Vesnic-monte spewed steam into the bright blue sky; the white cloud billowed and shadowed the keep of Misranchit. The fortress was built into the mountain that much was obvious from the gentle sloping hills that lead to the base of the mountain. Syvern stared at the high walls, thick and rigid in the rising sun. It taunted him as though telling him he would never make it past them.
Misranchit looked better fortified than Kl’vane had been. He narrows his eyes lifting them to where the peak of Vesnic-monte was hidden in the steam cloud. That was where he’d be heading one way or another. He turns his head to look at the remains of the human captives; most had died leaving only a few strong young men and resilient old women.

The army had made camp well in view of the walls but out of range of the ballistae and catapults that were mounted on the numerous round towers. His shackles weighing him down, he turned away from his future conflict and sat on one of the stumps from the woodlands. He had bargained with Con-Quy and gotten his human companions that much.

One of the strongest of the boys was a lad by the name of Bennettio. His skin was olive like most Oorcinraths citizens. He was watching Syvern with pale green eyes. The lost prince met them and nodded once; he’d been talking with the captives and planning. Giving Syvern the idea he had acidic blood had been a move that had flipped the board into the lost prince’s favor.

He pressed his hands between his legs and began to rub them ever so slowly together but putting as much pressure as he could. They were still guarded; twenty orc surrounded the forty slaves keeping them from escape. They were in the back of the army, away from the vanguard and furthest from the city.

The lost prince had spied something a league back and had talked it over and now the plan was set; the key to their success: his blood. He felt skin tear and the metal began to sizzle, almost too loudly in his sensitive ears but none of the guards seemed any the wiser. After a moment the metal popped apart on his left wrist letting his hands free.

There were two sets of keys, one on two guards of the twenty around them, keeping his hands lowered he stood slowly, mimicking the look of a man still shackled. He approached one of the guards with the keys, feeling blood still dripping from his wrists. The guard turned and growled a threat at him once.

He flicked his left wrist up the acidic drops pelting the guards face causing him to howl in agony. Syvern snatched the keys with his right hand and threw them behind his back as he used his left
hand to snatch the sword from the orc whom now raked his own eyes turning to remove the burning that had left him blind.

Turning quickly, knowing he had mere moments before the other guards descended upon him he saw Bennettio using the keys on others, already free himself. The others had crouched behind their logs, shackle chains stretched tight across the wood. Precisely why he had asked for the hunks of wood, he swung the sword with ferocity and speed he hadn’t been sure he was capable of, he was on his eighth swing when he felt the incoming swing of a sword.
He ducked and spun with one motion sticking the point of his blade up under the chin of the Orc guard. The other eighteen guards defended from all sides. Even weakened and hungry though the slaves were lifting logs and throwing them. Bennettio had unlocked most of them and had gathered the sword from the second dead guard.

Syvern could see toward Misranchit a size-able amount of Orcs noticing the disturbance. “Run! Go now!” Bennettio nodded and stabbed the next guard he saw before ushering on the smaller boys and the old women. Syvern glanced back toward the blood thirsty party charging toward him, to many to take on, live to fight another day.

He turned and followed the group of slaves, the Orcs hot on their trails. They had to make it a league, almost at full run. He shook his head, there was no way all of them could make it, and the old women were already slowing. His mouth set firm, they had known the risks if he was caught now he would be killed before Con-Quy could stop them. If they could make it then they could make it, but if not he couldn’t allow himself to try and save everyone unless he die himself.
They had lost the Orcs in the rolling hills by the time they came to what they had seen. The water churned loudly below foaming white on rocks. Of the forty that had escaped the camp, only twenty-five remained. He had been right, most of the older women had not made it, or at least had not made it this far yet.

“We should wait and see if there are others.” Bennettio was insisting, pacing.

“There is about to be ten thousand or more Orcs searching these hills for us, the river is the fastest way to Misranchit.” Syvern answered, getting impatient with the young man who had helped with his plan.

“So it is either death by rapids or death by swords?” Another person piped up.
“You all knew the plan. I explained it and you all agreed, it was our only option of escape.” He was getting frustrated.

“But more of us might be coming.” Bennettio argued, but his voice was losing its bluster.

“And they might not, we need to go now and hope we make it alive to Misranchit.” Syvern answered discarding his sword and boots, they would only weigh him down. “You either come with me or you sit here and wait.” He looked at them one final time before plunging into the raging torrent below.

The water was chilling, but not unbearable and it carried him quickly downstream without letting him glance back up to see if his fellow prisoners were coming. He tried to though and paid dearly for it when he turned back around and collided with the rock, one figure dropping into the surf that was the last thing he saw before the rock swam into his vision and blacked him out.

His dreams were filled with Marle, her golden locks and bright emerald eyes. He thought of Kl’vane and its old walls and the throne room. His throne had been shorter than his fathers but comfy and he remember being a boy listening to commoners come to court, watching elven knights spar with curved swords. Succulent meals and listening to his father, learning every day. Marle came to his mind again, swimming through it, he hadn’t thought he loved her yet she permeated his thoughts almost every day now. She swam toward him, but the sunlight was growing brighter behind her, threatening to wash her away.

He coughed and sat straight up flinching back at the broad spearheads pointed at his chest. Around him some bodies lay, white skinned with blue lips, others, like Bennettio stood together surrounded by men in blue and white plate armor. He coughed again, removing water from his lungs looking back up to the men with spears.

“We made it.”