are a voice against the people, from all that I have heard, and I know that it is not a voice that truly comes from Bishop Braumin Herde."
That statement seemed to hit the man profoundly, and Braumin slumped forward, his shoulders suddenly bobbing in sobs. Roger hugged him close and patted him across the back for a bit, until he composed himself enough to look up and look Roger in the eye.
"He possesses me," the Bishop whispered. "Aydrian, our king. I am not strong enough to begin to deny him. There is no resistance within me. He is strong, Roger, so terribly strong!"
"And that is why you must flee with me," Roger said, and he looked up so that his determined expression would encompass the whole of the group. "I must get him out of here, to offer a voice against King Aydrian and to stop his voice from speaking for King Aydrian! I ask the greatest sacrifice of you all - that you remain here as prisoners - for the sake of the true kingdom."
There was some bristling, and a bit of discussion, but Roger wasn't waiting for an answer anyway. He looked at Braumin, who seemed to agree, and then Lockless pulled the bishop away, suddenly, ignoring the protests and dismissing his own guilt.
Truly it bothered Roger Lockless to leave the men in that predicament, but he knew that there was simply no way he could get them out of Chasewind Manor. He considered unshackling them, just for a moment, but he dismissed that, as well. What would he accomplish by doing so? No good for the men, certainly, though any distraction they provided in their futile flight for freedom might have helped him.
But no. He would not sacrifice them.
He got Braumin back to the stairway, and then up to the door. Roger bade him wait, then slipped into the room.
A moment later, he returned, pulling wide the door and bidding Braumin to follow.
The bishop froze in place, though, watching the writhing of the soldier on the floor, the man grasping futilely at his torn throat.
"Roger, what have you done?" Braumin asked, or tried to, before Roger hushed him, pointing at the second guard, who was sound asleep at the table.
"Do not make me kill another man," Roger whispered, great regret evident in his cracking voice. "I beg of you."
The two went through the room, and moved along the darkened corridors of Chasewind Manor, Braumin following Roger's every movement, often ducking behind drapery or into crannies to avoid the occasional soldiers.
They had almost gotten out of the house when a commotion erupted behind them, first the shout of the jailor, then the cries of, "Murder! Murder!"
"Run on!" Roger bade the bishop and he shoved the man ahead, driving him toward the back door, then out into the night, pursuit growing all about them.
They ran to the back wall. "Go! Go!" Roger told the man, pushing him up the wall as he grabbed its top.
Braumin, who had gained far too much weight over the years, struggled mightily to pull himself over, with Roger pressing behind him. "Brother Hoyet is in the shadows awaiting you," the man explained. "Run to him!"
With a final heave, Roger got the bishop atop the wall.
Braumin hesitated, looking back at him and reaching down to offer his hand.
But Roger shook his head and moved away. "Go!" he bade the man. "Go and be quick!"
Roger turned and ran the other way, and before he had gone halfway across the yard, he heard the cries of the guards and knew he had been spotted.
So he kept running, putting as much ground between himself and Braumin as he possibly could. He rushed about the front corner of the great building, only to turn about and scoot the other way after nearly running into a group of guards.
He headed for the nearest wall, but had to turn again as another group appeared, angled to cut him off. He veered back to the other side, but those directly behind him were peeling wide that way, sealing him in.
"Wait!" Roger bade them, turning about and stopping fast, holding up his hands defensively. "Wait! I can explain!"
A soldier rushed in past the intruder's upraised arms, lifting his short sword as he came on, and Roger felt an explosion of agony across his skull.
And then he knew no more.
* * * As soon as word of the escape reached him in St. Precious, Marcalo De'Unnero knew exactly where to turn. He had known