“Natty seems to have some sympathy for your people. She could be a way in,” Tygoh murmurs, looking over his shoulder. Drair watches as the general fiddles with the pomace of his sword. His slender fingers rub nervously over the inlaid ruby, stopping when he speaks. He stands outside the cell bars, one hand on his belt and the other gripped around a rusting metal bar that holds her in. She looks up, removed of her eye patch, Lynac apparent to the world. She can see his hazel eyes flicker to the tattoo.

  She hums a low acknowledgement, watching his finger begin moving again.

  The others in the cages next to her are staring at the general as he stands in the aisle. They talk of his dark skin and the sword at his belt. Some curse him for his freedom.

  “Get me something to cover my eye. We’ll need a distraction for the key. That’s the simple part.” Her voice is husky and dark. She licks her lips, cracked from the cold nights. Mountain air breathes through the small opening above her head, too small for escape, but large enough to welcome a breeze. It fails to relieve the stench of feces and sweat.

  Tygoh nods and, without a word, disappears through the double doors at the front of the building.

  A young woman in the cell next to her crawls across the dirt toward Drair. The woman’s husband watches after the general, scowling. She whispers, as if afraid her words will carry to the castle. Drair notices the Lynac mark on her eyebrow.

  “How is he free? Walking around?” the woman says.

  Drair shakes her head. “He is highborn.”

  “Highborn? No Xelinite is highborn.”

  “Highborn Larynthian,” Drair mutters. “But he does not possess the Lynac.”

  The woman stares for a moment before crawling back to her husband. The two had come shortly after Drair, dragged in by their wrists. The man had growled like a beast, thrashing, throwing his fists at the broad-shouldered guard pulling him through the aisle. One of the castle guards, most likely a commander, had come to unlock the cell next to Drair, throwing the couple into the dirt. The commander, she noted, was a short man with slick black hair and a shadow of a beard growing across his pockmarked jawline. Where the others wore a simple tunic with a flared helm, the commander wore a forest green cape, the sigil of Denand painted onto his heavy breastplate.

  Entwining her fingers in her lap and closing her eyes, she listens. Through the upper opening she can hear horse carts and vendors shouting. The building next to the cells seems to be a tavern, full to the brim with discord during the nights. The malty stench of whiskey drafts through the cells, and some of the captives shout for donations when the sun goes down. Natty takes her leave when darkness sets, locking the double doors behind her. At this time, the sound of the tavern overcomes the rest of the noise outside. No matter the ruckus, the city guard seems to avoid the pub.

  She opens her eyes when the double doors swing open. Natty makes her way down the aisle, carrying a bucket of sloshing milk in one hand and a cloth in the other. She stops at a cell across the aisle, three or four down. She dips the cloth in milk and offers it to a girl on the other side of the bars. The girl, caramel skinned and emaciated, is swaddling a tiny infant. She takes the cloth, quickly moving it to the mouth of the infant, begging her to suckle. Natty kneels outside the cell, watching. The infant begins to squall, prompting tears from the mother.

  Drair slides her feet up underneath her, standing. She walks to the bars of the cell and clears her dry throat, calling for the serving girl.

  Natty looks behind her, standing to meet the assassin at her cell. “Whatcha need?” the girl sings.

  “Some water, please,” Drair rasps.

  Natty nods, slipping through the double doors again. She returns moments later, and a bucket full of water, slightly opaque, is set outside the cage. Using a ladle, Natty presses a spoonful of water to the bars. Drair leans in, sipping from the small pool. She swallows, then nods her head.

  “Natty?”

  “Absolutely darling.”

  “I need your help.” She looks into the eyes of the young woman, searching. Her eyes are two different colors.

  “What with?” the girl says, tilting her head. Her dirty blonde hair is falling out of its tight bun.

  “I can see that you care for these people. I also know that this is most likely your only source of income.” Drair lowers her eyes. “I need you to help with a distraction. I’m going to free these people. I don’t know what might greet them across the sea, but it can’t be anything less than death. Can I make you a deal?”

  Natty hesitates, looking around, her eyes scanning for listening ears. “I can’t,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

  Drair nods. “I understand.”

  Natty jumps as Tygoh bursts through the doors, treading down the dirt row, carrying a shallow helm in his left hand. When he reaches her cell, she looks at him, eyebrow raised. He shakes his head.

  “I owed the blacksmith,” he shrugs.

  Drair watches as Natty slips away to retrieve the bucket of milk, disappearing through the doors.

  “It will work. Natty is not on board yet, but I think she will come around. The child, in the cell across the aisle. With the infant. Her baby is not feeding. I do not think it will survive the night. There is a tavern next door, yes?”

  Tygoh nods.

  “The guards leave it well enough alone,” she whispers. “It’s a great way to get through to the castle. The child is most likely to die this evening, and they will need to remove the body.”

  The young general grimaces.

  She looks down. “I know. But it is the only way. When the commander comes to unlock their cell, the mother is bound to fight him. We can swipe the key then, but we need Natty to report a riot at the tavern as this is happening. Hopefully it’s enough to pull the commander away.”

  “A nice distraction to slip through,” he agrees.

  “Leave the helm in the storage room, behind one of the baskets. I will retrieve it when I can.”

  Tygoh nods. “I will stall until nightfall.”

  ________

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  As the sun slides down the western horizon, disappearing over the mountain ridge, Natty arrives to deliver the second meal. Her eyes are puffy and red, glazed with tears. The infant in the cell across the aisle stopped crying hours ago. The wails of her young mother pierce through the silence.

  Natty drops a crust of bread and a boiled egg outside each cell, leaving two or three eggs for the families. She follows up with a single wooden cup of milk, filling it and allowing each cell to partake as she moves down the hall. She stops to kneel at the cell of the young mother, easing herself down to the dirt. She offers a milk-soaked rag through the bars, eyes pleading, but the mother does not acknowledge her, keening into the empty space between them.

  The saloon next door lights up under the darkening sky and several voices can be heard outside the jail. Drair catches one shouting at the building walls, roaring that the “bitch needs to shut her trap”.

  “Please,” Natty begs. It is a whisper. The girl holds her infant close to her breast, her face buried in the swaddling.

  “She is dead,” the girl whimpers between wracking sobs. “She is gone. My baby is gone.”

  Natty drops her head and a sob shakes her shoulders. She pulls the cloth back, dropping it into the bucket of milk and exiting through the double doors, leaving the last few cells without a drink. When she returns a few minutes later, General Tygoh is with her. Her jaw is set, her shoulders pulled back. She marches ahead of the mahogany-haired man, stopping at Drair’s cell.

  “I will help you,” she announces. “These people are me; they are you; they are the Queen in her castle. That little baby,” she holds back a sob, “I could have saved her were she not locked up in this godforsaken tomb. I will help you. What do you need me to do?”

  Drair nods, looking Natty in the eyes. “Go get the commander. The girl’s body will need to be removed. Her unfortunate mother will be in hysterics at the idea, I must warn you. He needs to unlock the cell. Tygoh here will handle the rest.” She shoots a glance in his direction. “Natty, I need you to cause a distraction at the saloon next door. Shouldn’t be hard, but we need to do this without harming the commander.”

  Natty gulps, nodding. “I’ll get the commander,” she repeats, her eyes wide.

  “Thank you, Natty,” Tygoh mumbles, nodding at the young woman. He looks at Drair. “I will wait outside.”

  Minutes later, the sun having dipped below the mountains, the commander arrives. With him, he carries a lamp and a scowl. Drair hears his complaining from down the aisle.

  “Natty, girl, I’m not sure why this needs to be done right this moment.”

  “The infant will begin to rot, sir, if we don’t remove her. I believe she died earlier this morning.”

  “I see,” the older man replies. Drair hears the jingling of keys and a grunt of frustration. She can see his green cloak from her cell and the soft glow of the lamp he carries. “Hold this, girl.” He hands the light to Natty, her shadow sprawling along the ground. He reaches for the lock on the cell door. “Natty, would you mind?” He waves the girl in his direction. The light moves forward, illuminating the cell of the young mother. A loud clank is heard as the lock is removed.

  Drair looks around at the other holdings. Some elderly Xelinites are sleeping, but the young are awake, staring at the commander. The mother of the infant is backed into the corner of her cage, her shadow rocking back and forth in the dirt, clutching her baby’s body. The commander’s bulk approaches her.

  “Hand it over, girl,” he orders.

  Drair hears the girl’s spitting reply. “No.”

  The commander, already impatient with his after-dinner interruption, again commands the girl to let go. A growl not unlike a wild animal seethes from the small dark shadow in the corner of the cell. Natty, watching the young girl, freezes. She is holding the lamp in both hands, staring. From her cell, Drair grits her teeth. Natty should be gone by now, to the tavern. She raps her fingers on the cell bars.

  When the commander tries to reach for the infant, the mother lashes out, smacking his hand away with a loud snap. Natty flinches, shaking her head and looking in Drair’s direction. A flash of shock crosses her face, and she slowly sets the lamp down beside the bars, slipping out the double doors behind her.

  Drair’s exhale is long and shaky.

  In the far cell, the commander of the guard lunges at the figure on the ground, grabbing a wrist. The girl screams. Her hair flies and her teeth flash. A loud curse erupts from the older man, and he jerks his arm away. The young mother flails, spitting a thick, dark substance from her mouth. The man swings, his hand smacking into the girl’s face. She does not stop. She claws her way up off the ground, still holding her baby in one arm. As the commander tries harder to stop her, the girl grows more adamant. Her screaming comes in piercing shrieks.

  Tygoh enters the room from the double doors, bursting in with his hand upon his sword. “My Lord!” he says. “Are you alright in here?”

  Drair chuckles, watching.

  The commander, between heavy breaths and flailing arms, shouts, “You! Hold her down while I take the infant!” In the commotion, he never gives the black-haired man in the doorway a second glance. Tygoh slips into the cell, carefully moving around the tussle. He grabs the keys from the waist of the commander as he works about, stuffing them in his doublet with one hand and snatching the girl’s arm in the other. Their forms struggle in the dark. Smacks and growls come from the tumble. A child in the cell next to theirs begins to cry.

  “She’s a fiery one, eh?” Tygoh grumbles.

  “Indeed,” grunts the commander, dodging another fist.

  From outside comes the hollering of drunken men. A crashing of wood and metal explodes through the openings in the jail walls.

  “Good girl,” Drair whispers.

  The commander, fed up with the young mother’s determination, roars. He backs away, ripping his pristine clock from the clawing hands of the girl, allowing Tygoh to take the brunt of her force. The light from Natty’s abandoned lantern illuminates his face.

  “Handle this!” he bellows, flinging his hand in the general’s direction. “That damn tavern has been a nuisance ever since it opened! I don’t have time for this cunt!” His eyebrows are pulled so far downward that they meet his eyelashes, his face wrinkled like a vulture’s neck. He picks up the lamp and slams the double doors open, disappearing into the night.

  Tygoh curses, speaking to the girl whose fist had just collided with his ribs. “Stop! Stop this! The commander has left! I am not taking your child!”

  The girl, exhausted, rockets her foot in his direction as a feeble last resort. Her foot collides with his groin, bringing the general to his knees with a cry. The girl falls to the ground with a thump, her back landing heavily on the wall of the jail. Her sobs come uncontrolled, and she sucks in sharp, wracking breaths.

  “I am sorry,” Tygoh whispers through his teeth, his eyes closed. “I am so sorry.” He looks up at her, still clutching his lap. Silence follows, save for the heaving sobs coming from the tiny girl on the ground.

  Drair waits, clutching the bars of her cell door.

  “I am sorry you are in here.” Tygoh’s head drops. “I am sorry we destroyed your people, your family.”

  The commotion from the tavern begins to settle following a flurry of angry shouts from the commander. The elderly Xelinites awaken, rising with blinking eyes to peer into the darkness.

  Tygoh murmurs, “I am sorry I did not know sooner.”

  Several moments pass and the girl’s sobs begin to quiet. Tygoh remains kneeling on the ground, his head bowed. His shadow flickers off the walls around them. A soft click comes from behind the double doors, Natty following with another lamp. She smiles, raising the light to her shoulder, her yellowing teeth beaming.

  “It worked!” she whispers excitedly, closing the door behind her. When her eyes meet the two hunched figures in the girl’s cell, her expression melts. “What happened?” she says, frozen in the doorway.

  Drair calls to her from down the aisle, feeling more helpless than ever. “Natty, get General Tygoh up. We need those keys.”

  The serving girl looks at the dark-haired man, not much older than herself, kneeling pitifully upon the floor. She steps gingerly around him and lays a small hand on his shoulder. He jerks as if awakening from sleep. Natty whispers something to him and he produces the keys from his doublet, his hand shaking. She offers her own steady ones, pulling him to his feet.

  “Come on, we need to go,” Drair says, banging her fist on the cell bars. Her chest is burning.

  Natty nods to Tygoh, jogging down the air to unlock the cell door.

  Drair, unfazed, marches to the double doors, bursting through and retrieving the flared helm from the storage room at the front of the building. She slams it over her head, noting the hollow ring that comes with it. Not waiting for the others, she stalks off into the darkness, past the drunken idiots in the street, past the two sleeping gate guards, and enters Silon’s castle doors unannounced.