Chapter 2

I woke up in complete darkness, and it seemed I was on damp earth. A nauseating smell of mold hit my nostrils.
Not understanding where he was, Ruthgar tried to stand up, but only managed to sit up. Turning his head, he groaned from a sharp pain. It seemed that after losing consciousness, he had fallen awkwardly and hit his head.
Zufar, that cursed mage! It was his smug face the prince had noticed just before falling into the abyss.
But where is he? In the deepest levels, where hardened criminals are always kept? But why? Who ordered him to be thrown into this foul cell like some wretched vagabond?
-Does anyone hear me?- he shouted demandingly into the void. – Release me immediately, or I cannot guarantee your lives!
His voice sank uncertainly into the gloom. Even if someone had heard the demands, they paid no heed.
The youth felt a wall to his right and, leaning on it, stood up. A small step required immense effort, but the next was easier. He held his hand out in front of him so as not to bump into the wall. Soon his fingers touched something soft. Dirt crumbled, trying to crawl under his nails. It seemed the cell had simply been dug into the ground. And if so, there must be a door cut in somewhere.
Surely my father decided to teach me a lesson. After all, he gave a promise but did not keep it. And the wise king, having caught him in a lie, decided once and for all to kill his desire for evening strolls. But why entrust this to Zufar? No one in the kingdom likes the mage, including my father. Or was it punishment for losing my temper and striking out?
Numb fingers encountered wood. Ruthgar began to beat violently on the door, shouting threats. Soon the shuffling of feet could be heard behind the door. The prince stepped back slightly from the door, trying to assume a formidable appearance; he was about to fly into a rage! How dare they treat him like some wretched criminal!
-Awake at last,- a voice said from behind the door.
The clinking of metal followed, a lock clicked, and the door opened wide. A stream of bright light flooded into the opening, illuminating the corners and walls of the tiny chamber. Ruthgar instinctively covered his eyes with the sleeve of his dirty shirt and backed away.
-Look, he's repulsed by the light!- the same voice bellowed at full throat. – Just like a rat!
A vile cackle echoed against the walls. Through tears, Ruthgar discerned a short fat man holding a substantial bunch of keys in his right hand and something suspiciously resembling a bowl in his left. The fat man shook so much from laughter that the liquid contents of the bowl spilled onto the ground.
Two other people stood in the corridor. Both were tall, with monstrous muscles bulging on their bare torsos—so much so that the youth instantly felt ashamed of his own. They held curved sabers; one also carried a tiny lamp that gave an even more surprisingly bright light.
Through his laughter, the fat man followed his gaze.
-Those are golems, boy,- he said in the voice of a sage. – Don't think of playing tricks here; they'll cool you down in an instant!
Ruthgar noticed the slightly greenish hue of the swordsmen's skin, something he had once seen on a drowned man. Moreover, the striking resemblance to one another betrayed them as twins, or mechanical fighters created from a single template—the kind he had read about in fragmented chronicles regarding other races.
-Here is food, boy,- the fat man groaned, bending down and placing the bowl on the floor. – The master ordered me to ensure you don't die here of hunger or cold. If you freeze, you can jump around; there's plenty of room here,- he burst into laughter again while closing the doors.
Ruthgar leaned forward, intending to stop the insolent man, but one of the golems cut him off with a wave of a saber.
-You scoundrel!- the prince exclaimed angrily. – Do you even know what awaits you for such treatment?
-But but,- the key-bearer interrupted businesslike. – It is you who do not know what awaits you. And believe me, when you find out, it won't get any easier. Sit quietly; the master ordered to bring you in a couple of hours.
He disdainfully pushed aside the stunned youth and slammed the door shut.
Ruthgar kicked the door in fury. The receding shuffle of feet and the satisfied voice of the fat man reached him.
This is no longer a joke! To him, the future king of the Free Kingdom, they threw a wretched bowl of food on the ground and laughed at him! Even if this is his father's punishment and the fat man is merely a good actor, he had better never cross the prince's path.
But how did golems end up in his father's castle? The League of Silver Cities is far away; only there do mages use mechanical slaves on such a large scale. Or perhaps Rafiz hid several in his caravan. Or created them on site. Though unlikely, as it is high magic, and the royal inquisitors could not have failed to notice the disturbance in the subtle fabrics.
Questions appeared one after another, filling the anxious thoughts of the young prince. Meanwhile, his stomach insistently tried to remind him of its existence. Soon Ruthgar could think of nothing but food. By touch, he found the bowl left by the fat man. The cold, disgustingly viscous liquid made him choke and spilled on his chin. The youth threw the bowl into the darkness with disgust. His belly growled in protest.
He will settle scores with all of them; the main thing is to get out of here!
And what if he was kidnapped? Zufar whispered that he would take revenge. So terribly so that I would beg for death. And revenge among mages is a matter of honor. A chill ran down his spine. In childhood, he loved listening to war chronicles, and tutors often told of the sophisticated wars of mages, where they intimidated opponents in every way by sending mutilated corpses. In some cities, the main gates opened without a fight.
In the castle, he often heard the legend of how the renowned ancestor Victor once not only escaped from the deep dungeons of a necromancer but also caused such an uproar there that to this day dark mages do not risk sticking their noses out of the foul swamps. In his early youth, he often imagined himself in such a situation, bursting through doors with his shoulder, rushing through dark corridors with a huge sword into the villain's chambers and cleaving him in two with one gallant swing!
How easy that had seemed. Now, having fallen into real trouble, all that remained was to sit and devise an escape plan.
Ruthgar growled fiercely, trying to awaken the beast that sometimes woke up in him at royal tournaments.
-I am not some wretched commoner!- he snarled into the void.
Springing from his spot, he heavily rammed the door with his right shoulder. Sharp pain immediately responded in the joint. Taking a couple of steps back, he threw himself against it again. The shirt on his shoulder tore, and hot sticky blood slowly flowed down his arm.
After the sixth time, his head spun; his weakened body ached, urging him to abandon the hopeless attempts to break down the damn door.
Ruthgar tiredly sank to the ground, stretching out his legs.

Bright light flooded through the open door again.
-Get up, prince,- the fat man ordered mockingly. -Look at you, thinking of sleeping. You're not in your own home here!
Ruthgar opened his eyes. The same trio stood in the doorway; the fat man now held iron shackles in his hands. The golems stood motionless, but the swords in their hands glinted suggestively. Slowly rising, he rubbed his sore shoulder.
-Where am I being held?
-Change your tone, boy,- the key-bearer advised. Contempt flashed in his gaze. – You are in the castle of the great mage Rafiz, understand? In the League of Silver Cities. Your name, your lineage, and title are a complete void here, half-pint. Therefore, do as you are told and don't think of contradicting.
It felt as if a mountain had fallen on Ruthgar. The League of Silver Cities, the kingdom of mages, was on the other side of Ashan! How were they transported so far?
-Put your hands forward. And no tricks,- the fat man ordered, preparing the shackles.
Ruthgar obediently extended his arms, but when the fat man came closer, he unexpectedly landed a punch to the man's face. The shackles fell onto the key-bearer's foot; he howled and jumped up, clutching his toes. The prince grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around, trying to strangle him.
The fat man turned purple, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he still managed to whisper something. Simultaneously, both golems entered the chamber; one blocked the exit. The second struck the fat man with a stone fist. It seemed to Ruthgar that he had been hit by a battering ram; the key-bearer slid to the ground. No obstacles remained between the mechanical warrior and the prince.
Screaming, Ruthgar jumped at him, grabbing his neck, trying to squeeze and break the vertebrae, but his fingers slipped over stone without causing any harm. The golem easily lifted the youth above its head and threw him to the ground.
The key-bearer, having stood up, immediately kicked him in the ribs. Then again and again, not letting Ruthgar get on his feet. The final blow hit his face; Ruthgar stopped trying to rise, putting his elbows out to protect his face.
-Wretched pup!- the key-bearer spat.
Blood flowed uncontrollably from his broken pig nose. The key-bearer disgustedly wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and kicked the prince once more, aiming for the head.
-You're lucky the master ordered not to touch you, otherwise I would have flayed you alive!
Picking up the shackles, he knelt before the youth and quickly snapped them onto Ruthgar's wrists. Tucking the bunch of keys into his wide belt, he said something to the golem. The latter obediently threw the prince over its shoulder and carried him out of the cell. Through a blurred veil, Ruthgar saw a dimly lit long corridor dug into the ground with crumbling corners.
The vague visions cleared. Ruthgar realized they were carrying him somewhere up, via stairs. The earthen steps smoothly transitioned to stone; now they were in a wide corridor.
The key-bearer shuffled along somewhere ahead; dissatisfied grumbling could be heard. The second golem was not visible. The prince raised his head; portraits of unknown people stared from the yellow walls—noble, judging by their faces, but also stern. Though what damn nobility? Surely mages, and they are all one: lying and corrupt.
The creak of opening doors followed; they were in a spacious hall. Ruthgar was thrown onto the stone floor.
-Your Majesty, the prisoner is before you,- a thin and fawning voice echoed under the high, also yellow, ceiling. Ruthgar barely recognized the voice of the key-bearer who had recently threatened him with brutal retribution.
-Now then,- another voice spoke, authoritative and strong.
Ruthgar rose slowly and with dignity. He was in a large hall. Eight columns around the perimeter held up the high ceiling, from which dragons, unicorns, griffins, and bears looked down at the prisoner, snarling viciously at two-legged scaled lizards whose front paws strangely resembled children's hands.
Dark curtains flowed from the ceiling, shielding the hall from the merciless rays of the southern sun.
A giant bed occupied half the room, its carved legs gripping the floor. A countless number of pillows were dappled in the brightest shades, both on the bed and on the floor.
Half-naked girls lay languidly on the bed, dressed in transparent trousers and bodices of blue and pink tones. They looked at the youth—some with pity, some with disgust—but their interest vanished instantly.
The prisoner's shoulders instinctively broadened, his gaze sharp as an eagle; not for nothing was he of this lineage, and though currently captive, it was only temporary—he was not a dead man yet!
Rafiz lay in the relaxed pose of an authoritative man, showing by every sign his enjoyment of life. He lay on his side, his right hand supporting his head to keep it from falling onto the pillow. His trousers were cinched with a wide belt embroidered in gold and silver; precious stones sought to blind anyone who dared cast a glance upon them. A high turban sat tightly on long greasy hair, drawing attention with a purest hexagonal diamond.
Deep-set eyes evaluated the young prince with interest. A smirk appeared on his thin face, making his prominent chin give him a resemblance to a goblin.
By the left wall stood two warriors with light yataghans in each hand. Keen eyes watched everything happening through the slits of dark masks.
-Why so careless?- Rafiz asked the fat man. – I asked only to bring the prisoner, yet you yourself are covered in blood and the captive is all bruises?
A slight reproach and dissatisfaction slipped into his voice. The key-bearer fell to his knees.
-Forgive me, master. I lost my vigilance, master. It will not happen again, master,- he stammered softly.
-Of course it won't!
The mage made a barely perceptible movement with his left hand; Ruthgar didn't have time to count the rings with rich gemstones. The golems grabbed the fat man by the arms and dragged him out of the hall. Desperate resistance did not help him; behind the closed doors, a cry for forgiveness and a piercing shriek were heard.
Rafiz watched them leave with a thoughtful gaze.
-Is it not true that humans are stupid and weak creatures?
The question sounded affirmative; the mage looked at the prince testingly.
-Is that exactly why I, the stupid and weak one, stand before you in shackles?- Ruthgar asked, looking into those cold eyes.
The mage sat up.
-And you are not such a fool as my dear brother described you!- the shackles, writhing, slid to the floor. Rafiz spread his arms theatrically. – But foolish enough to end up here... hm... as a captive. To strike a mage is too rash an act!
The prince chaotically weighed escape plans, but all paths seemed hopeless. Guards or golems surely stood watch at the doors—the latter even more terrifying—and the mage would likely not allow him to move from his spot.
-As far as I know, my compassionate brother offered you a worthy life, just like the life of your worthless father,- the mage continued. – You could have continued to enjoy all its pleasures.
-To give up the kingdom into greedy hands at the first threat is not a worthy life at all!- Ruthgar countered angrily. – I could not live further with the thought that I gave the throne to a usurper!
Rafiz laughed loudly, throwing his head back.
-What is your honor, youth? You do not pity your father; he doesn't have long left anyway, but you do not even pity your own life! You could have lived as a duke, procreated, raised children.
-And tell them how I cowardly surrendered without a fight,- the youth continued contemptuously. – Never!
Behind the mage, a very young girl rose. Jingling her hip chains, she jumped off the bed with a playful sway of her hips and headed toward a small ornate table. Gathering select fruits onto a silver tray, she brought them to the mage, humbly sinking to her knees.
Rafiz grimaced disgustedly and chose a juicy plum.
-I'm not offering you any,- he smiled victoriously. – I heard you had a wonderful dinner in your cell.
He laughed at his own joke.
-My brother has plans for you. As punishment for your insolence, you will see the corpse of your father. This will happen no later than a month from now. Then he will deal with you. Oh, Zufar has quite ghastly inclinations; he picked them up during the war of the Broken Staff, from the necromancers.
The mage's face stretched into a terrifying smile. Ruthgar felt shivers run down his spine. Tutors had told him about this war and the methods mages used to destroy necromancers.
Rafiz waved his hand again; the girl rose and gracefully jumped back onto the bed—neither plum nor grape was scattered. Before she settled on the bed, her eyes met Ruthgar's. There was something in those sad, bright blue eyes.
The mage leaned back self-satisfactoredly. Several pairs of hands embraced his thin chest from behind, beginning to stroke and caress him. It seemed he might purr with pleasure.
-You will not break my spirit!- Ruthgar decided firmly. – I will never fall so low as to beg for mercy or alms!
-What pompous speeches,- Rafiz sneered. – I, the great Rafiz, have broken those even greater than you! But I'll leave you to my brother.
He was basking in female embraces, but suddenly his eyes widened. The skin at the Adam's apple bulged; the bloody tip of a knife appeared.
The guards in dark masks were instantly on the bed; one struck the girl with the tray across her face. She slid to the floor but did not groan, instead rashly rushing toward the exit. The masked warrior caught her in one jump, knocked her down, and raised his yataghan for a strike.
Ruthgar roared like a mighty bear and grabbed the own-wicked one by the neck. Cartilage crunched like the bones of a young chicken. The warrior collapsed onto the girl.
Rafiz gasped frantically. Blood spurted in an unrestrained fountain. The girls, screaming, crawled to the other edge of the bed. Ruthgar picked up the yataghan and cautiously approached the second opponent.
The latter began waving both yataghans with unimaginable speed. Without hesitation, the prince threw his own yataghan into the steel fan; the swords in the warrior's hands diverged. A second later, he threw his entire weight onto the opponent, grabbing the arms and preventing him from using the weapons. The thin but nimble guard released the swords and pushed off the chest with his legs. Ruthgar, not expecting such agility, squeezed the trickster's wrists as hard as he could. A cry of pain was heard; the hands were twisted unnaturally. Casting a curse in an unknown language, the guard twisted in a jump, catching the prince's neck with his legs.
The prince grabbed hold with his hands; in the fall, he managed to notice that the mage's wound was rapidly closing.
-You creature,- he squeezed out with fury.
Two steps away lay the saving yataghan, but the opponent's legs held the victim firmly. His vision began to darken. With his last breath, he lunged and crawled to the sword. The yataghan proved to be as sharp as could be; with a light strike, he cut off both legs of the restless trickster.
The mage lay there, arms spread defenselessly. The blood stopped flowing, but the cut had not yet closed. Ruthgar discerned a wildly pulsing artery.
-And your blood, great Rafiz, is red.
Panic-stricken fear flashed in the mage's eyes.