Secret of the Valiant

The Iron Ward

Outside, the air of Biharbor was crisp with moonlit breezes over calm waters, the twinkling lights of the tumbling city trailing down the descent like a waterfall of stars. In Lakehelm, the people minded their own business, keeping their heads down and in hushed tones as they closed up their businesses. Or made their way to dinner somewhere. Or met with an acquaintance or friend or lover on the street for a nighttime rendezvous. On the other side in Antorac, the people called out from tavern windows and rooftops to familiar faces to join them or jeer them. People mingled about the streets in small crowds, laughing or shouting among themselves or to others. The air was sizzling with fragrances of cooking meats and toasted spices, the buildings a messier toss of children's toys down the flight of stairs that was Biharbor's descending streets.

But that was outside. Inside, the Iron Ward was cold and wet and dark. The brisk night breeze was replaced by stale, musty air; the tumbling buildings replaced with orderly, unfeeling stones and stout iron bars. There were no songs or voices or calls to neighbors or even hushed whispers. There was only the occasional, ceaseless drip from somewhere unseen deep within the confines and the silent, stubborn passing of time.

But silence is always broken, this time by a gruff voice within one of the furthest cells sequestered in the corner-most hall on the uppermost floor, as far away from anyone else as could be.

"Is anyone else in here?"

The silence was threatened again by a response, a woman's small, accented voice that replied, "I am here as well."

The owner of the deeper voice stepped forward as far as he could to the front of the cell. Strong, green fingers grasped the bars. He was tall, his shoulders broad, limbs wrapped in corded muscle, with long dark hair that fell in braids behind him just passed the shoulder. White tusks protruded from the bottom lip atop a thick chin-strap beard, accentuating a thick brow folded in consternation over bright, amber eyes. The shoulders bunched with aggravated tension, his face pressed as far as it could to the bars so that his forehead rested against the cool steel.

"Good, at least there's one other person. No offense. Anyone else?"

"Oi," replied a third voice, casting off fully the veil of silence. This voice was was deeper than the one before, accented locally from the poorer side of Lakehelm. The voice stepped forward to the bars as well, leaning against them with exaggerated fatigue. He was a man - a human man - with a tumble of light brown hair tucked under a bandanna. The weak light from the torches that flickered in their sconces revealed a sun-tanned face, half-smiling through a goatee and mustache, dark eyes watching out through the darkness. He wore only a loose shirt that could have white a long time ago, a few belts over dark trousers. A small hint of a tattoo could be seen from under the sleeve of the shirt, with some markings along the fingers as well.

"Three of us then," replied the first voice. "Name's Zhull. Zhull Blackhand. Mind sharing what you got arrested for?"

"Pleasure, Zhull," said the man, "Is that something we should really be discussing in here? The walls have ears."

"Is there anything else to do? Do you at least know why you were arrested? If so, than whoever might be listening already knows too." There was a pause, the man's finger tapping a rhythm into the bars while he thought.

"I'm Allister Stormgale. Man of business, professional gentleman, Captain of the Horizoner. Wrongly accused and arrested for smuggling a few items through the Harbor. Of which there is no proof." Allister made a point to glance about the dim hall, gesturing to the walls around as much as to Zhull, whom he could barely see from his cell. After his speech, he settled back against the far wall where he could still see Zhull. "And you, sir? What foul deed has landed you here?"