The Evil Eye of Berwycke

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley."

Jailer Dredgerman's odd declaration rattled across the dungeon's entrance chamber, punctuated by the splashes of rainwater leaking in and the squeaking of rats, who loathed the yelling. Seven prisoners stood side by side before the jailer and the jailmaster, waiting to be admitted, each one with their hands in chains.

"There weren't always what?" Jailmaster Gruntham asked, in his croaking, choking, just awful voice. "In the where? What are you going on about?" He was a gaunt creature, described by many as a skeleton fitted for his skin three sizes too small. The key rings on his bulky jailmaster’s coat jangled as he spoke.

"You said I'm to read everything on the register, jailmaster, word for word," explained Dredgerman, in his loud, unpleasant way. "And it says right here, before the prisoners' names -- there weren't always dragons in the Valley."

"Why would the register of incoming prisoners say something like 'there weren't always dragons in the Valley'? What kind of gibberish is that?"

"If I didn't know any better, it almost sounds like some kind of coded message," Dredgerman guessed.

While the jailer and the jailmaster bickered, three of the prisoners exchanged glances.

"Fine. Whatever," Gruntham conceded. "Dragons, valley, no one cares. On with the register."

"Listed are the names and the crimes of the vagrants, vandals, and villains that are to be admitted to the Berwycke Brig, tonight. Prisoner, the First: Havasti Yotunsdaughter. A.K.A. 'Frostbite.' Jailed for the crime of instigating a melee."

The tall woman with pale blue skin and braided white hair was clad in animal pelts, stitched together haphazardly over leather armor. As the other prisoners shifted uncomfortably in their chains, only Frostbite stood perfectly still.

"We don't have a separate pen for women, girlie," Gruntham said as he approached her, with a confident smugness. "How will you keep yourself safe, I wonder?"

"I will dø what I always dø," Frostbite replied, her voice soft but harsh, like winter. "Say nøthing, løøk at nø øne, keep tø myself. A man will call øut tø me. A weak man, wanting me to answer him. I will say nøthing, I will nøt løøk at him, I will keep tø myself. Then he will walk øver to me, very angry, saying that I must think I am tøø gøød før him and that is why I will nøt answer. I will say nøthing, I will nøt løøk at him, I will keep tø myself. Then he will try tø put his hand øn me. All weak men dø this. This is where he makes his mistake, because I will nøt let him. And then I will hit him. Ønly ønce. He will fall døwn, all øf his anger spilled on the fløør. I will say nøthing, I will nøt løøk at him, I will keep tø myself. After this, nø møre men will call øut tø me."

Gruntham scowled. "Glad to see you're so full of yourself. What happens if you hit them, and they don't fall down?"

"That has never happened," said Frostbite. "But if it døes, then I will hit him twice."

The prisoner at the end of the line laughed. He was a gangly man, his jacket and breeches tattered, his oily chestnut hair splayed messily around his face. "Let's piss off a woman who can probably crush your skull in her bare hands. I don't see this backfiring, in any way. Definitely not."

"Shut up, Varnish," warned Gruntham.

Dredgerman cleared his throat before continuing. "Prisoner, the Second: Kerrig Trench."

Kerrig was a cold and quiet man, dressed in dark leathers. He stared straight ahead at Gruntham, Gruntham stared back, and nothing else was said.

"Prisoner, the Third..."

"Wait a second, what's up with Trench," Varnish interrupted. "How come we heard the nice blue lady's story, but we don't hear what Trench did. What kind of two-bit register dictation is this?"

"Shut your mouth, Varnish," Gruntham growled. "Keep wagging that tongue, and let's see if it doesn't get sliced off. Next."

"Prisoner, the Third: Alex... Alecky... Alick... whatever. Jailed for the crime of gambling and not paying on his debts."

The third prisoner was a pale gentleman in a tailcoat with long dark hair that was oddly well-groomed for the occasion. He took an impressively large bow for someone bound up in chains, then stood back up with a smile. "Alexei Nikolaievich Glazunov, and let me say it is my exquisite honor to stay at this jailhouse. What an impressive institution!"

Dredgerman turned to Gruntham, not sure how to react. "He's making a joke of us," said Gruntham, bitterly. "Or he's daft."

"It is not my intent to slight, nor am I simpleminded, my good man. I've never been in a jailhouse before, but this one simply oozes dungeon charm. The accommodations, the company, the restraints!" He clanked his chains, joyously. "Why, it's just like a prison from one of the stories, where our intrepid hero must plot a daring escape! I have but one paltry plea."

"By all means," Gruntham mocked. "Need a glass of ale?"

"When I was brought inside, I had a walking stick, for my bouts of rheumatism. Might I have it returned, in case such a fit befalls me?"

"You're managing all right without it, looks like," spat Gruntham. "Gonna have one of my boys look at it, see if it's worth something, and if it fetches a nice price, you can bet your pretty little outfit you won't be getting it back. This isn't a luxury inn, your highness -- this is incarceration."

"You might see it as incarceration, but I see it as an adventure!" Glazunov flashed an unnerving, mildly unhinged smile.

"Wow," Varnish said, sourly. "And now we're stealing canes from crippled people. Classy operation we're running tonight, Grunthy."

"Shut up, Varnish!!" Gruntham yelled, louder than before. "One more word out of you, so help me, I'll…"

"Prisoners the Fourth and Fifth," Dredgerman interrupted. "Scrawndle and Stumpp. Jailed for the crime of picking pockets."

"An honest mistake, jailmaster!" Scrawndle said, pleading. He was very tall and narrow, like a stovepipe. His accomplice Stumpp was very squat and wide, like a stove. "You mean to put your hand in your own pocket, and then someone walks on past and gets in the way. You mean to tell me that's my fault!?"

"A travesty," Stumpp added.

"A travesty that I can't keep you two in here for the rest of your miserable lives," hissed Gruntham.

"A travesty that I have to sit through this before you toss me in a cell," Varnish said. "C’mon. When’s the cell-tossing action happen."

"Not soon enough," Gruntham replied, through clenched teeth.

"Prisoner the Sixth," Dredgerman read. "Sythas Syverson. Jailed on suspicion of murdering seven men." There was a pause.

Sythas, a young flaxen-haired boy who couldn't have been older than fifteen, stood there with his eyes squeezed shut, as though he was terrified something might jump out of them.

"What's the matter, boy? No witty banter? Nothing you want to share with the class?" Gruntham asked, jeering.

"My... my younger sister," Sythas said, stammering, with his eyes still closed. "Is she all right?"

"The little girl at the scene? She's safe, far as I know." Gruntham answered.

"That's... good." The boy didn't open his eyes for a second.

"Is it true, jailmaster?" Scrawndle asked. "Has the lad got the Evil Eye of Berwycke?"

“Evil Eye,” Gruntham snorted. “Keep your tavern stories to yourself.”

"What's an Evil Eye?" asked Stumpp.

"Some say you get it from being born under the Witches' Moon,” Scrawndle explained, as he held his left eye open with his fingers. “Others say it's a curse from Death himself. Any time someone with an Evil Eye so much as looks at someone, their eye sees and plots all the ways in which to kill them, acted out in their thoughts, with whatever they've got on hand. And you can’t land a blow on them neither, the Evil Eye sees it all coming from a mile away. It's why the Circle of Daggers snaps them up so quick-like, they make for the best assassins in the realm. And if you kill someone with an Evil Eye and scoop the eye out, there's a thousand wizards and warlocks from here to Marshmoor that'll pay a fortune for it."

"Evil Eyes? Really?" Varnish asked the two, shaking his head. "We're really gonna start believing in Evil Eyes, now? You guy also believe in the Night Goblin, who lives under your bed? I'm the Night Goblin, look out, ooga booga. I'm the troll that lives under the bridge leading into Southtown, ooga booga. I'm the--"

With one gut punch, Gruntham managed to both knock the wind out of Varnish and send him toppling to the floor, doubled over in pain.

"Everyone, meet Prisoner the Seventh," Gruntham said, chuckling. “Haliforth Varnish. Jailed for the crime of public drunkenness, for the fifth day in a row, and condemned to a night of having the tar kicked out of him by every cur in the city. Which I will personally oversee and encourage." He kneeled down, so he could loom menacingly over Varnish on the floor. "Ooga booga."

"Jailmaster," Dredgerman said, staring at the register with wide eyes. "You ever seen something write itself at the bottom, while you're still reading it, like there’s an invisible pen?"

"Rubbish," said Gruntham, as he picked himself back up. "You just missed it, is all."

"No I didn't," Dredgerman countered, a little defensive. "Now it says at the bottom: 'The dragon must leave the Valley.' Why would it say something like…"

With a sound like a gale wind, Frostbite blew a cloud of silvery-white fog over her chains. There was a crystalline crackling as they were encased in ice, followed by a thunderous shattering as she headbutted them into tiny metal pieces.

"Fine night for a jailbreak," Gruntham said. "Guard!"

A guard that looked like an absolute tower of muscle, with his small muscular head covered in a black hood, detached himself from the wall and moved towards Frostbite, his muscular hands outstretched.

She punched him once in his muscular ribs, and everyone could see the shockwave of force ripple through his entire body, all at once. The guard fell down, in a muscular heap. There was no one to stop Frostbite as she walked over to the crate in the corner of the chamber, full of personal items confiscated from the prisoners.

As she rummaged, Gruntham seized a chain hanging from the ceiling and pulled it, causing an iron bell from above to ring. "Guards from all chambers," he bellowed, "Report to the entrance at once!"

Frostbite finally found her prize: a black walking stick, topped by a violet crystal orb. "Glazunøv -- cane," she said, as she yanked it from the crate and tossed it at him.

"A thousand thank-yous!" Glazunov said in a musical tone, as he snatched his walking stick from the air. "To think it might have been pawned like a pocketwatch." Two more guards, just as muscular as the first, entered the chamber and moved towards him. "Forsooth, a fracas! Just a moment, hard to move about with these meddlesome manacles..."

There was a sound like the bowing of a violin string, as Glazunov vanished and his chains clanked to the floor. The guards looked around for their target, but had no chance of seeing the strange shadow that scurried past them, in the blink of an eye. A splinter of a second later, Glazunov returned to where he had been standing just before, and sheathed his sliver-thin sword back in his cane. The guards slumped to the wet cobblestone beneath them, as Glazunov took a dramatic bow.

"Lunacy!" Gruntham yelled, continuing to ring his bell. "What do we pay you louts for!?"

Other guards were trying to make their way in, but Frostbite had already punched some of them, which meant they had fallen down, and subsequently stopped moving.

"Enough is enough." Gruntham pulled out a small portable crossbow from beneath his cloak, loaded it with a special poisoned bolt, and aimed it at Frostbite's back. "On your way."

He pulled the trigger, felt the satisfying twang of the weapon, and watched as Varnish plucked the bolt from the air like a dart from a board.

"Varnish, you gutter rat." Gruntham reached into his case for another bolt. "How did you get out of those chains!?" He reached for the most recent loop of keys at his pocket and found them missing.

"Not your night, jailmaster," Varnish said, holding up the ring of keys he stole. As Gruntham looked Varnish in the eyes, he noticed a peculiar transformation had taken place.

Varnish's pupils had become larger, and each had taken the form of a black skull, staring ominously.

"That's right, Grunthy," Varnish continued, as he spun the crossbow bolt around his finger. "I'm an Evil Eye of Berwycke. Ooga booga."

"Nonsense, nonsense, NONSENSE," Gruntham screamed, as he fiddled with his portable crossbow. "Just... just you hold still and I'll, I'll show you the meaning of..."

The skulls in Varnish's eyes twitched. He flicked the crossbow bolt into the air, and as it fell back down, he hit it with a swift kick.

The bolt flew through the air and bit into Gruntham's shoulder, with a wet thud.

"I'll show you... I'll show you the meaning of... I'll show you..." Gruntham's words slid and slurred as his potent knockout drug got comfortable in his arteries. He dropped to a crouch, then his hands and knees, then finally toppled down to the cobblestone, fast asleep.

Varnish shook his head and turned back to the other prisoners, who had handily dispatched the rest of the guards. "Frost, Glaz, I'd say we've got ten minutes, tops, before this whole prison is crawling with..." Varnish froze.

Kerrig Trench now stood behind Sythas, holding a gleaming knife against the boy's throat. "One of you so much as blinks, and I kill him, here and now."

"Yøu wøuldn't dare," Frostbite warned.

"I would, in fact," Trench replied. "Care to try your luck? All I really need are his eyes, but if the rest of him doesn't make it, I'm not losing sleep over it. Still get my cut."

"No wonder they didn't read your stupid rap sheet," Varnish said, raising his hands into the air. "You didn't even do anything, you're just here to kill the kid when we all get moved into the pen, and then split the payout with Grunthy. You're pathetic."

"The Circle of Daggers sends their regards, by the way," Trench said, with a crooked smile. "How long you been back in Berwycke under their noses, ‘Varnish’? That your name, now? You won't leave the city alive. Odds aren't too good on your loser friends, either."

"The gall," Glazunov said, intensely offended.

"Kid, I need you to open your eyes," Varnish said, to Sythas.

"N-no," Sythas stammered. "Not anymore. Never again."

"See? It's like I'm doing him a favor," said Trench. "Open your eyes for me, boy, and I'll pop them right out. Never have to trouble you, ever again."

"Who’s the girl?" Varnish said, a lie forming on his lips.

“A girl? Where!?” Sythas asked, frantically.

"Is she the kid’s sister? She’s gotta get out of here -- it's not safe!"

"Sadie, no!!" Sythas cried out, just as he opened his eyes. Trench knew something was wrong the moment he felt Sythas jolt, so he moved to slice him across the throat, but he didn’t move fast enough. The skulls in Sythas’ eyes twitched.

The boy stopped the dagger slice by biting down on the edge with his teeth, at the exact same instant that he lifted his heel and brought it down like a hammer on Trench's toes. The assassin unhanded him and screamed, reeling from the searing pain. The knife dropped from Sythas' mouth to his hand, and just as he turned to plant the blade in Trench's heart, he felt a firm grip take him by the shoulder.

"Oh no you don't," Varnish said, coolly. "You can't listen to those demons living in your eyes, or else they start running the show, instead of you." There was a violin note again, and suddenly Glazunov was standing right behind Trench. He swung his cane, and after a loud crack, Trench was lying motionless on the floor.

"All threats are døwn," Frostbite said, as she checked the guards' unconscious bodies for anything useful. "We need tø gø."

"They're right," Sythas said, trembling, as he dropped Trench's dagger. "About everything they said. I-I see... horrible things, when I open my eyes."

"Yeah," Varnish said. "I remember. The visions of killing people, the deaths replaying in your mind, very traumatic, huge downer. Now we got to get moving.”

"Nøw," Frostbite said, in agreement. "Yøu cøme with us, Syversøn."

"Can we come too?" Scrawndle asked, raising a hand from the corner, where he and Stumpp had chosen to cower.

"Nø," answered Frostbite, flatly. "Yøu stay here and reflect øn yøur bad decisiøns."

"Why am I going with you?" Sythas asked.

"We are members of a mercenary company by the name of Marligan’s," Glazunov explained. "A company which has been contracted to see you safely escorted out of Berwycke and rehabilitated elsewhere. Think of us as your knights in shining armor!"

"So you're here because--"

"Because we're paid to," Varnish admitted. "Or you can go back out on the street by yourself, take your chances with half the city wanting your eyes for money, and the other half trying to recruit you for an exciting new career in dismembering people. Your call.”

Sythas took a deep breath. “I’m out of options, aren’t I.”

“And out of time,” Varnish said, idly picking something from between his teeth. “Out of luck, too. Out of friends…”

“Fine, shush! I’ll go with you. But we have to go get my sister, first.”

“She’s not part of the deal, though,” said Varnish, in a decidedly mercenary tone. “You’re the star of the show.”

“Doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t leave, then neither do I.”

“A noble quest, to save his sister!” Glazunov sang. “Come now, Varnish. How could we refuse?”

“It’s simple, actually,” replied Varnish. “We say no, Frost picks him up like a bag of apples, and we carry him out of the city. Wish they were all that easy.”

“We’ll get yøur sister,” Frostbite said. “I døn't care where we gø, but we need to møve.”

“Then it’s decided,” said Glazunov. “The votes have been cast, and those in favor have overwhelmed the oppressive opposition!”

“Maybe ‘those in favor’ can explain to Hiram why we’re late for the checkpoint, then,” said Varnish, with a dash of scorn.

“I shall shoulder this terrible burden,” Glazunov said, as he gestured for Sythas to lead the way out of the jailhouse.

“Thank you,” Sythas said, meekly. “This means the world, to me.”

"I go where the young master commands," Glazunov said, with a bow. "Better we make haste! But why do you look so troubled, with such astonishing allies at your aid?” Somewhere behind him, Varnish laughed unkindly.

"Well, everyone's trying to kill me. My eyes are trying to kill everyone else. And while I do appreciate your help, my only friends right now are paid to be here."

"Oh, but you can't think of it that way. Chin up, Master Syverson!" Glazunov said. "You might see it as a death mission, drenched in danger and despair, but you must learn to see it as an adventure!"

Then he flashed his unnerving, mildly unhinged smile.