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can.”
    “The mines! You don’t
mean The Tomb?” asked Jeklor, his eyes wide.
    “Fitting name don’t you
think,” laughed the guard.
    “You should know I have
nothing to do with him,” said Jeklor, turning pale. “He just
appeared here yesterday. Never saw him before.”
    “Keep him calm or I’ll
add you to the list,” said the guard and slammed the hatch
shut.
    “For the love of seven
gods, stop that,” said Jeklor and sprinted to the door, grabbing
the man from behind. “Please stop! You won’t achieve anything
behaving like this!”
    The man dropped his
arms, his shoulders sagging. Jeklor carefully loosened his grip.
“That’s right. Come, let us eat. No point in starving
yourself.”
    He led the man to the
back of the cell where he had stored his share of the previous
meal. He handed him a bowl with watery soup and a piece of bread.
To his surprise, the man sat down, devouring the food.
    “Good, good. Just like
that,” said Jeklor, letting out a sigh of relief. He watched in
silence as the man ate, ready to dive on top of him if he suddenly
moved.
    “What are you called?”
the man asked, wiping the bottom of the bowl clean with the last
bit of bread.
    “Jeklor the handsome.
Some say Jeklor the brave.”
    “Well Jeklor. Tell me
what you know of Sirol Vanderman.”
    Jeklor shrugged.
“What’s to tell? He’s handsome and rich, the ladies love him – and
he’s the nephew of the Duke of Darma.” The man stiffened as Jeklor
spoke. Then he relaxed and leaned back against the wall, touching
the stitches on his cheek and above his eye, a frown on his
face.
    “Have you calmed down
now? What is your name?”
    “Roland.”
    “It seems you have a
powerful enemy, Roland.”
    “It does not matter. He
will die.”
    Jeklor snorted. “Better
give up on that, my good man. You might as well try and kill the
Duke.”
    “What do you know of
these mines? What did you call it – The Tomb?”
    “Well,’ started Jeklor,
and took a seat next to Roland. “The worst of all criminals gets
send to work the mines. It is in a desolate part of Calvana to the
north, and once you go in, you don’t come out – hence The
Tomb.”
    “Has anyone ever
escaped from there?”
    “I just told you that
you don’t come out,” Jeklor started and Roland fixed his dark eyes
on him. He sighed. “Sure, sure. Don’t mind me. I’ve heard tales of
prisoners escaping, but because of the mines location there is
nowhere to run to – unless you count on Drifters’ Hell.” He
shuddered. “And if you manage to reach that hell hole, it’s over.
You are dead. The place is a wooden city build over a swamp, the
outcasts of society forging their empires there. Pirates,
Assassins, Politicians, Slavers – the worst kind of scum you can
imagine.”
    Roland leaned his head
against the wall, staring intently at the stone ceiling. After a
few moments he said, “Does Drifters’ Hell have access to the
ocean?”
    “Yes, a broad river
leads up to ... What? Don’t even think of it. Believe me, that
place is a death trap.”
    “You said the same
thing about The Tomb.” Roland stood and stretched. His muscles
ached and a dull pain thudded behind his left eye. The stitches
felt tight and they itched. He was glad, it was a sign that the
wounds were healing.
    Carla flashed in his
mind and bitterness welled up from his heart .He stuck his hand
inside his pocket, his fingers curling around the silver brooch.
They did not even bother to search him before locking him up. To
eager to protect Sirol’s name, Roland thought bitterly. He bit his
lip, his mouth filling with blood. He did not notice.
    “I swear I will avenge
you,” he promised silently. “I swear I will destroy them and their
power.”
    He looked down on
Jeklor who sat staring up at him. Jeklor had a mop of matted fair
hair and a light brown beard covered his face. His eyes held a
constant, mischievous gleam.
    “Why are you here?”
Roland asked him.
    “I am sometimes called
the