With a soft click, the lock popped open. Duncan sighed in relief and quickly freed himself from the shackles on his wrists and feet. Trying to be quiet, he didn’t want their enemy hearing the rattle of the chains. Cautiously, he crept to the door and picked that lock as well. As he slowly pushed the cell door open, the rusty metal let out a loud groan. It was almost as if the cell were calling out to the guards, announcing his attempt to escape. Duncan stopped in his tracks, his body going rigid. His head snapped up and his eyes flashed over to the guards. All the while, his heart drummed loudly in his ears, mimicking the turmoil in his brain.
“What was that?” One of the two guards at the gate lowered his bottle of whisky and peered into the darkened area. Duncan and Angus were the only two prisoners in the dungeon at this time. One lone torch flickered, lighting up the holding area, but threatening to extinguish at any moment. It was near the guards’ post, so the cells were cloaked by the darkness of the underground cavern.
“I don’t know what it was, but mayhap you’d better go find out,” commanded the second guard with a loud belch. Duncan saw him wipe his mouth with his arm.
“Brathair, hurry,” Angus urged Duncan in a throaty whisper. “They’re comin’.”
“Aye, I suppose I’ll go find out,” reluctantly agreed the first guard, shrugging his shoulders and heading toward the cells. He still clutched his bottle of whisky in one beefy fist.
Duncan slinked over and fiddled with the spoon in the lock of the door to his brother’s cell. But to his dismay, the makeshift key jammed and did nothing to release the confinements of his brother’s hell.
“Bid the devil, hurry, Brathair!” Angus ground out, his eyes fastened to the guard post. “They’re comin’ this way!”
The sound of the Englishman’s boot heels clicked against the stone in the underground chamber, echoing loudly as the guard made his way toward them. The sound of dripping water from a crack in the ceiling reverberated in Duncan’s ears, becoming louder and making even his shallow breathing sound like a windstorm now. The scent of musty air and death filled his nostrils. His stomach turned and a shiver ran up his spine. They’d barely been given much to eat at all in the last few weeks. Both of them were gaunt and hungry. Plus, their surroundings weren’t fit for a pig, let alone the captured sons of a Highland chieftain.
The English only emptied the chamber pots once a week, and only when they happened to remember. Even the rats stopped coming by since the place smelled so foul and there wasn’t a crumb to be found anywhere. Duncan hated the English for the way they’d been treating him and his brother. And right now, he felt as if he also hated his own clan for not sending someone to save them. How could Clan MacLean leave them in this horrible situation?
The guard’s head snapped up and his eyes opened wide as he spotted Duncan outside the cell. “It’s the prisoner,” he called out to his friend. “He’s escaped!”
As the guard fumbled for his sword, Duncan’s efforts were finally rewarded. The makeshift key turned in the lock, and Duncan pushed the door open for his brother. Quickly spinning on his heel with his fist raised, he managed to knock out the guard. The Englishman fell to the ground in a heap with the bottle of whisky still clutched in his hand. He had never even drawn his weapon. Slowly, the man’s fingers opened, releasing the bottle as the guard lay there unconscious. A gurgling sound drew Duncan’s attention downward as the whisky flowed from the bottle and the heavenly scent filled the air.
“What’s going on?” shouted the second guard, coming after the first.
“Fast, throw me the spoon!” Angus begged for his brother’s help, reaching out although his arms were still shackled to the far wall.
“Nay,” Duncan answered, bending down to pick up the bottle of whisky. He almost laughed when he saw the astonished look on his brother’s face.
“Duncan? Ye’re no’ really leavin’ me here to die, are ye?” he gasped. There was a distinct hint of a tremble in his voice that raised an octave as he spoke. Angus was probably the fiercest warrior of the clan and had never been frightened of anything in his life. That is, up until now.
“Dinna fash yerself,” Duncan told him with a chuckle, taking a quick swig of whisky before reaching down to unclasp the ring of keys from the unconscious guard. He tossed the keys to his brother through the open door. “Use this, it’ll be easier.” Taking another draw from the bottle, Duncan reveled in the feel of the whisky burning a path down to his belly, bringing him back to life. A satisfied sigh slipped from his lips.
“Thank ye, Brathair,” said Angus in relief.
Duncan collected the guard’s sword as the second guard moved closer, struggling to unsheathe his sword, but with little results. The Englishman’s actions were slow. Confusion filled him because of being inebriated. He walked in a staggered line toward the cells, having trouble just standing. Duncan’s eyes flashed down to the bottle in his own hand, wondering how much whisky the men had drunk.
“Got it,” came his brother’s cry of jubilation as he released himself from his chains and hurried to the door. “What are ye doin’?” he asked, his eyes moving from the guard on the floor to the one fumbling to find his sword. “Kill them, Duncan. What are ye waitin’ for?”
“Blethers, Angus, one man is unconscious and the other is too well in his cups to even draw his blade,” spat Duncan, taking another swig from the bottle. “I canna kill unarmed men.” Duncan was a strong, fearless warrior like his brother, but he also never provoked a man or killed one if he could not defend himself in a fair fight.
“Well, after what they did to us, I dinna have any qualms about takin’ their lives. Give me the sword and I’ll do it.” His brother reached for the weapon but Duncan held it to the side.
“Nay.” Duncan pushed away his brother’s hand, using his hand that gripped the bottle. He took one last swig of whisky before using the bottle, bringing it down hard atop the second guard’s head. The bottle broke and the remaining whisky splashed out. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp. His knees buckled beneath him. Then he fell full-force atop his friend, unconscious as well.
“Nay!” bellowed Angus, eyeing up the broken bottle. “I would have liked a little of that whisky. Couldna ye have used the hilt of the sword to hit him instead?” He looked so forlorn that it almost made Duncan laugh, but he didn’t. However, he did regret wasting the precious whisky.
“Help me drag them into the cell. We’ll lock them inside,” instructed Duncan.
“I still think we should kill them,” complained Angus with a shake of his head. Moving his large frame quickly, he confiscated the second guard’s sword and dagger. Then he dragged the man into the cell as Duncan did the same with the other. “Ye’ve become soft sittin’ in that cage for nearly the past month, Brathair. Ye’d better hope I dinna tell Faither and the rest of the clan that ye let our captors live.”
“It’s Christmas Eve today,” Duncan pointed out. “Besides, I dinna care what our clan thinks after they did naught to save us.”
“The English also killed twelve of our best warriors unless ye’ve forgotten.”