The Invasion of the Tearling

He pulled out the logbook and began to ink up his pen, trying to think. Da had always told Ewen that he had the ability to be clever; it would just take some time and work. After Ewen finished with the book, the scarecrow would expect him to get up and walk over to the cells with his keys. If Ewen could only get the scarecrow to walk in front, it would be easy to disarm him … but something told Ewen not to be too sure even of that. The scarecrow was skinny, yes, but he looked quick. He wore the black uniform of the Tear army. If he was a soldier, he might have another knife hidden somewhere.

“Your name, sir?” Ewen asked.

“Captain Frost.”

Ewen wrote as slowly as possible, his face screwed up as though in concentration. He couldn’t simply launch himself at the scarecrow while seated at the table; the table itself would flip over and act as a shield, if it didn’t kill the man outright. Ewen also had to make sure the man’s knife didn’t get into any of the cells. Da had told Ewen that prisoners could use any sharp object to pick a lock.

Javel had moved up to stand at the bars of Cell Three, and Ewen, who had grown accustomed to the man’s dull, expressionless face, was shocked at what he saw there now. Javel’s expression was that of a hungry dog. His eyes, deep and dark, were glued to the scarecrow’s back.

There could be no more delays. Ewen pushed back his chair and got up, pulling the ring of keys from his belt. He came around the right edge of the table, where it would be only natural for the scarecrow to move out of his way, to go in front of him. But the scarecrow merely backed away a single step and pressed up against the wall, sweeping a hand toward the cellblock.

“After you, Master Jailor.”

Ewen nodded and moved forward, his heart thumping in his chest. He warned himself to be on guard, but even so he was taken by surprise, had only the barest fraction of a second to sense the hand around his neck, the knife coming for his throat. He reached up and batted the knife away, heard it clatter to the ground in the far corner behind him.

The scarecrow jumped on Ewen’s back, wrapped his arms around Ewen’s throat and squeezed. Ewen bent double, trying to throw the scarecrow over his shoulders, but the man clung to him like a snake, his arms pressing tighter and tighter around Ewen’s neck until the cells in front of Ewen were covered with black spots that bloomed wide when he tried to focus. He sought for air, but there was none. Blood was roaring in his ears, but he could still hear the woman, Brenna, hissing encouragement. Bannaker, too, was holding the bars of his cell, hopping up and down in his excitement. And then there was Javel, silent, his eyes wide and unhappy, his hands outstretched as though to ward something off. The agony in Ewen’s chest had become a fire that burned everything now, his arms and legs and head, and he didn’t have the strength to pry the man loose.

Stinging pain arrowed up from Ewen’s palm. He thought for a moment and then realized that he was still clutching his ring of keys, gripping them hard enough to draw blood. The world had turned to a dark, bruised purple, and Ewen suddenly realized that without air to breathe, he was going to die, that the scarecrow would kill him. Da was dying, Ewen knew, but Da was dying of old age, of sickness. This wasn’t the same. Javel’s unhappy face swam before him, and without warning Ewen’s mind made one of its odd connections: Javel didn’t want this to happen. Javel was a prisoner, yes, a traitor. But somehow, he was not the scarecrow’s friend.

All of Da’s old lectures about jailbreak echoed through Ewen’s head, but before he could think about them, he had already flung the keys toward Cell Three. He watched them clang off the bars and land just between them, saw a dirty hand scrabbling for them on the ground.

Then the purple world darkened to black.

WHEN EWEN WOKE up, his head and chest were aching. His neck stung as though it had been scraped with a brick. He opened his eyes and saw the dungeon’s familiar ceiling above him, grey stones caked with mold. Da always said that whoever had built the Keep had done a good job, but it had become harder and harder over the years to prevent seepage from the moat.

What had woken him up?

The noise, of course. The noise to his right. Snarling sounds, like a dog would make. A thick thud, like a baker’s fist sinking into dough. They had lived right next to a bakery when Ewen was growing up, and he loved to stand on his toes and watch the bakers through the windows. He wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, just as he would have on a Sunday morning long years ago, before he began to apprentice with Da in the dungeon.

The dungeon!

Ewen’s eyes snapped open. Again he saw the familiar pattern of mold on the ceiling.

“STOP!” a woman shrieked, her voice echoing around the stone walls. It hurt Ewen’s ears. He looked to his right and saw the ghost-woman, clutching the bars, screaming. On the floor beneath her, Javel was crouched over the scarecrow, pinning him down. Javel was laughing, dark laughter that made Ewen’s arms prickle. As he watched, Javel reared back and hit the other man squarely in the face.

“I have only one question for you, Arlen!” Javel’s high cackle drowned out the woman’s scream. Another blow landed, and Ewen winced. The scarecrow’s features were awash with dripping red.