Remnant of Power

Chapter Eleven

Timod

Timod Guthry stared at the three new prisoners dumped into his cell a few hours ago. There were others as well, he could see them in the cells across the central antechamber. Most of them were pretty unremarkable, except they all seemed young this time. As usual they'd all been furious when they'd been thrown into the dark, stinking warren of cells that was His Majesty King Ulric's prison. They'd thumped the wall, shouted at the guards, come out with a barrage of the worst swear words Timod had ever heard, then a few of them had started to sob. But one of them had come in quietly, sat down in the corner near the tiny window, and stretched out his long legs. He'd not said anything, kept his eyes closed most of the time, except for a few periods of staring at the floor, and the only thing of note about him was his strange habit of pulling on a scarf that he wore round his neck. Even if he'd behaved the same as the other prisoners Timod would probably have still stared at him. He was big, with light brown hair, and very handsome.

Most of the prisoners that had been brought in recently had been brought in for trying to escape from digging or protesting about it. But these new prisoners didn't look like they'd been doing any digging. They were clean and well-fed.

Timod's mouth had been watering for about an hour. He was starving, and desperately waiting for his meal. It was the second and final meal of the day, thin gruel with overcooked vegetables and whatever grain the prisoner bursar got cheapest, sometimes oats, sometimes barley. It was never enough. Timod had lost half his body weight in the three weeks since he'd been taken from his town. The men talked amongst themselves while there was no sign of the wardens, but they took it in turns to lie next to the bars and keep a watch down the corridor. If they caught you talking it was half rations. Half portions. Full portions. That was a joke. His joints stood out like conkers on a string.

He knew that he should think himself lucky, really lucky to be alive. It was only because his grandfather-in-law had begged the King for mercy that he hadn't been hanged, like the other men from his town who fought against the soldiers.

Until three weeks ago, Timod Guthry had been Sheriff Timod Guthry of Winterbridge. Winterbridge was a large town and he was well known locally. Timod Guthry; a fair man, an honest man. Loyal to his King. Honest with his tax collecting. Grandson-in-law of Thane Ralby. But that hadn't helped him at all when he'd chosen to question the soldiers about why they'd come to Winterbridge to take men to dig in chains for the King. He'd seen men digging in the fields all around. Why were they being taken against their will, and why were the men who were digging already wearing chains on their ankles and taken far away from their families? And what were they even digging for? No one seemed to know. When the men of the town had banded together to protest against the unfairness and refused to let anyone be taken by the soldiers, the bastards'd just sent for reinforcements. So many soldiers came that more than half the men of Winterbridge had been taken or killed. His own father had been one of them. Killed with three other men, in front of him. Timod was only grateful his mother had passed away in her sleep three years before, and hadn't seen her husband killed. He'd hate the King forever for what he'd done. If there was ever any chance of revenge he'd take it without thinking.

Timod had been taken to a field, shackled to another man called Bertrand and told to dig. When he'd come up with a plan to escape and he and Bert had attacked a soldier he'd been slung in heavier chains and brought here. He didn't know what had happened to Bert. He thought he was probably dead.

Timod was a clever man, he knew that. He'd built up a successful milling business from nothing, he'd schemed and plotted to marry the daughter of a local Thane, and then he'd schemed and plotted some more till he was elected Sheriff. When his brain gave him a respite from the constant fear that the soldiers had killed his family, he examined every possible way there might be of escaping. But so far, he'd not come up with any sort of plan at all for escape. There seemed to be no hope. Too many soldiers, all in fear of their superiors, all the men shackled together, no weapons, constantly watched; no hope.

If he woke up, sore in the night from the heavy metal cutting into his ankles, he tried to ignore the dark whispers that told him the other men had been killed. He had to ignore those whispers, because some nights they told him that his wife and children had been killed as well.

**

When the wardens came to hand out the gruel Timod got up to help. Of course, that meant his friend Reban had to get up too. the dark-skinned man with a bald head, whose ankles were shackled to Timod's. They'd got to know each other quite well in the three weeks they'd been fettered together. Reban was a tavern landlord, in prison for beating up one of the King's guards who'd picked a fight with his barman. When he sat down again he pushed in between a couple older men to sit next to the light-haired handsome man. The handsome man ignored him.

Timod looked at the bowl of gruel he'd saved for himself. It was only half full. It looked like now there were more prisoners, there was less food to go around.

"Bastards," he whispered in the quietest possible voice, without moving his lips. He lifted the bowl to his lips and began to swallow it down.

"Better not let them hear you say that," muttered Reban. "I don't want to find myself shackled to a corpse."

"Well, if I was shackled to a corpse," whispered Timod, giving Reban a sideways look as he licked his lips, not wanting to waste any of the food., "I probably wouldn't notice any difference, all the company you are." They didn't usually risk a joke, but tonight Timod was so hungry he felt hysteria grip him. And it would probably be more comfortable being shackled to a corpse, he thought to himself. Reban was a big man, almost a foot taller than Timod, whose fair-haired head only came up to just below Reban's shoulder, and it was difficult trying to arrange their legs so the iron band didn't pull on his foot.

Reban took a mouthful of his own gruel.

"On the bright side though, Timod, if I was shackled to a corpse, no doubt it would smell better than you."

"Oy, you pair." A warden shouted. Timod gritted his teeth. They'd been heard talking. Shit, that would teach him to make jokes. He'd better just accept his lot - misery. He'd been so hungry lately he couldn't even be bothered with thinking about his usual plans for escape.

"Half rations next meal."

Timod finished his gruel and slumped against the wall. Reban looked like he was already asleep, his long legs were stretched out and the iron band was pulling against Timod's foot.

Well, if he was getting half rations anyway, he could risk asking the new prisoners a question.

"What are you in here for?" He poked the handsome young man.

The young man jumped, flicked his eyes open. He looked at Timod, eyed him up and down, then glanced quickly around the cell. Timod could almost see his brain ticking as he wondered whether to answer or not.

"The King is looking for his missing nephew who's run away. They collected all the young men who came into the city for the market today and brought them here."

"Why would he risk putting his nephew in jail?"

The young man shrugged. "The only reason I'm here is because it was my bad luck to come to market." He scanned the cell again. "How long have you all been here?"

"Me, three weeks. The rest of them, up to seventeen years. They don't let anyone out. They just keep building more cells. Every so often they take a few of them out, but we don't think it's to set them free."

The young man paled. "Has anyone ever escaped."

Timod had asked the same question the first day he'd been here. He shook his head. "Not in nearly twenty years."

The young man studied him, his face blank. "Well I'm not staying here for twenty years."

Timod met his gaze. "Well, make yourself useful then. Think of a way to get us out of here." He stared at the young man, wondering what it was safe to say to him. Hunger made him light-headed and he decided to take a chance. "And then, when you've thought of that, think of how we can kill the King."