Standing before a row of cells, he stared at the harden oaken door. "Open it." He snapped; his voice sounded harder than he intended. The terrified gaoler managed a sharp salute and did as he instructed. From behind, Natasha's knife slit his throat ear-to-ear and he fell to the floor with a thud. That got the miners' attention.

"Watch the door; no one enters or leaves until I say so."

She pouted.

"You can kill any that do."

Her dreamy smile was back.

Rows upon rows of cells. Twelve in all. Crammed with scrawny, filthy… barely an ounce of meat between them. Would they be of any use at all? Loincloths was all that offered them modesty; most were so tattered it made little difference. Some of them lifted their eyes towards him; most did not. Their tired, wretched expressions gave him little hope.

"Ye killed him," One said, almost surprised. Almost. Another just sat back down, shaking his head and moaning.

"They'll kill us for sure now…"

"Silence!" He heard himself bark, "To those of you who wish death: remain here. To those who wish a chance of freedom," He cast his gaze around the lot; a few had stirred, sitting up, interested; a faint spark had returned – as if the word was something that had not heard in an age. Perhaps they hadn't. "…there is a roomful of dead guards. Your captors. Strip them of their weapons and armour, arm yourselves and head to the surface."

"What?" The first said, "Yer mad! Taken leave of ye senses! Us? Fight? Ha! That's a laugh."

"So be it. You'll all die here." How cold his voice had become. As icy as the peaks of the Cloudpeak mountains themselves… "I offer you this chance: it is your choice as to whether you stay or go."

"They're… really dead?" A third voice rasped, wretched in it's bewilderment, "Ye… slew a whole room? Be ye an archon, lad?"

"Nay; he be a demon." A fourth whispered, "Ta the hells with ye! Where were ye months ago? Where were ye then?! Back when I had a family…"

"Silence fool," yet another voice hissed, "lad, be ye words true?"

"See for yourself." Holding out the keychain, he dangled it in front of the closest set of bars. "The elevator mechanism is jammed. Can any of you repair it, or know of another way out of here? I intend to destroy this place."

"Aye…" A lone voice from the back called; heavily accented, he couldn't place it, or make out its owner. "Ye truly wish ta destroy this place?"

"Yes." He unlocked the first door, "Take this, and free the rest."

The freed man stared at him; stared at his own hands, almost sobbing in relief. "I'm… free?"

"Release them now."

The man bobbed his head and set to work; men stumbled out, awed, bewildered; many wept. Most could not believe it.

"Quickly now. Go." Pausing, he called, "Natasha, let these men go."

Some of them froze; one queried hesitantly, "Natasha?"

"She's the–"

"She's Davaeron's witch…"

A murmur of anger swept through the amassed ranks. There were perhaps thirty of them.

"She's mine," He addressed them, his naked blade firmly in hand. "She has been… convinced that this is wrong. No one touches her."

The mob stepped back. In their eyes, he could see their fear; he could almost taste it. "Now go, and take your freedom. If any of you still have a kind heart within you, you'll take the cook and the servant girl with you. You can find them in the kitchen; they are not to blame. Now get out of here."

Hurried, mumbled thanks were muttered as they ambled past him. When the river of scrawny flesh had finally subsided, a lone voice called out from the furthest cell. "I owe ye a debt o' gratitude laddie." It was the same accented voice that had spoken earlier. "To be beholden ta an elf t'aint quite wha I had in mind when I t'was prayin' for deliverance, but ye a welcome sight none ta less. So saviour, tell me, how ye plan ta ruin me mine?"

"Your mine?" The words were out even before the stunted shadow crept into view; a hunchback? No… a dwarf. As wretched as the rest, there was something about him that reeked not of desperation, but of survival; this one hadn't given up the will to live yet. Bloodied, bruised and torn, he was dressed much the same as the rest, but it was clear he had been tortured whereas they had not – at least, not in the same manner.

"Aye, me mine."

"Who are you?"

"Yeslick, an' ye?"

"Aurifyr." The lie was the easiest thing now; it came freely, without hesitation or doubt. But then, what was one lie compared to the atrocities he had already committed?

"Well met, laddie. This 'ere be me clan's mine."

"It would seem… others contest that claim."

"A dry a comment as ever I heard, but true enough lad. Be a tale of treason an' betrayal o'ver ta best o friends." He thumped his shoulder, "An' I be havin' a score ta settle," Shrewdly, he peered through his matted beard, "An' no doubt ye's yer own tale ta tell, but I won't be botherin' ye with tha' now. What'd ye say? Shall we find ta master o me mine an' crack his skull open fer this?"

"That was my intention."

"I be thinkin' it be." He paused, shuffling forward and squinting, "Wha' o' 'er? She be ta accursed devilmage's own critter. I'd nay be trustin'–"

"As much as I value the sentiment," How much colder could his voice become? "It is neither asked for nor required. If you wish to travel with me, no more questions on this. Otherwise, you'll seek vengeance on your own."

"If tha' be ta way ye wish it, so be it."

"I am not normally so cold, master dwarf, but these are… difficult circumstances."

"I understand laddie," The dwarf rasped, his barrelled chest heaving, "Mayhaps we speak more o'this when it be done, over a fine tankard or three."

"Agreed." Glancing down, he frowned, "First to find you some weapons."

"A fine axe'll do me."

"How typical."

"Eh?"

"Be that all yer kind uses? O' hammer an' axes?"

"They be fine killin' tools, lad, and nay ye be mockin' me speech."

"Sorry."

Straightening, he turned, "Come, Natasha. We've an armoury guard for you to deal with."

"Oooh, goodie!"

The dwarf stared, shook his head and ambled on behind him, even as Natasha bounded on ahead, cradling her blade gleefully.