Escape from Undermountain - Mark Anthony [9]
Artek knew this was his chance. Surely saving a countess would win him a pardon for his past crimes, and prove himself reformed. He moved swiftly through the shadows, drawing a dagger from each of his boots. The man who held the horses was dead before he even felt the knife slip between his ribs, piercing his heart. The second looked up and managed to let out a cry of surprise before he was silenced by a knife in his throat.
Kneeling, Artek retrieved the jewels from the dead thief's grip, then stood to hand them back to the countess. Then matters took an unexpected turn. The countess screamed. Artek tried to explain that he was returning her jewels, but she just continued to cry for help. Growing angry, he thrust the rings toward her, but she beat them away with wildly flapping hands, her shrieks rising shrilly on the night air. Too late, he realized his own peril.
Whirling around, he saw torchlight approaching rapidly from either direction, and heard the sound of booted feet. Before he could act, a patrol of the City Watch appeared in the archway, while another rounded the corner. In seconds a dozen watchmen surrounded him, swords drawn. A cold knot of fear tied itself in his stomach as he became aware of the jewels he still gripped in his sweating hands.
"It wasn't me," he said hoarsely.
The watchmen only grinned fiercely as they closed in.
Remember that every prison is merely a puzzle, and each has its own solution. To escape, all you must do is discover the answer that is already there. And while your face may be that of a man, never forget that the blood of the Garug-Mal runs in your veins. Ever have the orc-kindred of the Graypeak
Mountains dwelled deep in lightless places. You have nothing to fear from the dark, Artek. For the dark is in you, my son…
With a clinking of heavy chains, Artek Ar'talen shifted his body on the cold stone floor, trying to ease the chafing of the iron shackles where they dug painfully into his ankles and wrists. As always, the effort was futile. He stared into the impenetrable dark that filled the tiny cell. Once a thief, always a thief. That was what the Magisters had said just before they sentenced him to spend the rest of his life in prison. On that day, Artek had finally realized that it was impossible to change. He would be whatever others thought him to be.
Artek was not certain how long he had been in this place. Clay cups of foul water and bowls of maggoty gruel came rarely and at uneven intervals through a slit in the opposite wall, and could not be used to mark time reliably. Certainly it had been months, perhaps as many as six. In that time, he had explored the cell as far as his chains allowed, recalling everything about prisons his father had taught him as a child, but he found no hope. The walls and floors were made of flawless stone without crack or crevice, as if forged by sorcery rather than hewn by hand. Nor had his father's tricks worked upon the shackles, or the bolts that bound the chains to the wall.
"I remember your words, Father," he whispered through cracked lips. "And damn your wretched half-orc soul to the Abyss, for they have failed me now."
With a groan, he slumped back against the wall. His father had been right about one thing-the dark was in him. And in the dark he would die.
It might have been minutes later-or perhaps hours, or even days-when a metallic noise ground on the dank air of the cell. Artek cracked his eyes. Chains jingling, he stiffly sat up. Had the guards finally brought