by J. G. Cuff
Catching her was easy. Strangling her frail neck was even easier.
The anger and anguish that parents would suffer; the heavy burden of guilt for not protecting their little girls, that two fathers would have to carry all the way through their lives, was all worth the trouble to a greedy, older cousin.
A tear broke from John's right eye and he looked away; up to the dark branches above them. Even after a soldier's life of violence, he had never once harmed a child. It was a line he could not cross. He spoke coldly, “I forsake you. For I am the Father's hand....”
An owl shrieked from somewhere in the elm, just as John's mace rammed down into her wide-eyed stare, shattering her skull and unmaking her soul. He knelt down and tugged the leather glove out from her fractured mouth. The tearing of the brain sometimes made his victims bite down hard, and on occasion, the muscles in the jaw would lock tight. He tucked the glove back into his coat and watched her body fall backwards to the forest floor.
She had been his 29th. He was working off his debt, fighting the good fight, knocking down doors and bashing-in skulls. He had really hoped that the path didn't have any more women on it. John much preferred killing the men. He usually left the bodies where they fell, but for the sake of her children, who most likely play in the woods, he would hide this one. The angel dragged the body deeper into the brush-cover, and while glancing up at the stars, he wondered how long it would be until the Father brought him home.
THE GEHENNA TOWERS
18
TTICUS awoke to a hammering headache and the sound of heavy hooves, rhythmically smacking in a steady pace against hard stone. He opened his eyes and was facing the ground from a few feet above, watching cobblestones passing by, as he was still draped over the backside of a horse. His first concern was Marcus, and he tried to keep hope. Perhaps the captain had let him go. It was Atticus he wanted after all. The boy would have only been a burden.
Yes, he's safe now; waiting for me at home. He'll be terrified, but he knows how to feed himself...it will be cold at night. Dammit! If only I could get word to my parents. I'll find a way out of this soon—explain to the council what has happened and they'll have to release me.
Atticus wondered how long they had been traveling since the night before. By the low, bright sun, he figured that it was early morning. He turned his head to the rising sound of many voices and commotion approaching them, and saw a central court, as wide as a small farm field, lined with colorful tents and shops. At the end of his view, a tall set of stone towers stood against a great wall lined with archer slits and turrets. Each of them was decorated by the royal flags, flapping yellow in a light breeze. When they had reached the Eastern City Gates, he heard the rider on the other side of him speak for the first time.
“Welcome to Amicitia!” he said in a cheery tone.
There were more than 10,000 people living in the city and new arrivals moving in every year. As young generations left the rural regions, seeking adventure and fortune, the city swelled with regular new blood. Most of these fortune-seekers would end up serving in either the Queen's Guard, which maintained order, executed law and managed prisons; or the Amicitia Army, which was constantly on the move—patrolling borders and keeping peace throughout the farther reaches of the realm.
After a short ride through the loud and busy court, they turned left and out through a heavy wooden gate, moving along a series of narrow cobblestone streets lined with garbage, cats and scavenging birds. The riders knew how to avoid the bustling city center. His headache seemed to be subsiding, but the smell of refuse was awful, and the stones moving below him were making him dizzy. Atticus closed his eyes tightly and prayed for his son.
After a short time, they reached the three-story prison house and entered through a stone archway into a small courtyard surrounded by high walls of mixed dark brick and stone. Atticus opened his eyes and he saw a large building with a tall wooden door. Two men wearing light armor and holding long spears were posted at either side. He watched the rider in front of him dismount and groan loudly, as he stretched the long ride out of his back and legs.
Atticus watched carefully, trying to see the other riders with them, but they did not leave their mounts. He listened to their horses walk out of the archway and disappear; back into the side streets, leaving him alone with his escort.
The rider walked toward the prison house and entered. Shortly after, two other guards in light armor came out of the door. One of them was carrying a set of yellow papers in his hand. Atticus closed his eyes and tensed immediately; preparing himself to be dragged off and dropped down hard to the cobblestones. The guards pulled him down and thankfully did not drop him. They unlatched his lower shackles, freeing his ankles with the key given to them by the Queen's Guardsman who had delivered him. He was now standing in the doorway, watching them, and drinking from a silver flask. Just as Atticus let out a sigh of relief, a large, armored carriage with a single barred window and a two-horse team, pulled into the courtyard from around the back of the prison house.
“Get him in the wagon,” the guard said from the doorway.
“What is this?” Atticus asked, as they grab his arms and pulled him toward the carriage.
The guard on his right arm replied, “Captain's orders.”
“Where are you taking me?” demanded Atticus, “We're already at the prison!”
He had assumed that if he was housed in the city, he may have stood a chance at somehow relaying the truth to anyone who would listen. Now, something else was happening, and he was very afraid that he was losing any hope of being reprieved.
He panicked and struggled, knowing in his mind it was impossible to escape, but his body had to try. He shook like a mad dog on a leash, as they dragged him forward and forced him into the back of the prisoner's wagon. Tears of anger and pure frustration welled-up in his eyes, and he kicked the hard wooden insides of the carriage like a man trapped inside a beast's belly.
When his strength was finally depleted, he sat back against the wall underneath the barred window, and listened to the sound of the horse's hooves outside on the cobblestones. They soon left the city walls and set-stone roads for sand and mud, and the horses clopping hooves softened, as they heading south on the long dirt path toward the sea. His tired body rocked and bounced, as the heavy wooden wheels rolled and hopped into puddles and over small rocks. He was exhausted and his disheartened mind began to wander into a day dream.
Young Marcus was sitting in his lap by the fire in Atticus' old rocking chair. He could hear the boy's little voice,
“Tell me about the waterfalls.”
Atticus looked down affectionately at his young son and smiled.
“Again? You like that story don't you?”
“Yes,” Marcus said with a great smile, looking up at him, “It's my favorite!”
“Alright. You remember how it begins?” Atticus asked, returning a smile.
“You first saw the Auquitine Vale when you were a boy like me!” Marcus began excitedly.
“That's right. When I was a boy, just like you, but-”
Marcus finished his sentence with him, “A little bit older.”
Atticus had only read about the Auquitine Vale, and he had heard many stories about the enchanted oasis, hidden and magically protected, somewhere deep within the Sorrow Wood, where a vast series of pools, waterfalls, underwater passages and deep caves stretched out under the trees, all of the way, 100 miles, to the Crucio Sea.
He held Marcus in his lap and told him all he knew of the gentle people and the fascinating creatures, who inhabited the turquoise grottos and clear waters. He described for him the large, colorful flowers that bloomed throughout the year, and the warm, healing springs that trickled endlessly out of the rocks everywhere. Marcus reached up and touched his father's face with both hands, as he listened to him tell the story he had already heard many times before. Atticus leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
The wagon jolted to a stop, waking Atticus
away from his warm, fire-lit living room, and back into his iron shackles. They had traveled no more than twelve miles, but it felt to him as though a very long time had passed. He lifted himself up as best he could, and turned his head back to look out of the small, barred window. He saw a tall stone wall stretching away, around a corner and out of his sight. Looking upwards, he could see that the wall stood nearly 30 feet above them. A series of thin arrow slits were carved into the light stone. He imagined trained bowmen, ready to snipe the life from anyone who dared to escape and make a run for the gate. Atticus studied what he saw very carefully. From the moment he arrived, he had escape on his mind.
He could hear men talking outside of the wagon, toward the stone wall, and he heard the sound of the two horses up front; blowing and nickering, waiting to either eat or move again.
“Here are his orders,” one of the guards said.
Atticus listened to two or more men shuffling around outside. The guards, who had delivered him, handed the gatekeeper a set of papers, along with a royal-stamped prisoner transfer and incarceration notice.
Another man's voice from outside of the window startled him.
“Atticus Sloane of Sparrow Vale. Nice place. Hm... Attacked and butchered a guardsman and a woman with a knife.... Bloody awful this one is. Well, you've brought him to the right place men! You tell Captain Devanshire when you see him, that we'll be takin' right care of this animal,” said the man candidly.
Atticus closed his fists, and his hands began to shake. Reality was creeping in fast. He was having trouble breathing. This was not a dream from which he'd awaken. He really was a prisoner, and Marcus had been taken from him. It was all too real. The shock was wearing off. He had denied himself the truth; thinking all this time that perhaps the captain had exaggerated or bluffed him, only wanting to put a fear into him. But now, he was really here. They had left the city and taken him to a place he had only heard of. A home for rapists and murderers. The Gehenna Towers were reserved for the worst of them.
The captain really had done something unimaginable. He brutalized that girl and then he killed her. He had power and persuasion, and he knew how to foul-up a man's life. The guards around Atticus now would never know that he was just a farmer and a father with a gentle heart. All they saw was another rotten soul to throw away with the others. Atticus' mind raced, as he tried to imagine a way out. There must be some way. He had to escape and find his son.
He craned his neck at the edge of the bars, and faced the gate house, toward the front of the wagon, trying to see anything that might help him.
A tower guard dressed in a black tunic was standing beside the wagon driver. A thick wooden club hung from his belt.
The guard cleared his throat and spoke to the driver.
“Open the back, remove his shackles and get his arms through those bars so we can lock his wrists on the outside.”
The back gate of the wagon opened and both of Atticus' escorts entered, saying nothing. They laid him out on his side, and one of them drew a dagger and set the tip to his neck.
“You move a muscle, and I'll be wiping blood out this cage all night,” the guard said. The other removed the large bracelets from around his wrists.
Atticus immediately rubbed his wrists with his hands, relieving the purple dents and red lines in his pale skin.
“Prisoner! Put your arms through the bars!” barked the man with the dagger, as he stood back just enough to let him up onto his knees.
Atticus turned and put both of his arms through the barred window, ready to be shackled again. It was a strange procedure he thought, but he was in no way to resist.
He rose to his knees, facing the window with his arms stretched out in front of him, dangling through the bars in the cool spring air. He saw a large man appear from the left, wearing a fine and long, deerskin coat with a woven leather vest, embroidered in color with the royal griffon and serpent emblem. It was obvious to Atticus that this was no gatekeeper. The man looked up toward the bars of the wagon. He was nearly clean-shaven with large, angry eyes and a long nose.
An ugly bastard, Atticus thought.
The Guard Commander motioned to the gatekeeper with his right hand, and he pointed toward the wagon. Atticus looked away, as the gatekeeper shackled his wrists with a new set of iron clasps that were attached by three circular iron rings to a long chain. After he had secured Atticus' arms, the keeper handed the long chain to the commander. Atticus was confused, peering-out at them from his cage.
Why the chain?
He got his answer instantly. The commander tightened the slack and pulled hard, yanking back, forcing Atticus' body forward and bashing his face against the steel bars of the window. He felt and heard his nose crack, and he screamed so loud that his own ears were ringing. He could taste fresh blood in his mouth and then his pain turned into blind fury and he fought to pull away. But the commander held him in place; pinned against the inside wall of the wagon. He couldn't see anything. The right side of his face was stuck against the top of the bars.
He fantasized about killing the man at the end of his chain, using only his bare hands, wrapped around the man's throat, squeezing down on him with all of his strength until the guard's eyes bulged-out like a bullfrog under a man's boot.
But the worst was yet to come.
A swift, searing agony suddenly shot up from the top of Atticus' left hand. He screeched like a wounded animal, and this time, his voice gave out. Only a hoarse exhale could be heard from his mouth. He pulled back on the shackles, but the guard commander held his ground, leaning backward on his legs. The chain would not slacken, and Atticus shook madly against the wall, trying to free himself. He could not see what they had done to him, but he could smell it. The pain pulsed in a steady ache along the bones in the back of his hand.
Finally, the man let go of the chain, and Atticus fell backwards with his shackles caught against the bars. He slowly leaned forward, breathing rapidly through his teeth, and he saw the back of his left hand.
They had branded him. The numbers 4 and 7, each the size of his thumb, in raised, red blisters, had been deeply burned into his skin. He just wanted it all to stop. From outside, he heard the commander's voice,
“Prisoner 47 now lives in the 9th tower. Take him to the western end of the bluff, straight to the spire with the red flags. They'll be waiting for him.”
The wagon moved forward and in through the gates, where 17 ancient towers stood high above the cliff wall, over 100 feet from the ground, overlooking the Crucio Sea. The behemoth relics were a standing testament to the durability of mortar and ingenuity.
Below the great towers, the land dropped over 200 feet, down to the jagged rocks of the shoreline. As Atticus would later hear the senior guards say, “A man could fall from the top with enough time to say a prayer.”
At the base of each tower, stood a wide, one-story guard house where up to six men ate, slept and worked in shifts to keep their flock contained. The houses had been added on and fixed right into the stone, so that each would have a functioning living quarters for their prison guards.
When they had reached tower nine, they unshackled his hands from the bars, and as fast as he was freed, they clamped his wrists and ankles again, and pulled him out of the back of the wagon. He could hear the wind hollering loudly between the towers along the bluff, and men shouting orders to their subordinates. He looked up to the guard house, where a large man with silvering hair and big brown eyes, was watching them from the doorway. He too had a short and heavy, black club hanging from his belt. Atticus glanced around quickly and saw horses feeding and a large stable among many other small buildings. The Gehenna Towers prison was like a village in itself. Many other workers, other than guards, milled around busily, carrying bundles of straw, grain and wooden crates—supplies from the city.
The stocky guard left the doorway and approached them expressionless. He waived the two Amicitia guards away, sending them back to the city where they belonged.
&n
bsp; “I'll take him from here,” he shouted over the roaring wind.
He grabbed Atticus by his right arm and led him hobbling in his irons, into the guard house where he shut the door behind them; leaving the wind's howl, and his freedom outside.
NINETY - THREE
19
HE entrance smelled of wood smoke and wet stone. His wrists and ankles ached from the digging iron shackles. Combined with the stinging pain in his face and his throbbing left hand, they were all a good distraction from the tearing of his heart.
I want my son back. Please watch over him Father.
Atticus walked slowly with his head down, taking small steps; only what the short chain linking his ankles together would allow. The big guard beside him seemed patient, holding the paper orders from Amicitia in one hand and Atticus' left arm in the other. His name was Horace Williart. But Atticus would not know that for some time. Horace led him slowly from the entrance and into a large room, lined with rough, white plaster on stone and a log-beam ceiling. Two other tower guards sat at a round table on the left side of the house, silently playing cards beside a small window. A wide fireplace nearly covered the entire wall behind the gaming pair, where another hallway ended abruptly with an open doorway at either side. To Atticus' right, a wide stone stairway spiraled up and out of sight; no doubt leading to the prison cells above. Directly behind the door that they had entered through, sat a sturdy oak desk with papers stacked on either side of a large, opened, brown ledger. The middle-aged guards looked up from their cards and glanced at Atticus, expressionless, and then their eyes dropped back to their hands. He was just another fallen wretch, come to rot for his sins in the ancient towers.
Horace turned to the ledger on the desk and glanced down at the papers in his hand—his prisoner's orders from the Queen's Guard. He read quickly, searching for the key details and skipping over the standard formalities.
