Trik & The Baron's Daughter

“So tell me again,” said the criminal in the cell adjacent to Trik’s, “how did you come about your stay?” The criminal was grasping the rusty iron bars between the two dungeon cells with his frail hands. A tattered tunic and torn pants hung loose on his withered frame.

In the stone corridor outside of Trik’s cell a candle flame flickered against the stone wall. The light of the flame dimly lit the elf’s gaunt face as he leaned against the mossy stone wall of his cell and spoke. “The Baron objected to my association with his daughter,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” said the criminal, and he smiled wide enough to expose all six of his remaining teeth. “You tell me that the Baron grew mad over her fondness for you,” he said. “You claim he jailed you for this reason. All this because you are common, you say?”

“Because I am an elf,” said Trik, “hardly common.”

“In these parts, an elf is beneath a commoner,” said the criminal.

“In this sewer of humanity,” said Trik, glaring at the bars of his cell, “the Baron is nothing more than a rat.”

“Patience, my friend,” said the criminal, with a wry smile. “If the Baron’s daughter is truly in love with you, then I am sure she will see to your release.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the candle flame flickering on the wall of the stone corridor. He had watched it for countless hours each day, noted how every few days the wax slowly melted to the base of a brass sconce and was replaced by a guard.

There was a dull thumping sound that came from the stone corridor, followed by the clank of a metal bolt sliding and a heavy wooden door retracting. Then there came the sound of heavy footsteps against the worn stones of the floor as two of the Baron’s guards marched down the corridor. The criminal slinked into the shadows of his cell as the guards halted before Trik’s cell. One of the guards was tall and thin with a mustache, and the other was fat and short with a pockmarked face. “You there,” said the fat guard. “Are you the elf?”

Trik slowly approached the guard from the other side of the bars. “I am Trikodemos,” he said, “Prince of Elves.” His eyes dropped to the floor at the guard’s feet. “And you must be the bedpan cleaner.”

“Step back from the door, prisoner,” said the guard.

Trik glared at the guard as he stepped back from the barred door. The guard produced a key from a leather satchel and placed it in the cell lock. As he turned the key, the cell lock clicked and the door swung free. “Come here,” said the guard, pointing a plump finger at Trik.

As Trik got near to him, the guard slapped rusty iron shackles on his wrists. Trik looked down at the shackles. “They’re a little tight,” he said.

“This way,” said the tall guard, prodding Trik in the shoulder with a club. His voice was high-pitched and nasally for a man of his stature.

The guards led Trik out of the cell and into the stone corridor. There they stopped in the light of the candle. “Why do you release me?” asked Trik.

The fat guard grinned. “You’re to be hanged,” he said, and he cupped his throat with his right hand.

From the criminal’s cell came the faint trickle of mocking laughter.

“This way,” said the fat guard to Trik. “The Baron will see you first.”

“The Baron,” growled Trik, “curse his name.”

The heavy club of the tall guard struck Trik from behind. Trik winced and stumbled forward.

“You will respect the Honorable Baron and his name,” said the fat guard with a toothy grin.

The guards led Trik down the stone corridor, in the dim light of the flickering candles. Each candle was placed four cells apart, and thus they passed ten such candles, and forty such cells.