The distant ring of heavy metal was muffled by the dense walls. Pressed against the cold stone of his cell, Aristede waited in the darkness, listening intent1y for sound he knew must come. Dim light outlined the broad iron door, the only break in the intense blackness. Visually, he followed its rectangular shape again and again until he grew tired of the pattern and closed his eyes to huddle further into the damp corner. A length of chain joined his wrists with manacles. His clothing had long since become ragged and filthy, and he could feel the incessant complaints of a gnawing hunger. How long had he remained here, alone in the darkness, waiting? Two, perhaps three days? It didn't matter. The master of Dartmoor would not permit the disobedience of a prisoner to go unpunished. Wasler, a guard from the courtyard, was dead. Aristede leered at the memory of closing his own strong hands about Wasler's loathsome neck and watching the contorted face turn blue before he was dragged away.

He thought of Garth Blackwood, the infamous Master of Dartmoor, who painted for the world a reputation of cruel diligence, and boasted of never having lost a prisoner. He was immense of size and commanded strength and disposition of a demon. Aristede pictured the thick, bearded face, the blaek iron chain slung over one shoulder, the leg that was missing from the knee and dragged instead a wooden substitute. He shuddered and drew his hands closer to his chest beneath the tattered remains of his shirt. There his numb fingers grasped the harsh steel of an improvised dagger; the jagged piece of scrap metal he had smuggled from the courtyard long ago. He caressed its sharpened point and thought again of Blackwood. This was for _him._ And now at last they would meet again, for the final time.

He started. A faint sound echoed from far down the hall outside. He listened and it was repeated. The chains. The indescribable sound of those chains intermixed with the scraping of wood upon the flagstones. Dartmoor's master was approaching.

The sounds grew louder as he neared. Aristede crouched against the wall, mentally screaming for his shivering hands to be still and for the growing persistence of fear to give leave to the hatred he _wanted_ to feel. The chains came closer, the scraping grew still louder, and he waited, clutching the precious metal to him and twisting his fingers about it.

The scraping stopped.

He tensed, feeling his own heartbeat increase until it throbbed with every quickened breath he drew. A key rattled in the lock. The heavy bar outside swung free of the door and it was wrenched open to strike the inner wall. Smoky light filtered in from the hall to outline a towering form and dimly illuminate Aristede's cowering form near the wall.

Blackwood's gloved hands slid the chain from his shoulder and drew it taut. A low, grating laugh broke from the thick lips. Aristede did not move, but grasped his weapon still tighter. Blackwood stepped forward and dragged the false leg, raising the chain above his shoulder. His arm came down and the heavy links struck the wall near Aristede's cheek. The sharp repeat echoed through the musty cell and died away as the chain was raised a second time.

For a prolonged moment, it hovered, and Blackwood's broad chest loomed unprotected above Aristede. He slipped both hands free from beneath his garment and lunged.

Blackwood bellowed in surprise and pain as the jagged blade sank deep into his flesh. Aristede was gripped by a vise-like hand. The chain flailed out and struck him. He cried out, still within Blackwood's grasp, and they fell together to the granite cell floor.

Aristede struggled free of the dead weight, mindless of the warm red essence that covered his hands. He tore at the key ring at Blackwood's immense waist and freed himself of the manacles, then hastened from the cell and broke into a run down the grey corridor.

Shouts began to echo behind him. An open doorway rushed miraculously into view and he burst through it into the biting cold of a drifting snowfall. Beyond, in the darkness, the wall would await him. He ran harder, tripped and stumbled into the frost, only to clamber up again and move on. The shouts sounded far behind him. He began to laugh as he ran, confident that he was at last free of all the horror that was Dartmoor. When the outer wall became visible ahead of him, he paced still faster.

The wall! To be over it and free!

A shot rang out. Searing pain tore at his shoulder and he fell into the ice, floundering but unable to rise again. He heard voices approaching and tried to rise, cursing when the numbness of his limbs and the pain in his shoulder prevented the attempt. Then hands clutched him from behind and pulled him free of the snow to drag him, slowly, back behind Dartmoor's walls.

He felt the binding metal of the manacles returning to his wrists. The chill of the rough stone floor met his cheek once again and he heard the cold, sharp ring of the massive cell door as it closed, and left him in the darkness.

-- End --