A Stag in the Shadows

by S E Turner

  The cliffs that bordered each side of the valley loomed closer as the route narrowed. Scattered crag gathered about the towering walls as though they were frozen jewels, and at its very core stood a huge portcullis draped in crystalline splendour, with huge icicles that glittered and shone in the starlight like carved diamonds. But this magnificent spectacle paled into insignificance when he realised that the rock face was more than just stone – it was studded with gigantic boulders of solid gold.

  Guards were walking the rampart, and a search light beamed round every few minutes, creating glittering shadows and monsters out of everything it touched. Even the strategically placed catapults and cranes took on the guise of monstrous corvids in this supernatural light. A metal gate loomed up out of nowhere, wielding gilded spikes that looked like giant fangs welded on to its exterior.

  'How on earth could anyone escape from this place?' He thought of the man who had probably died. 'It's an impregnable fortress. No one can get in, let alone get out.'

  More guards hauled the gates opened, and gawped at Cornelius as he was pushed through.

  'Have you caught the prisoner?' One eagle eyed guard called out .

  'No, the wolves got him to be sure. No one could get far with his injuries.'

  'So what you got there?'

  'We found us another slave for the king.'

  'He looks half dead already.'

  'Just how the king likes 'em, and no one will notice him in the dark.'

  Raucous laughter echoed through the courtyard. The grating sound of the raised portcullis sent shivers down his spine, while the constant cackling and shrieking of mocking men raised the hackles on his neck.

  'Come on you, not far to go now.'

  His two captors gripped his weakened arms, and half carried, half dragged him through the courtyard into the ghost of a hallway. It was a silent chamber, save for their footsteps and the scuffling of his reluctant feet.

  The long building was partitioned into many smaller rooms, each reached by an open doorway at the front. They were plain rooms, with no curtains on the windows. The light from the moon partially lit up each wall and cruelly exposed iron beds with menacing shackles. He could almost hear the shouts and screams of previous occupants pleading for mercy. The air was that heavy with scars of pain and the smell of blood—even the walls cried tears in this gods forsaken place. Hezekiah Hall had quickly become Hezekiah Hell. Leaving the ghosts behind, he then saw something else equally depraved, and his body froze.

  Chinks of coal burned in iron braziers at the end of the hall. He watched as a new set of metal stamps were clamped into the branding iron and the iron was thrust into the red hot coals burning in the drum. The guard cruelly took his arm and the other pressed the heated brand into the back of his wrist. The red hot iron seared his skin. He never moved when the iron burned him. He didn't even blink.

  'Now you've got the mark on you, you can meet the master.'

  Cornelius examined the H still sizzling into his skin, the wicked red glow told him it would be there for ever.

  Chapter Two

  Deep in the heart of the mountain, men walked alone carrying a lantern and a pick axe. The glow stretched ahead into the dark tunnels and created huge disfigured shadows on the walls. Year after year, Break Pass Ridge slaves cleaved deeper into the living rock, tunnelling into the heart of the mountain, discovering fresh arteries and closed veins, where they would pick out precious stones and barrel loads of gold. Segan Hezekiah made them excavate more and more until the mountain range became cancerous with sores. One day it would crumble many thought. But if that ever happened, it would take Segan Hezekiah with it, and end the torture for good.

  The slaves were always covered in white rock dust. They were hunched and weak, with skin like thin grey paper where they never saw the light of day. But the more they excavated, the warmer it became, and Hezekiah was confident the fire of life simmered somewhere below—and once the tunnellers exposed it, he would move his throne room closer, and breathe in the life giving embers daily. For now though, his throne room was comfortable and warm from a man-sized hearth, and hemmed with a thousand illuminated candles that danced and flickered in this reluctant womb.

  Cornelius was led in to the chamber of the mountain king. This spacious room held little in the way of furniture—its grandeur was manifested in its construction rather than its content. White marble columns rose up from the mosaic floor to a gilded ceiling, and the finest gold leaf prints lined the walls. Niches and arched windows were patterned with intricate carvings, and silk rugs covered the floor. Dim lamps carved into the rock, and illuminated decanters full of vintage wines. The servant didn't even look up as he shuffled over to a marble stand. He took a gem encrusted goblet and poured a claret for his master.

  Hezekiah sat at a dark wooden table with a platter of food in front of him. He chewed menacingly on a haunch of deer as the goblet of wine was placed at his elbow.

  A spider in a crack between the flagstones, disturbed by the shuffling, scuttled towards the edge of the room and settled at the base of a large wooden plinth. At the top, a hawk, tethered and hooded, cocked its head, aware of the eight legged intruder. It flapped its wings and screeched loudly. Hezekiah reached for a catapult, nocked a plum-stone in the sling, and hit the spider straight on, then threw a piece of meat into the mouth of the hooded hunter. He then turned thirty degrees, and fixed his eyes on a large, ancient, leather-bound book, left open on a gold inlay desk. The pages were of the highest quality waxed vellum, and contained writing, verses, figures and motifs. It was of little interest to the spider—but the bird had done its job. Hezekiah cocked his head, smiled, and went back to his meal.

  The starving prisoner couldn't remember when he had last eaten. His body was all wiry muscle and sinew, and his ribs clung on to an even thinner skin. His matted hair and beard disguised the once handsome face. He could feel his mouth salivate and his empty stomach rumble, as the sweet aroma of meat fat and dripping wafted into his sensory glands.

  Hezekiah, who preferred to be referred as, the Mountain King, looked up and pushed his plate away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back in his throne. He nodded to the guards who stepped forward and presented Cornelius to him.

  'I hear that the prisoner escaped.' He picked something out of his teeth, looked at it and put it back into his mouth.

  'I am sorry my lord, we searched for miles but he was nowhere to be found. He must have died in the freeze.'

  'No matter,' said the king. 'I see we have a younger, fitter, more able replacement anyway.'

  'Yes my lord, we thought you would be pleased.' The king stood up and walked towards Cornelius. His voluminous black velvet robe was trimmed at the collar with the pelt of a grey wolf, and settled into nice neat folds when he stopped moving. He was of average height and average build, with a square face and deep set eyes. His tamed beard and curly hair concealed most of his features, and a small crown was wedged on his forehead. He didn't look old, he didn't look that young either. The most striking characteristic about him was the deep blue eyes that could melt the ice off the top of the mountain it seemed. And despite the tales that Cornelius had heard, he didn't look like a terrifying ogre at all; but then again, more often than not, they were the worst types he feared.

  'I am told that you do not know who you are.'

  'That is correct my lord, I have no memory of anything.'

  'That is most bizarre indeed, but to be honest with you, it's probably best that you don't have any recollection of a former life.'

  Cornelius dropped his head solemnly and nodded.

  The king's shoulders bounced up and down in a shrug. The two guards knew that he didn't care.

  'You will be working for me now. And although you have heard first hand about the escapee, let me tell you right now, that it is very rare, if not impossible, to escape from here.' His steel blue eyes glared. 'Those whom have tried—have been severely punished.'

  Cornelius reme
mbered the iron rooms and swallowed hard.

  'And the few that make it to the gates—well, let's just say, that's where they remain—until the crows have taken everything they need.' An unsavoury smile lingered on his mouth for far too long.

  'Your room will be on the other side of the mountain. There is still much excavating to be done. You will be fed once a day in the morning. You will be shackled to your bed when you are not working, and you will work sixteen hours a day. You will not see daylight. The flame from the wall lanterns will be your only source of light, and they go out when you are in your cell. You will wear a loin cloth round your groin, and irons on your ankles. We don't want you getting too hot or contemplating escape now do we.' A snigger came from the back of his throat. 'There are workers who will take what you have collected and put it into safe storage. You do not need to worry yourself with that.'

  Cornelius chewed on his bottom lip in thought. 'If I remember who I am, will I able to return home?'

  The king roared with laughter, the fire nearly extinguished itself with his explosion. The two guards tittered in the background. 'Oh dear me, you are a funny man. Where did you find this one?' The rhetoric was not answered.

  'You will die in here. Even if you tell me that you are the Emperor of Ataxata, you will never leave here.' He shrugged and gave a breathy laugh. He moved closer to Cornelius, and with just a hairs breadth between them, he gave his final orders. 'You are mine now. And I can do what I want with you.' His spittle ran down Cornelius' face. The king turned and stood by the fire. He didn't look at anyone. The flames consumed him now. 'Take him away.'

  Cornelius was led from one damp, cold, passage to another; down flights of stairs, round stone cold walls and further down into the abyss. It almost seemed to get warmer though, which was some form of consolation in this vacuous mountain city. The flickering candles that lit the way would be put out soon, then it would plunged into perpetual pitch till the morning again. Noises came and went; crying, sobbing, the sounds of men trying to find salvation. It soon quietened down in the void. Only a few sobs could be heard now. He was pushed into a cell, his clothes were removed, and a loin cloth was left on his bed. Shackles were locked into place. His metal door was bolted. And he was left. In the dark. Alone.

  Though he felt blind and vulnerable, the rest of his senses were heightened. The first thing he noticed was the smell. He retched and instinctively reached out for a wall to support him while he recovered. The cell stank of decay, faeces and urine. It seeped under his skin. He breathed in small pockets between pursed lips. He would soon get used to the smell though and forget to purse his lips—that he knew for sure. He could hear the constant drip of water, and as he focused on it, more drips followed. He imagined them going to an underground cave. He shook his head as a memory flickered. The cave, water, dripping sounds in a chamber. He shook his head again and tripped over a half full bowl of water. His cursing woke his neighbours.

  'Quiet in there new boy, my dreams are my only salvation.'

  'I forgot I was here for a moment... curse you.'

  'Yes, sleep is where we forget.'

  'I'm scared of the dark,' a terrified voice whimpered.

  He inched round the walls with groping fingers, his leg chains doing their very best to wake everyone, and he was desperate not to upset anyone again. A pot for pissing in and a straw palette was all he could find. It was difficult to use either with shackles on his ankles.

  When he finally collapsed onto his palette, he couldn't fall asleep, despite the exhaustion in every inch of his body. He could still hear the echoes of the keys turning in the lock of his irons, and then the grating of the cell door. He now felt worse than at any other time of his life. He didn't know who he was or how he had come to be in the basin of Break Pass Ridge in the first place, and how his life had ended up in this gloom. He forced himself to remember a better life; for this existence would send him mad in no time. Though, respite and happy thoughts were difficult to summon in this dark tomb—because the feeling of entombment reminded him of something, or someone. He had witnessed something similar before. But for the life of him he couldn't think what, or who it was. He hunkered down against a damp stone wall and listened to a distant drip of water and the monotonous sound of digging from somewhere deep below him.

  His dreams and waking life had now swapped places. When he was asleep he could see the world in all its splendour. He was somewhere grand with gold and onyx on every level. He wore luxurious clothes of satin and velvet. He was eating succulent pig and quaffing the finest wines. The blaze of colours in the manicured gardens made him feel warm again, and the smell filled his room with an aroma of honeysuckle and sweet jasmine. But when he was awake and eyes wide open, there were only layers of blackness stretching endlessly in every direction. He screamed out loud for the nightmare to end. If only he could remember who he was.

  Chapter Three

  He must have fallen asleep at some point though. A dim light and banging metal on metal roused the caged inmates. Bowls of weak oatmeal were pushed through the bars, a flagon of water followed.

  'Don't drink it all, that has to last you all day,' barked the guards. The echo carried on for miles.

  After fifteen minutes a monster of a man appeared and threw out the pick-axes—and woe betide anyone who didn't catch theirs. He didn't have to speak. They all knew what they had to do. No one dared ask him anything anyway; for this ogre was equipped with massive arms and even bigger fists. His head and neck looked as if they had been melted onto his shoulders, and his thighs ran the entire length of his legs. This was the Bruiser, a colossal creature born from the pit of the mountain; so Cornelius skilfully caught the pickaxe, and followed the rest of the line to his designated place.

  'The guards don't know that there is high air humidity in the caves. So you drink as much as you need.' Came one caring voice.

  'And the rocks cry tears,' said another. 'So keep filling your flagon with the drips that come from the ceiling and walls.'

  'Lack of food won't kill you, but lack of water will. Keep that flagon filled up at all times.'

  'And don't work too hard,' came a low voice. 'This is back breaking work and we are here from dawn to dusk. If they see you slacking, you'll get beaten, so pace yourself.' The agitated voice moved away quickly.

  The guards had well trained ears.

  'Shut up down there, you know the rules, and you've all seen the iron rooms, so stop your talking.'

  Silence resumed.

  Bare feet whispered along the cave floor. Their ankle chains restricting them to a mere shuffle, but the noise was grating and pitiful.

  The groaning of battered wagons followed.

  Despite having the barrows, most of the rock had to be lifted by hand, and Cornelius moved far more than he thought he could. Though at times he thought his back would break from the effort of carrying and lifting the stone, not to mention his weakened arms from the effort of pick-axing. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow and a voice hissed in his ear.

  'I'll let you have this one as you are new. Next time though, you'll get this across your jaw. '

  Two fists smacked together and Cornelius knew who it was. He quickly resumed his work.

  It was exhausting, relentless, soul destroying. No wonder some had tried to escape, he thought. Day after day, the same monotonous, gruelling labour. In constant darkness, save for the flicker from weak lanterns as they hewed and cleaved. To many, death would be preferable. Or at least to die in the act of trying to escape—a fifty-fifty chance was quite good odds he thought. Staying here was a living hell.

  The guards seemed to change shifts fairly regularly he noticed. They probably only did a few hours at a time. That's why they didn't know about the air humidity or the weeping walls, most of them didn't notice.

  It was impossible to chat. To cry even. That was the hardest part really. Completely drained souls, broken emotionally and physically. Though the sounds of breathing, and hammering, of groanin
g and cursing, were welcomed. Because you knew you weren't alone. You knew there were fellow slaves doing the same job and feeling the same way.

  But these were no ordinary slaves. These were wealthy landowners and privileged title holders; fortunate men who had money behind them. Some had feasted on the best quality meat, and drank the finest wines. Others dressed in luxurious silks and wrapped themselves in warm furs. Title holders who had the finest Arabian horses in their stables and priceless masterpieces adorning their homes. Theirs was a life of luxury, a life of wanting for nothing. However, these same men would give it all up in an instant to be returned to the outside world and have their freedom once again. For here, they were forced to work in the dark, forced to sleep in a tiny cell, forced to wear only loin cloths, and fed on next to nothing. These men had lost their dignity. Many had lost hope. Most just wanted to die. These proud men who had built up empires and ran their homesteads, collapsed in a heap as soon as they fell in their cells. Some sobbed into their palettes. Others hummed and chanted, soothing guttural sounds for comfort. Each man was different. Each man had a tale to tell.

  Sir Laus was one such man; tall and dignified with the air of nobility, where underneath the dusty grey hair and sallow complexion, lurked a handsome man of impeccable character. His father had served King Canagan at Castle Dru but had fallen during the siege five years ago. Sir Laus now resided at Sturt Manor, north of the castle, but still had links with King Lyall and his brother, Namir. His home was attacked a year ago; most of his comrades thought he would never recover.