by J. C. Owens
Branches whipped across his face, and he reached up to try to protect himself, too frantic to pause at the sharp pain. He tripped over roots, hauling himself to his feet, his breath coming in the labored pants of panic.
It was only when the sounds of the conflict raging behind him became fainter, muffled, that he slowed, realizing that his frantic flight was more likely to give him away than anything else. Harsh breathing alone would clearly identify his presence to anyone pursuing him.
He paused then, fought to bring himself under control, glancing around himself helplessly. He had never been in such a situation before, and the woods seemed hostile to his inexperienced eye.
He shivered, then determinedly turned sharply to his right, hoping that such a change of direction would confuse anyone who might be able to follow his initial clumsy escape.
The trees pressed close. He had to weave his way among them, his fine tunic catching upon branches and rough bark, tugging at him, sometimes leaving small strands in his wake. Once his long hair, pulled loose from his braid, caught in a thick bush, snaring him. He finally tugged himself free with a grimace, a few silver strands remaining in the hold of the cursed plant.
It seemed like hours later, but was probably much shorter than that, when he reached a clearing, the sunlight like a blessing upon his upturned face. The darkness of the forest was nothing he wanted to enter again, but as he glanced about helplessly, he could see little choice.
His fear began to recede, and the true extent of his predicament became apparent. He was no woodsman, had not the faintest ability to gauge his direction and certainly no talent at living off the land. No one knew where he was, and this forest could go on for miles, as it had during their journey.
Aidan shivered, wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt at comfort.
He was utterly lost.
He sat down rather abruptly upon a downed tree that extended from the forest into the clearing itself.
Staring blindly, he finally let his aching head fall into his hands, wondering what on earth he was going to do now. This sudden sense of isolation, when he had never been alone in his entire life, was disorienting and utterly terrifying.
He jerked at each sound coming from the forest, unable to determine if it was natural. or the enemy.
Who exactly the enemy was remained to be seen. Those he had travelled with seemed to fit the role far better than the attackers.
Wearily he raised his head, brushing at the drying blood flow from his forehead, which had slowed, thank the gods.
Movement to his left made him freeze in place, and he could only stare in horror as three men appeared—in blue and gold uniforms.
The enemy.
He started to rise, only to catch his breath as the muzzle of a pistol was laid none too gently on his skull alongside his ear.
“Don’t even think of trying to get away, you little bastard.” The hiss was venomous, the gun digging painfully into his flesh.
He flinched, watching helplessly as the three men, hands to guns, approached him.
They were tall, and with presence, but the tallest one, black haired and brown eyed, was the one who caught Aidan’s attention.
There was something about the man—
Hard hands grabbed hold of Aidan from behind and yanked him off the log, forcing him to his knees in front of the newcomers.
A booted foot kicked him in the back, forcing him face first into the damp grass.
He lay there, eyes closed, chest heaving, waiting for a musket ball to end his misery.
There was nothing for long agonizing moments, only the sound of the wind in the trees, such a beautiful soothing sound to accompany his death.
“Get him up.” The cool voice held no mercy at all.
Fingers tangled in his hair and yanked him up, pulling his head back so harshly he had to struggle to breathe.
Tears of pain trickled from his eyes despite his best efforts to be stoic. He despised his weakness. He had endured the abuse of his guardians, why was this so much harder?
An open hand slapped him hard, jerking his head in the brutal grip.
He opened bleary eyes, meeting a cold brown gaze.
“So you are the imposter.” The tone held a deep fury that made Aidan shiver. The man reached forward, and Aidan flinched, expecting another blow. Instead the long fingers held his chin still, and the man leaned forward, a deep frown on his brow as he examined Aidan’s face inch by inch, before letting him go with a contemptuous shove.
“They did their work well, I will admit. Even to the eyes, the hair. You could almost pass as one of them, even to me who knew them well.”
Aidan swallowed hard, wished he understood the cryptic words.
“Nothing to say? No begging for your worthless life?” The sneer bit deeply, and Aidan felt something surge within him, a pride that not even his upbringing had been able to completely smother.
His chin rose despite the pain of the hand in his hair, and he met the brown eyes squarely, fear fleeing from his thoughts.
The tall, dark man frowned, something flickering in his eyes. Doubt?
“Shall I kill him now, General?” The voice behind Aidan was eager.
“No.” Aidan’s nemesis answered slowly, thoughtfully, never taking his eyes from Aidan’s face. “No, not yet. I think it best we keep him, use him to draw the others out. If we can get Heratis and Nairat—that would be worth it. If they think the game still in play, they might try for him. Without him, they haven’t got a chance, and they know it.”
There was a sigh of disappointment behind Aidan, then he was dragged to his feet, his legs seeming strangely unsteady, as though his body still thought death was imminent.
He stood quiescent as they bound his hands behind him, searching him for weapons, puzzled when they could find nothing on his person. The tall man, the general, unwrapped his neck cloth and forced it between Aidan’s lips, gagging him, tying it cruelly tight, catching his hair carelessly.
Aidan fought for calm, focusing his eyes on nothing of consequence. If he did not fight, perhaps in time he would win mercy. Surely these men had some compassion, somewhere.
As they put a rope around his neck, forcing him to follow in their wake like a dog, half choking him, he reconsidered that faint hope.
Perhaps there was no compassion anywhere in this strange outside world, even as there had been none in the place of his upbringing.
* * *
Aidan shivered, wrapping thin arms around himself as he gazed out the barred window. The room—his prison—was stark and bare, only a thin pallet by the far wall and a bucket for his excrement.
A month since his capture—or rescue, Aidan could not decide which. On the one side, he had fallen into the hands of the men, rebels from Ceratas, if what he had pieced together was true. On the other hand, he was free of Nairat and Heratis, and whatever would have happened at Imman fortress.
It was hard to be grateful though, not when he shivered with cold each night as fall drew near, the nights becoming progressively more chill. Not when his food was sporadic in its arrival, when it arrived at all.
It was a stark contrast to his life up until this point. He may not have been treated well before this, but he had never suffered deprivation of such basic needs as food and warmth.
He sighed, deep and long, closing his eyes and leaning against the bars, wondering how long it would take until he went mad. Day after day, no change, no stimulation, no hope. How long until they realized that their ploy had failed, that Heratis and Nairat had given up on him?
Each day he waited for the tramp of boots on the stairs to the tower, waiting for the soldiers who were sure to come and drag him to his death. It wore on him, left him twitchy and irrational, starting at every small sound.
It felt like madness was already gaining a foothold upon him.
He leaned his face against the bars, and breathed deeply, trying to imagine himself far from here, free…
The foots
teps echoing up the tower stairway made him freeze in place, staring blindly as he waited.
The door opened, but there was no sound of the food tray clattering upon the floor as would be expected. There was only potent silence.
General Torin Amaldis Greyan stood upon the threshold of the room and found himself horrified.
The conditions of the bleak prison—and it’s prisoner—were immediately apparent.
The boy—he could not help but call the imposter that, though all information they had pointed to him being twenty-one—was a mere shadow away from death. The filthy body, vulnerable in its nudity, was skin stretched over bone. His sunken cheeks only emphasized those amazing eyes, the sight of which reminded Torin all too keenly of those he had lost. He wanted to hate those eyes, but the air of defeated acceptance that floated like a miasma about the young man had him gritting his teeth.
He wanted the boy to suffer, yet his very youth and obvious inexperience with the world brought out all Torin’s protective instincts. Which was why he had ordered the prisoner brought here, to this particular fortress far away from Torin’s sight.
He had not, however, ordered them to let the boy die.
The guard who stood beside him shuffled uneasily, as though perhaps picking up the general’s thoughts.
Torin’s voice was very quiet, very cold. “Is there perhaps a logical reason why the prisoner I sent you is naked in a room with no heat? Or that he is starved to the point of collapse? Are we perhaps trying to be as cruel and heartless as those we seek to overthrow?”
The guard stiffened to immediate attention, his florid face paling to the shade of snow.
“We thought because of who he was, you would not mind…”
Torin gritted his teeth and drew a deep, long breath, trying to control his temper.
The boy—Aidan—stared back at them, leaning against the wall as though it was all that held him upright, as perhaps it was.
The wounded fear evident upon that strained face fueled Torin’s anger—but he could not quite comprehend why. Perhaps it was that the boy so closely resembled the dead that haunted Torin’s thoughts. Perhaps it was the honor he still held to himself, despite the fact the world had gone mad, and such things seemed of little value now. Whatever it was, the sight before him brought only shame—to himself, and certainly to those of his men who had perpetrated this debacle.
They had to be better than the enemy, not worse.
“Come,” he said to the boy, his voice harsh with all the emotions that swirled within him, unable to articulate the least bit of softness at the moment.
The boy twitched but did not hesitate, almost as though he had been expecting a summons.
Torin wanted to snarl. No doubt the boy had indeed been waiting—for death in whatever fashion his captors deemed proper. After such treatment, why would he expect the smallest of mercies?
Aidan pushed himself away from the wall and took several faltering steps toward Torin, his frail body swaying precariously. The general found himself stepping forward, anticipating, and caught the boy as he began to crumple.
Torin swept the boy into his arms, uncaring of the filthy body against his pristine uniform. He was horrified at how light the boy felt; it was as though he held a child instead of a full grown man.
Green eyes flickered, staring up at him for brief moments, then they rolled back, and the boy went utterly limp.
Torin growled deep in his chest, and shot a look of fury toward the guard, who shrank back as Torin whirled on his heel and carried the prisoner down the narrow twisting stairs.
Chapter Two
“Torin, do you think it wise to bring him here, to your own estate? Paulsten, Torin’s best friend and companion, was leaning against the window frame, his lean body looking the epitome of relaxed, despite his words. “They are searching for him, and if they come here—”
“If they come here,” Torin snarled, “they know they will have a battle, and they will damn well lose. They do not dare to meet me on my own ground, the cowards.” He raked fingers through his long black hair, tousling it into an artful mess.
Paulsten smiled, watching the tall, powerful figure. His friend was never anything less than beautiful, despite Torin’s complete lack of vanity. Perhaps it was that obliviousness that ensured that all around him found him desirable.
Even if he weren’t so highly ranked, if he weren’t the general of the scattered remains of the army of Ceratas, he would be pursued.
His temper was a bit of deterrent, however. That same temper could range between ice and fire, and Paulsten was one of the few who was not fazed by it.
“So…the doctor has looked him over…” Paulsten encouraged further revelation.
“The boy will recover, he says, but it will be some time before he is strong enough to endure either questioning or further imprisonment.” Torin’s voice held disgust and fury both.
“He is hardly a boy, Torin.” Paulsten roused himself enough to push away from the window, stroll across the room, and settle himself on the nearest massive chair to lounge indolently in its thickly cushioned comfort. “He is twenty-one, if the reports are true, although I agree he looks hardly older than seventeen.”
Torin paced the room, venting his energy in motion, face drawn into lines of fury.
“The fools—they knew his importance. To treat him in a such manner…” His lip drew back in disgust. “We could have lost him. We will never have better bait to bring the rats out of the woodwork.”
Paulsten raised an eyebrow. “You were so furious at the initial sight of him, Torin. That attitude was taken up by the troops. You did not leave any particular instructions for his care, other than to expect a rescue attempt.”
Torin whirled on him, and the expression on his face clearly showed that he was aware of his transgression.
“I am bloody well aware of what I did wrong, but they had no orders to abuse him.” He drew in a shaky breath and his pacing stopped, hands clenching into fists as he faced his friend.
“We have to be more than them, Paulsten. We have to be better. With morals and sanity. Look what they have done to us. Look what they have done to our country, our king, the royal family…” He whirled away to the window, leaning on the sill with tension in every line of his body.
Paulsten remained silent, sadness in his eyes as he watched his friend. The grief was never far away for any of them, but for Torin, who had dared to love the crown prince, Amadan, it was fresh pain each time he thought of the royal family’s brutal murders, and the subsequent conquest of Ceratas.
As loyalists, they had fought as they could, had gained some ground against the invaders, but nothing could ever return things to the way it had been. Even if they actually managed to regain the country, they would have to find a ruler, and Torin was the closest thing they had. He would never accept the role, but as it stood, the people were desperate enough to persuade him.
Torin would never be happy as royalty. It had been hard enough for him to endure the fishbowl life as Amadan’s lover. Torin might have been raised a noble’s son, but he had no patience for the ways of court.
Paulsten often wondered that if things had stayed the way they were, if Amadan and Torin would have grown apart, unable to find enough common ground to continue their relationship. Certainly it would have been strained by the crown prince’s need for heirs in the future.
Now they would never know.
Amadan lay in some unmarked grave along with his family, victims of betrayal and brutality. That brilliant mind and serious personality extinguished before it could ever make a mark upon the country.
One of the most important quests of this rebellion was to find that grave, and give the occupants a decent and tender reburial. It was nearly an obsession with Torin, and Paulsten wanted it done as soon as possible, so that his friend could mourn properly and begin to live again. To witness his almost insane grief and fury was more than those who loved him could endure. This needed to come to an en
d.
The complication of the imposter was a thorn in Torin’s side that had invoked everyone’s great anger, and now it had come to this. The prisoner brought here to Torin’s own home. True, the estate was secure as any fortress, the troops loyal to a fault, and the mansion encased in great walls of stone But still…Paulsten could not help but worry.
Torin, as leader of the rebellion, was a natural target, and now he held the key for the invaders. The young man, Aidan, had been raised as a lie, supposedly a survivor of that royal massacre. They said he was the youngest prince, Aidan, who had been a mere six years old at the time. Those loyal to the crown, desperate, might even have fallen for the ruse if Torin had not fought against it.
There had been no survivors. The few supposed witnesses had said so. There was no proof that could ever convince Torin that this was anything more than the enemy’s maneuvering. Therefore he was convinced that this boy was a fake, a tool for the invaders to secure their grip upon a broken kingdom. The only possibility was that he was a by-blow, with just enough royal blood to have produced the rare hair coloring. The royal family was large, there had always been a bastard or two in the population. But to find one so perfectly matched… The chances had been incredibly slim.
Having seen the imposter, Paulsten could almost feel sorry for the young man. He seemed cowed, broken, as though his upbringing had been brutal, as perhaps it had. Certainly the invaders were not known for their mercy, and they would want “the prince” to be amenable and without strength.
They seemed to have succeeded at their task, and now the abuse he had just endured would not help matters.
It seemed quite evident that Aidan was caught between the two factions without any true knowledge of his place. His behaviors, little though they had witnessed, seemed to only solidify that impression.
“Perhaps you should send him somewhere else, somewhere more vulnerable.” Paulsten’s tone was thoughtful, his head resting back on the chair. “It would be more likely that they would make a play for him then.”
