“M’Lord… the prisoners … have escaped.”
Vice-Regent Skeek regarded the disheveled and breathless guardsmouse. The stout soldier looked as if he’d been overrun. Patches of fur were missing, and he was cradling his tail in obvious discomfort.
“No doubt, corporal. How many got away?”
The guard winced. “Three, m’lord. The… largest ones.”
Skeek turned and considered. These had been prisoners of war. The Rodenians and the Pachydians had fought. It had been a very short skirmish. The Pachydians had folded almost immediately — not due to overwhelming Rodenian firepower or skill. No, it was all about one determining factor.
Terror. Pachydians feared the Rodenians pathologically.
“How many prisoners remain?”
“Just… the one, sire.”
Skeek scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Why did it not also flee?”
“Blind, m’lord. It cannot… fear what it cannot see.”
“As you were, corporal. Go see to your wounds.”
As the battered guardsmouse hobbled away, Skeek looked off into the distance, to a far hill: the Prison Peak. Even from here, he could see the fallen walls of the stockade, flattened no doubt by the escapees —
— visible from a great distance, because the structure was built to house prisoners forty times as tall as Vice-Regent Skeek and the Rodenians. You need a big jail to incarcerate elephants.