3
.~~~.
Mytho squinted at the shafts of light that flooded in at the end of the hall. Moments later, they were swallowed up by the darkness. He figured it was brighter than it was last time he'd seen the outside world, but then again, that had been two days ago. Or was it three? A storm passed over a while ago, so maybe only two.
He leaned back against the wall. The jingle of the chain cuffs around his wrists was a sound he'd grown uncomfortably accustomed to. That and the dark corner cell he'd been tucked away in for however long he'd been there. At the very least, the prison had earned its name; Darkstone.
It was an apt description, he admitted, given that it dark both inside and out. It was a novel idea, really. They wanted to make sure the prisoners were keenly aware of the fact that the last time they'd see and feel the sunlight would be the last free day they lived. The location of it was no accident, either. Mytho knew that going in because he wasn't a fool.
Like all things erected in the name of the Third Aldmeri Dominion, it was a big show of pomp with little substance. They had claimed an island on the route between the Summerset Isles and Cyrodiil's Gold Coast – clearly a way for the haughty jailer to announce to any sailors braving the sea between that they, too, could be locked away given the proper sin.
But, for all the flaunting and menace it put up, it was for political prisoners. Not for seafaring traders. Not unless there was a heretic found among their numbers like the unlucky group that occupied the same hall Mytho was confined to. The Dominion preferred to lock away rebellious Counts and Countesses or anyone else they wanted to bring to heel.
Officially, the place didn't exist. Emperor Titus Mede II, the Great and Spineless Ruler, was under their thumb. By extension, the entire Imperial Legion was as well. A blind eye and hollow words meant to be reassuring were all that would ever come from the mouth of the Empire that stood tall and proud with its tail firmly between its legs.
Unofficially, it was common knowledge the prison was a torture hall that not even the Legion could close without another costly war – one they would likely lose. As with all prisons, however, there were some that would one day be free again. Free, until they were once again taken away in the dead of night and never heard from again. One such man recounted his five-year stint in Darkstone in a short memoir. Most sparingly read his tale, knowing that the further they delved the less they would sleep at night, but all that cracked open its pages had one line burned into their memory;
"Were it any bright in my cell, and had I not been deafened three months into my sentence, then I would have likely seen the moisture on the floor was crimson if the screams at all hours of the day didn't drive me to madness first."
A fine read, as far as Mytho was concerned. A bit stuffy on the delivery, perhaps, but he wasn't one to speak ill of the dead. Besides, the elves weren't quite as brutal as they fashioned themselves. Mytho would know. Being in prison wasn't a new experience for him.
The Khajiit to the South in Elsweyr? They were capable of truly atrocious sentences. He had the scars to prove it.
But that was why he was in Darkstone, to begin with. If there was a prison that needed to be broken, he would be there. As sure as the sun shined in the sky, he would break himself and the other prisoners out, too. It was called jailbreaking and he'd made himself a name for being one of the best at it, among other things.
It had been nearly two hundred years since the Gray Fox made the law of Cyrodiil look like a pack of imbeciles. Which they were. In that time, copycats and would-be white rabbits for the guardsmen to chase struggled to make both a name and large sums of coin for themselves. Inevitably, they were caught, tried, jailed, and routinely executed to weed out the rest that weren't hardened criminals already.
To Mytho, it was little more than a challenge. One he would rise to meet without hesitation. Besides, he already had a price on his head in two or more Provinces. What would be a better way to prove himself than angering the Dominion, too?
A week was all he needed. A week that would be everything except comfortable but such was the way of his work. Another day would be too long for the escape to be simple but long enough that he could plan his getaway. Any sooner and he might find himself floating face-down in the sea because of a half-baked plan.
The sound of the Warden's iron prod echoed down the hall. The groans and horrified whimpers of the other prisoners seemed to pump his steps up as he trotted by them. He shook the rusty bars of the cells as he passed them, sending the prisoners scrambling to the darkest corners in terror. The Warden didn't seem to be feeling, as he called, "generous" and didn't drop a piece of moldy bread onto the floor of one of the "lucky" cells.
He appeared to be coming straight for Mytho, actually.
The Warden knocked his metal prod against the metal bars separating him from Mytho. "A lovely morning, is it not?" he said. "Oh, but you haven't seen the faintest glimmer of sunlight in a week now, have you? I can imagine you probably don't even know the right time to sleep anymore."
Mytho sighed and raised his head. "Aye, but seeing your sunny face every day keeps me from losing my mind like the rest of these fine lads," he said, jingling his chains.
The Warden laughed. "A week is hardly enough time to even ponder going mad!" he said. "Unless of course, the Ghost is weaker-willed than I thought?"
Mytho shook his head and groaned. "Is that what you're calling me?" he said. "You should've gone with what everyone else uses instead of trying to be special. Or maybe being a High Elf means that your head is in the clouds more than the rest of us?"
The Warden chuckled. "Ah, of course, Phantom of Bravil," he said. "Do forgive me for such a grave mistake."
Mytho smirked. "I'll admit, having your head in the clouds is better than being up your arse as usual."
The Warden didn't laugh again. "That mouth of yours is really beginning to grate on my nerves, Imperial," he growled. The Warden knocked the prod against the bars again to menace him.
"Glad to have disappointed you," Mytho said. "Now, would you mind bothering someone else for a bit? I have tremendous work to do." Mytho moved his arm back and forth suggestively.
The cell door creaked open. The Warden strode into the cell, slapping the prod on his palm. "How dare you speak to me like that," he said, tracing his finger along the prod. "I believe it's time you learned to respect your superiors."
Closer. Closer.
Mytho leaped up. He threw the chains out and wrapped them around the prod to pull it close. The Warden obliged and thrust the prod forward. He missed and the sharpened tip pierced the stone wall, just as Mytho planned for it to do.
Pride was going to be the Warden's undoing. Mytho threw the chains again and wrapped them around the Warden's throat. He thrashed against the stranglehold, but he couldn't break the chains forged by his own underlings. A few moments later and the Warden found out how hard stone it when he smashed his face against it.
Mytho squatted down to whisper in the drooling Warden's ear. "Should've made sure the chains were locked down, eh, lad?" he said. He grabbed the prod and the keyring from the Warden and stepped lightly over him.
Once outside the cell, Mytho worked on his cuffs with each key until finding the correct one. With a forceful twist, the metal rings dropped to the ground. He shut the door gently behind him and waved goodbye to the sleeping Warden.
He strode down the corridor, unlocking each jail cell along the way to the glee of the prisoners that still had their wits about them. Once despaired groans were quieted and replaced with gasps of disbelief and, dare they say it, joy.
And why shouldn't they be? He was the Phantom of Bravil and no chains could hold him.
Mytho instructed those that could carry themselves to carry those that couldn't, else they find themselves on the receiving end of the infamous poke-stick and its new master. They gathered in the corridor and waited for further instruction.
"Now, lads," Mytho said as he stood atop a crate and looked over them, "Does anyone have the foggiest idea where they're holding the Count of Kvatch?"
"By the Nine!" one of the sailors exclaimed, "They've got Count Sabicus here, too?"
"Why in Oblivion would I be here, if it wasn't for something important?" Mytho asked.
"Sir, it's because –"
Mytho wagged his finger. "Other than the obvious."
Each of the prisoners looked dumbly at each other.
"Not one of us knows for sure, uh, Phantom, sir," one scar-covered prisoner said. "I'd wager they're holding him in the upper level, though. I've heard that's where they like putting nobility. Hotter up there than down here."
"Always looking down us, even in prison, eh?" Mytho said and lifted the prod. "Fine. That's been my destination. You lads make for the exit at the base of the tower. Keep your ears open and eyes peeled. If you see any oils, dump them into the floor and remember where you did. Avoid all light until you're outside and I'll find a way to draw them to me so you can board one of their ships."
The prisoners looked at each other again.
"Go!" Mytho commanded. "Try not to get beheaded. I'll be needing you if we're all going to escape this damned rock."
Mytho allowed them to leave and then turned to go down another corridor. A spiral staircase, lit by a torch, curled up higher into the sky. However, ascending the passage was likely going to be a dangerous move.
Odds are somebody will trot down them right as I begin the climb, Mytho thought. Probably another on his heels.
He would have to find another way. Mytho moved in the shadows, making not a sound. He crept up to a door and placed his ear next to it. Two voices laughed from the other side. One to the left. Another was straight ahead.
Mytho kicked the door open and rammed the prod into one of the jailer's ribs. The other leaped from his chair and launched a fireball at Mytho. He swirled out of the way and spun to meet him. Another fireball grazed Mytho's rag-clothes and burned the stone behind him. Since they were throwing things, Mytho hurled the prod. It sailed through the air like a bolt of lightning from above and into the jailer's forehead with deadly precision.
"Perfect," Mytho said as he extinguished his smoldering clothing. "As usual." Not one to waste a good weapon, he recollected the prod.
The room Mytho gracefully emptied was hardly ornate as most of the Dominion's architecture, but it did appear to be somewhat decorated. Judging by the tables and chairs, the mug and plates adorning them, Mytho guessed it was a break room of some sort. However, a jailer's work was never done. If something took place such as a jailbreak, they would need a reliable way of notifying others. Something loud and obnoxious.
Mytho looked around the room until his eyes caught a large bell hanging over a chute.
He sucked in a deep breath. "Oh, boys?" he shouted down the chute in the highest and loudest tone he could muster. He grabbed the clapper and slammed it against the side of the bell.
Time to move.
Mytho exited into the passageway opposite of where he entered and came to a wonderful sight.
At the end of the hall was a window. Quick and quiet as a breeze, he approached the opening and leaned outside to find his position. A sharp inhale to draw in that salty, nostalgic, ocean air into his lungs and then back into the tower.
He looked to be nearly halfway to the top. With the passageways likely being filled with more soldiers as he stood there, Mytho figured there was only one way left to reach the top. He hoisted himself onto the windowsill and climbed out.
The rushing ocean wind whipped around his legs and through his hair. He breathed it in again. The freedom, it was intoxicating.
He put one hand on the uneven surface and moved away from the ledge to heights that would make a lesser man's knees shake. He looked below to see a handful of soldiers rushing into the building. More than that, he could see his method of escaping the island. A brig was moored at the dock on the edge of the island – sails adorned with the Dominion's symbol – begging for a new captain to guide it back into the watery expanse.
Mytho knew he didn't have time to admire the ship and continued to climb until he reached the next floor. He swung his legs in and let go, landing inside the shady halls once more. It was a mirror image of the previous level, but much quieter. The noises came from below. Mostly, they were stomping and shouting in panic as the bodies were discovered and cells found empty. His trick had worked well enough, but soon they would start searching the prison.
More stone corridors fed into a larger room with a stairwell to the left. Mytho sprinted up, prod raised and ready to stab, but not one soldier was found in the next two levels. Finally, he reached the top of the prison. The cages were arranged in a circle. The ceiling opened in the middle and in each cell with sparse amounts of shade inside the corners. Seagulls gathered above, cawing and dropping whatever they pleased on the solitary prisoner's head. He didn't stir from his outstretched, exhaustive slumber. Being put there was another insult to his nobility, one that surely wasn't lost on him.
Mytho jingled the keys in his hand as he approached the cage door.
The prisoner bolted upright and looked at him, bewildered.
"Count Sabicus Gregol of Kvatch, I presume?" Mytho said with the refined bow he'd practiced throughout the years.
The Count blinked his eyes. "Wh-who?" he stammered. "Who are you? What are doing here?"
Mytho put the key in the lock. "The missus is rather fond of you, believe it or not," he said.
Gregol's face lit up. "Erinda!" he said. "She sent you here? Why you?"
Mytho fought with the lock. A healthy amount of rust didn't make his job any easier. "Desperate times and desperate measures, sire," he said, "And not one of your guardsmen knows how to pick a lock, let alone have the stones to piss on the Thalmor's doorstep." Finally, the lock gave way and Mytho pushed the cage door open.
Gregol fought to smile through the sunburned skin on his cheeks. "Smart as a whip, she is," he said. "Fine, good sir. Let us leave this damned place. I assume you've, er…dealt with the jailers?"
"In a way," Mytho said. He looked around the room and found a long rope. "However, that means we won't be taking the front exit."
Gregol's smile was quickly replaced with a frown. "What other way is there?"
"The direct route," Mytho said. "Much more interesting in my humble opinion and crawling with less of our pointy-eared friends."
The Count looked at the rope, then to Mytho and staggered back. "By the Nine!" he said. "You're mad if you think I'm going to jump!"
"Worry not, sire," Mytho said. "This rope ought to be long enough. You can lower yourself to the battlements while I draw their attention. Does that suit his noble self?"
Gregol huffed. He didn't have another option. Mytho had made sure of that much and, being that the man was lord of a County, he was intelligent enough to know that blessings can come in difficult packages.
"Fine," Gregol said. "That will suffice."
Mytho tossed the rope to him. "Tie the know well and start climbing down," he said.
Gregol did as he was told. Just before he was able to climb over the wall, Mytho heard footsteps coming from the doorway. A soldier in golden armor emerged, blade already unsheathed.
"We've got company, sire," Mytho called out. He spun the prod in his fingers. "Watch your arse on the way down. I'd hate to return you to the Countess on a dish."
"Stendarr preserve me," Gregol choked out as he peered over the ledge. He hopped over and began his descent.
The jailer rushed at Mytho, his eyes hot and angry. He held his blade high and thrust at him. Mytho deflected it. A slice meant for Mytho's neck grazed his hair as he dropped low. Seeing an opening, he shoved the prod into the knee joint of the jailer's armor. The jailer stabbed his sword down. It met stone. Not flesh. His next whistling slice caught cloth. Mytho punched into the tiny opening of the helmet. Mytho felt the crack of the elf's nose.
The jailer cried out and kicked his leg.
Mytho fell to the floor. He rolled back and sprung to his feet once again. The now crimson-faced soldier unleashed a flurry of cuts. Blood was obscuring his vision. Pain was clouding his mind. Mistakes were coming.
Mytho swirled around each of the cuts. He jabbed at the armor's weak points in vicious retaliation.
Elbow. Dodge. Knee. Dodge. Gut. Dodge. Mytho kicked the jailer in the chest and shoved the prod into his throat, ending the fight.
Mytho collected the now ownerless sword in his right hand and gripped the prod with the other. A weapon in both hands felt as comforting as a home-cooked dinner. He buckled the scabbard around his waist and leaped on the edge.
Gregol was hiding behind a wall on the battlements. Mytho's eyes met his pitiful eyes that begged for help.
Another jailer was unknowingly approaching the Count's position.
Mytho swung out wide. His palms were hot as fire as he slid down the rope. A fireball from the jailer struck above his head and charred the braided fibers. A half-second early release and a roll to soften the landing made his descent quicker. On his feet again, Mytho leaped over the crouching Gregol and sliced at the jailer.
A motion from the soldier's hand caused his body to glow. Mytho knew what he'd done. Ironflesh. Mytho's blade found its mark, but only pierced the skin enough to draw blood.
The jailer launched another fireball at Mytho. It fizzled and popped as it sailed by him and crashed into the wall. Sparks leaped. Smoke lifted. He released a stream of flames from his fingertips. Gregol scrambled out of the way. Mytho slid under the floor, sword held in both hands.
With a grunt, he rammed the rusty prod through the jailer as hard as he could, pinning the jailer to the wall. Mytho tried to yank the prod back, but it was stuck tight.
Gregol uncovered his head and peeked at the carnage. He visibly recoiled. "Mark my word, good sir," he said, gulping loudly. "If we get off this island in one piece, you'll be part of my personal guard."
Mytho grabbed the Count's hand and pulled him to his feet. "It'd be too pompous for me," he said as he ushered the man forward. "I'll be content with the coin. For now, our vessel awaits."
"You have a a ship?" Gregol asked. "How?"
"I will soon," Mytho said. "A generous donation from the Aldmeri Dominion."
The Count sighed as they descended a flight of stairs and touched the rocky ground. "Fewer and fewer things separate me from those in my dungeon, it seems."
"Sire, please," Mytho said. "We're all buried the same depth. You never were much different."
They approached the opened gateway leading to the docks. Mytho had to hand it to the crew; they worked quickly. He didn't have long to admire their work, though. A handful of Thalmor soldiers emerged from the base of the tower, their swords ready and spells sparking and smoldering around them.
Mytho pushed the Count toward the gate. "Go!" he shouted. "They'd rather keep me than the rest of you! Get to the ship and tell them to cast off!" Mytho swished his sword back and forth and cocked his head to the side, challenging the jailers. "I'll catch up."
The first jailer twirled his sword and clashed with Mytho's blade. He smashed his forehead into Mytho's unfortunately unarmored one. He stumbled back, dazed from the impact. The jailer traced the tip of his blade across Mytho's cheek. A few drops of red dribbled to his chin. Another scar to add to the collection. Mytho widened his stance and swung his sword with all his might, plunging it deep into the jailer's side.
"I could use your blade, lad," he said, eyeing the sword in his opponent's hand. He swung high. The jailer lost his weapon and a few extremities. While the jailer was still reeling, Mytho reached up and claimed the sword and sank it into its former owner's chest.
The gate began to close again. He was joking before, but they truly didn't want him escaping. However, he couldn't run yet. It was too early. His timing needed to be perfect or they'd keep it open and chase him to the ship.
Another jailer charged him. Mytho repelled him with a parry.
Five.
A mage clapped his hands together. The blades of his comrades shined like they were filled with sunlight.
Four.
All the soldiers let out a battle cry and rushed towards Mytho.
Three.
Mytho danced around the storm of swords and fire. He drew blood with each swipe.
Two.
He rolled backward as a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning cooked the air around him. His hair was frayed on end.
One.
Mytho dashed to the narrow opening under the gate. He dropped to his knees and slid, head back and arms out. The tip of his nose brushed the enormous steel door as the final seconds of its drop slipped away.
"Open the gates!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Open the damn gates! He's getting away!"
Mytho laughed. It was far too late for that. He ran like mad down the sandy path towards the docks.
The ship had already set off – its sails outstretched and greedily collecting the strong winds blowing it away. Mytho plunged into the salty depths. The waves tossed and crashed against the rocky upcropping. The salty waters licked and stung every scrape and cut, but the current agreed with him. Hand over hand, Mytho paddled to chase the slow brig. Undersea creatures circled in his presence until the barnacle and algae covered hull cast its shadow over him.
A rope ladder slung from the deck and dipped into the water.
"Ready the cannons!" Mytho shouted before he could set foot on the ship. "Load 'em with carcass!"
The sailors stampeded to carry out his orders. From above and below deck the air was filled with shouts and curses between them.
"Cannons ready, sir!" one man shouted after he was finished wrestling with the launcher.
Mytho looked back to the tower. The gates were opening again. "Which window is closest to the oils you spilled?" he asked.
"Lower left!" the sailor said, pointing his finger.
Mytho shoved the man out of the way and kneeled at the base of the cannon. He squinted his eyes, tweaking and tilting the cannon with his view locked on the tower.
"What on Nirn are you up to now?" Gregol asked, emerging from the crowd gathered behind Mytho.
Mytho looked over his shoulder and smirked. "Giving back what's owed, of course," he said, ripping the line back. "Fire in the hole!"
A boom shook the deck as the foul projectile ripped through the air. The crew fell silent as it collided with the wall near the desired opening. It erupted like a furnace. Flames climbed skyward, then exploded from inside the tower as well. Smoke billowed out from every orifice. Seeing that, the crew shouted and cheered, followed by shanties in favor of the Dominion's fall.
Mytho grabbed on to the rigging and climbed high so that all on board could see him. "Now, lads!" he shouted over his new sailing crew, "Full-sail! We've got winds to chase!"
He looked back at the funeral pyre burning for the jail that haunted many would-be revolutionary's nightmares. It was a strike in the face of the Thalmor and one with a palm opened and with knuckles as the first point of contact.
And to Mytho, giving that slap and the praise following it were delectable.
.~~~.
Count Sabicus Gregol watched the man that had saved his life as he stood at the wheel, sailing them into the sea and towards the Gold Coast. In the absence of cawing birds and scorching sunlight and in the presence of drink, his mind again began to function. Albeit slight inebriated by a new, more welcomed force, but functioning nonetheless.
"I've figured it all out, sir," Sabicus said. He stifled a hiccup with one hand and took another sip as he ascended to the helm. He placed his hand on the railing when a wave rocked the ship and caused him to stumble. Or was it the drink again?
"Have you, now?" the man said. His eyes were seaward, his voice was disinterested, and his hands didn't leave the wheel for a moment. "And while sloshed, no less. I'd envy you if I hadn't given up the drink years ago."
Sabicus put one hand over his mouth. If the world would stop moving for a moment, he could gather his thoughts. "Thash, ahem, that's right," he said. "I've heard the people in my castle chattering on about rumors and the like. One, in particular, they're fond of is about some swordsman. Mytho, the Phantom of Bravil, as they call him. Broken out of damn near every prison in Cyrodiil and then some." Sabicus put the bottle to his lips and took another sip. "You're him, aren't you?"
The man's lips curled into a smile. "Guilty as charged, sire," he said.
Sabicus eased down onto the stairs so he wouldn't fall. "Explains why the Thalmor wanted to keep you most of all," he said. A criminal over a Count. The irony was clear, but Sabicus answered it by pressing his lips on the tip of the bottle once more. "Perhaps I should feel honored, then, to be in your presence. Or a bit humbled since I didn't realize it sooner. Even the cats down in Elsweyr know about you and that moniker of yours."
Mytho spun the wheel and Sabicus fell against the wall. "Aye, they ought to know my name better than the rest," he said. "Started there when I was a young man. Damn near ended my sailing career. But after I decided it was time I made my departure and returned to my crew, they started speaking of me in a different tongue. Gave me a different name than your guards use."
"And that ish?" Sabicus asked. He hiccupped as one Mytho became two overlapping the other.
He shook his head. "I haven't a foul enough mouth to repeat it," Mytho said.
Sabicus found the deadpanned sentence more humorous than it was probably intended. He laughed and wiped away a stray tear from his eye. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe he was suffering from too much time in the sun, but neither matter he guessed.
"Must've been the Divines, then, that sent you here today," Sabicus said. His head began to swim. "Because if this were any other situation and I was still in m'castle, I'd have put your head on my executioner's chopping block. It'd be a spectacle to be penned down in history when we put you in the ground, you cheeky bastard."
Mytho shrugged and twirled the wheel again. The ship lurched the side, making Sabicus lose his balance again. "A novel way of thanking me, sire," he said.
As the ship returned to normal, Sabicus tried not to return the drink in his stomach to the open. "Ah, but you should know I am not one to defy th' godsh," he said. "When we reach the shore, I'm sure they would be pleased to see you walk a free man." He turned his bottle up to take another sip and found it empty. Oh well. There was more below deck. "And I'll make sure that anytime you visit Kvatch, my men will know to look the other way. Consider it a gift."
Mytho raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Sabicus nodded. "Yes, yes. In addition to whatever Erinda promised you," he said. "As long as it wasn't herself. I haven't forgotten despite my current status."
"That's good, sire," Mytho said, lifting up a compass and locking his eyes on it. "And she promised me coin, so you don't need to worry about me spiriting her away."
Sabicus hunched over and put his arms on his knees. "You really are something," he said. "Getting yourself tossed in prison just to break yourself and the others out. And one of the Pale Hangman's no less."
Mytho's eyes flicked away from the compass for a second. "Really?" he said. "One of his? I didn't see the pasty bastard posturing himself anywhere on the island."
Sabicus nodded. "Well, I suppose I ought to say that it was his," he said. "Not so much anymore. His spot of misfortune was a good turn of luck for us, eh?"
Mytho didn't say anything in response. He kept his eyes locked on the compass.
"Haven't you heard?" Sabicus asked. "The Dominion killed him. Strung him up for all of the elves back in the Summerset Isles to see."
"Must've done something big to piss them off," Mytho said dismissively.
Sabicus grabbed the railing as the ship leaned again. "Happened just as I got taken away," he said. "Word spread like a wildfire. The Dominion didn't want it to, apparently. Nobody knows what it was that he did, but for them to exact that kind of punishment after he was given the honor of hunting down all the Blades agents in Valenwood and Summerset?" He blew out a breath. "Would've been a sight to see him be taken down a peg, regardless."
Mytho went silent again. Sabicus turned around but found that the dueling Mythos had become blurrier than before.
"I'm feeling rather, er, uneasy," Sabicus said, standing up. "Wake me when we reach the mainland, would you? I'm going below deck. There's a bottle of wine down there with my name written on it."
"As you wish, sire," Mytho said, eyes never leaving the compass in his hand.
Sabicus left him topside and stumbled below deck, impressed by his own ability to remain upright despite the captain's infuriating steering. With another bottle in his hand – this time spiced wine – he collapsed onto a cot and took a drink.
The Thalmor were going to be raving for having the insult dealt to them. They'd probably send another emissary, puffy chest and stuffy voice, to threaten his people as they always did when something went contrary to their desires. His hands, however, were spotless. He was simply a victim of circumstance. Mytho was the one they would want. With another swig, Sabicus wished the Phantom of Bravil good fortune in his future dealings.
He'll need it, Sabicus thought as a warm, comforting sleep overtook him.
