Sir Baldin Griffith sat in the shadows, his dangerous blue eyes lit only by the occasional glow of his pipe and the dull red moon reflecting off the puddles. It was a dangerous night. That was what the priests said gave the moon its orange hue. Baldin spat at the remembered words. The moon wasn't dangerous, he was dangerous, especially tonight. This was the second time in as many weeks that he'd been forced away from his humid abode in the bowels of the castle, the dungeon, where he had all manner of sights, sounds, pleasantries and warmth to keep him content. In the dark recesses at the foot of the castle, where the walls measured in tens of feet instead of feet'n'inches, and the rats thought they were safe, that was his domain. Not this putrid squalor, not where the rain could reach him, not where the cold seeped into his forty-two-year-old bones through the leather and ring mail he wore beneath a heavy fur. He puffed the pipe slowly, keeping one eye closed to preserve his night vision, the other shimmering blue oval a gateway into the rage and darkness that kept him eager and keen to serve.
Twice he'd heard from Prince Caliban how the Captain of the Guard, Sir Longshanks, had failed to capture the rebels when their spy had given him the precise meeting of the location.
Baldin had laughed at the prince's frustration in the way that only a man who felt assured of keeping his head on his shoulders could. He knew too many of the prince's secrets, too many of the King's, too many of the nobility's secrets, he'd buried their secrets and their bodies, friend and foe alike, and it was well known that he would take those secrets to his own grave when the time came. Though not an early grave, that too became well known when the Baron became too eager to see Baldin reach his grave, to have no worry about his secrets being opened to the public. With the King's approval, of course, the Baron was added to the many skeletons that added girth and weight to the castle's buttresses below the waterline. He had laughed at the prince, but then he'd calmed the frustrated prince, giving him the handle of a trusty cane and pointing him in the direction of a certain cell.
"That whore has asked me, many times, to fuck her instead of cane her already, why don't you see if your practice has finally paid off, prince wolf, she'll be about as easy as a common criminal can be."
The prince had calmed down. His practice had paid off. The whore was fucked and a stream of white mingled with the red rivers running down her inner legs. Baldin had shaken his head about the silly rules that even the most powerful prince, Prince Killian "The Wolf" Caliban, chose to follow. Baldin knew why, laws were what held the Empire together, rules were precise, they were black and white and brooked no disagreement, and while the King and his erstwhile heir could create those laws, mold them and shape them, the nobility thought by having input that they were the real power here. Rules were needed. Laws had to be strict, as a nation of slaver's it was the laws the king made, and the people agreed to that kept everything in balance. But a rule to protect the noble daughters from loosing their innocence when they'd committed a crime had somehow been applied by the plebian lawyers to all people, even whores, cheats, and traitors; rape was a crime, even when done to the lowest scum of the earth.
Another puff of his pipe and Baldin's one eye flickered open, watching the side doors of the packed building, that was how the rebels had escaped the first time. Guards were on every rooftop surrounding the building, that was how the rebels had escaped the second time. The third time… Baldin's nose twitched, his pupils shrunk, the prince had laughed at him after the third time.
-
"The sewers!!!" Prince Killian "The Wolf" Caliban was laughing the moment he stepped into his most loyal servant's humid dungeon, where, as he expected the esteemed Sir Griffith was eagerly working off his frustrations on some poor unfortunate soul. The woman had once been pretty, the prince could tell by the fact that Griffith's skilled hand, wielding a vicious knotted leather whip, had left her face alone. Oh, it was dirty from her time in the cell, sure, rivulets of sweat carried the grime down her face before being strengthen by the tears squeezing free from the corner of her eyes. But there wasn't any blood. Briefly, the prince wondered what such a pretty lass had done to land her in Griffith's care, but before he could ask the gruff guard had snorted and tossed his whip aside.
"The sewers," Griffith had snorted, "Cursed rebels… Whoever they are, they know the city like the back of their hand, and they have many of the locals bought and paid for, more eyes and ears than a damn ballroom!"
For a second the prince reveled in Griffith's frustration, before he realized that this was his problem, even more so than the loyal guards. He'd asked his father's most effective soldier to come up from his comfortable dungeon and aide the prince in solving this… Rebellion. It had grown far too large, too powerful, and caused too many problems for the prince to trust anyone else's hand. For as long as the prince could remember, his father the King Ibis "The Bear" Caliban, had sung Sir Griffith's praises. It was only the growing voice of dissension from the nobility, who felt the guard's tactics too rough and gruesome for their soft eyes and softer hands, that had forced Prince Killian to create a new title and position for the brutally effective soldier. Titled the Guardian of Law & Order, Griffith no longer had to deal with the public when they were free to criticize or observe his methods, he said he liked the warm dungeons, and Prince Killian believed him readily, down here the man's dangerous blue eyes, pale skin, and swollen muscles seemed right at home.
That was why the prince had asked, not commanded, that Griffith aid his guards in seeking out and destroying the rebel leadership.
Killian had thought that with a spy amongst the rebels, it would have been easy, but his guards were used to dealing with beggars, drunks, and slaves scared of their own shadow. They were not soldiers like his father's men.
Sir Griffith had been his father's man, and now was Killian's, and he'd served in the wars that created the empire.
"Ahhh, there we are," Griffith said with a sigh, as he brought a thick candle out of one of the many chests of tools he used for interrogation and punishment. The red wax base was shoved unceremoniously into the woman's mouth, which was being held open by a thick iron ring kept in place by leather than ran around her head, with her hands tied to the ceiling and feet tugged forward and ironed to a peg in the floor, once Griffith lit the candle it would begin dripping the scalding wax up her whip crisscrossed body. The first few drops missed, but the prince grinned at the sound of the first droplet landing on her scarred skin, he watched patiently, waiting for Griffith to gather his thoughts and speak, the man didn't like to be pushed.
While he waited Killian thought back to when the rebellion had committed its first act of treason.
They had broken into and completely robbed empty, one of the wealthier farming Lords grain silos, it had been a bold and well-planned operation. Not a trace of the stolen grain had ever been found, yet there were many, many fewer dead children at the end of winter that year. More embarrassing than any of that though was the fact that it had happened on the one-year anniversary of his marriage to the Princess Marjorie "Marie" Westfall from the neighboring Free Kingdom of Eldoria. After all, the guards were busy protecting his royal family and could not react fast enough to the summons by the noble grain lord. Marjorie hadn't even been upset, even insisting that it was the noble's job to protect their own interests, she wanted everyone in the family to be safe on their anniversary, and each of the subsequent ones the rebels had struck. It was becoming a day that Killian hated. It was a day that made him angrier and angrier, Marjorie still hadn't given him a child yet, and she still acted like the Empire was some sort of barbaric land compared to her own home; turning up her nose at the word slave, freeing as many as she could and insisting Killian paid her servants instead of forcing her to use slaves. She was an idiot at best, Killian had decided, and soon she'd also be useless if she didn't bare him a son. Suddenly thinking about the collective pressure of running a kingdom and trying to birth an heir made Killian sigh, reconsidering his earlier entrance even as the tortured soul let out muffled screams nearby.
"Griffith, we need this finished, that is why I asked you to-"
The eight years his senior raised a bloodied hand, or was it wax? He was the only man, besides the king, who could request the prince be silent in such a way as that.
"Majesty, I'll get'em, we'll have these bastards the next time your spy gives us a chance, and once I get one'o'em in my hands, we'll get the rest… I'm… I apologi-"
"No apology necessary Sir Griffith, I'm sure you will… Now… Has she begged yet?"
-
The sewers. That was how they escaped last time, and for the past week Baldin through the power of the prince's voice had made the castle grounds smell of shit. The sewers, the moat, and the shit ponds were near overflowing with the copious amounts of waste produced by royal and noble assholes. The sewers of the castle connected to the city, but sat higher than the city, and they all ran down to the waterside. Standing in the shadows of the alley Baldin could smell the shit running beneath his feet, the flooding royal excrement filling the already well used pipes beneath the cobbles full to bursting; the rebels wouldn't be escaping that way again. Nor the rooftops, each of the surrounding buildings had his best men perched atop them, archers and crossbowmen. As for the first time the rebels had escaped, simply flooding the streets with random commoners and slipping amongst them, Baldin had used the slaves to form a human wall around the entire city sector, they wouldn't necessarily keep anyone in; the rebels could bribe their way through, but they could keep the commoners out and that was all he needed.
Finally, it was time, guards would go in the front and back doors, bursting inside with their heavy armor and clubs, their orders to hit first and ask questions later, but Baldin knew the smart rebels would find a way out the sides. So that was where he lurked. His trusty bullwhip on one hip, short sword tucked away in the scabbard between his shoulder blades, and on the other hip several sets of well-made bolas, the three heavy balls linked together with strong leather that he'd been refreshing his skills with for the past seven nights. Much to the chagrin of his prisoners, and amusement of the prince. Suddenly there was a loud thud, two actually, as the guards breached the front and back doors, screams, smaller thuds as skulls were cracked by clubs came next, and pretty soon, just as he'd guessed, there was a rattling as the door nearest him began to be cajoled open.
"Come to me, my little Rebel…" Baldin whispered, dumping the ashes of his pipe and storing it in its pouch, then taking a set of the bolas off his waist, he waited silently to see what kind of rebel he'd be the first to catch.
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