by T L Drew
Goran Grey dreamed of taking his brother’s head, then returning to Solitude to kill all who had kept him prisoner.
His eyes landed upon the Master. He was overseeing the slaves, scouting for the strongest and ready to lash the weak men who fell to their knees. The man towered almost seven-foot-tall, his white eyes lingering upon a weaker man who struggled to drag a crate from one side of the room to the next, towards a blazing furnace. Goran watched as he pushed the wheel, trying to grasp a glimpse of the Master’s face, but it was concealed with a mask, a mask forged from the skin of a slave, another man’s face, the skin beginning to rot and plagued with dried blood. It had been taken from the Master’s victim while he still breathed. Goran knew in all likelihood that they had eaten the man afterwards. He had seen the truth behind the rumours. All Goran could see beyond the mask was a pair of icy white eyes through the holes, where another man’s eyes had once been.
Behind the Master stood a girl; Goran had seen her a few times, smaller than the average Afterling woman, her eyes grey in comparison to her Master’s white eyes. She was a half-breed; half Afterling girl, half southern, her skin as white as the south but her eyes the colour of the east. Much like Goran, she wore a leather collar, and she was always frightened when she was at the Master’s side. Then the girl who stood behind the giant man in gold looked to Goran; her face was riddled with recognition. Quickly, Goran looked away and drew his eyes back towards the splintering wheel. He pushed harder, hearing the cruel screams and merciless lashings continue in the tunnels above. It urged him to push harder so that he didn’t find himself at the end of a whip once more.
He found the ring gave him the strength he needed to push onwards, feeling the warm presence of the black band upon his burning finger.
Another thirty minutes passed as he pushed the wheel with nineteen other men. One by one they began to buckle; the man would be whipped, dragged away, and swiftly replaced. Then they would be forced to push the wheel after a minute’s rest during a whipping when a new man would fall. Goran could feel himself starting to break as he pushed for himself and for Chauncey. He was declining fast, the exhaustion overpowering him, until eventually he buckled.
The strength from the ring on his finger was no longer enough power to keep him going. Goran felt his legs fall out from underneath him. The wheel stopped turning as the prince fell to the floor in pain, unable to get back to his feet with the crippling pain and overwhelming exhaustion. ‘Quickly, stand Goran, they’re looking.’ Chauncey spat with panicked eyes, turning to urge Goran to his feet. Chauncey tried to help him, grabbing his arm to pull him to a stand as they felt all eyes upon them, but Goran could not stand, pain and exhaustion taking over him. Pained noises escaped his lips.
‘I can’t, I can’t move.’ He hissed back through the pain, his legs trembling upon the icy floor, rough stone against his skin. Goran was the strongest man upon the wheel, but a man who had not drunk or eaten in two long, painful days, a man who was carrying himself and another man through the horrific events on Solitude.
He tried to pull himself up from the cold floor, but quickly he fell back down again. The ring burned his skin, but he pulled it off of his swollen finger and placed it into his palm, covering it from sight of the Afterling guards and their Master, knowing that any moment, they would be upon him.
The Afterling’s eyes landed upon Goran as he lay upon the stony floor as the wheel stayed still. The prince saw one of the Afterling guards walk over to him menacingly with the whip in his hands, but thankfully, it was not the Master that came to him, the man with the nine-tailed whip. He was going to get a lashing, but Goran no longer cared; he just needed to stop pushing the wheel to rest his broken legs.
Goran Grey closed his eyes tightly and braced himself for the lash of leather against his bare back. He didn’t care as long as he could stop pushing, just for a moment, long enough to stop his legs from buckling underneath the weight of his body. He clenched his fists, bit down on his lip, and tensed his body as the Afterling man stopped behind him and raised the whip in the air.
‘Stand, prisoner.’ The Afterling ordered, reading the whip.
He did not stand. He couldn’t stand. The whip smacked against Goran’s broad and beaten back. He heard the sound of the leather smacking against his skin before he felt the pain. It echoed through Goran’s ears and then the agony raced through his body as the whip cut new wounds over the old ones. He tried not to shout in pain, but he couldn’t hold back the sound of agony through gritted teeth. His lip began to bleed as he bit down in his pain.
The lashing did not stop. The whip beat down on him again and again until Goran’s face was pressed down onto the cold floor, his eyes sealed shut, darkness taking him. He tried to focus on the ring concealed in his palm. The flesh on his back had been exposed by the whip of cruel leather, blood all around him. The stony floor was washed in a flood of his own blood like a crimson lake around his being. When the lashing finally ended, Goran was dragged away, beaten and bloody, his feet pulled across the hard floor and back to a cell in the southern tower. He was locked away, pain consuming him, the hay and straw under his body soaking with his blood. He prayed to the gods to grant him his death as he slipped in and out of consciousness, surrounded in silence as he was left alone in his dark, cold cell. He prayed for the nightmare to end, all hope fading that he could ever return home.
But Goran – by some miracle – did not die. The ring wouldn’t allow it.
His wounds were treated and he was gifted food and water, prolonging his life upon the island. He dared not ask what the meat was. All he wanted was to die, but the Afterling wouldn’t even allow that, and neither would the ring. He continued to pray for sweet death, but it never came. ‘Let me die,’ Goran begged the ring when the gods did not answer his prayers, wondering if he had gone mad. ‘Let me die, I beg you, please.’ But the ring ignored his every word.
THORBJORN
Thorbjorn Grey was well renowned through the six kingdoms of Askavold as the Sky Knight, for in battle, he rode a large griffin like no other man had ever laid eyes upon. Aela – the griffin he had named after his late mother – was a bird like no other, her feathers almost silver in colour compared to the classic griffin gold. He had been gifted the bird as a child from Ragnar Lienhart himself, long before the war between the Grey’s and the Lienhart’s had waged, when there was peace and love between the two families. Thorbjorn had always wondered what had gone so wrong that war had waged between a once close family despite their differences of mortal and cursed men.
Aela had been tamed by Ragnar Lienhart, taught to only answer to the young boy and the old king himself. She was Thorbjorn’s greatest treasure, and Thorbjorn had always wondered how the cursed king could tame the creatures of the sky, but his questions had never been answered. There had been rumours that it was one of his three rings that had tamed the beasts.
Thorbjorn Grey had taken flight on the back of Aela after the orders of the new king, his trusted blade on his hip and his beloved bird underneath him, silver wings outstretched as she flew towards Solitude Island. The bird was the fastest creature Thorbjorn had ever seen, so fast he imagined she could fly quicker than that of a dragon, and within a matter of days, he found himself hovering over the island of horrors. He saw the Afterling city of Thiesal and the Master’s haunting tower of Demonhold through the tops of the trees, as well as the southern tower and the northern tower where the slaves had been kept. He guided Aela towards the southern tower; he knew it was where Goran Grey was being held, and the Afterling were expecting him, under false pretences. ‘Land, Aela.’ He ordered his beloved bird. She was quick to obey her master. Her hooves touched land not far from the southern tower and he swiftly tied her to a nearby tree on the edge of a haunting forest, near the sea. ‘I’ll be with you again soon.’ Thorbjorn told her as his cobalt eyes fell upon the twisting southern tower over the tops of the trees, stroking her silvery feathers. ‘The Afterling have orders to bring you no harm
.’
The Sky Knight spent his first day on Solitude Island with the Master of the Afterling before he dared to visit his imprisoned cousin; he had come to give Andor Grey the news on the fate of the gold mines, as well as to see Goran and decide his fate, and what Thorbjorn witnessed in a single day frightened him more than anything he had ever seen before. Thorbjorn had seen death and suffering, but nothing compared to a life on Solitude Island. Blood clouded his gaze; it was all the knight could see before his eyes with every step he took upon Solitude soil.
‘The king shall be pleased,’ Thorbjorn lied as he walked through the gold mines with the Master by his side, towering over him like a giant with golden skin, his eyes falling upon skeletal slaves with a sickly colour, bodies lased with endless lashes and dead men lying upon the hard floor, beginning to smell of decay. ‘I will send word to King Andor at once.’
‘I hope he intends on sending more men to my island,’ The Master responded, his voice deep and menacing. Thorbjorn hated the way he dragged his golden whip across the rocky floor with each step he took deeper into the mine. They passed rows and rows of chained men, digging into the rock with blunt pickaxes. ‘The gold does not dig itself, Ser.’
‘The king will send you more slaves, I can assure you.’ Thorbjorn lied again, swallowing saliva. He was not as stupid as the Master assumed him to be; Thorbjorn could see that the mines were dry and it had been months since the Afterling had found gold – the veins had been entirely depleted. The only gold his eyes could see were the golden silks around the Afterling’s hips. ‘Within the month more men will come, but in the meantime, I wish to see my cousin, now that I know things are well in the mines.’
‘You wish to see the king killer?’ The Master spat on the floor, believing the lies of Andor Grey. ‘Why?’
‘That is the business of the king. A private matter, I’m afraid,’
The Master’s lips curled into a smile. ‘As ordered by Lady Abigail, we have not let him die.’
‘Good,’ Thorbjorn nodded, trying to hide the fear on his face in the presence of the man who wore the skin of another man’s face upon his own. All he could see were his eyes through the human skin mask. ‘If I could see Goran Grey, I’m sure our king and Lady Abigail would be most pleased.’
‘He is in the southern tower, unable to stand from his beating, so he rests, until he can resume work in the mines,’ the Master was certain, walking swiftly through the mines with Thorbjorn at his side. ‘My men will take you to him. You will be most pleased with what we have done with him.’
Thorbjorn was taken from the Master’s frightening company and led back towards the southern tower by a guard dressed in gold and eyes as white as milk. The tower was the tallest thing Thorbjorn had ever laid eyes upon and the Afterling guard was quick to lead him inside. The first floor was soaked with blood. The second floor was darker than the first one. He did not stop to look. Thorbjorn was led towards a twisting staircase and ascended them with hesitation and dread.
‘Something tells me I am going to regret coming here,’ Thorbjorn Grey uttered under wispy breath as he walked through the small rotting door and into the dank cells. He could smell the piss and shit in the air, coupled by the bitter scent of fear and fresh sweat. He could have choked on the smell.
The sounds of Solitude’s screams resonated through the tower’s dungeon like a curse. Thorbjorn’s skin was crawling as rats scampered across the faeces and blood ridden floor. ‘How can you stand this stench without vomiting? I have never smelt something so fucking disgusting. You make them live like this?’ Thorbjorn spat to the guard in gold that led the knight wordlessly deeper into the rancid cell block, past tortured men and women who lay beaten and bloody with leather collars strapped around their necks, gazing at each person’s face, each unfamiliar to his eyes, until he reached the last cage in the dark room where his blue eyes landed upon a face that was well known to him, a face that had been in his life for the past twenty-four years. A sleeping face, a face riddled with fresh scars that had not been there when he left the south. ‘This is the one.’ Thorbjorn uttered to the golden guard before the man with white eyes silently turned on the heel of his golden sandal and disappeared back through the darkness, leaving Thorbjorn alone with the beaten inmate.
The man who lay in the cell was in a deep slumber. His closed eyes twitched as his unconscious mind fabricated a dark nightmare. His hair was as black as night and beginning to grow back from where it had been shaved, his own sweat clinging to it like a parasite. There was a tatty dark beard on his face that had not been there before. The prisoner’s body was plastered in dry blood and cuts running down his bare back from the lash of a whip, only dirty rags across his hips and cuts around his ankles from where shackles had been.
The man’s face had a new, prominent scar upon his pallid face, one that had not been there the last time Thorbjorn Grey had seen him, running across his left cheek in a fleshy pink. ‘Wake up, you lazy bastard!’ Thorbjorn almost shouted over the coughing and the cries of prisoners that did not sleep, spying a bucket of water on the outside of the dirty cell. He grasped the rough bucket in his cut hands and threw the icy water through the rusty bars, soaking the inmate’s bare body and abruptly waking him from his cruel slumber. His breathing was rapid. The man panicked, his head whipping from left to right until his eyes landed upon Thorbjorn standing on the other side of the rusting bars.
The prisoner’s heart began to pound wildly inside of his chest.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ Thorbjorn grinned, staring into the dank cell at Goran Grey awkwardly, trying to conceal his guilt. ‘If you do not mind me saying, you look a mess, cousin. I never imagined I would ever see you in a place like this.’
Goran glanced up at his cousin with a perplexed gaze, disbelief washing over him. Anger lingered inside of his chest; looking at Thorbjorn made him think of his brother slicing his father’s throat, and images flooded back into his callous mind like a torturous nightmare. Yet even stranger to Goran was how he felt a small ounce of relief washing over him at the sight of his twenty-nine-year-old cousin, a familiar face on an island that was so far from home. A small piece of familiarity eased him slightly, despite the anger that raged inside of his aching chest.
The prince said nothing, biting his tongue roughly between his teeth. On his tongue he could still feel the sore, empty space where his tooth had been before Andor had cut it painfully from his gum, a constant reminder of that night. Thorbjorn could see it upon Goran’s face. Perhaps that was why Andor had done it. Then the taste came back to him, the taste of his own father’s blood on the end of Winterthorn.
Goran peered up through dark eyelashes from the floor, his eyes a dulling green, and peered at his older cousin; Thorbjorn had not changed in years, his face seizing to age since he had reached his twentieth year, despite almost a decade passing. His hair was a deep brown, touching the tops of his broad shoulders, several braids roughly tied into it and a dark, tidy beard sat upon his chin. Thorbjorn still wore dark furs from the south’s wolves and his face still held the tiny scar that cut through his left eyebrow and another breaching his bottom lip which he had earned from years of battle and protecting kings.
Thorbjorn had always been one of the most skilled fighters in all of the six kingdoms, possibly the best, and was yet to suffer a defeat. Despite the scars, Thorbjorn Grey was still appealing to the eyes, his eyes the brightest of blues, like staring into solid ice that floated upon the surface of the water.
The prince wondered why a knight as famous and powerful as Thorbjorn had come to a place like Solitude Island, but kept his mouth tightly shut as he glared furiously into Thorbjorn Grey’s cobalt eyes.
Goran choked back his words.
‘Lost you voice, cousin?’ Thorbjorn asked in a light, familiar voice, pulling a dark wooden stool underneath his buttocks, his leather boots buried in rotting hay the covered the stony floor. ‘Or have the Afterling cut out your tongue?’
‘You betrayed us,
’ Goran choked, his throat so dry that the words felt like sandpaper rubbing inside of his mouth. ‘You stood there and watched as Andor cut my father’s throat. You did nothing.’
‘Please, do not take it personally. I did what any smart man would do, and if that meant standing back, keeping my head down and letting your brother kill Kodran, then so be it. I still have my head on my shoulders and I am still a free man, unlike others – not that he would do that to me – I did what a smart man, and a loyal man, would do. I do not agree with what they have done, but–’
Goran hissed. ‘–You’re a traitor. You broke your oath.’
‘I suppose I am a traitor, to some.’ Thorbjorn said quietly over the sounds of resonating screams echoing in the distance. He felt nothing. He regretted very little about Kodran’s demise. Thorbjorn was loyal to Andor, more so than any man. ‘Other people would say I did what was right, for the realm.’
‘Why do you even come, Thorbjorn? Do you come to gawk at me? To see what the Afterling have done? To laugh at my misfortune?’
‘No.’ Thorbjorn’s voice was certain. ‘Rumours tell of the gold mines running dry, and I came to see if these rumours reign true.’
‘And yet my bastard brother cannot come here and deal with Afterling himself?’ Goran asked, wishing his brother was on Solitude Island instead of Thorbjorn; it meant Goran would be one step closer to planting a weapon in Andor’s neck and seeking his vengeance.
‘I think you’re forgetting King Andor has a kingdom to rule, Goran.’ Thorbjorn uttered with a sigh, leaning his elbows on his knees, his eyes riddled with regret. ‘I know that hearing those words must be like rubbing salt into a fresh wound, that Andor is the king of your realm while you rot inside of a cell, but I urge you to remember why you’re here in the first place, cousin.’
