A Stag in the Shadows

by S E Turner

  Will was tall and lanky, a man of wit on any occasion; he had a farm, just south of the croft, an old settlement that had been attacked many times in the past. This time it was the farm that had been pillaged, and Will and his workers had been rounded up and sent to work at Hezekiah Hall. He lost many men in the fight to protect his land. They had fought long and hard, but all had to surrender in the end. He lost his ready smile, his wit, and his infectious laugh that day.

  Nate was small and round, with a bald head and a wide grin; though after such a long time in the mine, he wasn't so round now and his grin wasn't so wide. He lived twenty miles west of the mine, and owned a fishery. His lake had been polluted by Hezekiah's men, then he was kidnapped along with his employees. His family had managed to escape, but he feared for their safety every day.

  Fyn's cattle ranch had been hit two years ago. His herd of Red Hereford cattle would survive, but he didn't know how much longer he would. Used to harsh conditions in the north east of Durundal; his skin was ruddy and weathered, and sparkling eyes shone out like jewels. Now, his skin was white and pallid, his eyes dull and lifeless.

  Jak and Ike were brothers; identical twins, though you wouldn't know it here in the darkest depths of the mine. They owned a vast tree plantation, east of Break Pass Ridge. Their timber yard was hit several years ago as well. Trees were torched, the place burned down. And now, here they were together, but they still had hope, and often spoke about how they would build their empire back up again.

  Tion was a blacksmith, who had lost an eye when he got in the way of a horse as a child. And then lost his front teeth as a teenager. He was known to everyone as Ti with one eye. But instead of keeping away and being afraid of the beasts, he embraced them, respected them, and learned to work with them. His small yard of five workers were an easy target to defeat. Some say that he had killed a man over a game of cards. But if he was that man, he had lost his fighting edge years ago. He had thought about escape when he had first been imprisoned, but found it impossible as the years went by. With guards around them at all times when they were working, and locked in their cells the rest of the time, it really was a hopeless situation.

  Lord Eryk was a good looking man; with wit, charm, and charisma. He had married into a wealthy family with a huge residence twenty miles south of the mine called Condor Vale. Every year a summer fair was held there. For the last three, it had gone ahead without him. On that fateful day, he had been out hunting with his squire in Break Pass Ridge forest when they were ambushed. Eryk had been put in the mine, his squire was put to work in the fields. His family and home were safe, that's all he cared about. But one day he would get his revenge. One day he would pay someone a handsome price for ridding the kingdom of this scum.

  Sometimes the men would talk at night about hiring an assassin when they got out, someone who could outsmart and outwit this self appointed king. On these nights their hopes and dreams of vengeance, of justice, of pay back, rekindled their spirits. They all found their valour and sparkle and wit. But it was only for a short time, because they soon realised that they might never see the light of day again.

  Chapter Four

  Cornelius was the youngest of the prisoners and was put in a cell next to Philipe, and this old fella liked to chat. He soon became a welcome friend in this gods forsaken place. So when the guards had gone, and the light had vanished, the old fella would tell Cornelius stories. How he had been a wealthy landowner in a former life. How he had been imprisoned here for eighteen months, and it was his captured daughter that kept him alive. Though every day that he didn't get a beating or a thrashing, or sent to the iron rooms for punishment, he knew that she was alive, somewhere, held against her will.

  These nights were good, and Cornelius enjoyed the whispers of Philipe telling his stories of a different time, a different life, a happier existence. But other times, the night pressed in, cold and airless around his shroud. It consumed him. All the workers and slaves were silent. His friend Philipe was sleeping. All lost in their own thoughts of a more peaceful place. The faint screams of those who had not delivered an adequate haul eventually died out. And the constant sound of someone hewing down below him, filtered into his dreams again.

  'It's your mind playing tricks on you,' Philipe would say. 'No one is down there in the dark on their own. In a few months you won't even hear it, I promise you that.'

  Cornelius had to agree with him. No one would be down there, at night, in total darkness, alone—digging out rock. Though sometimes, it didn't matter how much he pressed the noise to the back of his mind—it still grated on him and sent shivers down his spine.

  No one really knew if they would see another day. Though they all had to believe that one day the blood that had been spilt on this ground would dry, peace would resume, and generations would remember them. Of course, that day would come. They had to believe it.

  'Tell me about the book Philipe,' he said, one evening.

  'The book that is guarded by his pet falcon?'

  'Yes, that one, why is it so valuable?'

  Philipe shuffled over. 'One day many months ago, I overheard two guards speaking.'

  Cornelius leaned in to hear the story better.

  'I heard them saying how Hezekiah was a nomad, travelling to find his fortune in the kingdoms,' he whispered lower. 'Some say he was the devil's advocate... but I believe he was just a nomad.'

  Cornelius smiled, sensing a good hearted man.

  'It seems that the book was found in a stream, just below the forest. It had been washed up, probably lain there for some time, but it was still intact. Hezekiah retrieved it and cleaned it up and read it from beginning to end. I cannot tell you about the contents, but the guards said it changed him, and it was the book that gave him the purpose to create this place.'

  'So the book made him a bad person?'

  Cornelius heard the sigh on the other side of the bars.

  'I do not know for sure. I sometimes think these things are meant for the good, but in the wrong hands...' his voice trailed off.

  'And the bird has been trained to guard it?'

  'Yes, they say it never goes out, and that it is kept just above starving. That way, it is more vigilant and of more use to Hezekiah.'

  'That's cruel. And is the hood on it all the time as well?'

  'I believe so. Tethered and in constant darkness. We are all prisoners here, every one of us, even the falcon... even...' his voice stopped suddenly, as if he didn't want to divulge too much—but then carried on.

  'We all yearn for freedom. To walk in the sunshine, to run in the rain. To hear the bees and the sounds of summer. To feel the crunch of snow beneath our feet in the winter. To be surrounded by those whom we love. I know that this place has changed me. I will never take anything for granted again. Power breeds corruption and turns people crazy. Hezekiah probably doesn't even realise how much he has changed. Power does that to you—that's the enemy here...'

  He heard the other men snoring. Even Philipe was quiet now; and that brought contentment for Cornelius, for he hoped they were all dreaming of a better life.

  It was a difficult life in the mountain. And as the nights rolled by, it became harder and harder to stay focussed, to stay positive, to keep his companions going. The days rolled into weeks, and the weeks rolled into months; and still, he had no idea who he was.

  He always imagined dreadful things and tried to block them out as he clawed into the rock, venting his frustration, channelling his anger, pulling at the stone till his fingers bled, but the images always came back to haunt him.

  A cave came into his thoughts a lot, vast and welcoming he remembered. But then there was a fire, a being. A creature wanted something from him. Was it real, or was he going mad? They were scattered impressions—the half glimpsed face of a woman; a young man attacking him. A knife. The feeling of falling. Had he been in danger? Was someone trying to kill him?

  Mostly he dreamed of stone and rock, he went to sleep in the dark and woke up
in the dark, with the same relentless feeling of claustrophobia as an unwelcome companion. The smells of urine and stench seeped into his nightmares. Sounds of groaning and whimpering never ceased, a scream split the air. He heard men talking to themselves or to those in the next cell. Most didn't have the energy to raise their voices to be heard several cells down. Some nights he dreamt of something even more brutal, and he shook with the very idea of it. A young man was imprisoned in a tower. He was alone, cold, terrified. There was a palette, a bucket of water and a pail for pissing in. He could smell the rancid odour, just like his own cell. No one could help this man. He was dying.

  But who was it? Did Cornelius himself inflict this brutality, or was his soul looking down on his own body in a confused state? He was convinced he was going insane. He rolled over and succumbed to sleep.

  One day into his sixth month, a figure came into the prisoners chamber. Cornelius could just about make out the huge shape of a man, and he went into Philipe's cell. Cornelius heard talking, gasping, whimpering. The voices were low, sometimes concerned, but certainly too muffled to make any sense of. The conversation was fairly short and the man disappeared into the night. But after that liaison, Philipe stopped talking. He didn't say a word. Despite Cornelius' whispers and words of encouragement to continue with his stories, the old man stayed silent.

  He dragged himself around in the day, barely eating his gruel in the morning, hardly drinking from his flagon. Cornelius tried to help him as much as he could, for the pick axe was heavy in the old man's hands. He couldn't shift anything. The guards didn't bother him too much, but Cornelius didn't take any chances. Filling barrow after barrow, he was doing twice as much work now; his own and that for Philipe. No one could see in the dark anyway. Small mercies, he thought. He couldn't bear the thought of harm coming to his friend. Couldn't bear the thought of him being tortured in the iron rooms.

  At night, despite the exhaustion, he tried to get the old man to talk. But there was nothing. Cornelius tried to invent his own stories—to create a picture of words and bring life back into the deadly cell. But there was no glimmer of light from the old man at all.

  The stories stopped. The hope had vanished. The constant sound of hewing down below in the catacombs came back to haunt him. Cornelius grew more concerned by the day.

  One evening he pressed the old man for an answer.

  'Philipe, what's wrong? Tell me, what's wrong?'

  Philipe didn't answer.

  'I can help you—but only if you tell what is wrong.'

  Still no answer.

  'Philipe, you helped me so much when I first came here. I was alone, I was terrified. I didn't know who I was. It doesn't really matter now anyway who I am—because I am a nobody here. But you gave me hope... please let me help you now.'

  Still nothing.

  'Philipe...' Cornelius sunk down onto the floor, tethered and chained to the bed. He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them. He rocked gently to stifle the sobs, but couldn't stop the tears. He was distraught. His only friend had gone. What would he do now? He couldn't cope anymore. He was finished.

  'There is only one thing you can do for me.'

  Cornelius lifted his head. The voice was very frail.

  'Philipe? '

  He sprang out of his own self pity and scrambled closer to the bar. His hand touched it, hoping to feel the warmth from his friend.

  'Anything Philipe, anything.'

  He could almost hear the old man thinking.

  'Trust me Philipe... you have to trust me...'

  Chapter Five

  Hezekiah poured himself another glass of wine and strode to the dais that spanned the far end of the Great Hall. He sat in one of the two luxurious thrones, and leaning back, admired the scene. His betrothed would be thrilled, he knew that. She would love the feather-filled silk cushions and the golden fleur-de-lys crest he had commissioned for her. His own 24-carat gold banner and jewelled coat of arms, hung from the far wall taking pride of place. Everyone admired it, he knew that. Around it were exquisite silver swords and bronze muskets made of the highest calibre. One hundred candles flickered in polished onyx floor standing holders, and the wall shimmered spectacularly in the light of another one hundred niche candles. Scattered rose petals accentuated the scene, and trestle tables placed in rows were decorated with sprays of forest leaves, lily of the valley, and forget-me-nots. Jewelled basins filled with wine were set at intervals along the magnificent tables. A banquet would follow, and then music, dancing, singing and recitals. Her gown would be the finest, richest, silk organza, trimmed with french lace, and teamed with pearls and sequins. Her slippers would be made from the softest doe skin and incrusted with the rarest gems.

  Oh yes, this would be a night to remember he thought. No one would forget this occasion, and he would go down in history as the host of kings amid the union of two dynasties.

  For love cannot be caged. It knows what it desires. It doesn't follow reason or sin. It is the powerful force that cannot be controlled. In the blink of an eye, a whole dynasty can change forever.

  He closed his eyes and thought of her. The doors opening and her face bright with love and adoration when she saw what he had done for her. She would run down the hallway and into his arms where he would lift her up and hold her close; feeling her beating heart next to his, feeling her pressed cheek next to his, feeling her brows next to his. He would take her hands and hold them softly, caressing each one in turn, planting countless kisses on her fingers. Her body would tingle with excitement and she would look deep into his eyes. And only then would he ask her the question that had been burning on his lips for two years. 'Will you marry me?'

  Chapter Six

  Two years previously

  'Listen!' Saskia said urgently. She was walking her dog Troubadour. 'Just ahead—I can hear something.'

  As if he understood every word, the wolf hound picked up his ears and sniffed the air.

  'Stay close Troubadour, and keep your wits about you.'

  The hound stayed close to her heels obediently. Saskia looked around, it was deadly quiet, too quiet really, and there was no one close by to help her. She felt her own heart beating fast. She felt the beaded sweat of fear run down her back. She had to stay calm. She took deep breaths and tuned in to the sounds again. It had gone very quiet.

  'It must have been a rabbit,' she whispered, still a bit unsure. 'Let's go home—quickly.'

  But before they could move, the thick undergrowth that lined their path burst open, and a creature leapt out. The fiend wore a mask, a strange mixing of wolf and human. Troubadour snarled.

  'Stay back Troubadour, I've got this. I don't want you getting hurt.'

  The creature stared at them, its eyes concealed, but it could see everything. Saskia could see it breathing heavily. It looked around, from left to right, not sure whether to charge or not. Then it began to approach with slow deliberate steps, as though it was enjoying the moment just before the kill, like a cat with an injured bird.

  Her sword was at her side and she jumped into fighting stance. The creature cocked its head and stared at her, then threw back its neck and howled loudly. Troubadour started to whimper.

  'Don't be scared Troubadour, it's only a silly monster.'

  She took a deep breath. 'Back off I say, otherwise you will get hurt.'

  The creature howled again and pounced on her as she staggered backwards. It wrenched her sword away and threw it as far as it could. Then sat astride her, its massive weight crushing the breath out of her lungs. Saskia's fighting spirit still roared within her though, and as the creature lowered its head to rip at her throat, she pulled the mask off and pulled its nose.

  'Ouch! What did you do that for?'

  'Because you are hurting me you big oaf.'

  She pushed her brother off and he rolled over next to Troubadour. The dog immediately started to jump all over him, licking his face and wanting to play.

  That's better, roll around with the dog,' s
he laughed .

  'Nearly got you that time though,' he said, still rubbing his nose as the dog tried to lick his face.

  'I was ready for you. Not sure Troubadour was though, he looked petrified.'

  The two of them laughed and rolled about on the ground playing with the hound.

  'It's such good fun though,' said Saskia beaming and slightly out of breath now. 'Even though I know what's going to happen, I still get the adrenalin pumping round my veins.'

  'So do I, ' said Vlavos. 'And I'm two years older than you. But I love the look on your face when I pounce, it's always worth it just for that.'

  'You really are a fiend,' and she went to pull his nose again.

  But he was too quick this time and jumped up to avoid the pinch. Troubadour was close on his heels as he ran off. 'You're only fourteen, you will never catch me.'

  She watched him go and smiled affectionately. She had only just celebrated her birthday and he had promised he would take her to the summer fair in Condor Vale this year. He really was the best brother, and she loved him so much. She brushed down her breeches, put the sword back in its sheath and ran off after him.

  Home was a sprawling valley of patchwork fields, fruit orchards, hedgerows and beautiful gardens, colourful and fertile in the long summer, while beyond was their residence, a huge mast in a sea of golden pastures.

  She gazed down at the land framed by hills and glades, and felt the glow of the sun still warm on her face. She felt a sudden rush of happiness that was so intense, it brought tears to her eyes.

  The farmhands were in the meadow, still working at five o'clock. She waved to them ecstatically as she ran through the field. In the courtyard the young girls were feeding the hens; clucking and bristling, the chickens scattered as Saskia charged through.

  'Good afternoon to you all, I hope you've had a lovely day.'