by Dan O'Brien
A screen resided above the grand arch. It erupted into static at first and then subsided into nothing more than nothingness. I heard music, faint at first and then rising like a symphony. A man’s voice echoed all around me, his voice dry and gravelly. “Welcome, lower beings, to the Citadel. This place has stood for generations. Some of you will be exterminated and some condemned to these walls and mines to earn your keep. Beyond this grand arch are miles upon miles of mines; the twisting caves go deep into the earth. There is no escape from this place.”
The screen had morphed into a human face. The cruel features were gaunt; dark, cold eyes stared over an angular nose. His dark hair was slicked back and his lips were twisted into a sneer. His jaw line was sharp.
I looked up for a moment and then back down. This place was no mere prison. It was much more than that. I leaned in toward Hugo, my face just over his shoulder. “Who in is that?”
Before he could even voice a response, the guard closest to me slammed the butt of his rifle into my lower back. It sent me to my knees. A sharp pain shot throughout my body. He leered over me and then began to speak. “You’re never to speak when High Marshall Kyien is dictating, is that understood?”
I nodded. “Yes, of course,” I replied slowly.
Crack.
This time the butt of the rifle slammed into my face and I could feel bones break beneath the blow. My face was warm and I brought my hand up to my forehead where he struck me. I looked at my hand and realized that the world was spinning uncontrollably. My hands shook and a river of blood flowed from finger to finger, oozing down my wrist.
I wiped it on my shirt and tried to stand.
“I told you not to speak,” he roared, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.
I nodded weakly. Blood streamed down my face and the bitter taste of it coated my dry throat. I rose slowly, wobbly, and stood as tall as I could. Arching my chin up, I swallowed again. The force of the blow still rang in my head. The guard waited, his rifle brandished like a bludgeon. After a few moments passed, he seemed satisfied that I would not speak again.
“The Citadel is home to the exiles of Culouth. For those of you who are indentured into the mines, we, the citizens of Culouth, thank you for your hard work despite your birth,” continued High Marshall Kyien, his brutal features thin and hawk-like.
The screen dissipated back into nothingness again. Only a black screen stared back at the lines of workers as the horrendous screech of the arch began. The noise was piercing; the latches along its edge burst and slid free as the door moved along its track. The heavy steel moved like a thick, viscous fluid in the cold. I felt heat on my face even though I was a great distance from the opening.
I could feel the burning air that infested the tunnels into which we were now being led.
“Forward,” roared one of the guards.
Our steps were short and labored as we marched. Hugo stumbled ahead of me, his shaky old frame weaving in and out of the line. I moved forward to help him. I stopped as a guard looked at me and shook his head. The arch passed overhead; the heat was invasive. Rock walls surrounded us. Our shadows danced on the walls as we crawled deeper into the twisting tunnels of our condemnation. The light seemed to seep away, disappearing beneath crevices and into caves, leaving only our dark hearts.
TIME SLOWED WHILE IN THE MINES. They had sectioned us off in pairs, one wielding a pickax and the other a wheelbarrow; the wooden handles sent splinters into my tired hands. Hugo could not handle the weight of the wheelbarrow––nor could he swing the pickax with much force. So, I made due as best I could, chiseling away at the walls as well as carrying the wheelbarrows of stone to the marker that the guards had set.
They wanted the ore that was buried deep within the walls. We hammered at the walls mercilessly and took the rocks that fell and filled the wheelbarrows. We then walked them down a dank tunnel to a massive machine; its jaws were sharp steel teeth and it rumbled like thunder from deep inside the earth. I slammed my axe into the wall, my arms heavy; my chest heaved from the humidity in the caves. My wraps had begun to sag from the sweat and I had torn them back, exposing my pale skin beneath. Hugo sat up against the wall, his head on his chest as he breathed heavily. His sagging features were drained of all their color.
“Hugo, get up. The guards are coming,” I whispered fiercely. I made sure to chisel loudly to disguise my words.
Struggling to his feet, he grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted it off the ground, the base only half full with stones. He made his way toward me slowly. He wavered as he walked like a feather in a strong wind. “This rubble is heavy,” he squawked as he set it down beside me.
I began to load the dislodged rocks into the base, filling it almost to the top as the guard passed by. “You cannot continue to sit down like that. The guards are going to catch you.” My axe was lodged in the wall and I fought to tear it free.
“What does it matter? It is death either way: slow death in the mines or a painful one in their hands,” he replied as he placed the wheelbarrow on the ground once again. He sat on its load as if it were a chair.
I watched the guards disappear around the corner and stopped for a moment, collecting both my breath and thoughts. The days spent down here had already claimed a piece of my sanity; the importance of working already outweighed many other things. The guards did not bother you if you worked. If you were caught not working (or talking), it was straight to the penalty chambers.
“What kind of man is this High Marshall Kyien?” I queried. Thoughts of escape were on my mind.
“The worst kind,” mused Hugo as he picked up some rocks from around the wheelbarrow.
“And he is the master here?”
“No, he commands Culouth’s armies,” he replied.
“Then who is?” I pressed.
“Who does what?” he shot back.
“Who is master of this place, of the Citadel?”
“I will not speak his name,” Hugo replied. He lifted the wheelbarrow as if he intended to move it somewhere.
I pushed down on the load, making him drop the cart with a labored exhalation of air. “You will tell me. It is necessary that I know.”
“He is a man like us, not one of those bastards from above. He is much worse. He is an animal, a filthy creature that takes pleasure in watching his own perish like dust into the wind,” Hugo replied heatedly, looking from side to side as if he expected something to surprise us.
“What is his name?” I pressed, gripping his arm.
“His name is Jabo,” he replied, pushing my arm away and picking up the wheelbarrow. His spindly arms strained beneath the weight.
“Jabo?” The name meant nothing to me.
“Do not speak his name so loudly,” he replied, hushing me with one of his crooked fingers.
“Where can I find him?”
He cackled now, dropping the wheelbarrow and grasping his stomach as he laughed. “You wish to find Jabo? Do you have a death wish?”
“I have my reasons,” I replied darkly.
“Indeed,” he conceded as his laughter faltered.
“Where can I find this man?”
“You don’t find Jabo, he finds you. Prisoners who are unwilling to work are granted such an audience.”
“So I need to rebel?”
“What you suggest it too dangerous,” he warned with concern.
“I must leave here. There are things that I must do.”
Hugo shook his head sadly. “There’s no escape from the Citadel.”
“How do you know?” I replied bitterly.
“Once, I had something I needed to return home for. I had failed. I was not strong enough to return to them, to my family.”
I pushed past him and lifted the wheelbarrow. My muscles were fueled by vengeance and hatred, a mixture that drove me forward despite the overwhelming probability that I would not succeed. I moved past him with the cart, watching his sorrowful features as I passed. I turned back to him. “H
ugo?”
“Yes, Seth?”
“If I do not see you again, I thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome, Seth Armen of the North. May your journey be safe.”
I barely heard his words as I rounded the corner.
The heat of the machine washed over my face. The guards who stood along the walls watched me from beneath their masks. The reflective surface showed me only the haggard features of my own refection. I could see the liquid flames of the converter ahead and it drove me forward despite the pain. I neared the edge and stopped. There were no other prisoners behind me. I tipped the wheelbarrow on its side. The ore trickled onto the ground; the sparkling shards were brilliant in the dismal tunnel.
“Pick up your cart, prisoner,” ordered one of the guards.
The guard closest to me tapped me on the chest with his rifle.
The man opened his mouth to speak once more, but I was already in motion.
I grasped the rifle and turned it on him, squeezing the trigger. The burst caught him along the waist, tearing him in half. I let go of the rifle and spun, kicking the guard opposite me in the mask. His face collided with the gravel as he fell to the ground; a pool of blood drained free. My eyes were hard and my jaw set. Teeth ground against one another and my jaw muscles flexed. They came then, all of them. A sea of black masks and rifles converged upon me. I accepted their approach; this the only way that I would see those I cared most for again. I fought for as long as I could. In time, my sight washed to darkness and dark dreams of lands forgotten claimed me.
