Chains
The large thunderhead loomed menacingly over a prison in an older part of the world, a prison which had once been full of thousands of prisoners, but now only held one. The prison might have emptied, but its guard remained the same. A thousand men guarded its walls and its only occupied cell. Though only a hundred were on duty at any given time.
The thunderhead burst and rain swept down, the guards hurried to find shelter from the storm. They were in the mountains, though not so high that the rain came down as snow. Cold rain lashed the squat prison. Thunder roared in the sky. Though it was midday, the storm was so black that the sun was blotted from the sky. The only light came from the torches and fires which the guard kept.
Such was the noise and power of the storm that none saw a party approach up the road. They were few in number, but they walked through the stinging rain as though it was a clear day. The men moved cautiously over the worsening road, not trusting the secrecy the darkness afforded them.
Lightning struck the mountain.
They reached the gate, but no alarm was raised. A single ladder was raised against the wall, placed carefully against the stone. Still, silence. They skittered up it as quietly as they could. The nearest guard house was closed against the rain.
No eyes on them, they drew their weapons and made their way into the courtyard. The storm above them obscured the far side of the courtyard. They hurried across, having studied the prison from the mountain top. They knew where they were going.
But as they crossed the courtyard one of them fell, his sword clattering against the stone. The others did not wait for him. Fearing their secrecy was lost, they sprinted across the courtyard. Still no alarm was raised.
They reached the door of the prison proper. Careful to keep the blasting powder from the rain, they took off their coats and made a makeshift tent over it. The powder set in the lock, they lit a match and cowered as the fire took hold.
With a boom the doors burst open, just as lightning arced across the sky. It was fortune, his famous fortune, but it would help them no further. Inside the door there was a company of guard who sprung to their feet, swords, musket, and bayonet ready.
The fighting was short and many died, but after it was over the intruders were the ones still standing. They broke apart, some searching for keys and others disfiguring the faces of their dead fellows. Best not let them be discovered and identified. The man who fell reached them, and carried a warning. The others knew and the alarm was raised. Time was running out.
The keys were found and the men hurried into the dark interior of the prison. Where they found a guard they killed him, for there was no more pretext of stealth. Down, down, always down. They searched every cell, but they didn’t find who they were looking for. So down they went.
Keys and doors, doors and keys. Further and further. Their numbers grew thinner also, as they didn’t always get the drop on the guard. Ten remained, but they would not be deterred, not now. They were close.
Deeper and deeper until they reached the absolute end of the prison. A turn of the key.
The door swung open. The cell empty. The men walked into the cell cautiously, calling the name of the prisoner, there was no response. Their search became frantic.
“Look,” came the cry after a short while.
There was a tunnel gnawed into the stone and the soft earth beyond. The man had escaped. They had come for nothing. Above them came the sound of thundering footsteps.
Michael Frutig 