Escape from Dhagor Keep

An imprisoned mage in dire straits is given a chance to escape Grantier's notorious prison

Aljar Alpharaz woke to another dreadful day in solitary confinement. The small cell felt asphyxiating enough, but the tight gag on his mouth and the vibrite mask on his face made it more so. He couldn’t even move freely, as the cold iron shackles on his wrists kept his hands literally tied.

And for good reason – Dhagor Keep’s wardens knew harboring a sorcerer was dangerous. Not in vain it is considered the most impregnable prison in the land, holding the most dangerous prisoners. Once a keep of the giantkin – the fortified estate of Jarl Dhagor Svardsaen, a legendary warlord known for his legendary sword and his hatred of magic – was turned into a place to hold the most dangerous criminals in strict confinement. Alpharaz’s cell was located at the cells meant for sorcerers, where the low drone of vibrite was enough to disrupt their concentration, as another layer of precaution.

He regretted his rotten luck, but his peculiar situation was necessary. While the keep harbored other dangerous sorcerers, few held the power he possessed – at least, the political one. Born from a house of merchants ascended into nobility, Aljar had the best education – etiquette, negotiation and law. Though his family’s fortune came from his mother’s side, his father was a shrewd solicitor that curried his favor and that of Aljar’s family upon the Kismican courts and was accepted by the family as one of their own. With an aunt, a courtesan of the Duke of the North, he learned of political intrigue, which fascinated him in a personal way as he learned how to do business, which he abhorred but nonetheless felt necessary to learn. Yet, when his family asked whether he’d follow in their footsteps, Aljar surprised them by embracing one of his greatest passions – the noble art of alchemy.

As he learned this venerable art and applied fully to its practice, Aljar learned about the arts arcane. Seeking more power, he procured forbidden tomes and taught himself the arts of conjuration; he made deals with beings of lesser power, applying the lessons his family taught him. His skill at negotiation made him powerful, but he relished the challenge of something far greater and more complicated – and thus, he became advisor to the Duke of the North, slowly working up until he became the vizier to Emperor Tharmis himself.

Being a nigh-immortal warlord fancying himself a god, Tharmis was almost undefeated in battle, but terrible at bureaucracy – a talent Aljar managed well. Soon, the Emperor would make him his right-hand man, his most trusted advisor and administrator. Aljar had what he desired – access to the very throne of the Kismican Empire, a task he felt he was best suited to. He cared little about being the figurehead; he preferred the shadow behind the throne, the silver tongue that sung promises of eternal rule. And with the art of alchemy, he could pursue that very task.

However, it all ended up in naught – for while Aljar was shrewd and intelligent, he was proud and unwise. He had no way to counter Tharmis’ bloodthirsty nature, and when the Five Nations of the South issued their challenge, the Emperor of Kismica accepted gladly. Aljar was well-aware of the power of the combined armies, but his careful management couldn’t prevent corruption in the army, and soon enough, as war erupted, the Alliance of the Five Nations – with the surprise assistance of the kingdom of Atlabor in the wet – claimed lands and eroded the Empire’s power.

Soon, the heroes of the Five Nations reached the capital of Gran Kisma, laying a brutal siege that lasted for five grueling years. Despite the power of the army of the Five Nations, the loyalist forces managed a brutal resistance, particularly as many died at the hands of Tharmis himself and his four Generals. Aljar, becoming the de-facto administrator of the Empire, consumed all of his favors to maintain the war effort – at Tharmis’ own request – but as he laid at the limit of his power, and with the armies of Northern Kismica and the unyielding resolve of Castle Kaumor – led by the fifth general, Marsis – no longer being effective distractions, the proud Kismican Empire soon fell.

As he realized what was to happen, Aljar prepared his escape. He still had resources: the Ring of Portals with which he could travel to his sanctum, the iron ring where he imprisoned the noble wind djinni Abdelvashar and bound him as his servant, and the gifts given to him by the various fiendish nobles he courted – such as wands of netherfire and orbs of clouddeath – ensured he could face even a battalion on his own. He didn’t expect, however, that he’d be betrayed by the very beings he courted, and after feeling a dagger plunging into his back, he felt his time was over.

But it couldn’t be that simple, Aljar realized. As he woke up, he was bound and gagged, hearing how a prophet of the gods became the doom of the emperor. With the legendary warrior finally fallen – after a rule of two hundred years – the Kismican Empire was no more. Deprived of his power – supernatural and political – he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the depths of Dhagor Keep, until he could find the error of his ways or perish as nature demanded.

And so, it has been for the last three cycles – or are they four? Aljar had already lost count. The almost indestructible walls of his cell prevented him from writing glyphs, and without the ability to cast the few spells he had committed to memory, there was no escape.

...Or so he thought, for deep within the walls of Dhagor Keep, someone had plans.

--

For one segment of each day – specifically, the High Noon segment of the day – Aljar would be released amongst the other inmates, supervised by two of the guards, with his gag and manacles bound tightly. It was one of three moments of the day – alongside the segments devoted to his first and last daily meals – where he was given some respite from his imprisonment.

Aljar dreaded this segment in particular, however. He wasn’t allowed to share with the general community of the keep – only with other Kismican prisoners, many of which had a grudge against him for a variety of reasons. Some loyalists resented that he abandoned Tharsis at his moment of need, while others resented the power he held and blamed him for the downfall. One in particular seemed to have a personal grudge against him – a tall, muscular orc with a sharp look in his eyes. The orc always singled him, fighting the others for a brief moment with him – which he took advantage of by slamming the frail man to the wall and taunting him. Though the others also wanted a piece of the “betrayer”, the orc always laid first claim to Aljar, and roughed him up for the others.

Today didn’t seem like an exception. The orc grabbed him by the tattered tunic with his meaty hands, establishing eye contact. As he dragged him to the wall, the orc began to taunt him. “Enjoying these walls yet, Alpharaz?”

The mage couldn’t respond with words, but a shake of his head and a look of anger in his eyes sufficed.

“Of course you don’t. You were used to riches and pleasures, didn’t you?” The mage gave no response, but it was evident he was – though his body was thin and his complexion pale, Aljar Alpharaz had an air of nobility – a snobby air, some inmates claimed – and a demeaning look to everyone he saw. The orc slammed him to the wall and gave a steely gaze that gave even the guards pause. He leaned his head to Aljar’s face until his tusks almost touched the mage’s eye. “I suppose you’ve learned some humility now.”

I’d say humiliation, the mage thought.

“You enjoyed being the man behind the Emperor, didn’t ya?” The mage gave a dour look at his tormentor, a look of resentment and rancor. “Of course, his Eternal Highness was a great warrior but a poor statesman – someone had to deal with the day-to-day of government, and that was you.”

Aljar nodded, bracing for the worst.

“It was only a matter of time”, the orc growled low, so low that no one could listen to him but Aljar. “He was too blind to see what was forming before him. His hubris was his downfall. I’d dare say it was yours as well, no?”

Of course not, you ungrateful cur! Were it not for my connections, I would’ve--

“I know what others don’t, however.” The orc grinned cockily as he looked around. “I know the siege would’ve lasted for far less without the reserves you carefully built, or the food you spirited to the capital by magic gate, or even the plan everybody laughed at, to separate lands within the walls of the capital for minor game and vegetables.”

That was no stupid plan. Without it, and without my preservation efforts, hunger would’ve ended our troops faster!

“And I know of the efforts to store iron and wood; the small range you designated as ‘protected’ so that our country would have trees for everyday use, the tunnels under the capital by which we received resources, and how you managed every single coin so that we could bribe and purchase cycles and years' worth of them. I know these fools respect not your intellect, but I do.”

Then, the mage thought to himself, what is your aim with beating me down?

“I could use a companion as yours, your Eminence.” The orc spoke with rare eloquence, a far cry from his brutish cousins – even in his eyes Aljar could see a smart fellow. “I bade my time, and I think I could escape this dreaded place.”

Aljar’s eyes shone brightly. Escape? But how!?

“I see I’ve caught your attention. I only need something from you.”

Aljar nodded, breathing desperately. Yes! Anything!

“If I release you, will you be loyal to me?” The orc’s proposal took the mage by surprise. “I want no dagger or shiv in my back; I want no authorities tailing us, no cloaks shadowing us for bounty. We escape, and I will sleep lightly knowing my traveling companion will not betray me any time soon. Do you agree to that demand?”

I’d be a fool to refuse, the mage thought. Though I must say, this orc is of a different breed, Cunning and mighty. Mayhaps I could aid him to become the next conqueror of Grantier...

With a nod from Aljar, the orc grinned with satisfaction. “Good. That is all I wished to hear.” A solid fist to the mage’s stomach later, he released him, leaving him for the other inmates to deal with as they desired.

--

One sextum after the proposal, two segments after Midstnight, Aljar woke up to the sound of metallic clanks. As the door creaked, a small figure grabbed him by the tunic and pulled him out.

Still groggy, Aljar struggled to stand, feeling how something fiddled with the mechanism of the manacles in his feet. The figure was dressed like a guard, but spoke with a jittery, young tone. “Nod or shake, mate. Ye be Aljar Alpharaz?”

The mage nodded.

“Good. Ya hear me, an’ ya get outta ‘ere safer than a Khedmiri caravan.” The guard’s claim – or rather, that of his rescuer – was grandiose, and only the confidence of its tone gave Aljar some respite. Everyone in Grantier knew not to mess with a Khedmiri caravan – envoys from Khedmir, a neutral country that bowed to none but offered their services to all, and whose caravans were praised for being fast and secure. Whether because of the Khedmir Guard that protected them, or the enchantments of the caravan itself, or even the implicit threat of ending business if one of their caravans fell, no country – and indeed, no individual – was foolish enough to mess with them. Expensive as they were, they were the safest, and soon it entered the repository of popular wisdom as a way to say things would end up well.

And to say that, his rescuer had to be very confident. For another saying of popular wisdom claimed, “easier than escaping Dhagor’s mouth”, an euphemism for something nearly impossible – and they were about to do just that.

“Alright”, the guard said as he threw a nearby bag inside the cell and closed it shut. “I don’t wanna hear ya breathin’, no scrapin’ from manacles, no sound but what I’m gonna do. And no questions. Ya dig?”

Aljar nodded as the guard took another bag – one large enough for him. There were some smelly clothes inside – guards’ uniforms, full of rank sweat – but it wasn’t full. The guard asked him to get inside, prompting a foul look from the mage.

“Whadd’ai tell ya? No questions!”

Feeling humiliated, Aljar stepped inside the bag as the guard gave him further instructions. “Cover yerself on the clothes, let ‘em cover the hole. Cradle in if ya must.” As he did, he felt the bag closing, and then being lifted and thrown into what seemed to be pillows.

Outside, the guard – a slim dwarf (in comparison to the average one) with a big nose and sideburns flowing from his skullcap – stored the makeshift lockpicks inside his uniform and moved a wooden cart full of bags with rancid clothes. The dwarf wasn’t strong, however, and the weight caused him to struggle. The dim light of the torches, however, helped him to hide his face from the guards, who nonetheless questioned him. “Who goes there?”

“Korre, partner. Low Night shift, on laundry duty. Who goes there?”

The human guard grunted. “Eh, it’s you, sodder. Garnd, Low Night shift, corridors. That’ll teach ya not to mess with warden Garkel, innit?”

“So’s long as they don’t cut me pay... At least I’m doin’ something.”

“Wish someone’d just try to run away”, the guard lamented – unaware of what was just happening.

“If I don’t move this to the laundry station, Garkel’s gonna have me arse! G’night, mate.”

“Nah - g’nite to ya, mate. Yer gonna have a long, long night cut out for ya.”

The dwarf nodded and left, but as soon as he was a giant-step away, he swallowed hard. Perhaps he was the best tale-spinner in all the Aranhal hamlets, but he was very close. He muttered a prayer to Llorash, the god of deception, as he crossed. “A coin o’ gold to ye, Llorash the Deceiver, an’ me tale be sweet to ye.”

It took him a segment and a half to arrive, but he was at the right location. The door to the laundry room was closed, but he was a skilled lock-picker – though even he couldn’t figure out the mechanism that sealed the doors of Dhagor Keep. His short, thin fingers had studied many a lock mechanism, and though this was unfamiliar to him at first, his first attempt to escape taught him well. In only a couple of minutes, the dwarf unlocked the doors to the laundry room and stepped in as a waft of damp, rancid air received him. He left the door open, placing the clothes’ bags in a tight line before grabbing the one with Aljar and setting it down.

As he opened the door, Aljar erupted in muffled coughs. The dwarf dragged him away, desperate. “Quiet, ya dolt! You want ‘em to catch us?”

I wouldn’t cough, the mage thought to himself, were I not trapped in this unholy hellshole!

“Now, lis’en carefully.” The dwarf grabbed a bucket and moved to a barrel full of water. “By now, the coals on the garbage chute are pro’lly cool enough--”

Garbage chute!? Aljar gasped in desperation. Everyone in Dhagor Keep knew that all garbage was incinerated – from used clothes, important papers, leftovers, to the bodies of the dead.

“--but we’re goin’ ta use this bucket o’ water ta make some steam. We land, we look for the nearest light, we move there, aye?”

Aljar pointed at his metallic mask in desperation.

“Oh, that!” The dwarf produced a small key – one made of an alloy of vibrite and black dampenar, which could cancel the vibration of the silvery metal and indeed any vibration – and unlocked the gag. “Make no sound; lemme get this fer ya.”

Aljar spat, finally free from his confinement. “At last”, he spoke with a haughty growl. “Free from that--!”

“We ain’t free yet, magos.” The dwarf handled the gag to the mage and carefully moved to the chute. “I go first; ya go next.”

“This is madness! We shall die ‘fore--”

“Ya follow the plan, ya get outta ‘ere - ya dig?” The dwarf moved towards the chute, beckoning the mage to follow. “Mind ‘elping with a lift?”

“You think me strong enough to lift you?”

“Jus’ be a footstool, then. Anythin’ ta get in.” The dwarf saw the hesitation in the mage’s eyes and barked at him. “Git a move on! We got no time!”

Reluctantly, Aljar knelt and used his hands to lift the dwarf into the chute; then, at his demand, the mage gave the dwarf the bucket of water and helped him spin, so that his feet would land first. As the dwarf slid down the chute, the mage wondered if this was a plausible plan – and yet, considering his future, he was willing, if not enthusiastic, to try.

Aljar slid down the chute for what seemed like an eternity, and only as he noticed a cloud of steam approaching, he knew the end was near. He landed on ashes, causing him to cough.

“Keep mum!”, the dwarf called out as he lifted his fellow prisoner. “They’ll hear us!”

“Who?” Aljar received no response as he felt his manacles being dragged away from the ashes. He felt his feet burning, as the floor was still hot, but soon enough the dwarf led him to cold stone, from which they could recover.

“Does it matter? I told’ja, no questions!”

“Fair enough”, the mage replied. “Least I owe to my rescuer...”

For yet another segment, the duo traversed the large corridor, dark save for the vents shining pale moonlight inside, and filled with the penetrating odor of burnt coal and flesh. Aljar coughed several times, struggling to keep his guts inside, while the dwarf seemed to resist the foul smell easily.

Soon, they noticed a set of large iron grates, with bars haphazardly forged in to prevent smaller creatures from crossing through. The dwarf took out his lockpick and fiddled with the manacles, finally releasing Aljar from them. “A’ight”, he said as he looked at the mage. “Now’s yer turn.”

“My what?”, the mage demanded.

“Yer turn, ya soddin’ oaf!”

“And this was your escape plan!?” Aljar rubbed his arms, finally free from the oppressive cold iron. “Reach this spot and improvise?”

“Oi, I got ya to this spot! There must be a door inside, but it’ll be heav’ly guarded, I reckon.”

“Aye, and it may be a better escape than this! It is wrought iron, welded into a cage!”

“And aint’cha a mighty mage? Th’ orc told me ya had some talent in the arts arcane – this's yer moment ta shine!”

“Perhaps, but without my tools, I cannot do a thing!” Moving around, Aljar invoked his vast knowledge of the magical arts, trying to find a solution. “If only I had mineral acid--”

“If I had acid, even I would escape this place!”

“Yes, but obviously we have no such fortune!” He looked at the ashes, and noticed the dwarf kept the bucket with him. “Say, you have any water left?”

“Only a midge, yer Eminence.”

“Good. Fetch me some wood ash, if you may.”

“The hells if I can distinguish it!”

Aljar groaned, rubbing his face. “True - I cannot ask more of a simpleton such as yourself!” He turned around, worried. “Do not take this as an insult, ser; indeed, you are possessor of talents I lack, but you are not learned such as I.”

“Lis’en - ya got a plan ta get us out, or not?”

“Fortunately, you released me from my bonds. Perhaps I can work something out...” Rubbing his hands, Aljar closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled powerfully, his voice sibilant as the breath turned into a potent gust of wind. “jo' jev SuS, ghe'jaj tlhuH!” Then, as the ash became a cloud, he extended his hand into a claw and inhaled. “Sor Hap'tIpqan yIr!”

Soon, from the ashes, a small line of blackened ash separated from the cloud and moved towards Aljar’s hand, which he carefully manipulated and moved into the bucket with water. As the water became blackened, he swirled it with his finger as he muttered another incomprehensible magical phrase. “peyvaD, ghe'jaj Sor Hap'tIpqan merghpu' bIq!” The water began to bubble, and almost immediately, Aljar threw the water into the bars, which began to fizzle and smoke.

The dwarf cackled. “Ha! Now that is somethin’ ya don’t see ev’rday!”

“It is as best as I can do.”

“As best!? Th’ damn bars are burnin’!”

“Not for long”, the mage explained. “Without a fixation agent, the transmutation lasts less than a gandro – a miracle if more than a minute. The art of alchemy requires precision; it is a fickle mistress.”

“Be sure ta teach me how ta do that... Seems of interest!”

As quick as the bars fizzled, it was all over. A metallic tang filled the air, but it was faint and faded very quickly. Aljar tapped his foot frantically, biting his lip. “Now, hope this works.”

“Wha?”, the dwarf asked. “It’s over?”

“I told you the damn reaction wouldn’t last more than a gandro! This one lasted five, and it is because of my talent!”

“Which means it did nothing!”

“Perhaps if you pummel the bars, you may rattle them open. It may not be much, but it is something...”

“Which is better than nothin’...” The dwarf moved to the lowest of the bars soaked with the mixture and tapped it. “Shoddy work, but sturdy ‘nuff... With some poundin’, we might loosen some bars, but not all...”

“Anything is better than nothing...” Grabbing his old manacles, Aljar smashed them into the bars, trying to break them apart. With the dwarf’s help, the mage managed to create a small opening from which he could squeeze in but was still too tall for his companion to do the same.

However, the pounding caused enough commotion, and soon enough armed guards approached. The surprise at seeing two prisoners on the brink of escaping shocked them, but they raised their crossbows, aimed at them. “Halt! Stop or we’ll shoot!”

“Sod it! Couldn’t ya make it any louder!” The dwarf grabbed the club at his side, sighing. “Any ideas?”

Aljar was already out and found the distraction a boon. Yet, though he immediately thought of leaving the dwarf inside, another thought formed in his mind. The vibrite gag was designed to explode if the wearer tried to speak words of power, blowing the wearer’s head cleanly from the shockwave and the shrapnel. If he threw the gag at the guards, the explosion would at least delay them.

And despite the ill treatment, the dwarf had helped him escape. To leave him now would be to prove he was a coward, worthy of the scorn of his fellow inmates.

With a resounding “run!”, Aljar stepped in, and as the guards were preparing to fire. Repeating his first spell, he blew the gag at the guards, which began to tremble. Immediately, the gag blew into smithereens, the loud pop sending them to the ground and the shrapnel tearing them apart. The shockwave reached far enough to rattle the bars, dropping a few more and allowing the dwarf a hole to escape.

“Yaira be blessed! Fortune favors us!”

“The Lady Fortuna shall not be as gentle if you escape not, simpleton!”

With the dwarf squeezing out, the two were finally outside. Aljar and the dwarf moved around, stopping once to catch their breath, avoiding the spotlights as they collaborated to avoid the last remaining traps – the glyphs of warding hidden on the grass with the aid of Aljar’s ability to sense magic, and the mundane traps the dwarf could detect in the dim moonlight.

Soon, they reached a small wooden cart, with a lantern shining a bright orange serving as beacon. The sounds of bells echoed in the distance, and Dhagor Keep still seemed imposing, but Aljar and the dwarf had done the impossible. The latter approached the cart and gave a strange greeting. “Blessed be the darkness that guide us.”

The cartman replied, and Aljar recognized the voice. It was the orc’s. “Away from the light that blinds us.” He stepped down, scoffing. “Excellent job, Degor. You shall receive your payment in due time.”

“Thank ya, though no better reward than the fame I have gained! I’ve stepped out of Dhagor Keep, an’ with me bum intact!” The dwarf turned, extending a hand recently cleaned. “Oi, but where be me manners! Degor the Filcher, soon to be famous!”

“I...” The mage feigned satisfaction. “...thank you, ser. And do I owe the grace of knowing my new benefactor?”

The orc cackled; his eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he grinned. “Seems I need to work on your humility, lord Alpharaz.”

“Lord? The guv be a lord?”

“Degor, you’d do well to split ways once we reach the nearest hamlet – though, as I promised, your skills could be well-used under my command. We harbor a dangerous fugitive, after all – Aljar Alpharaz, vizier to the late Emperor Tharmis.”

“By Llorash’s silver words! The coward that ran away?”

“I am no coward”, Aljar exclaimed. “I am no fool, either, and I knew the battle was lost, so I ran.”

“It is true”, the orc exclaimed. “Tharmis’ pride and bloodlust was his folly. The true jewel of the Kismican crown lays here, before you.”

As Degor the dwarf stared in disbelief, Aljar felt uplifted by the praise. “You’re well-informed, though I wonder why you tortured me so for that long.”

“Old debts to settle”, the orc claimed. “I still remember what you told me to my face.”

“Oh, but I know you? Otherwise, I would’ve recognized you.”

“I made myself unrecognizable, but you and I have met, and we have our history together.”

“History? Pray tell who you may be, that I offended you in such manner?”

“Your magic helped you little, vizier. In the end, even as I was captured, it was my strength of hand and my ways that saw me live as Tharmis drew his last breath.”

“Ah, so you were a soldier. Under which banner?”

“Under the Bloodaxe – my banner.”

Aljar gasped. “But then, that’d mean...”

“Indeed”, the orc grinned. “I am Hendak. General Hendak, of the Bloodaxes. And I shall forge a new path for myself. Will you join, sorcerer?”