The nigh was chill, a wet kind of cold ensued from the river. The riverbank had thick mud that slowed their gait. Every now and again, they would hear the owl’s hoot or the wolf’s howl from the woods that lined the former Castle Fijor’s grounds. They had been travelling for a good hour when they heard it. The rumbling of hooves on the dirt track to their left, just where the mud began. “Riders!” Horn hissed, and bade Gabrey to dart away with him closer to the river. But It was too late. The riders had spotted them. There were three of them, dressed in the grey mail of the Patrollers. They were armed with halberds. “Who goes there?” called one of them, presumably their captain. “We are naught but fishermen, my lord” Horn replied. “And what do you think you’re doing, travelling so late at night?”
A rider behind the captain pointed out, “Sir, I don’t see a catch on them.”
“So they don’t. An unsuccessful day? I think not” the captain spat. “And you, what are you doing, covering behind this old wretch? Come over here!”
Gabrey, hesitated, then stepped out in front of them. He was confident that the riders wouldn’t recognise him after what the dungeon had done to his face, years of grime and matted beard. The riders squinted at him, then yelled “YOU! CHIEF GABREY!” Gabrey was stunned. How had they manged to recognise him? He snapped out of it as the captain swung his halberd at his head, shouting “In the name of King Curabfes, I, Captain Treth, sentence you to death!”
The dungeon rots its prisoner’s body and mind. But for a man as determined as Gabrey, the dungeon could never reach his mind. His mind constantly reminded itself of its old skills, replaying old battles, and refreshing the reflexes and experience gained from them. And now they were put to the test.
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