Gaelen found himself in a state of half-consciousness. He was half-aware of himself, slipping into and out of a dream-like state without warning. He could not discern which parts of the whole experience were real, and which were illusion.

He could not open his eyes, for his entire body felt weakened and tired. Yet at times he was seeing. He kept seeing himself on a shoreline, lined with many rocks and pebbles. It was cold, and the water of the seas was dark- almost black. The sky was overcast, and he felt the spray from the crashing waves against his face. Behind him, he was aware of a sharply rising, heavily overgrown mountain that rose nearly straight up. Turning, he looked up at the summit of the hill mountain, and found it covered with gray mists. How did he get here? Where was the boat that brought him to this place? His clothes were dry save for the water from the crashing waves, so he was not stranded here. But there was no place a ship could put ashore along this coastline. Confusing.

But then the vision would change, and his vision was blacked out. He lay now on his stomach on a soft bed, and a sharp pain between his shoulder blades caused him to want to cry out in pain. He found that he could not cry out any more than he could open his eyes. There were voices around him, but he could not make out the words. He felt gentle hands on his bare skin, but could not reach out to grasp them. Then he was back on the shoreline.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, the vision of the shoreline melted away, and he found he was aware of himself entirely. He was lying on his stomach on a bed. He slowly opened his eyes, and though the lashes clung to each other as if he had slept for some time, he managed to at last catch sight of his surroundings. He faced a window, through which what seemed to be blinding morning sunlight streamed in to light a small, white room with a single bed, and two wooden chairs. Next to the bed, only inches from his face, a small table stood littered with rolls of white cloth and an empty bowl.

Gaelen tried to rise, but again, the same pain from his half-dreams between his shoulders drove him back to his stomach. A rather loud groan rasped from his dry lips as he collapsed in pain, his head somewhat foggy still.

In a matter of seconds, an old man burst through the door opposite the bed and made immediately for Gaelen. Gaelen tried to move again, if only to stop this intruder from causing more pain. In his weakened state, he only managed to cause himself more pain.

“Lie still, you callous brute!” the old man hissed in a somewhat exasperated tone, “I’ll not have you ruining those stitches for a third time!”

With a frail hand on Gaelen’s shoulder, he easily held the much larger, younger man still on the bed while he pulled back the blanket from Gaelen’s back. Gaelen felt powerless and weak. It was not a position he was accustomed to finding himself in. He felt something pulled gently away from his back, and the old man let out a sigh of relief.

“Well,” the old man said, replacing whatever he had removed from Gaelen’s back, “You’re a lucky man. If you pulled those stitches loose one more time, I would have let you bleed to death or die of infection- whichever came first!”

“Who-” began Gaelen, but his throat was very dry, and he coughed on the rest of his question.

“Oh, do try to lie still!” the old man said dismissingly. “I am Guievel, a healer. You are in my home and in my care for the moment.”

Gaelen cleared his throat and tried to being again.

“How did-” he started. The old man interrupted him again.

“You were found in an alley in a pool of your own blood by a beggar.” the old man said. “You are lucky he took nothing more than your purse. And you are very lucky he alerted one of the city guard to your location and to the fact that you were still breathing. The Captain of the Guard up at the Keep insisted that I personally see to your recovery. He wishes to speak with you, it seems. He is paying for my services himself. Would you care to tell me why you are so important?”

Suddenly, the cobwebs in Gaelen’s mind seemed to lift all at once, and he remembered the tavern, the drinking, the fight- and Baeren! Where was Baeren?

“Baeren? Where is Baeren?” he croaked.

“Baeren?” the old man answered, “There is no one here by that name.”

Gaelen was entirely awake now, and despite the pain, he gathered his arms beneath him and started to rise. The old man tried to hold him down again, and protested about the stitches, but now that Gaelen had shaken the last of the cobwebs from his mind, he was far stronger than this old healer, despite his weakened condition. He rose from bed, his head swimming from the sudden movement, and looked down on the healer.

“Baeren Gendry, you old fool!” he shouted, grabbing the man by his shirt. “The Duke’s son was with me! He was stabbed in the gut by one of those…those men!”

“Oh my!” the man exclaimed, trying to break Gaelen’s vise-like grip, “the Duke’s son? I…I don’t know. That certainly explains why the Captain-” This time Gaelen cut him off.

“Where is he?” she shouted, pulling the old healer nearly off his feet. The pain in his back was excruciating.

“I..I don’t know,” the healer said at last, “The guard brought you here. They didn’t bring anyone else, and they said nothing about the Duke’s son!”

Gaelen was forced at last to release the man. His head was swimming from the standing so suddenly and the pain between his shoulders was so great that he would have retched had there been anything in his stomach to heave. He swayed on his feat, and the old man took him by the arm and guided him backwards to the bed.

“Fool of a man!” he said, “lie down and try not to get so excited. You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, you know! Just try to be calm!”

Gaelen lay forward onto his stomach and took a deep breath. The pain eased a bit as he allowed the muscles in his back to relax at last. He still felt sick to his stomach from the pain and dizziness.

“Try to understand,” the old man began, “umm..what is your name, son?”

“Gaelen Howe.” he rasped in answer.

“Right, Gaelen, then,” the old man said. “Try to understand, Gaelen, that you are in my care. You nearly died. You’ve been thrashing this way and that in your sleep, spouting incoherent nonsense. You’ve been so violent several of your fits that my wife and I could barely restrain you. Even with both of us, you still managed to rip out your stitches twice. Now, as long as you take is easy for a few weeks, you should heal nicely. But please, sir, do not try to attack me again.” He looked down at Gaelen quite sternly in what almost seemed a fatherly- or rather motherly fashion. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Gaelen said at last. “I…apologize. But you’ve heard no word at all…about Baeren?”

“None. But you can ask the Captain of the city guard yourself when he arrives. I was told to notify him the moment you awoke. I must see to that now. I will send in some water, your voice sounds quite dry.” He made off through the door. Gaelen lay there like a dead thing for several minutes. At last, the man returned with a bowl of water and a small cup. He filled the cup from the bowl and handed it to Gaelen as he lay on his stomach. The water soothed his dry mouth and throat. He sucked it down in moments, the old man refilled it without asking.

“I have sent the guard to fetch the Captain. He should be here within an hour or perhaps two,” The man said. “Now, lie still, for Oes’ sake, and let your wounds heal themselves! Call out if you need anything, my wife or I will attend!”

With that, the healer left Gaelen with his own thoughts.

---

Several hours passed, and finally, the door opened. A guardsman stepped through, followed by the healer, and finally, Arric Bolwine, the Captain of the City Guard at Greywater Deep. Arric was a short man, with square jaw and a nose crooked from one too many blows fro ma blunt object. He had earned the trust of Duke Gendry years before, and joined the City Guard as a relatively young man. Now, in his late forties, he has risen from commoner to Captain. Though he was not a Carl, nor a Thane, his position was one that garnered some respect among both Thanes and commoners. He had the ear of the Duke, and command of the city’s nearly 200 guardsmen- all trained with the use of a sword. He was responsible for the garrisons at both the Keep and the small but strong towers that guarded the city gates. Also, his men patrolled the city at times, their presence often forcing the less law-abiding sort to mind their actions.

Despite the Duke’s confidence, few men liked the Captain. He had been a mercenary before his service to the Duke began, and many often questioned (in secret) his loyalty to anything but the money and power he received as a result. Still, he was a powerful man in the city. Gaelen disliked him intensely, and above that, distrusted him. The two had never seen eye-to-eye.

Arric dismissed the healer with a motion of his hand and the old man left the room without so much as a nod. This seemed to disturb the Captain somewhat- that the man had not acknowledged his position without at least a courtesy ‘Yes Sir,’ but he did not dwell on the apparent slight. Without a word, the accompanying guardsman took a position in front of the door.

“Howe,” he said without so much as a question to his health, “Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” Gaelen answered, “Men.”

“Men? What men? I have their bodies, now who were they? Did they say anything? ” demanded the Captain.

“It was dark, you egotistical fool, they didn’t identify themselves, they were just men.” he answered coolly.

“Damn you, Howe!” the Captain seethed. “You’ve been warned about taking the boy to those…those places so late- trouble was bound to come of it, and now it has! You and your whoring ways should have been locked up in a hole beneath the keep a year ago, or drafted into the Guard until you learned some restraint!”

“Bolwine,” said Gaelen, intentionally forgoing the man’s title, “where is Baeren?”

“Dead.” The captain answered flatly. “He was found in the alley you and the attackers were found in. We haven’t told anyone else yet. Maeric thought it best to wait for his father’s return to tell him first.” He looked at Gaelen, a look of disgust on his face.

He stooped down on one knee, his face close to Gaelen’s and said in a low voice “Are you happy? You gone and gotten the Duke’s son murdered in his own damn city! In my city! You’ll be lucky now if the Duke doesn’t hang you from the gate towers himself! You take the man’s son to a whorehouse and get assaulted by four cutthroats not a mile from the keep. Was that part of your plan, Gaelen? Answer me!”

Gaelen felt his blood boiling again. Dead? My PLAN!?!

He felt a deep rage rising inside him, unlike anything he had experienced before. In his practices, and in his drills, he had often become anger din the heat of a fight. In his drunken bar fights, he had usually laughed at his opponent’s feeble attempts to best a man of his size. But this was different. This was a rage from the very depths of his soul.

His eyes barrowed to slits as his vision turned blood red with anger. He grabbed the Captain by the collar of his uniform and from his prone position, slammed the man’s head straight into the floor. Bolwine’s face bounced from the wooden planks with a definite snap! He fell backward on his haunches, his face covered with blood. His nose pointed at a definite angle toward his left ear, broken just at the bridge.

He cursed incoherently as the other guard ran to his aid. Bolwine wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his glove and dove at the prone figure on the bed. The guardsman caught him before he could wrap his fingers about the big man’s throat. He seemed to calm after a brief moment of struggling against the guardsman’s grasp.

“You may consider yourself arrested, Howe,” he said. I will have a guard stationed here until the healer releases you, at which time you will be taken to the cells in the Keep until the Duke returns. I suspect you were involved in the murder of his son.”

With that, the Captain shoved the guardsman away from him and stalked through the door. Gaelen heard him shout to the guardsman as he left: “See that he goes nowhere!”

The next several days passed uneventfully. The healer, Guievel, as Gaelen came to know him, and his wife, Maen, were the only people Gaelen had contact with. They told him that a guardsman had been stationed at both the front and rear door of the house, as well as one who always stood at the base of the stairs leading to the room in which he lay. Gaelen spent many of the hours thinking of his friend, Baeren, and holding back tears.

His strength returned quickly, according to the healer, though to him it seemed to take forever. After three days, the healer permitted him to stand up on his own, and told him he thought there was little chance of the wound reopening. Though it was a great relief to be off of the bed at last, his strength ebbed quickly, and after a few minutes, he was forced to lie again.

Guievel spoke to him on and off about the attack. Rumors had begun to spread around the city about who had been attacked. Seldom were they correct. Some rumors said it was the Duke himself who had been attacked, but since he had left the city days before, those were utter rubbish. Some claimed it was Maeric, some were correct in claiming it was Baeren, others cited nearly every person of importance left in the city.

On the fourth day, Guievel entered the room with fresh linens and the latest news.

“Apparently, the rumors have been too strong to ignore,” he said.

“How do you mean?” asked Gaelen.

“Maeric, apparently, has admitted that an attack has taken place and that the attackers were killed. He’s had their heads placed on stakes at the city gate as a warning to anyone else who might have such designs,” the old man explained.

“What do you mean, ‘apparently’?” Gaelen asked. Something didn’t fit, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it yet.

“I haven’t personally seen the Duke’s other son, but it was issued through proclamation in the town square just this morning as they raised the heads on those pikes. Dreadful sight they are, those eyes just staring. If it weren’t winter, there would be crows out there already,” the healer answered.

“It was something to see! The crowd gathered quickly and cheered each time a head was raised! My ears nearly burst with the noise. The when the last head was raised, that third cheer was deafening. My ears are still ringing!”

“Let them rot.” Gaelen said, ignoring the old man’s prattle about his ears.

“It appears that in the morning, you will be leaving with the guards,” the healer said, “The Captain insisted you leave tomorrow, though I would have preferred that you be given one more day of rest before you are moved.”

“Is that so?” Gaelen answered. He hadn’t thought too much about the arrest. No doubt, the Duke would set things aright when he returned. Actually, Maeric would likely release him before an hour passed when he entered the Keep. Maeric and Gaelen were not close friends, but they knew each other well enough that Gaelen felt sure of him.

The rest of the day passed slowly. Gaelen spent most of the day on his feet in the room. He had been told that he was not to leave the room except to do his business, and he was always accompanied by a guard. Near evening, he was being escorted back up the stairs by a guard from the latrine in small yard behind the house when the escort stopped him at the top of the stairs.

“Wait a moment,” the guard said as he took a set of leg irons from the wall near the door. Gaelen had not noticed them there when he left the room earlier. “Captain’s orders. Can’t have you running off tonight before you’re taken to the Keep,” said the guard as he locked them onto Gaelen’s ankles.

Gaelen restrained himself this time. After all he thought, Maeric will release me as soon as I set foot in the Keep.

After being lead back into room, Gaelen lay back on the bed. It was dark now, and he meant to get plenty of sleep before the long trudge up the hill to Greywater Keep. He would not give that bastard, Bolwine, the pleasure of seeing him stumble from the climb.

But still, as he lay there, he could not sleep. Something continued to trouble his mind as he tried to close his eyes. What was it? Something the healer said? Something the Guard had said? Bolwine? Was it the leg irons? They were tight, obviously made for someone with smaller limbs than he had, but they were not overly painful.

Thinking of Bolwine, only briefly, made his temper flare again. He pounded his fist into the straw mattress of his bed in frustration. The man’s words kept echoing.

Gaelen’s back was still very painful, and he thought of the men who had attacked them. He wished he could see their heads now, up on those pikes before the gates. He imagined what they looked like now- no doubt the cold had kept them from rotting, but he imagined crows pecking at the eyes. A dozen crow for each head!

Then it hit him. Thinking of the heads of the attackers brought back to him the words of the old man.

Gaelen had to check something. He had had a suspicion now, but had to be sure. That meant removing the leg shackles and avoiding the guardsmen first. Looking around the room, he found nothing that would help him remove the irons. No, the key was the only way. Unfortunately, a man of Gaelen’s size in leg irons wasn’t the most stealthy of people. Surprise wouldn’t be an option. That left only one way, in his mind, to get the key. Pure, raw, brute strength. His specialty.

He stood up slowly and stretched his arms out to loosen the muscles knotted in his back near the wound. It pained him greatly, but he needed full use of his arms. He still wore his pants, since removing them was nearly impossible with the leg irons. But he could not pull his boots over the shackles, so for the moment, he was barefoot. He pulled a shirt over his body- it was, like the leg irons, not made for someone of his size, and was quite tight. Careful not to let the chain from the shackles make too much noise on the floor, he tried, as quietly as possible, to make his way across the dark room to the door.

He had observed, in his trips to the latrine, that the guard’s chair sat at the foot of the stairs, but the door at the top that opened into his room was locked. Another man might have devised a plan to get the guard up to the door, but Gaelen wasn’t one to rely on wits. He took a deep breath, and took two steps toward the door, lowering his massive shoulder into the wooden beams. His back screamed out in pain, but it was not enough to stop him from crashing straight through the door and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. At the bottom, he could see that the guard, obviously startled from sleep, had fallen from his chair and was lying on his back, his head facing the stairs. Gaelen took two bounds down the stairs, both feet at once since the shackles hindered his movement, and landed both feet at the base just as the startled guard managed to struggle to his knees as he tried to draw a short sword.

Gaelen took him by the uniform at his neck with his right hand, and took his sword arm in the other. The man’s eyes were wide in fear. Gaelen was, after all, an imposing figure.

“The key,” Gaelen said simply.

The poor guard’s hand trembled as he released the hilt of his sword. He reached into his belt and produced a small key, holding it between his face and Gaelen’s.

“Unlock them,” he said.

Still on his knees and trembling, the man finally managed to unlock the shackles on both legs and dropped the key to the floor. He tried to back away from Gaelen nervously, but the larger man still held onto his uniform tightly.

“Sorry.” Said Gaelen as he raised his fist. It didn’t take his strongest blow to knock the man unconscious. There was no sound from the guards outside the house. Apparently, they hadn’t heard. Guievel stood in the doorway to the kitchen with a strange grin on his face and a pair of boots in his hands, offering them to Gaelen.

“I don’t like these men and their captain very much either,” he said.

------------

Gaelen slipped out a window on the east side of the house. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed it nonetheless. The streets were understandably dark, and he had no torch or lantern. The houses were very close together, and with the overcast skies, the moon could not offer much help. There was no other source of light. Gaelen felt his way along the narrow alley until he felt he was far enough away from the house to risk the streets.

He stepped out onto the broader street. At least the darkness here was less complete than in the alleys. It took him quite a while to reach the main city square, and he still had as far to go to reach the main gate. He had ducked into alleys several times as he saw the approaching torches of guardsmen on patrol. He doubted any knew of his escape so soon, but he wasn’t willing to take a chance. There were only so many men in the city of his size, and if any knew he was supposed to be under arrest, it would be better to not be seen by them.

At last, at what must have been well after midnight, he approached the main gate. He stooped in the shadows and peered up at the archway above the gates. The towers here were lit within by torches and lanterns, and several torches burned above the gate itself. There, impaled on pikes, stood the heads of the attackers facing the outside of the walls. From his angle, he couldn’t see anything but the back of their heads, but he didn’t need to. There were three heads atop the walls. He remembered the other man, the fourth. He had let him run away while he choked the life out of the third man who had just stabbed Baeren. He also remembered the words of Arric Bolwine:

The bubbling, burning rage slowly began to build in him again as he turned back toward the shadows of the city. Bolwine would answer to him this time.