Donovan had to wait almost two more hours before the chance arose for him to get out of the armory building. When the new guards finally came to replace the previous ones, the four of them stood outside in the yard for a long while, chatting. Donovan darted across the entrance and into the left passageway. When he was sure no one had spotted him, he dashed to a doorway at the end of the long hall, seized the knob, and tried it. To his utter surprise, it turned easily and the door opened.
Donovan found himself standing in the midst of a food storage room. His stomach lurched alarmingly at the sight of dried and salted meat, bins of grain, a basket of some sort of squash that must have come from a recent raid, and—was it really there? A rack of freshly baked flat bread made of coarsely ground flour, probably waiting to be served to the soldiers at the evening meal. It had been many hours since his last meal, and the sight of all this food made him weak with hunger.
Donovan devoured two of the small loaves and stashed two more in the deep, damp pocket of his dark green Ranger tunic, along with several thin slices of smoked wild boar. He chewed on one of these as he inspected the room more closely and decided his next move.
On a wall at the farthest end of the room, he discovered a boarded-up window. Once again, his dagger served duty as a prying tool, and he carefully removed one of the planks, wincing as one of the nails groaned as it pulled loose. He froze, listening tensely for the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, but his luck held and no one came. He peered through the opening and saw that the window faced away from the main courtyard, toward the back of the building. There was no sign of movement and plenty of other buildings close by that he could use for cover.
He quickly removed two more planks from the window and lifted himself onto the ledge. It was a short jump to the ground, then just a few strides to the back of the building and an alleyway that led away from the armory. Moving cautiously and silently, he headed down the alley and past several small buildings.
He soon came upon a side room with an opened door. Donovan peeked around the door frame and saw an old woman washing laundry. He walked into the room and closed the door behind him. The old woman stopped her work and turned to face him.
“Who are you?” she asked, staring at him curiously. Her lack of fear surprised him.
“I am a friend,” he answered in a reassuring tone. “I mean you no harm. I’ve only come seeking clothing to wear.”
The old woman regarded his Ranger attire and nodded slowly. She looked him in the eye for a long moment, then shrugged and said, “Take your pick. There are plenty of uniforms here that would fit you.” She rummaged through a heap of dirty clothes that she had been about to wash and pulled out a pair of leather pants and a black wool shirt—the clothing Donovan had seen the soldiers wearing.
Donovan took the clothing and, turning his back to the old woman with a sheepish smile, he quickly shed his Ranger clothing and changed into the new outfit. He transferred the stolen food to the new clothes and made sure his knife was secure and hidden behind his back.
He turned back to the woman. “I would ask that you not speak of what happened here,” he said, his voice carrying both plea and warning.
The old woman shrugged again and nodded without looking up. “It’s not my affair who you are and what you’re up to.”
He stood watching her for a long moment as she bent over her back-breaking work. He knew he could trust her. He removed his leaf-shaped, golden pendant from his discarded cloak and placed it in the old woman’s work-worn hands.
“Thank you for your help,” he said softly.
The woman looked at the gift in her hand and then up at him. Her shocked expression soon gave way to a broad, toothless smile, and Donovan smiled back, positive that he had ensured her silence.
He strode out of the door and followed the alley until it met the inner perimeter of the wall. He casually climbed one of the platforms, as though he belonged there amongst the enemy soldiers. From the platform, he could see the layout of the camp. The largest building, which he assumed was the main facility, lay almost dead center and not far from where he stood. He climbed back down and walked nonchalantly in that direction. He passed a few guards on the way to the main facility, but no one seemed to notice or care that they didn’t recognize him.
When Donovan reached the main facility, he made his way to the back of the building and slipped through a doorway without being seen. Immediately inside the door, to the right, was a narrow stairway leading down to another door. Donovan headed down the stairs and tried the latch but found it was locked, so he took out his dagger and slid it into the space where the door met the wall. He slid his blade all the way in and began lifting upwards and soon felt the dagger catch hold of a piece of wood that was placed behind the door frame. He lifted the wood until it leaned off his blade and fell to the floor.
Donovan opened the door and found that he was in a storage facility of some sort. Wooden barrels were stacked on top of each other, and the strong smell of alcohol filled the dark space. At the other side of the room, Donovan noticed another set of stairs leading up. He closed the door and replaced the wooden latch before making his way, blindly, toward the other staircase.
He followed the stairs up, opened the door to take a quick look around and saw that the door came out onto a hallway with several other doors leading off of it. These doors were solid except for a narrow flap at the bottom, and each bore heavy hinges and locks. A prison? Donovan wondered. This could be it. With some kind of luck, he may have found exactly what he was looking for.
Donovan headed back down the stairs and into the storage room again. This would be a perfect place to hide until nightfall. He moved a few of the barrels around to make a well-hidden space, then settled himself with his back against a wall. Fatigue overtook him quickly. He thought about pulling a morsel of the stolen food from his pocket, but sleep was pulling him away before he could make his hands move. He had been trained all of his life to rest when and where he could, no matter how uncomfortable, and this was as good a place as any. Within minutes, he was out!
Donovan wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when the sounds of someone moving one of the alcohol barrels woke him. He instinctively reached for his dagger, but the soldier was on the far side of the room and completely unaware of his presence, so Donovan waited, still as a mouse, until the man had rolled the barrel out and closed the door again. Was it suppertime or was the barrel meant for late night carousers? he wondered. With no windows, it was impossible to guess. Still, people were out and about, so it wasn’t time to make a move yet.
Donovan stretched his arms and legs and pulled a strip of cured meat from his pocket. He chewed slowly, savoring the smoky flavor and thinking about the hearty meals Alayna had always managed to supply her army of growing boys. They had worked hard for every meal, but they had, somehow, never gone hungry. He raised his strip of meat skyward, as though giving a toast, and whispered, “Thank you, Alayna. There will be justice. I promise!”
For the next few hours, Donovan drifted in and out of a dreamless sleep. The scurrying and gnawing sounds of mice woke him off and on, but a stomp of his foot sent them back to their hiding places. There were no further visits from the soldiers.
The early morning hours had settled over the encampment by the time Donovan finally stood and stretched his stiff muscles and moved toward the staircase again. He eased the door open, alert to any sounds, and slipped into the hallway, Elven dagger in hand.
Walking as quietly as possible, he checked each door and was surprised to find them all unlocked. The rooms were empty.
He came to an intersection where the main hallway crossed the hallway he was in. He stopped and looked left and then right. A snoring guard leaned against the wall to the right. Donovan crossed the intersection, keeping a close eye on the sleeping guard, and followed the hallway further, testing doorways as he went.
Near the end of the hall, he came upon another set of stairs leading up. At the top, he found himself in yet another hallway, and another intersection. The hallway to the left was dimly lit by torchlight, and when he peered around the corner, he saw a guard sitting before a large, sturdy doorway. The guard was struggling to stay awake, his head nodding occasionally before snapping up again. There would be no sneaking past this one! Donovan decided that a direct approach would be a better option this time.
Donovan strolled into the hallway as though he was supposed to be there and walked straight toward the guard. The guard stood immediately and Donovan began to whistle and smile to ease the man’s wariness. The guard did not smile back.
“State your business,” he demanded. “No one is allowed near the prisoner.”
Donovan walked right up to the guard, smiling. He knew he had found the right place. “I’m supposed to be here, friend,” he said, a trace of humor in his tone.
The guard put a hand on the hilt of his long sword. “I have orders saying that no one is to come near the prisoner’s room without direct orders from Garock.”
Donovan placed his left hand over the guard’s sword hand and pulled out his Elven dagger with his right. “I don’t take orders from Garock,” he growled before slicing into the guard’s throat. He caught the guard and propped him against the wall, on the stool. He unbuckled the belt that held the guard’s long sword and strapped it around his own waist, then grabbed the keys and blew out the torch. He hesitated outside the door for just a moment. He knew how to deal with guards and soldiers. A frightened woman might prove to be considerably more challenging! He slowly turned the key in the lock, opened the door and walked inside.
The click of the lock awoke Brandela, and she was on her feet immediately, wary that the guard who brought her food twice a day had come for an unscheduled visit. He had never come this late at night before. She noticed the unusual lack of torchlight and began to think that her fears of the ugly man were justified. It seemed he was going to take what he wanted, as she had suspected he would eventually try.
Brandela frantically felt around for some sort of weapon she could use against him. All she could find was her bowl. She grabbed it and crouched in the corner. The door opened and the black silhouette of a large man filled the doorway. She wondered if she could somehow run past him before he noticed her. She was trembling so hard she wasn’t sure if she could run at all.
Then a voice came through the darkness, low and surprisingly gentle. Brandela felt herself calming as the voice washed over her. The voice seemed to caress some part inside of her and she welcomed its embrace. A shiver ran up her spine and her heart and breath sped up. The reaction surprised and confused Brandela. She had never felt that way before. This was not the ugly guard, but some other force to be reckoned with. She pressed deeper into her corner, silent and wary.