“Mathion?” Kéle’il called, but the only answer he received was the sound of his echoes reverberating off the walls. Kéle’il heard sounds from the ground below and was able to move just enough to look between the bars and down to the stone courtyard below.
He saw a tall man with long, raven-dark hair and a black beard walking toward the tower in which Kéle’il was being held. The man dressed in a black-and-crimson cloak. He was being followed by another man, head shaven and scarred, dressed in a simple black tunic.
“Where are the prisoners Kôdeiro?” the tall man asked.
“Separate cells, my lord,” said Kôdeiro. “What do you wish for them?” The raven-haired man stopped and thought for a moment.
“The son of Eredôn is still quite strong, if what Ecálos said to me is true,” he said finally. “Keep him bound. Let him weaken enough for my vengeance to be… sufficiently fulfilling.” Kôdeiro nodded.
“And what of the other, my lord?”
Then, as if Kéle’il wasn’t mortified enough, the man looked toward the tower where Kéle’il was being held. Kéle’il did not look for long, but he saw a pair of evil crimson eyes with yellow irises. They seemed to gaze directly through him, into Kéle’il’s very soul. Those eyes were the very embodiment of evil.
“It’s him,” Kéle’il said to himself. “He does exist.” He looked around frantically. “I have to get out of here now.” Kéle’il heard Azgharáth give an order below, but he couldn’t make out what had been said. He had definitely heard the word “tower”. Soon after a horn sounded, and the sound of thousands of running men, melded with cries in the Kânavadian language, filled the whole of the city.
A few moments later, a door opened. Kéle’il turned as far as he could, and he beheld a tall werewolf, covered in sweat and grime, wielding a battle-axe.
“The High Lord wishes to see you, da’ico,” the guard said in the Common Southern tongue. How the Kânín had managed to learn it Kéle’il did not know, but he suspected that the last word was from his native language. Of course the Kânín also spoke the language of men, almost as foul and uncouthly as their own tongue. The guard came over and unlocked Kéle’il’s shackles. The guard then pulled Kéle’il to his feet by his hair; Kéle’il winced from the pain.
“Walk,” said the guard, and he shoved Kéle’il hard in the back with the axe handle. The guard kept hold of Kéle’il’s left upper arm, gripping it with tremendous force. Suddenly, a thought entered Kéle’il’s mind, and he looked at his right hand. Kéle’il glanced down, and he saw the uc’he ktildér gleam on the back of his hand. Kéle’il glanced back up and saw that they were approaching a corridor.
“If I have to do this, it has to be now,” Kéle’il whispered to himself.
“What was that, Wolven-filth?” said the guard. Kéle’il balled his fist.
“Nothing,” Kéle’il replied quickly. They walked a few more steps, then Kéle’il made his move.