Cuyler groaned heavily, his breaths ragged and shallow as he attempted to lift his filthy head from the mud floor, but the action was futile. It was as if his blond hair had been mixed in among the grit and grime of the mud. He was dying, just as his countrymen around him, dissolving into a stinking pool of sweat and blood, their agony tangible.

How long had they been there? Days? Weeks? Months?

It was impossible to gauge, time melting into an endless despair of nothingness, each man’s anguish worse than the last. The swell of human suffering, coupled with the stench of misery and desperation, was enough to inspire suicide, even to a group as proud as these men had once been.

If Cuyler parted his swollen lids, he could barely make out Hemming’s silhouette, slumped against the crumbling stone, lapping at the black water seeping through the walls.

“Do not drink that!” he wanted to cry, but formulating words was impossible, his cracked lips parting to make a string of incoherent sounds.

What have we become? Cuyler wondered mournfully. We are disgraced men, a mere umbra of our former selves. Ove and Gustav sat back to back, propping the other up, but Cuyler could see neither was conscious.

It was a terrible way to perish, starving and thirsted. They had not seen food nor water in what felt to be eons.

Lord of Death, please take us soon! Cuyler begged silently. We have served this earthly realm the best way we know how, and now you must claim us into your bosom.

“Listen!” Steen cried, his voice a strangled whisper. “Someone is near!”

With the last iota of energy they could muster, the men crawled and stumbled forward, bony hands outstretched as a rustle of material met their ears.

The flickering of a torch lit the narrow passageway, and abruptly, a stunningly lovely woman appeared. She was undoubtedly of noble peerage, her intricate headdress slipping over a cap of red hair, her vivid eyes wide with worry as she moved toward them. It was not until they cried out to her, however, that she seemed to notice they were there.

“Help us!” they chanted at her, holding out their hands through the iron bars to reach for her pleadingly. “Water! Food! Help us!”

She gasped in shock, nearly dropping her torch as she backed away, her pale face almost opaque in the grotesque light of the lamp.

“Please!” Cuyler begged. “One sip of water…”

But she was gone as soon as she had come, not a word spoken between them. Her long skirts whirling about her ankles, she made her way toward the end of the dismal corridor.

“Bloody hell!” Tore howled, although from where he gathered the strength for such an expression, Cuyler could not know. His own face was still pressed against the cage of the dungeon where the Englishmen had them imprisoned.

Where had she gone? Surely there was nothing that way, was there? Yet why else would a noblewoman be in the bowels of the castle, mucking her dress when she had servants to do her bidding? There must be a reason she came alone. Something was there, Cuyler was certain of that.

What difference does it make now? We are all doomed to rot here, molding into a rat-chewed pile of bones.

“The men will charge the kingdom and we will be free!” Hemming sang in a delirious way, making Cuyler worry for his sanity. “On the morrow, perhaps?” He had spoken those very words more times than Cuyler wished to count, if he was capable of such a feat.

If the Northmen ever did penetrate the walls of the Misty Woods’ fortresses, it would be far too late for all of them. The men would see them as a liability and would leave them behind to die an honorable death, one their women would honor. No wife should be left to tend to an invalid husband. It was not their way.

At least they will end it for us quickly, Cuyler reasoned. One or two good blows to the head and we will be rid of our misery forever.

“Make your peace with the gods,” Cuyler said sharply. “Or assist me in finding a way to free us from this cage. I believe there is a passageway over yonder.”

He did not need to look at the men to know that they stared at him with contempt.

“How do you propose we accomplish such a task?” Gustav growled, pushing Ove to the side so the other man fell into an unconscious pile at his side. “We can barely feel the tips of our fingers, those of us who have any at all.”

“Then you may rot,” Cuyler retorted, his eyes scanning the dimness for a tool to free them. “I will find safe passage alone.”

If there was an escape, a way to leave the castle unseen, perhaps they would not die at the hands of the English, after all. He did not need their help. He could easily—

A low rumble began below their feet, and the men jumped in unison, looking around in surprise for the cause. The noise grew, and the earth beneath shook so much, the men reached out for support, but as the rock above their heads began to fall, there was nowhere to find shelter as they were pelted with debris.

“Cover your faces!” Steen shouted as Gustav threw his body over Ove, who remained unmoving.

We will be buried alive! Cuyler thought, a foreign sense of panic seizing him. There was nothing they could do but allow the dirt to encase them, the storm underground intensifying.

A flash of light blinded the men before their heads fell beneath the rumble, sending them into an unwilling grave.

All was still. For minutes, not a sound was heard in the belly of the castle, the death of the prisoners inevitable as the air was slowly, painfully sucked from the chamber.

Abruptly, the silence was overwrought with screams, loud and feral as six heads popped through the surface of their live graves, gasping and choking, wrenching their arms free to claw out of the pile, their terror palpable. They looked around to one to another, their cries subsiding as they realized they were, in fact, still alive. The men stared at one another, unsure of how they had managed to escape such a horrific ordeal.

Cuyler turned his head and realized the fatigue and pain which had filled his body had subsided, and he positioned his freed arms up to pull himself from the pile, watching in awe as his countrymen did the same.

“Is everyone well?” he demanded, dusting himself before reaching to assist the others from the mess, but he was waved aside, each one moving with ease and grace, as if the rocks weighed no more than a feather. The men murmured their assurances, each sounding as confused as he felt.

For the first time since their capture, Cuyler found himself thinking clearly, his eyes sharp and focused, and he gazed about.

“We must find a way out of here before the castle falls on our heads,” he told them, and there was no argument, everyone rising to scramble about for tools.

Soon, they had fashioned a shovel to dig the bars from the unstable dirt, and in moments, they were free from the cage.

“Why did we not do this long ago?” Ove grumbled, his earlier state of near-death obviously forsaken. It was only then that Cuyler noticed his eyes, and he paused to peer at his battle mate inquisitively.

“What is wrong with your eyes?” they chorused simultaneously, gaping at each other.

But as they turned to examine the rest, they realized that they all shared the same trait: glowing amber eyes.

What happened to us? Cuyler wondered, slowly examining his counterparts for any other abnormalities, but he could see nothing obvious. That does not mean that nothing else has changed, he realized, again noting the burst of strength in his body. Something had occurred in those few minutes, something that would forever change the course of the future.

The Northmen simply did not know it yet.