Chapter 7 - Bail Bond

Roderick, Ulrich, and Alfreth stood in the office built above Cevola Keep’s jails. The wood walls reminded Roderick of Miriam’s inn, though he knew she would never tolerate all the dust and grime.

“We’ve only got one you can have,” said the jailer. “I’m not even sure what he’s in for.” He flipped through a stack of tan pages. “Alright, here he is,” he said as he came to the one he was looking for. “A devil-man. We couldn’t get his name out of him. Says he got in a fight with our men-at-arms.”

“How’d they find him?” asked Roderick.

“Apparently, he ambushed some of our men in the woods to the north.”

“Up in the mountains?” asked Roderick.

“Yeah, that’s what it reads like,” said the jailer. “You want us to grab him?”

“Yes. Go ahead. Let’s see what he’s got.”

The jailer turned, grabbed a set of keys from a hook on the wall, wrestled with unlocking the door by the shelves that were behind him, then descended down into the jail to fetch the inmate.

“I don’t know about this,” said Ulrich. “Seems like a bad idea to turn a criminal into a hireling.”

“We need help,” said Roderick. “And who better than someone who has nothing to lose?” Seems like a terrible idea to me too, Ulrich, but this is where my prayers have led me.

“You really think a devil-man can be an asset?”

“I think anyone can be an asset. Such are the teachings of our Hero.”

“Never met any other monk who thought that his faith taught him to trust devils,” grumbled Ulrich with consternation on his face.

“Excuse me, friends, but eh, when will we be getting to the part where we vanquish evil and save the realm?” asked Alfreth. Every word was soaked with confidence and charm and genuine curiosity.

“This is all part of it, lad,” said Ulrich. “It’s not how they make it sound in the tales. Learn to appreciate these parts though; it’ll make the ugly chapters of our quest more bearable.”

“Ugly chapters?” asked Alfreth. What’s he mean? We’re destined for glory, and glory is never ugly.

The door to the jail opened. In walked a devil-man in rags, wrists bound in manacles. Red skin. Green eyes. Two horns jutting from his black mop of hair.

Alfreth’s eyes grew wide. This is the sort of devil we’re to put to the sword. How can we add him to our party? These men are strange. Perhaps I’ve taken up the wrong quest. No matter. I shall trust them; they seem to wish the will of the All-Father, and they should know it better than I.

Ulrich took a seat in a chair, staring at the ground to hide any thoughts on his face from the devil-man. I hope you know what you’re doing, Roderick. I can only see this backfiring.

“I am Valgros ibn Al-Valjin. What business do you have with me?” said the devil-man, almost hissing in a deep voice as black and fierce as a stormy night.

“Well met, sir. I am Roderick XXIII of the Ardent Crown. I am a monk who has come east to Midthalion to do work as a freelancer. I am forming a party. I am here requesting your assistance and offering you freedom in return.”

“I was a free man before these bastards took everything from me,” said Valgros. “Now, you expect to make a slave of me?”

“No. I expect to make a king of you,” said Roderick.

Ulrich shot a glance at Roderick. You not only expect him to help us; you expect to convert him?

“What snares are you weaving, elf?”

“I weave no snares, Valgros. I serve the one Who breaks them.”

“Speak to me plainly. Tell me your terms. At the very least, I’m tired of staring at walls, and that is enough to consider your offer.”

“You had a home in this land, didn’t you?” asked Roderick. He watched Valgros’s jaw tighten, the devil-man’s eyes darting to the ground before staring back into his own. “I want you to fight for it.”

“You would have me sell myself to a memory? These men burned my village and murdered my people.”

“Fight in their memory, sure. But more so, fight to rebuild your home.”

You don’t know what you’re saying thought Valgros. To rebuild my home is to do so on the bones, blood, and charred remnants of those who destroyed it. Perhaps your offer will give me that chance. Perhaps your trust is a door to the Hell I intend to unleash. Balfometh has sent you to me, and he is laughing. Valgros couldn’t hide his smile. “The terms, elf! I fight for you under what conditions?”

“Simple. Swear a loyalty to me. Uphold that loyalty.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will be obligated to deliver a swift justice of my own discretion upon you.”

“In other words, you’ll put my head to the sword.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not so quick to dole out death.”

Then you are weak thought Valgros.

“I want what’s best for you,” said Roderick with the soft smile of a friend. “I was sent here. In prayer, I was told there waited one here who did not deserve the chains put upon him. If you’ll trust me, I’ll break those chains.”

Your mistake thought Valgros. I’ll kill you as soon as we leave this keep. “Hand me your contract. I will sign. I will join your party and serve your ends… for one year.” All I need is my father’s sword and Athelia’s codex. As soon as the elf frees me, they should return those to me. Then, it’s only a matter of finding the right time to stab him and start my campaign against these elves.

“One year then,” said Roderick. He looked at the jailer. “Give us the proper papers and fetch his things.”

“One leather jerkin, black,” said the jailer.

“That’s hide,” corrected Valgros.

“One cloth tunic, tan,” the jailer went on. “One wolf pelt, black.”

“That’s a cloak,” said Valgros.

“I’m just reading off what was written down,” said the jailer. “Don’t bugger me about it.”

“Fair enough.”

“One pair of trousers, smelly.”

“There’s no way they wrote ‘smelly!’” said Valgros.

This guy is insufferable thought Roderick.

“One leather belt, black. Two wool socks, crusty. Two leather boots, black. Looks like that’s everything.”

“Where’s my sword and my book?” asked Valgros. His head darted around, looking for his missing things.

“I don’t have them,” said the jailer.

“Where’s my sword and my book?” asked Valgros, making his vexation visible and audible with the way he leaned forward and spat the words. “You have to have them. They were on me when I was attacked.”

“That’s not what the papers say.”

“I don’t care what the papers say. What I care about are my belongings. You find them, or you’re going to find my boot up your ass.”

So, this is how it’s going to be thought Roderick. What else should I have expected? “Valgros. We’ll find them.”

“What do you mean we’ll find them? They took them!”

“They don’t have them. If they do, we’ll get them back, but it’s not going to happen like this.”

“Perhaps,” said Ulrich, “they were left at the scene of your arrest.”

“I wasn’t arrested, damn it. I was captured.”

“Well,” said Alfreth, “how hard can a sword and a book be to replace?”

“Impossible! That was my father’s sword and…” Valgros calmed down, choosing his words carefully. “...the book belonged to someone else I knew. Someone else who was important to me.”

He’s sentimental observed Roderick. That’s enough to make me think it’s possible to trust him.

I can’t let them know what’s in Athelia’s codex thought Valgros. They have to think it’s just an heirloom.

“We’ll find them then. Give me a year,” said Roderick.

“A year?” asked Valgros with a shocked look on his face.

“At most. Yes. Even if you had them, you’d be stuck with me that long. I’m on your side, Valgros. We’re going to find them.”

“Are the sword and the book powerful?” asked Ulrich.

“What do you mean?” asked Valgros.

“Are they powerful? Magically?”

“Do you think Al-Valjin would leave a weak, mundane blade for his only son? Haram!”

“Then if the sword isn’t in the mountains and if it’s not on some vagabond’s hip, we’ll find it in the Caves.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Valgros.

“Powerful things tend to end up in powerful places,” said Ulrich, stroking his beard. “We’ll find them, lad. Trust us. We trust you.” We’re trying to, at least.

“What a glorious quest this is becoming!” exclaimed Alfreth, raising his fist. “A campaign against evil, the search for his father’s sword and a magical tome—”

“The book isn’t magical,” said Valgros quickly. “It’s just an heirloom. I’m just sentimental about it.”

“All the more romantic,” said Alfreth. “A hero soon shall you be, good Valgros.”

“Don’t call me ‘good.’ I’m not good.”

“And you seek to redeem yourself?” asked Alfreth. “I have certainly done right to choose to join with you fellows. Certainly, Roderick! Find us a bard who can chronicle our ventures, good sir!”