Ryn Thaneson, warrior, scholar, prince, and sometime magic user, was lost. He had never been lost before in all his nineteen years and was deeply resenting the experience now. As he ran swiftly but cautiously through the tunnels and caverns of what he could only assume was the fortress of some creature of darkness, he tried to put his mind to use. He couldn’t remember how he’d come to be here; the last thing he’d seen was the familiar landscape of the hunting grounds around his father’s manor. Then, just a few hours ago, he’d woken up here. It must have been an attack from behind, then. He cursed whoever had brought him here for a coward and continued his search for a way out.

            The air in the close tunnels was sterile. Soft light glowed from some unknown source and it was bitterly cold. He could smell death. Necromancers, perhaps. He leaned on the wall to rest for a moment and was alarmed to find that it was not stone, but some foreign material. His captors, then, might be alchemists. This was truly a bad situation. He despised alchemists with their foul smelling substances and equally odious theorems and hypotheses. Also, he’d heard horror stories of the experiments they preformed on the mad and invalid.

            He could hear his pursuers behind him: clumsy things, these. They must be the alchemists’ minions. Ryn ducked into a chamber and glanced around for a weapon. He’d never been one to run long from his enemies. His search was rewarded with a broadsword lying inexplicably in the rubble on the ground. Avoiding the gift horse’s mouth entirely, he scooped it up and ducked behind a large boulder. The creatures were conferring outside the chamber. There were five of them. Two separated from the group, going opposite ways down the hallway and three entered the cavern he was hiding in. The dim light obscured their features; they seemed to move as through thick liquid, their movements slow and heavy. Ryn gripped the sword firmly, and, with his family’s age-old war cry, leapt to attack them. He caught them completely by surprise, that much was evident. He sliced the nearest one across what may or may not have been its face and watched it stumble and fall with satisfaction. The other two were ready for him now, however. He took up a defensive stance, waiting for them to make the first move. The one on the ground stirred and let out a high-pitched call. Ryn almost dropped the sword in pain, and could feel it vibrating in his hand. The thing was probably calling for reinforcements. No more time to wait.

            Feinting to the left, Ryn dashed right, launching himself between the remaining two. They made a clumsy grab for him, but he batted the contorted limbs away easily. He landed heavily on his feet, near the door now, and for a split second debated whether to run again or to stand and fight. Remembering the wounded one’s call, he decided to retreat. He could return after his escape with the might of his father’s army behind him and wipe this place off the face of the planet. He sprinted down the corridor and was gratified to note a slight upward slope in the floor. The creatures from the room were, of course, pursuing him now, but he was quicker then they were. He wheeled around a sharp corner and stopped so abruptly he fell. Two creatures were standing there, waiting for him. Their bodies seemed to fill the entire corridor. The two from the other room blocked his escape, the wounded one trailing behind, still emitting that awful noise.

            It seemed the ones in front of him were saying something, but he couldn’t understand them, and didn’t want to. Their tone, however, was cajoling. They were trying to coax him into putting down his sword and coming quietly, he decided. This only made him want to fight more, however, and he attacked them. Visions of glory blazed in his head. He would take them with him if he was to die- and his death seemed eminent. Fighting four huge creatures in an enclosed space is simply not conducive to good health. But one of those behind him struck him across the head and he fell, dropping his weapon. He felt his limbs go flaccid, saw the creatures surrounding him.

            “Kill me then, cowards.” He said, exhausted and loosing consciousness. Two of them picked him up, and though he struggled weakly, his strength was draining rapidly. They carried him to a stone table and strapped him down, then stepped back. They seemed to be waiting. Before long, another approached. This one, at least, was humanoid. He looked flustered and old, unused to running. Ryn glared at him through eyes that were closing of their own accord. The man looked vaguely familiar. The creatures deferred to him and it seemed he could speak their language. He looked at the wounded one’s injury with concern, but the creature seemed to shrug it off. Ryn knew then that this man was the one who’d been keeping him here, the one who had brought him here. He was dismayed to learn that his assumptions had been correct; the man wore the pristine clothing of an alchemist.

            The alchemist was smiling at him reassuringly. Ryn spat at him. The alchemist was saying something, but Ryn wasn’t listening. He was testing his bonds to see if he was capable of breaking them. Then the alchemist took something from his pocket that made Ryn give him his full attention. It was a creature- small, narrow, and deadly. It was the alchemist’s own creation and it’s bite would, Ryn believed, cause him to descend into madness, subdue him enough that the alchemist could do with him whatever he pleased. Ryn thrashed violently. Why couldn’t they have simply killed him? Two of the hulking creatures held him down and the alchemist placed the creature on Ryn’s arm. Ryn braced himself, vowing not to give in. He felt the bite, cold, piercing. The one long tooth sank in deep and left Ryn shaking. In his last lucid moments, he cursed the alchemist, cursed the creatures, and cursed this place.

Then he was still. But his eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids, his fevered brain still thinking of escape, dreaming of life.

**

            “What happened to your eye, Jerry?” The doctor asked, concerned.

            “Ah, the kid took a swing at me with a yardstick he found in the lab. It’s all right, Doc.” Jerry replied, waving away the doctor’s fretting.

            “I can’t believe he got out again. I think we’re going to have to up the dosage.” The orderlies looked uncomfortable.

            “Doc,” Jerry said, the spokesperson of them all. “You just raised it last week. We can’t just keep giving him more drugs. He’s just a kid.”

“I’ll consult Mr. and Mrs. Thompson first, of course. But you may be right. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with him if this keeps up, though.” The doctor turned his attention to the young man on the gurney. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and was disappointed when Ryan replied by spitting at him. The doctor sighed. He liked Ryan Thompson very much, as much as it was possible for him to like any of his patients. And he worried about him. But there was only so much he could do for Ryan.

            “Ryan, listen to me. We’re going back to your room. Everything’s going to be okay now. You’ll see your parents tomorrow. Everything will be fine.” He continued to speak in a low, calming voice, much like one might use on a frightened puppy, as he drew a syringe out of his lab coat. Unfortunately, his voice had no effect on Ryan and when the patient saw the needle, he went into a panic. The doctor motioned to two of the orderlies to hold him down so he wouldn’t break the needle off in his arm and injected Ryan with a strong dose of tranquilizers. His thrashing ceased and he quieted. He was mumbling incoherently; it sounded almost like another language.

Then he was still. The doctor watched Ryan’s eyes move rapidly beneath his eyelids and wondered what he was dreaming. He gave up this train of thought quickly though, for who can know the dreams of the insane?