“After dark then,” Aile said.
She dismounted the chariot and sat in the sand to attend to her blades and drink some of the wine she’d bought before. Aside from the occasional smell of her travel companion, the time passed pleasantly. Her mind was alight with the hopes of a good fight. Something substantive, perhaps. A fallen champion reassigned to a far off prison. Anything for a break in what seemed like seasons of monotony.
When the dark had settled in for a few hours, Aile stood. Ilkea came to her.
“We go?”
“I go. You will wait at the gates for me.”
Ilkea nodded and they mounted the chariots. The wind was steady and the Eyes were each slivers in the sky. This would allow them to come closer to the prison without causing alarm.
Aile left her chariot and continued on foot, half-hoping the satyr would draw attention while she approached. Perhaps Ilkea would even be killed. No such luck.
While the keep was sturdy enough to repel a proper frontal attack from a small raiding group, the walls surrounding the gates were craggy and poorly kept. There would be no trouble in climbing them. The state of it spoke to a confidence that there would never be an intruder. In fact, there was fire in only one of the gatehouse towers along the forward wall. There was some hope that the count given by Ilkea could be trusted.
Aile scaled the wall quickly, not wanting to find that there was an unaccounted for outer patrol. When she came to the top, she moved to the unlit side of the gatehouse and listened. A frown came across her face at the sound of light snoring coming from the far side of the walk. So much for champions, she thought.
She huffed and stood, almost annoyed at having hoped for such fun. The Drow walked plainly toward the lit room, making no attempt to hide herself or the sound of her footsteps. The snoring got louder and her annoyance reached a peak as she turned the corner to find her prey asleep in a leaned back chair, feet on a cheap wooden desk.
She walked to the sleeping elf and stared at him, letting the anger bubble inside her. She pulled a straight blade from a sheath at her back and held it steady in front of the elf’s open mouth. She leaned in close, putting a hand behind his head. As her hand came to his head, the guard shifted slightly and sniffed. His mouth closed for a moment and then he went back to his snoring. Aile narrowed her eyes and pushed hard at the back of his head. The elf started awake and made the beginnings of a surprised chirp. The knife found the back of his throat, stopping the air and pushed through to his spine where Aile let it sit.
He first tried to grab her, but Aile stood and backed away patiently. Then his hands came to his head and groped awkwardly at his chin and cheeks before finding the knife. He was coughing under the blade. It made a sort of “kak” sound. There was not much strength to his grip as he tugged at the blade. The first time, it only shifted and the second it pulled free. There was a gush of blood from the back of his throat with the blade gone and in his haste to breathe, he pulled much of it into his lungs. The cough became wet and splattered the floor in front of Aile. The elf fell to his knees, gargling and sputtering and swiping his hands at her legs. He had dropped the knife and it had luckily fallen away from the blood. Aile grabbed it and considered it. With her foot, she pushed the elf over onto his side. He still clutched at his throat, only weakly now and he could not manage a breath.
Kneeling, she put the knife into his belly just a pair of inches and he flinched, kicking his legs helplessly beneath. She slid the blade down and opened his stomach. Such a sweet smell. Aile stood and put her boot to his innards. There was a pleasant softness to them. She had missed her work. The chair sat near enough to the desk now that she would not need to move it to continue her work. She placed a hand against it and the wood began to smoke and soon took to flame. It would draw attention. There were eleven left still.
She could not know how many would be drawn by the fire. There could not be so many outdoors on watch this time of night but it was clear they would be ill prepared for her. She fled inside down the gatehouse steps. She did not know the layout of the place but there seemed to be little to the structure. A pair of wings and the yard which held the satyr. Inside, there was a hall which went off in three directions, only one told her much. It smelled of old piss and decay. The elves did love their cells, she almost laughed. She could swear she caught the faint scent of food from her left. The galley, perhaps. Any who were there would be awake. Awake meant noise and she did not wish to be bothered with that just yet.
The middle, it was. The hall was long enough with scant doorways. She checked the rooms finding only stored armor and other useless things. The end of the hall opened into
