FALSE GODS

17 Friendly Neighborhood Assassin

Damon capered down the twenty-foot-high prison compound wall. He had trained himself to scale several times higher obstacles- palisades, enclosures, barricades, and even dams. His usual undertakings required him to sneak into fortified dwellings of wealthy or influential citizens.

There were no guards in the inner courtyard. Perhaps the Vigils believed that no one in his right mind would try to break into a prison. Damon tiptoed around the central edifice and found no means of entry. It had no windows, and the skylight openings were too narrow for him to slide through.

He scampered up the building over the plumbing and reached the edge of the terrace. Two guards were on the watch, their eyes on the Agora enclosure, with their backs to him. Damon leaped over the terrace battlement and removed two fine needles from his belt. The terrace was about fifty feet wide, and he had to sprint towards them undetected. The guards did perceive someone approaching them. But they were too late to react. Damon’s needles had found the back of their necks.

The deadly art of Stylostixis employs the piercing of sharp objects into certain meridians of the body to attain the desired effect. It could paralyze or rejuvenate. To resuscitate or to kill. Damon had learned the art from a mercenary of the outlands.

The two guards collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Damon aided them in finding the floor without creating a disturbance. He retrieved their keys and looked around the terrace for an entrance into the prison.

One of the keys was meant for a locked trap door opening into a staircase that led down into the topmost level.

The prison building had three floors. The third floor housed the offices of the senior Vigils, including the Triplicars. Damon found that the second floor was used for the storage of essential items, evidence and also acted as the armory.

The first floor opened from the entrance, and most of the Vigils were stationed there. It was featureless and poorly lit. The braziers and torches were seldom oiled, in need of maintenance. A depressing atmosphere pervaded inside the prison. From the shadows of the staircase, Damon could count more than a dozen Vigils perched on the first floor. He quietly sneaked down the stairs and found the building had a dungeon, which acted as the enclosure for the jail rooms. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the absence of light, but it was too dark to even see his hands. Damon folded his fingers, and a flaming torch appeared in his grasp.

A long corridor snaked on in front of him, with prison bars on either side. Damon manifested a Vigil’s uniform on himself, with a padded helmet to hide his face. He walked down the corridor, peering into each holding.

The name of the boy he was looking for was Galen. And he rapped on each jail room, calling out the word. The prisoners flinched against the light of the torch, but there was no one yet who responded to him.

One of the convicts was asleep but sleep-talking. He seemed to be having a nightmare. The others shushed him and threw gravel at him.

“It’s a Vigil,” someone said. ”Wake him up, or he will be taken to the pain house.”

What is the painhouse, Damon wondered.

He was almost at the end of the corridor when there was a response to the name Galen.

“I am Galen,” the boy said desperately, trying to rattle the iron bars. “Please let me go. I have done nothing wrong.”

The boy was around twelve years old, his patrician clothes now dirty and tattered. The voice was sweet and effeminate. Spoilt patrician kid, Damon judged.

“I am here to rescue you, boy. Your father sent me.”

Galen backed off from the bars.

“I don’t want to go back to my father.”

“We’ll talk about that later. First, let us get out of here.” He wondered why any sane child would want to stay in prison over returning to his parents. But there was no time for such talk. Any Vigil could wander into the dungeon and catch him red-handed. And he had to come up with a plan now to get the kid out of the prison building.

Damon used the keys he had stolen from the paralyzed guards and set Galen free. The boy could barely walk. The Vigils had starved him over the last two days to break his spirit.

While he led the young convict up the corridor, some of the prisoners pressed their faces against the bars. They were of different ages, from lisping children to rackety old men and women. The faces appeared beaten; their eyes had lost the light. Damon had heard that some prisoners had been kept there for decades to rot. More often than not, they were forgotten, even after their sentences had expired. If there was no one to claim you on the outside, you were likely to be not freed. The magistrate focused more on enhancing his treasury rather than the well-being of the incarcerated.

On reaching the staircase landing, Damon could see that the dungeon went deeper into the ground. Faint voices carried up from the lower level. These were groans of pain and suffering.

“The prisoners call it the painhouse. Vigils take you there if you don’t behave. I think there are instruments for flogging, boiling, and crushing. Occasionally, they bring in a peculiar who has special powers suitable for torture.”

Damon tried to clear his head. He had his own skin to worry about.

On reaching the first floor, Damon puffed up his chest and instructed Galen to play along. The group of Vigils glanced at the duo with suspicion, and their leader jumped to his feet.

“Stop! Where are you taking him?”

“The magistrate has asked for him pronto.”

“We received no such orders from the magistrate’s office-”

“-Apparently,” Damon interrupted him, “his patrician father has agreed to pay ten thousand gold for his return.”

“Ten thousand?” the others muttered. It was a significant sum of gold compared to a Vigil’s wages.

“That being so, but I did not see you come in. Which unit are you from?”

The others nodded and voiced their agreement. They had intercepted no other guard going into the dungeon over the last two hours.

Damon looked at the flagons of wine on the table by the Vigil lounges. “How long have you guards been drinking?” he questioned them, pointing to the glasses and goblets. “Do you want me to tell the magistrate why I was delayed in bringing his precious prisoner to him? I am a duplicar of his personal guard, and he lends me his ear now and then.”

The leader of the Vigils lost his composure. They were clearly inebriated and were planning to drink more over the night. A visit from the magistrate would not be ideal for their immediate or distant future.

“Apologies for our foresight. You may take the prisoner.”

Damon grabbed Galen by the collar, leading him out roughly. The entrance guards were waved off by a Vigil from the office to let the duo out.

As they walked towards the magistrate’s office, Damon led Galen into a crowd of citizens. In the bustle, he magicked fresh, everyday clothes on both of them. While leaving the throng, they appeared to be like father and son, returning home after a pleasant evening stroll.

They exited the Agora quadrangle, and nobody paid any heed.

Once outside, Galen thanked his savior profusely.

“But I do not want to go back to Modo,” he complained. “My father is an evil man. He swindles and kills to grow his wealth. Much like the influential of this city.”

“Then where will you go? You are just a green boy.”

“I am not a boy,” he responded with irritation.

“I am sure you will grow up to be a man someday. But right now, look at yourself. You are a boy.”

“No, I am not a boy. I am a girl!” the child raged.

Damon had not expected that. The child’s hair was cropped close to his scalp. He had delicate features, and Damon had thought perhaps the boy was just pretty to look at.

“I am glad that you told me the truth. It is much more dangerous for you to make it alone in the world. Any miscreant who lays his hand on you will sell you into slavery or, worse, into the brothels. Believe me when I say you will be safe with your father, no matter how evil he is.”

“Take me with you,” the girl declared.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I will go anywhere you go. I will cook your meals and wash your clothes and carry your luggage. I have nothing else to offer as a girl. But when I grow up, you can have me as a lover.”

Damon laughed out loud and continued laughing, resting on his haunches. The little girl was indeed desperate.

“Very well,” he said, changing his mind. “I will take you with me. But I have two more companions. And we are going to begin a perilous journey to Mt. Radomir. Do you think you can survive it?”

“That is welcome news. I always wanted to go on a hero’s journey.”

“It may sound so, but you can’t expect me to risk my life every time you get into trouble.”

“I will serve you, and you can teach me to fight.”

“That can be arranged. Now let us get you some food. Your belly is growling like a beast.”