by S E Turner
'No, please no,' she cried, but only a whisper escaped.
The fiend bore into her, and with a vicious stare, began to slowly pierce her son's skin.
'No!' she screamed out loud and grabbed a piece of granite from the ground and hurled it against the soldier's head. A trickle of blood ran down from his temple. Lyall was thrown to the floor as the brute turned his attention to the queen.
'Go! Go now!'
The barbarian launched at her and plunged the knife into her heart as Lyall made his escape. But her cry of pain was lost in the abyss as a ball of fire blasted the door shut and engulfed everything else in the room.
Lyall started to bang on the sealed door. He fumbled frantically to push it open. He called out to his mother again and again. His heart accelerated. His breathing was out of control. He was in total darkness and his whole body began to tremble. But it was futile. He slid down against the solid oak barricade and sobbed. On the other side, his mother lay dead.
As the king and his army faced defeat in the blood spilled massacre, a sinister shadow slipped unnoticed into the bowels of the castle to murderously steal its prize: the legendary Seal of Kings—and key to the Kingdom of Durundal.
Chapter Three
Lyall moaned and trembled uncontrollably. 'This can’t be happening! This has to be another terrible dream. It's another nightmare. It will pass, I know it will pass.' His voice was over-loud in the empty catacomb.
But it didn't pass. He found himself hunched in the unforgiving dark, the groans of a dying castle muffled through the door. He put his hands to his ears to block it out. The cut on his neck stung. He touched it, but his salty fingers made him cry out.
'Mother will come, I know she will, she always comes when I am having night terrors. I will wake soon to her voice...' But the familiar sound didn't come. No one came.
The decibels of death filtered away, and he was left in silence. Alone in the knowledge that his parents were laying mutilated on the other side of the barrier and there was nothing he could do. He sobbed into the shawl and his stomach churned. Time had no definition in this vacuous space.
'Perhaps if I pray, that's what Governess Teja always tells me—pray to the gods and they will answer.' So he prayed hard until he could hear the inner voice in his head telling him to get up and follow the tunnel like his mother had told him. 'It's safe. Nothing will hurt you. Keep going to the end.'
'But it's dark, and I am so scared of the dark,' he argued with the disembodied companion.
The voice persisted, though, as endless minutes ticked by, egging him on, forcing him to his feet. He tried to reassure himself as he uncoiled himself and stared into the abyss. With blind eyes and stricken soul, his ears tuned into the piercing chaos. Reaching out wildly, his arms flung out to the sides and the tips of his fingers recoiled instinctively when they touched cold rock. His throat ached as silent tears ran down his cheeks. His reluctant feet nervously edged forward, shuffling, creeping, his hands stretched out wide with every step.
The voice was still relentlessly urging him on, so he walked a bit faster, and then a bit more, until the dark was rushing towards him. Deeper into the shrinking cavern he went, grazing his flying arms on the ridges of molten rock, tearing the soles of his feet on the uneven surface, but the voice told him to keep going. On and on he went, for miles it seemed. He didn't know how far. There was little air in the passage and soon he felt his lungs burning. It was cold and damp, his heart was pounding, but still he ran.
Beads of fear ran down his back in droves, and he knew that he must have covered a fair distance when the breath caught in his throat and he found it hard to breathe. He slowed to a trot, but tired limbs couldn't steady his balance. Tripping over misplaced legs, he stumbled and fell. His hands and buttocks went straight into a mud pool. The dark was still rushing around him as he sat up, the silent chaos still audible. He cried out pitifully and let the slimy liquid run between his fingers. 'Help me, please. Someone must be able to hear me, please.'
Eternity froze in his stagnant pool. Each moment felt the length of a nightmare until somewhere in his disorientated mind, the voice told him that he was sitting in water, and water must drain into an outlet. Hope ignited him into action once more. The emerging bruise on his thigh went unnoticed as he slowly hauled himself up and staggered some hundred yards, but his legs were useless now. Torn, gashed and weary, he could run no more. He collapsed again, shivering with shock and fear. 'I have to be brave.' His heart was pounding and the only thing he could see was the silvery vapour of his own breath. 'I have to be...' His back found a crevasse in his damp dark surroundings. 'Brave.' As his voice trailed off, he pulled his knees tight against his chest and trembled fearfully.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, though. A gentle breeze brushed his face as weary eyes opened to find that his abyss was the mouth of a cave and outside hung grey skies and a hazy sun. He felt his gashed neck and winced. He knew that he was still alive, though. He knew it had not been a bad dream. New bruises ached, and his wounds began to sting as he stretched out his entwined limbs and crawled slowly to the entrance of his tomb. Though relieved to be out of the dark, the misty morning brought other terrors in this unfamiliar kingdom.
He looked fearfully out of the small opening. Spots danced dizzily before his eyes as they adjusted to the light, but when they did, a grass covered expanse of land loomed and the sound of running water sent spasms to his parched mouth. And in the mist, he noticed something. A figure, a boy—hope.
He was about the same age as Lyall, certainly the same build and height, though this boy's hair was much longer and almost reached his shoulders. He was camouflaged by the thick hide of a deer which he wore over long, grey, woollen breeches. He stood motionless by the river's edge, concealed in the long grass, acutely rigid, poised like a heron, with a spear in his hand. He didn't take his eyes off the water.
Lyall raked his fingers through his matted hair, for he had never seen anything like it. Indeed, he had heard of the savages that lived far away, and was forbidden to go outside the castle walls because of them. He always had Lord Tanner with him, who would say, 'Stay well within the castle grounds, Lyall, for there are queer folk out there.'
'What sort of queer folk?' he would ask.
'Savages, my boy, hunched ugly savages, with no necks and no hair, who feed on the brains of babies and sacrifice their first born to their gods. They rip the hearts out of live animals and eat them for added strength and cover themselves in demonic tattoos to protect themselves and ward off evil spirits.'
'Where do they live? '
'They live the other side of the river, my boy, in huts smeared with the skin and entrails of monstrous creatures, and they howl like beasts at night. Unless you want to be a part of their rituals and have your face ripped off, you had best keep well away.'
But this boy looked exactly like him. He had his dark features, his dark hair, he even stood upright like he did. He wasn't hunched and ugly and smeared with animal intestines as he had imagined. How could this boy be a savage? In the distance he heard a young girl call his name.
'Namir, wait for me.'
'They speak my language,' he said out loud in surprise.
The girl was a few inches shorter than he but looked about the same age. She was absolutely beautiful. Lyall had never seen anyone so graceful and serene. Tumbling hair fell over slender shoulders and huge whirlpool eyes fixed on her friend. Lyall couldn't take his eyes off her as she ran up to Namir. Still, the savage didn't take his eyes off the water. He put a finger to his lips to signal her silence. The quiet resumed, and he suddenly spiked his prey and pulled out a large silver toned fish. Lyall clung to the side of his cave as he watched the girl take her own spear, and under Namir's guidance, waited patiently and quietly before spearing her own healthy trout.
He thought about his own skill with a bow and arrow, having target practice most days with Lord Tanner, where carefully placed targets were hung strategically within the
castle grounds: on trees, on walls, on wooden tripods. Of course he enjoyed it. He was extremely good at it. But he had to be honest, this looked so much more fun.
He craned from his vantage point to view a spread of unusual living accommodations. Small flat roof barns were scattered amongst a range of different sized wattle and daub roundhouses with conical thatched roofs. For a moment he saw his parents there. The fire was roaring, and a hog was roasting on the spit. With arms stretched out wide and huge grins across loving faces, they welcomed him into their new home. He tried to scramble up before the image faded. He called out desperately, but his stricken voice was blocked at the back of his throat again.
He crawled back and watched the tiny hamlet come to life instead. People stretched out of their cramped homes. Dogs were barking, children were shouting, a baby cried, and as the mist gave way to a tranquil dawn, the November sun lit up the morning dew, and this strange new kingdom opened up before him. He could see open meadows of grazing livestock and numerous fields yielding produce. Flared eyes rested on an arrangement of huge stones standing in a wide circle. The carefully placed tombs clustered under an auspicious rise in the land, their curved altars positioned like a crooked set of teeth. While last night's rain had left them wet and glistening, and the morning sunlight made them look as if they were covered in black oil.
'For their sacrifices.' He winced.
He waited, motionless, the shawl pulled closely round him. Watching, listening, trying to think what he should do next. Against the busy brook, he could hear her faint laughter and playful voice. Birds were singing and the grass gently rustled. He looked back into the cave and shuddered—it was still pitch black in there and was still damp.
No one was coming for him.
He took inventory of himself and looked down at his wounded legs, his ripped pyjama trousers, his bloodied feet, his gashed arms. He could only imagine what his face looked like. What options did he really have?
By the time the two youngsters had begun to gather up their nets and haul, the sun had moved round and a light dusting of mist remained.
'This is it, now, Lyall,' he said to himself. 'This is your chance. Stay strong and don't alarm them.' He felt the frosted grass crunch beneath his feet, and if he looked hard enough, he could see his parents in front of him, ushering him into the arms of salvation.
The young teens meandered along the shore of the river, so deeply immersed in conversation that they didn't even hear him approaching.
'Please, can you help me?' His quivering voice spoke out.
Namir turned, and instinctively dropped his cargo and aimed his spear. He looked in horror at the figure before him. This boy, this small being covered in blood, must have been mauled by a mountain lion or a snow leopard, or something even worse. How could anyone survive that, he thought.
'Who are you?' he growled.
'My name is Lyall.'
'Where have you come from?' he snarled again .
'Through the cave. My home is the other side of the cave.' An outstretched arm gestured to the crevasse in the mountain.
Skyrah crept out from behind Namir's protective stance. 'How is that possible,' she started. 'The cave is full of demons. How did you survive? Only someone with evil powers could survive that?'
'I am not evil. I do not have powers. I just ran as fast as I could through the tunnel.'
Skyrah and Namir looked at each other, then at him.
'Please, I am desperate. My parents are dead, the people who looked after me are dead. My home is in ruins. I have nowhere to go.' Breathing deeply, he tried to relax as his mind hovered between hope and fear. He tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle the tears.
Namir lowered his spear and softened his expression as he sensed the young boy's dilemma.
'You are injured, and you look cold and exhausted. Come, my father will know what to do.'
The two youngsters continued their conversation as they walked ahead of him.
'He is not a demon, Skyrah. Look at him. He is a boy like me.'
'Yes, I know Namir. He speaks our tongue and sheds our tears. But he is not clan—look what he wears and look at his wounds.'
'All the more reason to help him, Skyrah. If he was an evil spirit, he would have attacked us by now.'
'But maybe he will attack our village and bring more people to hurt us. '
'Skyrah, we are good people and we must give sanctuary. Our totems will protect us.'
'I know. You are right. We can't leave him. The elders will decide,' she conceded.
Lyall followed the two feral children with his head so low that his chin disappeared into his sternum. He thought it best to keep a safe distance in case they changed their minds and decided to attack him after all. He focused on what was around him as this strange new kingdom got bigger and closer. The bustle of village life got noisier, and he strained to pick out a range of different sounds. The smell of cooked breakfasts reached out to him first, and he felt the pit of his stomach growl. He hadn't thought about food very much at all, but now it was top of his list, and he began to salivate. The tempting odours led him further into the heart of the burg and he passed clusters of homes where a hive of anxious faces popped out of flimsy doorways.
Groups of working peasants looked up from their chores for the first time. Concerned murmurs from adults weaved amongst the trill excitement from children, and a pack of boisterous dogs bounded up to him eager to play. A tethered cow stamped a restless hoof, and a pig grunted nervously. Pens with sheep and goats sat in freshly laid straw while chickens, geese and ducks pecked their way around the camp.
The top of a mound brought them to a halt outside the largest hut in the village. It had spectacular views amid a magnificent setting, though the vision was of little interest to Lyall at that precise moment .
Namir turned to speak to him. 'Wait here with Skyrah while I go in to see my father.'
Lyall nodded and bent down to pat the excited dogs whilst keeping a finely tuned ear on the proceedings inside.
'Good morning, Father. I hope you are well today. Good morning Zoraster.'
'I am, son. I am very well.' His father ushered the medicine man aside as he stood up to embrace his son.
'He needs to rest, young Namir. He just won't listen to me.' Father and son held a knowing look. Zoraster was always telling his father to rest.
'I have been fishing this morning and made a good catch,' Namir continued.
'Yes, I can see you have been up with the lark and been out hunting already. You have done well, my boy, and the gods will be pleased. You must take the haul to the feasting area for the ritual tonight.'
'Of course, Father,. He paused and then found his voice again. 'Father, there is something else.'
Both the elders looked worried as they read Namir's concerned expression.
'I have brought someone back with me.'
'Really? Who have you brought here son?'
'A boy, Father. A boy like me. He's lost. He came through the cave. He says his home has been destroyed and he can't go back.'
His father froze for a moment and looked to his aide. 'Let me meet him. Bring the boy to me.'
Namir peered outside and ushered Lyall and Skyrah in. The hunger in Lyall's stomach suddenly vanished and he was gripped with fear again. He felt sick. He wanted to stay with the playful dogs.
Outside the leader's home, Skyrah took his hand tenderly and smiled. 'Everything will be all right. Really, it will.'
They entered the hut together, and faced the leader standing between his son and the medicine man. Alarmed eyes fell on Lyall, bloody, dishevelled and baring a wound that would surely scar for the rest of his life. He didn't know where to look. A ghostly pause filled the air and the boy gripped Skyrah's hand even tighter.
The leader sensed Lyall's plight and broke the silence. 'You poor boy. We must thank the gods that you found us. I am Laith, leader of the Clan of the Mountain Lion. My aide is the very powerful medicine man, Zoraster. You have already me
t my son, Namir, and his special friend, Skyrah.'
Lyall tilted his head awkwardly at each introduction. He tried to say good morning in response, but nothing came out. A dry tongue sat uncomfortably in his parched mouth and time ticked anxiously by as he tried to articulate a few words.
Laith spoke again. 'So, who are you, young man?'
Fear gripped his soul. All eyes were on him. He let go of Skyrah's hand and wiped his sweaty palms on his ripped trousers. By now he could hear his own heartbeat thumping in his chest and willed the voice into the back of his throat. With a firm stance and a big gulp of air, he quashed his nauseous nerves and heralded an answer.
'My name is Prince Lyall of Durundal, son of King Canagan and Queen Artemisia. My people have been massacred in an attack on my home—Castle Dru in Durundal.' He felt the panic rise in his voice as he relived the tale. 'My father knew this would happen. He showed me the door that led to a tunnel. He told me what to do—so many times, he made sure I knew what to do. I thought he was just trying to frighten me. To toughen me up. Until last night when I knew it was all true. The General, the door, the tunnel. Last night my mother took me there. She said that she would follow me, but she couldn't. She fought off a soldier who was trying to kill me.' He took another deep breath as he found the strength to continue. 'I was able to get through, but the huge door shut before she could get in. She told me to follow the tunnel and it led me to you.'
The chieftain stared wide eyed at the tearful youngster. 'Canagan and Artemisia…' He sighed heavily. 'May their souls be free, and their final resting place be Hallowed.'
'Did you know them?' asked the bewildered young boy wiping away a warm tear.
The medicine man looked to the floor and the chieftain looked upwards to some ethereal being. 'Many moons ago, I knew your parents, Lyall. So many moons ago now.' His tearful gaze met Lyall’s as the young boy spoke again.
'Perhaps they knew you would look after me and that's why they sent me to you.'
