped the dagger back into his boot. That dagger had saved his ass on several occasions, and he was never without it. It looked like this time would be different, though. Unless he could use it when the guard tried to bring him topside for his trial. 

Henrik sat back down in the corner of the cell and tried to get comfortable. That was when he would strike. He’d ram that dagger right through the guard’s throat, then take his clothes and sneak out. As long as he was quick, it would work.

Right as Henrik was falling asleep again, voices snapped him awake. These voices were different, though. Not the crude, guttural laughing of the guards, or the wheezing cries of the bruised prisoners. One of the voices actually sounded familiar, although Henrik figured that was just his tiredness making him think that.

“What in the Nine Hells are you doing to these men down here? What a disgrace,” the familiar voice said. 

There was no denying it. That slightly high-pitched, coarse voice. The faint accent caused by an underbite and tusks. Surely, Henrik was going insane. He had heard stories in the past about men losing their minds from lack of sleep and always thought it a fancy, but perhaps now he was experiencing it himself.

An armored guard stepped in front of Henrik’s cell, hand resting on the hilt of his short sword. His mail armor gleamed beneath a yellow and blue tabard that covered his chest. Interestingly enough, those were Duke Ardun’s personal colors. Furthermore, his seal was on the soldier’s chest.

“So, my time has come early,” Henrik said, pushing himself to his feet again. He snatched the hidden dagger out as he straightened up and held it just out of sight. “Ardun wants to see me hang? Let’s get this over with. I haven’t got all day.”

“That’s him,” said the familiar voice again. “I’d recognize his complaining anywhere.” A second man stepped in front of Henrik’s cell.

He was a short man, especially considering his half-human, half-orc heritage. His black hair was braided and hung halfway down his back. The sloping forehead, heavy brow, and heavy jaw of his orc father had been muted by the softer features of his human mother, but there was no hiding what he was, especially with the small tusks that peeked out from his bottom lip. Covering his slender frame were robes, an odd choice of clothing for a citizen of Selfoss, but then again Rasud was no ordinary citizen. The man was anything but ordinary.

“Rasud?” Henrik asked in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The soldier in Ardun’s colors called for the guard to come over and unlock the cell. Henrik stared, barely concealing his shock, as the cell door was pushed open. 

“Well?” Rasud asked, hands on his hips. “Are you coming or not?”

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