5. The Thug

"We are dead. We are so very, very dead." Leske banged his head back against the unforgiving stone wall, wishing that it would swallow him up before Jarvia or someone came back. "I thought we were in trouble when he caught us trying to smuggle that lyrium, but this is gonna be so much worse…"

"Would you shut up?" His companion's voice rumbled from the other cell. "Beraht's not gonna kill us."

"No, he's gonna torture us first. Make us pay for what happened in pain… then, he's gonna kill us."

"He's not. Gonna kill us." The shadows in the adjoining cell diagonal to his shifted, and Leske thought he could maybe see his friend's hazel eyes glittering out of them. His companion's dusky skin and dust-colored hair were certainly too hard to make out. They always made his friend seem to blend into the shadows, even when he wasn't trying to. "We're not gonna let him."

"Uh-huh… and so just how are we not going to let him, huh?" Leske stood and walked to the bars of his cell, hoping to get a better view of his friend. "Oh, I know… you can sneak out of here by stealing Jarvia's armor. Just mind the boss doesn't try to grope you on your way out."

The shadows moved again, and a figure detached from them. Garott's corn-rows were a mess, and the dim light illuminated very little of his scruffy, broad-featured face. What little Leske could see was glaring at him. "You must've gotten hit on the head, too, Leske," the other duster's rumbling bass said. "Because I seem to remember that stealing Everd's armor was your idea."

Leske slumped against the bars, because the other dwarf had a point. "We shoulda killed that drunk in the pits."

"No use dwelling on it," Garott turned away from the bars, and Leske lost sight of him again. The duster did, however, hear something shuffling around, and then a soft snap.

"…Hey, what are you doing?"

"Coming up with a plan."

"Oh goody." Leske dropped to the floor again. "Hope this one works better than your 'let's try to sneak lyrium out of a crowded tavern' one. Genius, buddy. Genius."

"Says the one who decided a duster could pose as a warrior, and then didn't have the brains to at least tie the real warrior down so he didn't wander onto the field and expose everything."

Leske opened his mouth to protest, then sighed. "Yeah. We've both been dumbasses lately, huh?"

Garott made a low rumbling sound that might have been a grunt of agreement, a growl, or a laugh. Sometimes, it was hard to tell with him.

Leske sat in silence for a moment, listening to the continued sounds of rustling in the other cell, punctuated by occasional wooden cracks.

"Really, what are you doing?"

"There are some bits of old wood in here. Splinters."

"And so… we're going to… what? Throw wood shavings at the guard?"

"No, we're gonna punch the guard in the face and take his stuff. After using the splinters to pick the lock."

Leske blinked, thoughtful. "Will that even work? Using wood to pick a metal lock?"

"Only one way to find out, ain't there?" The sounds in Garott's cell paused. "And it's not like we don't have time to try. Beraht's not gonna want us to die too quick."

Leske groaned, again wanting to pound his head into the stone until oblivion came. "How in the name of the Ancestors do you make being slowly tortured over a period of days or weeks sound like a good thing?"

"What can I say?" Garott's voice rumbled, and this time, it was a laugh. "I'm an eternal optimist. Now shut your trap and let me save our asses."

And that's what Leske did.