Chapter Text
The cells were damp and dark, smelling of piss and decay. Zizka’s nose wrinkled, his ears picking up the sound of quiet sobs.
Behind him, his men opened cell doors with keys stolen from the captain, now dead and left to rot in the courtyard of this fortress. Looking at this place and its endless misery, it was better than that bastard deserved.
Zizka was here on the behest of his allies, freeing political prisoners from one of Sigismund’s fortresses on the Hungarian border. They’d slaughtered a number of Cumans on their way in; the rest ran like dogs, but their absence wouldn’t last long. This operation had to go quickly.
The valuable prisoners—those of high status—were already free. They weren’t kept in this shithole with the rest of the rabble. They had private rooms with fine linen sheets and laundered clothes brought to them by frightened servants. A gilded cage, yes, but a gilded cage was better than living in one full of shit.
Not every cell they opened down here held a prisoner. Some held only corpses, the bodies of those tortured to death. At least they found freedom in the end.
The main chamber was empty, Zizka already killed the man working it, but it was full of the tools of the trade. The scent of old blood was so thick it almost made him gag. He could never understand the sort of willful cruelty he saw on the bodies of those here, both the living and dead. Torture was a necessity, yes, but it was clear that whoever was responsible for it here enjoyed their work a little too much.
He stopped at a heavy door next to the chamber and sorted through the keys. Inside, Zizka suspected, was the executioner’s private quarters, and there was sure to be something of value, either monetary or in military intelligence. When he opened the door, he found neither.
Light poured in from the hallway over a bed and table, but that was all the room had in common with a living space.
It, like the rest of this place, stank of unwashed bodies, like misery sinking its claw into the stone foundations. Dried blood was streaked across the table, evidence of where various tools must have laid, though there was none left in sight.
The bed was surprisingly nice, considering the situation; everybody else was lucky to get a pallet to sleep on, but Zizka didn’t think the one imprisoned here was grateful for it.
The man—although he was young enough to barely be considered such—was naked. His arms were tied above his head, and he laid huddled as close to their anchor as he could get, his lacerated back facing the door. A whip, probably, and one that had been used for too long, the skin flayed and the wounds left untreated.
Bruises covered almost his entire body with fingerprints on his hips so dark Zizka could see them in the low light. The dried blood and other fluids on his backside left little to the imagination of what happened, and recently.
“Christ,” Zizka said. He stepped back into the hallway long enough to wave down one of his soldiers. “Send for Katherine. Tell her there’s someone who needs her; it’s urgent.”
Katherine would know what that meant, she always did.
The soldier scurried off to do as he was told. Katherine was probably nearby treating the wounded, but in the meantime, Zizka would do what he could.
He pulled his dagger, intending to cut the man free, and aporoached slowly. When he rounded the bed, he found blue eyes staring blankly ahead. Jesus, he was awake?
“Hey,” Zizka said gruffy. “We’re going to get you out of here.”
The man gave no indication of having heard him. Maybe ‘awake’ was too generous a term.
He cut the rope tying the man's wrists to find them bloody and scarred. All of him was scarred, really, with deep wounds in various stages of healing layered on top of each other. Few of them were older than maybe a few months.
Freeing the man’s arms was what finally got a reaction. Hands clenched and released, a sharp, shaking breath, and those blue eyes finally looked up at Zizka.
“It’s okay, nobody is going to hurt you,” Zizka said, softening his voice as much as he could. He was gentle by nature, but by God, he tried.
The man pushed himself up slowly, arms trembling. Zizka didn’t reach out to help. He’d seen this enough times to know better; Katherine still flinched away from him sometimes, and they’d been acquainted for a decade.
“Who…?” the man asked, his voice a rasp.
There were times when Zizka’s identity was better kept secret. This wasn’t one of them. Let everybody know it was him who liberated these people; he didn’t fucking care.
“Zizka,” he said. “I’m an ally of King Wenscelas.”
It was a bit more complicated than that, but Zizka didn’t expect a lowborn peasant to know much about the Margraves of Luxembourg and their allegiances. Even he had to admit that it was complex, but he didn’t support Sigismund, and that was good enough for now.
The man nodded slowly. He seemed a bit slow, but that could have been the situation rather than any indication of capacity.
After a moment, the man asked, “Do you know about Sasau? Who holds Rattay?”
The question came as a surprise, but Zizka supposed that explained the rural lilt to the man’s accent. From what he recalled, Sigismund had people in the area a few months ago, though they were beaten back by the forces in the region.
“The Lords of Leipa, last I heard, and I doubt that’s changed since,” Zizka said. “That where you’re from?”
A hesitant nod.
“Zizka,” Katherine called from the doorway.
The man tensed, and Zizka had to stop himself from putting a steading hand on his shoulder. Instead, he nodded toward the door. “This is Katherine; she’ll see to you,” he said.
Zizka didn’t say goodbye, just nodded to Katherine as he passed. She nodded back, a silent understanding. A blanket was folded over one of her arms; Zizka didn’t know where she got it, but he was glad she did.
“Hello lad,” he heard her say as he left. “I’m Katherine. And you?”
A pause, and, quietly, “Henry.”
Henry.
Zizka shook his head to clear it. He still had work to do. There were still people to free and information to find, and then they had to get the fuck out of here.