Taken Prisoner

Perthro: The Rune of Mystery Part 1 - In the dungeon, does a chance to escape present itself?

Jeff Kinnard

Jul 20, 2023

Click to read — Prologue of Perthro: The Rune of Mystery

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The Chosen Path — “Immediately continue the story after Frode wakes up from being knocked out.”

Perthro: The Rune of Mystery

Part 1: Taken Prisoner

Darkness gave way to dim light creeping through Frode’s squinted eyes, shining through his long lashes. It took him a moment to open his eyes anymore than halfway, the light stung — even worse mud, mucous and blood had all but glued them shut. When his eyes peeled open no sense could be made of his surroundings since everything was spinning. His head screamed in pain — a memory arose — Halfdan accidentally, or purposefully, bashed his head with a shield during a sparring match a few years prior.

“Halfdan!” He yelled while attempting to sit up, but a searing pain in his side prevented his movement causing him to groan. He closed his eyes in agony, not from anything physical, but from the mental anguish of losing his brother. The image of Halfdan’s eyes rolling back in front of him while he went limp was on replay as if he was there again and again. Frode’s mind comforted him by believing he was in Valhalla feasting with their Gods and parents — his heart was more selfish, yearning to hear his brothers voice so it may comfort him.

In an attempt to distract himself from the pain of loss, Frode tried to make sense of where he was. Surrounding him were three damp cobblestone walls, completed by a heavy door made of wrought iron bars. Through the iron bars a bare, dark room led to other cells that were empty. It seems no other prisoners were taken from the battle. He laid upon sacks that were stuffed with what he presumed was hay and in the corner next to his sleeping sacks was a crude bucket — he knew what that was for. He had been stripped of his armor and was left in his now extremely filthy undergarments. That was the entirety of his reality now.

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This time, slower and more mindfully, he raised himself to a sitting position. Pain raced through his side, but he was far from caring. Everything was lost to him now. His home, his family, his honor and his way to Valhalla. Whoever took him prisoner was most likely holding him just to kill him later. A seething anger built up inside him until he could hold it in no longer.

“AHHHHHH, I’LL KILL’YE ALL!!” He roared at the top of his lungs, his diaphragm straining from the primal power he was summoning in his voice. Wanting to take his anger out on something he grabbed the bucket and threw it with all of his strength at the wall parallel to him. The bucket struck the wall and a single cobble cracked in two.

Immediately Frode was interested in seeing if he could pry the stone free. He stood up, wincing while holding his side, and headed over to the wall. He traced the crack with his finger before wedging his fingernails into it and attempting to pry it apart. One side was firmly cemented in place still, however, the other was loose and able to be wiggled. He grabbed the bucket and shoved the edge into the crack before twisting it in the opposite direction, but the bucket just bent and gave way to the hard rock. Changing his strategy, he grabbed the bucket by the edge and started beating on the stone. After 3 swift strikes the stone gave way falling out down to his feet.

Frode stepped up to the wall and placed his face to it, peering through the fist sized hole. To his shock and amazement, another person laid face-down in the cell next to him on a pile of sacks like his own. Not just any person either, another Viking — he could tell by the tattoo of runes across his scalp and a depiction of Yggdrasil on his bare back. He was a tall man, the size of Halfdan, possibly even taller.

“Hello,” Frode called out, “are you alive?” There was no movement from the unnamed Viking — he frowned in disappointment. There was no telling if he was alive, he could hardly tell if he was breathing. Agitated by his misfortune Frode turned to go sit back on the sacks of hay.

“Ueghhh” A noise, barely audible, squeezed through the broken wall and reached Frode’s ear. He shot up and ran over to the wall, ignoring his pain. When he peered through the hole he saw the bear of a man stirring, attempting to roll over.

“Over here!” Frode shouted in excitement. “Are you alright?”

“Wh…Who’s there?” he spoke with a weak, gruff voice. He started looking around, but was extremely disoriented — as Frode was when he awoke. Finally he was able to roll over, but he let out a yell of anguish before plopping onto his back.

Once he rolled over, Frode’s face grew grim. It was hard to see in the dim light but he could easily see that the man was severely injured by what looked like burns. The skin on his chest and the left side of his face was charred and blistered, surrounded by crimson skin that was inflamed. His left eye socket was empty, a void where an eye used to be. A broken arrow still stuck out of his shoulder. He recognized the man now, he had seen him get struck by a flaming arrow meant for Halfdan’s face; a tribute to his size, as Halfdan’s face was at the height of the man’s shoulder.

“Look past your feet towards the wall, I’m speaking through a hole I broke open.” Frode told the miserable man.

“I see,” The man muttered through his teeth, "who are you; where are we?”

“I am Frode, son of Asulf and brother of Halfdan. I have not the slightest idea where we are.”

”Halfdan? Is he..”

“Dead, yes. He is among the Gods now — but not before taking many with him. Odin shall welcome him into Valhalla with great horns trumpeting to his honor, warriors of old cheering his achievements and a feast of great proportion to fill his belly.” Frode said, a tinge of pain in his voice.

“Apologies, Frode, brother of Halfdan. A warrior such as him shall be sung about until Ragnarok, the end times. My only regret is that I did not join him to revel in the glory of our deaths together.” The man spoke staring at the ceiling, unmoving.

“What is your name? I watched a flaming arrow strike you before the fire consumed you. I gave no extra thought that you may have survived.”

“I am Einar, son of Erik. As I hit the deck of our ship after the arrow struck me, someone hoisted me over the side into the sea, quenching the flames.” Einar winced as if reliving the moment he was set ablaze. “I floated for a while, unable to move before washing ashore and being taken by the men that slaughtered us.”

“Einar? Son of King Erik? The gods were gracious to spare you. We must return you to Avaldsnes to your father so we can plan our revenge, he will listen to you about what happened here.”

“Are you mad? We are dead men, Frode. I can hardly move, let alone escape in my condition.” He choked and wheezed before catching his breath to continue, “If your quarters are as bare as mine how do you plan on escaping — will you use the bucket to bash the armed guards head in? Foolish.”

“So you would just roll over and die then?” Frode seethed at the cowardice of Einar. “I am going to escape this dungeon and Odin as my witness I will find the traitor responsible for bringing about this massacre — they will feel the wrath of our fallen brothers and sisters.”

“What am I to do in my state?” Einar snapped back, but regretted it instantly by the look of pain spreading across his face. He stared at Frode through the hole with contempt — he knew it was because Einar felt useless, and he was.

Shouting from the other end of the dungeon surprised Frode. His gaze left Einar as he moved to the front of the cell and watched through the iron bars as two guards armed with swords and torches entered. They stopped in front of Frode and stared at him for a moment before one started speaking in a language that he didn’t understand. The older of the two spoke in a demanding tone, and he assumed they were attempting to question him. He just stared back at them emptily, hoping that they would catch on that he did not understand.

After a few moments of increasingly tense questioning, they seemed to understand. They then turned their attention to Einar. Again, they attempted to speak to him in their foreign language, and Einar just laughed — seemingly to provoke them.

“Shut up you idiot,” Frode whispered through the hole, before returning to the iron bars so he could watch the guards.

The guards faced each other and started to converse, most likely about their fates. When they stopped talking the older of the guards shrugged in the direction of Einar and took the torch of the other guard before taking his leave. The young guard that remained stood for a second in the dark and sighed, before taking a heavy breath in. Based on that, Frode determined this guard was tasked with something he did not want to do. The young guard pulled his sword clumsily — a sign of poor training — and headed towards Einar’s cell.

The guard pulled a key from his pocket and started to unlock Einar’s cell, rather awkwardly with a sword in his other hand. He noticed that his hand was shaking, making it difficult to push the key into the lock. Frode looked through the hole at Einar, who now had his eyes closed and was seemingly at peace — as if he knew what was coming.

He had moments, seconds even, to decide his course of action. Einar was the only ally he had in this dungeon, in a land he did not know. Injured or not, he may be his best chance to return to Avaldsnes and convince King Erik that they must take revenge. On the other hand, Frode considered how much more difficult it would be to care for his wounds and deal with his terrible attitude. One thing was for sure, his decision would alter the fate of his destiny.

Refer a friend

Taken Prisoner

Perthro: The Rune of Mystery Part 1 - In the dungeon, does a chance to escape present itself?

The Chosen Path — “Immediately continue the story after Frode wakes up from being knocked out.”

Perthro: The Rune of Mystery

Part 1: Taken Prisoner

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