The room in the high north tower was little used, gazing down upon the dusty streets like a blind man. This night, though, it was not quite so blind as from it peered four pairs of very human eyes, the moonlight glinting off nervous pupils.

"Shayanaq was unwise to imprison the barbarian, Morg," muttered one possessor of those eyes as he stared out upon the night-draped streets. He pulled his artfully embroidered, purple cloak about himself, as though to ward away a chill that could not be felt in the air. "He was popular with the soldiery...and now the soldiery grow restless. They ask, if one of their number could be arrested so capriciously, who might be next?"

"The outlander was accused of treason...what else could Shayanaq do?" said another miserably, his narrow, diminutive form huddled by the door, as if placing himself in readiness for a hasty flight.

"Hah!" snorted another, a girthsome man with rouged cheeks. "Treason requires craft and ambition -- characteristics of which our Morg showed little sign. The white-skinned barbarian is an uncomplicated fellow. Give him food in his belly, wine for his throat, a whore on each arm, and just enough responsibility to keep him from becoming restless, and he is contented. Plots to wrest a throne for his own? I say again: hah!"

A hawk-faced man seated in a high backed chair smiled thinly. "Such plots are more the purview of pampered nobles who meet in empty rooms, aye, Lord Felsteff?"

The fat man grinned slyly. "Perhaps, Lord Dakhir."

"Silence, both of you!" hissed the little man by the door.

Felsteff chuckled. "Come, come. We are all friends here...and quite alone. If we cannot speak openly -- then what's the point?"

As if to bely his words, there was a rumble of stone on stone and a tapestry shivered, though there was no wind. The four nobles froze, as though petrified. Then the fabric was pushed aside and beyond it stood a lean man in a crimson skirt. His raven black locks were braided and spilled onto his naked, ebony shoulders like ropes. Beyond him was a narrow corridor -- a corridor concealed by a hidden door but moments before. The man said nothing, but nodded curtly.

Shaking himself from his momentary start, the girthsome Felsteff forced a hollow chuckle. "It seems we are summoned...at last."

Falling in line like over-sized ducklings, the four men trailed behind the skirted newcomer as he wound his way back through the hidden corridor. At points, he stopped and held up a hand for utter silence. The four nobles heard the tramp of feet on the other side of the stone and realized the wall was so thin, they might well be heard by those who traversed the regular corridors of the tower -- though none among the tower's regular occupants knew about these hidden passages. None save those who had first erected this tower long, long ago. And those builders were but dust now.

Dakhir licked his lips and supposed that was why their guide had come without a torch. There might well be cracks in the wall where the caulking had come loose, and a torch would betray their presence.

Dutifully, they followed their guide deeper and deeper into the darkness and, as they progressed ever downward, the lords realized they might well be descending into the bowels of the earth...

He sat with his back against a damp stone wall, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom of the dungeon as easily as an owl who hunts by night. For one chained and awaiting possible death, Morg presented an insolent, disinterested demeanor.

One leg was stretched out before him, the other bent up to his chest. His arms were crossed nonchalantly. He was a big man -- with a helmet, he was reckoned the tallest man on a battlefield. He was broad-shouldered and narrow of hip, with thickly muscled arms and legs that boasted incredible strength, but had traded little in the way of speed or agility for such prowess. His skin was tanned a golden brown, and his blonde hair was bleached almost white from the tropical sun.

At first glance, he looked as a man resting momentarily by the side of the road, with no cares to speak of. Only the chains looping from his arms to the lichen-covered walls and the dark, menacing surroundings spoke otherwise.

Despite his circumstances, Morg was not frightened. He was not even particularly angry, though neither was he by any means in a forgiving frame of mind. Mostlty, he was curious -- curious and confused.

A travelling mercenary, he had landed a position with the local army -- one of the few white men so commissioned. And he had risen quickly, despite the common wisdom being that the army would not eagerly follow a foreigner. But he was good in a fight, loyal to those who were loyal to him, and he brought a refreshingly unorthodox viewpoint to strategy sessions that had claimed for them more than a few battles. He grew popular and he was contended.

He was more surprised than anyone when palace guards surrounded him one day, announced that he was to be arrested on suspicion of treason, and fell on him. Prince Shayanaq was less three palace guards now, and two more would be weeks in the infirmary, but in the end, he had been defeated and chained and thrown here. And he still had no idea why.

A stealthy tred piqued his curiosity. He cocked his head, his golden mane rippling with the movement. In this fetid dungeon, jailers swaggered about with all the grace of elephants. This was a lighter tred -- a fearful tred. Outwardly, his demeanor did not change. Inwardly, he tensed, ready for any opportunity that might present itself as advantageous.

A lithe dark form slipped to the bars of his cage and a breathless, feminine voice whispered, "Are you Morg, the outlander?"

"Who asks?" he growled quietly. Morg doubted there were that many foreigners in this dungeon that the woman could be in much doubt.

"There's no time for games," she said. "Are you Morg? Captain in the army?"

"Aye. Or I was at any rate."

The figure, still obscure in shadow, shook and he heard the clank of a key in the heavy lock. Then the door fell inward and she hurried to him, crouching at his side. Morg inhaled sharply with surprise. Whatever he had expected, it was not this. The girl was beautiful, kinky black hair spilling unkempt around soft, dark features; her lips full, her eyes large, dark, and scintillant with intelligence. She was nude save for a silk skirt and a few cheap anklets and arm bands. All this Morg took in in an instant: her bare feet, the sway of her firm, naked breasts, the gleam of sweat that gave her skin the look of polished ebony. She was a tavern whore at best, or more likely a slave girl. A curious visitor to these haunts.

Her warm, soft hands touched his, her palms cupping his wrist as brown fingers settled a key in the lock of the manacles. To Morg, who had known nothing but the harsh caress of stone or steel for days, the girl's touch was like a cleansing fire across his skin. As the bindings came free, he lashed out with panther quickness and pulled her to him. She gasped as she was crushed against his broad, naked chest. Holding her tight, feeling her body rub against his, Morg grinned to himself. He had had his share of girls like her -- but such familiarity did not dull the experience. But as much as he thirsted for a taste of her lips...he thirsted for freedom more.

"I say again: who are you to come stealing in this place at night? How did you come here, and gain a key to boot?"

"I am called Lali -- my master sent me to free you. I purloined the key while the guard was...otherwise engaged."

Morg stared dumbly for a moment, then realized that the sweat gleaming from her body was not all hers. After a moment, he released her and she scrambled to her feet, backing away from this powerful northern barbarian whose arms were as thick as her thighs...and not nearly so soft. Morg rose effortlessly from the floor, his days in captivity doing little to dull his muscles. Grabbing the chain that had bound him, he slipped it from its moorings in the wall and wrapped it about his waist like a girdle, there being no more efficient weapon immediately at hand. "Very well, girl. If you have a plan I suggest we follow it before the guard wakens and finds you're no longer by his side."

Lali backed away, still clearly frightened of him. Then she turned and started down the corridor.

"Ho!" Morg hissed. "The entrance is the other way."

"As are guards. I was told of a secret exit, deeper in the dungeons, in the sections no one uses anymore."

Morg hesitated, though he could see no reason anyone would go to the trouble of freeing him, only to lead him into a trap. But then, the machinations of city dwellers often left him bewildered. Still, he could not help but wonder why was there an area of the dungeons that went unused?

Suddenly he stiffened and whirled about, nostrils flaring.

"What is it?" Lali asked, then stopped as the sounds came to her as well. Shouts, the sounds of scuffling feet. And screams.