Cogs whirred and giant levers pulled back that held the prisoner’s cell door closed. At the first shunt, golden light poured through into his cell. It was the messenger again.  He wondered how many more times this door would open before he would step out of it?

It can’t be long now!

The tiny flicker of hope he had kept alive all these years had grown into an insatiable furnace.  Every part of him was truly alive.  Despite still being in chains, the power of hope had totally altered his existence. He would remember its effect. 

A second shunt increased the gap and more light from outside poured through; the prisoner squinted against it. It lit his transformed physique, his shackled wrists now bursting with veins, his chest deep and strong. He had begun to feel some of his old power return. 

Another shunt, the catain was almost through, and the prisoner thought back over these last few weeks. Once he had fought off the instinct to tear the catain to shreds he couldn’t help but be impressed with the creature.  Unlike the rest of their pathetic race this one had showed no fear of him, and when they had begun to speak, the catain had shown intellect and cunning. 

The catain had sought his advice! Soon the prisoner would find out if he had acted upon it.   The door shunted open again, and the catain slipped through, inside his cell.  His eyes were a brilliant blue, contrasted against his jet black fur. 

The prisoner nodded, and the catain dipped his little head in return.  The flickering light caught the shine of the long sword on his back, and a curved dagger at his side.  The stones of dewin inlaid in the weapons glowed a cool blue. 

The catain took a deep breath and spoke, “Today I killed my closest friend. I have known him my whole life. I cut off his head.”

The prisoner chose his words carefully, “You made a great sacrifice catain.”

“I have, and I did it on the words from a Ratain that has been imprisoned down for a lifetime.”

The prisoner drew himself up to his full height and flexed his enormous chest.

He made sure his next few words held gravitas.

“No friend.  You did it on the words of a King. On the words of The King of the Ratains.”

The catain tilted his head.

“Because of our agreement King Groath.  I will free you.  But what is the mighty King Groath without the sword of the ratains?”

His sword, Draig. It was feared, respected, loved.  Passed from Ratain king to king, he could not return to the Ratains without it. Nor would he want to, for no feeling compared to wielding that sword in combat.

Nothing.

Darcius smiled grimly and came close, within killing range of the king, staring up at him.  

Darcius spoke again his words cracked with their intensity, “Fear not, your majesty.  For I have found it.  I have found your Draig, and I shall bring it to you. Then I shall break you from your prison, and you shall break me from mine.”

King Groath clenched his jaws, and flexed his giant frame.

“But before we leave, your Majesty.  More heads must roll and more blood must be spilt.  I hope you can help me in that regard.”

King Groath didn’t answer but leaned back and let out a bloodcurdling roar.  Then, with a whip of his tail, the Ratain King swept Darcius up, holding him close to his face, the thick tail coiled around the catain like a python, blocking his instinct to reach for the sword on his back.

*  *  *

Swept in this tight embrace, Darcius took in the King’s face; his rancid breath, yellow eyes, thickly scarred snout and torn ears. He struggled to breathe against the tight confines of the ratain's tail, but willed himself calm. The king smiled broadly showing a multitude of sharp yellow teeth. Darcius watched at the ratains eyes changed colour, from yellow, to a deep red like wet blood.

“My little catain friend… I really wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Darcius nodded and discreetly drew his curved knife away from the King’s ribs.

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