The Witch and The Thief

8

A loud metallic shriek of hinges pierced the air, followed by the rasp of footsteps upon stone stairs. Lachlan stiffened, slowly rising to his feet as his hand went to the hilt of his dirk. But the sounds vanished a few moments later without a threat emerging, making him wonder if he'd lost his mind and imagined them in the first place.

He resumed his position on the hard-packed dirt floor, propping his back against the stone wall as he stretched out his legs. How long would he be kept here? He hadn't seen a chamber pot anywhere. Would he be delusional interpreting that kernel of observation into meaning his stay would be short?

Unfortunately, needing to relieve his bladder over the next few hours dashed the theory to bits. At one point, he jolted awake, curled on his side, surprised to find he'd managed to doze off in the first place, especially now that his cell smelled of musty earth and urine. He counted it a blessing he hadn't had much to eat, knowing the smell of excrement added to the mix would have been too much to bear.

His mind wandered from one trivial worry to another, a desperate attempt to distract himself from the dangerous uncertainty awaiting him. He was singing—quite beautifully in his opinion—a somewhat bawdy tune that brought images of Maera to mind when Drummond materialized from the darkness, his back hunched to such a degree he looked nearly doubled over.

The song died a discordant death on Lachlan's tongue. He wondered how long the warlock had been there, watching him.

"Enjoying the performance?" He cheekily murmured, positive his imprisonment had shattered his sanity and conjured the man out of sheer boredom and loneliness. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

Drummond narrowed his eyes and stepped up to the wall of bars, "If only I could." He pursed his lips, then shook his head and clicked his tongue, "What is to be done with you, Shadowblade?"

Lachlan clenched his hands into tight fists at his side. The orb of light intensified, casting the withered old warlock in an unforgiving, pale glow and showcasing every cracked fold of thin skin. "Set me free?"

"I think not," Drummond snapped, his voice taut with barely restrained anger.

Spinning on his heel with a surprising amount of speed and agility for such an old man, he cast a withering glare over his shoulder, "You shall remain here until I decide what your fate shall be."

He disappeared into the darkness, though his slow progress was easily discernible by the rasping of his long robes against the floor.

Lachlan rushed forward and gripped the cold iron bars in his hands, "Any idea how long that might be?"

"Nay," came Drummond's terse reply in the darkness followed a few minutes later by the wailing of hinges and slamming of a door.

Lachlan shook the bars and shouted an expletive. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he walked his cell again, hoping he'd missed something the first fifty times around. He studied every inch of every bar for a flaw. When necessary, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled along the floor. Sweat beaded on his brow, despite the chill in the air. Standing once more after a seventy-fourth and what he vowed would be his final inspection, Lachlan fought the desire to weep.

He buried his face in his hands and leaned against the bars in abject misery. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten for quite some time. Sighing, he sank to the floor and dropped his hands to his side. His situation was hopeless; it would take a miracle to get him out of here. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the bars and drifted off to sleep.

Haggis's purr as he rubbed against Lachlan's chest awoke him sometime later. He looked at the cat in tired confusion, growing even more perplexed when Haggis suddenly jumped from his lap and squeezed through the bars of his prison to disappear in the shadows beyond.