Mundhir had rifled through the guard’s lockbox a naked man, but had arisen in a somewhat warrior’s attire. With holey brown dyed woollen trousers, a pair of questionably sized sandals, and a vest of simple studded leather obscuring his venom-marked chest, he looked more a lowly bandit than a prince of Eulona’s former superpower. Still, at least his modesty had been removed from display.
The World Breaker had grossly overestimated the skill and resolve of the escapee prisoners, and his attempt to let the blood of royalty had been abruptly ended. Mundhir was both surprised and appalled by the recklessness shown by his father’s best. World Breakers were men without equal – each a great hero of some renown, with their legacies soaked in the blood of the Elves of Nillanor, or the Dwarves of Irongarde. He reckoned that were he the man’s commanding officer, as he often had been in the borderland wars, he’d of had him flung from the regiment without further thought for such hubris.
Though the mighty warrior had been felled, the group seemed to have taken little joy in their triumph; already they were analysing the Prince, sneering at him and mocking him – not always with words. Their looks were a mixture of anger and amusement, and he could almost read their thoughts. They had decided him a coward, a highborn snot nosed rug-rat not worthy of the princely crown he carried. What did they know of him, really?
There was little doubt in Mundhir’s mind that the Elves of Nillanor were not behind his assassination attempt. The World Breakers answered only to his father, himself, and his brothers. They were both the royal-guard and an elite combat unit. That one had come into the dungeon, alone, to snuff the life from him, was all the confirmation he needed that his own blood wanted him dead.
The Half-Elf woman was one of the more understanding of the group, she showed relevant wisdom to his situation. She more or less backed up his concerns that his own brothers, or indeed, and Duranar forbid, his own father, had ordered the end of his existence. Eblistan was no longer safe for him, and until he found out more on the situation, approaching his father was most unwise. His heart sunk as he realised just how low he had fallen in the last few days, and he felt near to being physically sick. Not because of the venom, still coursing through his veins, but because of the realisation he shared the blood of men who would kneel so deep in dishonour to reach their desired ends.
Mundhir Sadek, War Hero, beloved by the people and seventh in line to thrown, decided on a plan. He would need the prisoners though, if he was going to pull it off. Could he trust them, though? For a moment his gaze shifted from each one of them – and focused for a time on the insectoid monster. Were any of these assassins? A third machination in a long list of plans to ensure his demise? He had neither the time nor the resources to find out for sure. Duranar would have to watch out for him a while longer.
“None of you may like me, and this is fair,” spoke Mundhir; his voice rising high above the general chit-chat and other ambience. “But we need each other, if we’re to escape this place.”
As if to punctuate his point, the ground started to shudder, as the many bells of the Citadel above started to cry their alarms. There was only one reason the contraptions were operated: Eblistan was under siege. The Prince knew it very unlikely that Nillanor had marched in force on the Citadel, and so presumed that the City Watch, and perhaps even his father’s army, were descending onto the dungeon.
“My death is wanted very much, more than likely by my own blood. Why this may be, I am unsure, and which one of my family is responsible, I am equally uncertain. This is a fell matter, and one I will have resolved before the shame of the Sadek’s brings this country to its knees,” he continued. ”I have five hundred good fighting men, in the ruins of Baalor. We recently drove Prince Thrandel of Nillanor from my ancestral city, and no doubt, my soldiers hold it still. They will recognise me, and they will give me shelter.”
Picking up a bloodied sabre from the mangled fingers of a dead countryman, the Prince started to move back into the corridor containing the torture chambers.
“Follow me. I will get us out of this,” he said, but stopped briefly to face them. “I am weak from the attempt on my life, and though my grace can usually match the sword mastery of a long-lived Elf, for now I am little more than a feeble child. Aid me, protect me, and convey me to my men. You will all be rewarded, and once I have this treachery cut from the weeping wound on my country’s pride, I will have you all knighted and cleared of whatever crimes that have adhered to your names.”
To help them make up their minds, he gestured to the damp and dark of the barrack’s ceiling. “Those bells are tolling for you. Unless you intend to face down a thousand men, I urge you to assist me.”
He turned and walked down the corridor, stepping over the World Breaker as he did so, and started pressing the stones of the wall. Before long he had found the one he was looking for, and with an ear numbing grind, a section of the wall shifted to reveal a narrow passageway.
“This will take us to the Eastern Wall, and beyond. Likely, if my killers are smart, it’ll be guarded – but if we’re careful, then perhaps we can sneak out without alerting the Citadel’s garrison to our intentions.”