The Legend Of Black Eyes 220 Fort Mercer

Deep under Fort Mercer, there was an old dungeon built to keep political prisoners. The entire fortress was built for the purpose of a war that broke long ago between Biarkh and Aslanor. During that time, kings ruled by fear and torture. Those who spoke against them met the worst fates.

After Theolonius Stalwart intervened to stop the war that ravaged both lands for years on end, the new king of Biarkh gifted him some lands and an honorary t.i.tle. One of the lands Stalwart won was near Merinsk, precisely where Fort Mercer was built.

Two miles south of the Fort, there was a small village of eight hundred inhabitants. They were all serfs following their lord's every command. Stalwart had made sure to keep them well fed and loyal. No living soul in the village would speak a word of what happens in the fort, not that they were afraid, but because Stalwart had been a good and generous lord to them.

The fort was also kept in pristine conditions. Stalwart considered it as a strategic place to conduct underworld related business. Its gray walls towered over the small wooden houses of the village. Acres upon acres of agricultural lands, where farmers spent most of their days, surrounded the fortress.

There were only two ways to enter Fort Mercer, either through the portcullis, heavily guarded by Stalwart's men, or through a sliding tunnel through which garbage and corpses were disposed of.  

The tunnel was connected to a floor above the dungeons through a trap door. Osgar, the ghost captain, was imprisoned right beneath the hallway that led to said trap door. The cell he was being held at was no bigger than a dog's kennel. He was lying on the cold stone floor, curled up in a ball in order to fit in.

Next to him, there was an old man who could barely move, let alone speak. They had just brought him in that morning. He seemed downcast, almost ready to die. Osgar didn't know what the old man had done to upset Hartwell, his captor, but he understood that n.o.body could escape his ire.

"Psst," he heard from two cells to his right.

The cells were actually made of iron bars, thick enough to make sure n.o.body could break them, and without too much s.p.a.ce between each bar so that n.o.body could squeeze their way out. Osgar looked toward the source of the noise. It was dark down there. There were no windows or torches that lit the place for the prisoners.

The only light they were allowed was when guards dropped by to serve them their daily meal, or to take them away for questioning.

"Psst," he heard again. "You awake?"

"As if I could sleep in this cold dump!" Osgar replied. "What did they do to you today?"

"The boss was busy," the prisoner said. "They only roughed me up a bit, hehe."

"Did you see it?" Osgar asked.

"Yeah," the prisoner replied. "They switch after meal time, as you suspected."

"How long?" Osgar asked. His heart began thumping against his chest.

"I was at the torture chamber's door when we encountered the replacement," the prisoner replied. "I say about twenty seconds."

"That's too short," Osgar complained.

"That's the best we've got," the prisoner replied. "It's either that or die here like rats."

"Rats have the freedom to move through pipes," Osgar retorted. "We're trapped here like pigs for the slaughter. We even swim in our own s.h.i.t."

"Who's the new guy?" the prisoner asked. "Can you see him?"

"He doesn't move," Osgar replied. "He's an old man anyway, doesn't look like a fighter to me."

"You're one to talk," the old man intervened. "Are you two trying to do what I think you're trying to do?"

"And what's that, old man?" Osgar asked.

"Leave him be," the prisoner said. "We can't be bothered with someone who can barely move. I bet your bones hurt from bending too much, eh old man?"

"And I bet your a.s.s hurts from Hartwell's probing," the old man retorted.

"Your turn will come, old man," the prisoner said, a hint of anger in his tone. "I bet your wrinkled a.s.shole's gonna discover a new meaning to pain. It's gonna be real hard s.h.i.tting in this cage later, b.l.o.o.d.y, nasty business I tell you."

 The prisoner shifted his attention toward Osgar then went on.

"We only have one shot at this," he said.

"I know what I have to do," Osgar rea.s.sured him.

"I want to hear you say it," the prisoner insisted.

"As soon as the guard comes to take me, I hit him with the door of my cage. I steal his keys, and we both have twenty seconds to reach the trash door," Osgar said.

***

Three floors above them, in the fort's western tower, Stalwart came into a s.p.a.cious dining room. He took a seat beside the fireplace on a black leather armchair. He looked at his grandson, who was kneeling before him, his eyes fixated on the floor.

"Where's the ghost captain?" Stalwart asked with clenched jaws.

"He's in the dungeons," Adwer replied. He had an iron cast around his right arm.

Stalwart heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes in frustration, then spoke. "Explain to me son, what possessed you to put our most valuable a.s.set in the dungeons?"

"He's a prisoner, like the others," Adwer replied. He wouldn't dare look his grandfather in the eyes. Hartwell had warned him that the Supreme Leader was very angry with him.

"Who said he was a prisoner?" Stalwart asked. His voice remained calm, but Adwer knew that his grandfather's fury could burst out at any moment.

"He conspired with Myles, he worked with him to take down Bodrick," Adwer said. "He is a criminal in my book. He must be punished."

Just as Stalwart was about to reply, the door to the dining room burst open. Hartwell came in, young, tall, and strong. "I sent for Osgar," Hartwell said. "He's in the baths as we speak. What should we do with him?"

"Son," Stalwart said, addressing Adwer. "Do you recognize this man?"

Adwer turned around and looked at Hartwell. A man, no older than twenty was standing before him. He was wearing a violet kaftan that hugged his body and emphasized his toned muscles. His chiseled jaw was emphasized with his three day beard. He had pomaded his long black hair, giving him the appearance of a villain, straight out of a fairy tale.

"No, Supreme Leader," Adwer replied.

"This is the old man you never trusted," Stalwart replied. "This is the man who's gifted me the Vogel estate. This is the man who leads this city's branch."

Stalwart stood, walked toward Adwerald then lifted him off the ground. He held him by the throat. Adwerlad tried to wiggle free, but his grandfather's grip was stronger than steel.

"This is the most powerful man in this city, perhaps even in this country," Stalwart said to his grandson. His voice remained calm. His eyes had this detached, cold, bored air about them. "Yet, the most powerful man asks for my instructions when things deviate from the plan."

"I tried to reach you," Adweral said. His voice began shaking. He felt his life force being drained out of him. "But the witch had summoned some creature that messed up the air. Myles came immediately after that. I had to act or lose Bodrick."

"Supreme Leader," Hartwell said. He was looking at Stalwart expectantly.

"Oh, right, the ghost captain," Stalwart said. "Bring him here. I shall have a word with him."

"As you wish, Supreme Leader," Hartwell said then disappeared behind the door.

Stalwart turned to look at Adwer then. His eyes quickly turned from excited to dead cold. "You lost to your brother. You lost the man you were supposed to guard," he told Adwer with the same calm tone. "You even lost the Aetherbane I gave you. What do you have to say for yourself son? Why shouldn't I send you back to the castle?"

"I didn't lose," Adwer replied. "They tricked me. That creature the witch summoned, it cracked the floor. We fell, and I met this beast. It told me to give up the Aetherbane, or I'd die."

"And with all the power I've injected in you," Stalwart said, tightening his grip around Adwer's throat. "You chose the cowardly path?"

Stalwart squeezed a little harder. Adwer tried to take a breath, but air had suddenly refused to come in. His lungs began screaming for more air, air that he could barely inhale. He started feeling lightheaded. Soon, he'd faint, or die. He didn't expect his grandfather to punish him this way.

"It… had… the… crown…" he said, trying to inhale as much air as possible with every word.

Upon hearing the last word, Stalwart let go of his grandson. He fell on all fours.

 "What did you just say?" Stalwart asked.

Adwer began coughing and wheezing as soon as his knees. .h.i.t the floor.

"Repeat what you've just said," Stalwart ordered. His voice had a hint of anger to it this time around.

"The beast had the feather crown," Adwer said in between coughs. "It's exactly as you described it before. It looks like a lion, has white fur. It asks for a sacrifice in exchange for freedom. When it asked for the Aetherbane, I immediately gave it up. It was a cheap price to pay."

"Why did you lose the arm then?" Stalwart asked.

"I don't know how, but it knew my name," Adwer replied. "It was happy I gave it the Aetherbane, but then it looked at me and p.r.o.nounced my name. It seemed to have remembered something. Then it asked me for my arm. It said it was revenge or something."

"You're lucky the ghost captain's still alive," Stalwart said, seething. "That beast's presence changes everything." He started pacing around the room. "What kind of powers does your brother have?" he asked after a while.

"Whatever gets close to him slows down," Adwer replied.

"Time," Stalwart said, grinning. "How did he find such a thing? This doesn't explain why the fox is protecting him either. Then there's Abrath…"

He started pacing around the room again, mumbling things that Adwer didn't understand. It seemed Stalwart was making connections between past events, and their consequences in the present day. After a long while pacing around the room, mumbling to himself, Stalwart turned toward Adwer.

"Bring me the ghost captain," he ordered. "I don't care if he's half naked. I don't care if the smell of s.h.i.t hasn't worn off of him. I want him here, and I want him now."

Adwer quickly nodded, and hurried outside, happy that he was still among the living.