Myths of Ixonia: The Dwarf King's Gaol
The Myths of Ixonia Collection
Deep below the city of Torkatoth was a gaol. A small gaol home to the scant few prisoners foolish enough to get caught in the Wandering City of Torkatoth. One of them was Micah, a burglar, pickpocket, pilferer and all round professional thief; a profession like any other he insisted. For thieving requires skill, luck, daring, charm, team work, motivation, and all that other stuff Dwarves ask for when wanting to join a company of theirs.
Micah sat in a dimly lit cell situated against the wall of a large room. This room was his life. Cells ring three walls a communal area used mainly for meals in the middle with one door in and out locked at all times. Naturally. On feast days the guards are generous enough to allow the prisoners time out of the cells other than for meals. Micah has not been in Torkatoth goal long enough to experience such a kind gesture. The professional thief is happy enough that his cell is dry, that there is no smell of mould, and that he only has one neighbour, Phil.
Phil, the man who fudged his ledgers and claims he didn’t do it. They all claim they didn’t do it, makes no difference when you’re in gaol. You might as well have done it if you made it that far. He speaks fondly of his wife, most of the time, and spends, in Micah’s estimation, too much time imagining the how and why of winding up in gaol. For Micah the reality is more pressing, the reality is he needs to escape.
Micah leant against the bars of his cell and the neighbouring empty cell to his right. Candles flickered on the tables in the centre of the room. A lone guard stands at the door armed with a sword. Micah stands twice the height of the guard but only has half the Dwarf’s strength. A thief must be nimble, leaving them open to being knocked out in one solid Dwarven punch to the jaw. And besides there are no keys on this guard, they are held by a different guard, depending on the day, called Therodore. A friendly dwarf in service to High King Elbar XIII.
Micah chewed his lip waiting for his next meal mindlessly playing with a chunk of loose tile near the back wall of his cell. Wondering where in the city he could be, under which tower, guard house, or even bank. Micah snorted, Dwarves wouldn’t sully a bank with prisoners, he nods to one side, though they might do it just to spite us. Nah… they’d have put a window to the vault. Not underneath a bank. Micah dreamt of one thing. Freedom and revenge. Technically two things but he knew that one led to the other and so revenge was best left till after the freedom. And what professional thief worth their salt couldn’t break out of gaol? Well he wouldn’t be professional, merely amateur, a hobbyist thief. Micah shook his head, who ever heard of a hobbyist thief. All Micah had to do was bide his time, wait for Therodore to be distracted and voila, a set of keys are formally Therodore’s.
One door. Therodore, a little tipsy after a few too many pints before duty told Micah, that it led to a corridor. On one side is the guard’s break room and offices, on the other a kitchen. At the end of the corridor are two staircases, one going up, one going down. Micah pressed for more but Thero refused, burped, and stumbled out complaining of stomach cramps. Up, has to be up to the surface. What was further below intrigued Micah but he knew it wouldn’t lead to freedom, and thus he would never reach revenge; the second part of his dream.
Keys rattled on the other side of the door. The guard in the common area jumped to attention, drool glistening down his scraggy red-brown beard. Therodore, Thero to his friends, walked in with two more guards in the red and blue uniforms of the Torkatoth city guard. Two cooks followed pulling a trolley laden with a large vat of steaming porridge and a dozen bowls and spoons.
‘Up, up, up. Breakfast time,’ Thero whacked his fist against the bars of an empty cell. The sound ricocheted around the room unearthing the groggy thieves, murderers, and fraudsters that made up The Wandering City’s small but illustrious prison population.
‘What time is it?’ Asked an old man in a cell opposite. Micah hadn’t bothered to learn his name. He had only learnt Phil’s to tell him to shut up when he rambled on late at night.
‘I just said,’ Thero slapped the bars again, ‘BREAKFAST TIME!’
Micah jumped to his feet at the sound of rattling keys. Thero greeted him and opened his cell. Micah stepped out and took his customary place on the table nearest the door and sat facing the door out of the gaol. A bowl was thrown to him, he caught it with one hand. Nimble, agile, deft, he told himself, all the skills a professional thief needs. A ladle of porridge was poured into his bowl by the female cook, a little plump and always cheery. Her smile warmed Micah as much as the porridge.
Eating his porridge he listened to the other prisoners exit their cells and take their seats. A thankful lack of commotion. No one’s blood sprayed across the floor and no need for the guards to draw swords. Though that was rare, fists were usually enough for the non-Dwarven prisoners. Thero walked by, a large silver ring hanging from his belt and at the end of it a plethora of keys. Micah stared remembering the shape of the one for his cell and the one for the door. He picked them out from the bunch, shinier than the others.
‘Like the look of something, Micah?’ Thero laughed and plodded over, hand resting on the hilt of his sword almost as long as the Dwarf was tall.
Micah pretended to be staring into nothing and said, ‘Oh just lost in the taste of this delicious porridge, Thero.’
Therodore laughed, ‘Same porridge as every other day,’ and carried on his circling of the room keeping eye on each of the prisoners.
One day. One day, Micah told himself. One day he would have those keys and in less than one hundred steps he’d be a free man.
Micah sat on the cold floor of his cell doing the same thing he did every night, listening to Phil prattle on about some nonsense. Tonight was a repeat of How could I not have seen it? Micah regarded it as a classic and would gladly drift off to sleep listening.
‘I just don’t get it, you know. Fifteen years of marriage, two kids, a pub, love and trust. How’d it end up like this?’ Phil lamented.
‘I know right. Always seems you could have avoided getting caught but here you are. Found out, exposed, and thrown in a cell for it,’ Micah said.
‘Not that. How could she betray me? Lie and send me to rot in this cell!’
A man in a cell thrice over from Micah’s shushed Phil.
‘Sorry,’ Phil whispered.
‘Everyone saves their own skin in the end. How do you think I ended up here? Crew abandoned me at the last moment. They escaped with the gold and I wound up in the High King’s gaol. Life ain’t fair and thieves throw each other under the cart all the time, why I never work a crew and the one time I do I end up behind bars,’ Micah shrugged. ‘That’s life.’
‘I wonder what she and the kids are doing now?’
‘Best not go there, Phil,’ she’s probably sleeping with some other guy while your kids stay at their grandmothers.
‘Yeah. You’re right. You know how many years I got?’
Yes, you tell me twice a week, ‘No, how many?’
‘Twelve years. Dwarves take their ledgers damn serious,’ Phil said.
‘Well you are a human in a Dwarven city.’
‘You think that had something to do with it?’
‘Well… I wouldn’t say it had nothing to do with it.’
‘Those bastards,’ Phil balled his fists and struck the bars. ‘They better be kinder to the kids!’
‘Would you shut up about your whoresons,’ a man on the opposite side of the gaol shouted over.
‘What did you say?’ Phil jumped to his feet and pressed himself against the bars, ‘Say that at breakfast and we’ll see how quick you cave.’
Slow to anger, good in fight. Good barkeep imagine, maybe worth freeing too… could use… no. No crew, Micah thought.
Phil banged on the bars.
Keys rattled in the door and Thero stormed in straight for Phil, ‘Listen here you big dolt. Get some rest like the others and stop pissing us off.’ Therodore stood in front of Micah’s cell facing Phil, his right hip to Micah… keys dangling from his belt.
Micah looked to his left with one eye closed. Phil you beautiful man. Micah edged a little closer to the door of his cell, his left hand resting half way up an iron bar.
‘You didn’t hear what he said about my wife, my kids, Therodore!’
‘I don’t care,’ the Dwarf shot back, the scent of ale wafting from his mouth. ‘Shut up and sleep or I’ll come in there and put you to sleep.’
‘Go and put that arsehole to sleep, not me! He started it!’
Micah reached through the bars. The silver keyring inches from his fingers.
‘One more word and you’ll feel my fist. Fancy losing some teeth tonight, Phil? Do ya’?’ Thero stepped closer to Phil’s cell, and nearer to Micah’s hand.
Micah looped his index finger round the keyring, pulled the string tying it to Thero’s belt and the keys fell into Micah hand without as much as a tinkle. Micah drew his hand through the bars and under his leg in a smooth, swift movement.
Phil grunted and sat back down against the wall.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Thero said and stalked back out to the corridor, without closing it.
For a moment Micah thought his luck had doubled, but before he could celebrate another guard, whose name he didn’t know, closed and locked the door behind Therodore. Well one thing at a time, he thought as he slipped the keys underneath the loose corner of tile at the back of his cell.
The porridge tasted extra sweet the morning after. Micah didn’t know if it was the cook adding more sugar than intended or the thought of those shining silver keys underneath a tile in his cell. He ate with a smile on his face.
Thero appeared, late, face grey as the mountain and a few new white hairs in his beard, ‘Nothing for you to stare at this morning,’ he patted his hip, ‘don’t suppose you’ve seen anything?’
‘Huh?’ Micah held the spoon close to lips, porridge dripping off the sides, ‘Not a thing, Thero. Just enjoying my porridge.’
Therodore laughed, ‘Same porridge as yesterday, Micah.’
Yesterday’s porridge was gruel, today’s should be served to the High King, Micah sniffed the sweet stodgy beige soup and smiled.
‘I used to have this regular. Claimed to be an old warrior from the mountains. I asked him how’d end up here of all places, and you know what he said? You know what he said?’ Phil tapped the bars between his and Micah’s cells.
‘What?’ Micah watched the guard stationed in the common area knock on the door and be let out.
‘Chance. I said, how does one end up on Torktoth by chance. Pretty hard place to find let alone enter,’ Phil laughed.
The door clicked shut behind the guard. Keys turned in the lock but no one came to replace him. Micah listened to the footsteps behind the door.
‘He just shrugged and said that any Dwarven king was honour bound to pay a warriors pension so long as he could prove service. The King’s paper pushers would sort out the rest. Imagine choosing to spend your retirement on Torkatoth.’
‘Well it is one way to see the world from the comfort of your own home. Now be quiet for just a minute, Phil,’ Micah hushed him.
‘Huh?’
‘Shh,’ Micah pressed his head to the bars and listened as hard as he could. Closing his eyes helped. He could the cooks pounding dough for the night’s meal of stew and bread. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing fainter and fainter. Then… nothing.
‘Anyway, this ol’ Dwarf just drank day in day out telling war stories from before my time. Some sounded like before my father’s time,’ Phil chuckled. ‘Never knew a Dwarf could get so old.’
‘Phil… shut up,’ Micah pierced the middle-aged man with a stare.
He grumbled but stayed silent, chewing his tongue in an effort to keep it still.
Micah listened. Listened and listened.
Nothing.
The professional thief made for the keys underneath the tile and in a blink had unlocked the door to his cell.
‘Wha’?’ Phil said jaw slackened.
‘Shh,’ Micah pressed his finger to his lips and in five steps was at the door out to the corridor. This is it. This is it. He found the key to the door, rounded head with a three pronged mechanism and slotted it in the door. He waited for a response on the other side and was ready to dart back into his cell.
‘Hey. Take us with you!’ Someone whispered to Micah, face pressed to the bars.
‘Yeah, don’t leave us here. You’ll need help out there, all them guards and what not,’ another said.
‘Don’t curse us with Phil’s barkeep stories. Please,’ a third said, no longer whispering.
‘Shh!’ Micah hissed and stared at the key in the lock, knuckles white. He turned the key and felt the lock slip free. In one movement he was in the corridor. An empty corridor. This is it. One guard misses a shift and the whole place falls apart. Dwarves, Micah shook his head as he ran down the corridor. He passed the kitchens on his right, the smell of fresh bread making his mouth water, and then beyond the guard’s break room, the door closed.
Micah skidded to a halt. It was as Thero had said. One staircase down, on his left, and one up, to his right. Oil burners flickered and filled the corridor with a faint scent of geranium. There was a breeze brushing Micah’s right cheek. It has to be up. I am in a basement. He sprinted up the stairs and tried the door at the top. Locked. Damn it, he flicked through the keys trying each one in the door in sequence.
Footsteps echoed up the staircase heading deeper down. Torch light licked the walls. Micah was half way through the set of keys, why is there so many on this ring? He cursed Thero as he tried another.
‘Look, Thero, you’ll find them. No need to tell the boss yet. Give it a day or two,’ conversation echoed from below.
‘You’re right. I just need to retrace my steps from that night shift and I’ll find them.’
‘Exactly.’
Micah’s palms were damp with sweat. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered to himself. The keys slipped from his hands and rang against the stone floor.
‘What was that?’ Thero barked. The Dwarves began to run, their boots thudding on the staircase.
Micah found his place on the keyring and tried the next one. The key slipped into the lock and turned. This is it! He bolted through the door, shutting it behind him and sprinted down the next corridor. There were no sconces, no doorways, just light at the end. Daylight.
The door behind him burst open, ‘Hey! Stop! I’m going to gut you if you don’t give me back them keys!’ Thero shouted after Micah.
Micah ran towards the light and slowed at the exit. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, tender and loving. The wind brushed against his skin and for the first time in forever the air smelt clean and fresh. He turned to see Thero run, his stocky body struggling to pick up speed.
‘Listen here you runt, drop the keys and get on the ground!’ Thero shouted.
Micah turned and went to run off into the street. He screamed and almost fell off the edge of a cliff. Green plains stretched far as he could see, miles below him. He looked to his right, then to his left. Shell. I am in Torkatoth’s shell. Lower levels. Far in the distance a massive tortoise leg rose to take a step.
‘Found my keys,’ Therodore shouted snatching the keys out of Micah’s hand.
‘But… I made it out,’ Micah stared at the snow capped mountains on the horizon.
Thero spun him round grabbed him by the arm and shoved him down the corridor, ‘No one makes it out, Micah. Not of this gaol. You’ll die in that cell, Micah, for stealing the King’s gold. Some days I think execution was the merciful option for fools like you but King Elbar thought it barbarous and unbecoming of Dwarves,’ Thero laughed.
‘But I was out…’ Micah allowed himself to be led back into the darkness, back beneath the Wandering City of Torkatoth.
The Myths of Ixonia Collection
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