Shackles of Sunlight

by J. Daniel Layfield

  “I’m no messenger, witch.”

  “No, you’re a delivery boy, obviously,” she shot back. “But tonight you will leave here with nothing more than my message.” There was the sound of movement, then a flash of light, followed by a surprised yelp of pain.

  “What sort of enchantment have you laid upon this door?” the Overseer roared.

  “Well, if you can figure that out,” Grandmother replied sweetly, “then I suppose you can come in and take the boy. Until then,” she warned, “I would stay away from my home if I were you.”

  “And if I were you, I would watch my step when I’m not at home,” he threatened. “You’ll wish you had dealt with me when my master returns,” he growled as he mounted his steed.

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “But, I’ll take that chance.”

  It was several nights before Braughton made it through an entire night without waking in a cold sweat, the sound of hoofbeats fading with his dream. As the weeks passed, so did his fear of being taken away. It was replaced by a curiosity. Grandmother never spoke of the incident, but it wasn’t long after that her lectures began. Whatever it was that made him different, he decided, must be why the Baron wanted to see him. If Grandmother wouldn’t talk about it, perhaps he could find some answers in the castle.

  “Are you ready?” Samuel stood over Braughton, his tone indicating it wasn’t the first time he had asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Braughton replied, sitting up. They had lain there much longer than he realized. The sun was starting to dip in the sky, and the storm clouds were looming ever closer. “How much farther do you think it is?”

  Samuel shrugged. “The soldier said he travelled for over half a day before reaching the road. We should be getting close to the clearing by now.” Braughton nodded his head, stood up, brushed the loose leaves from his clothes, and they started again.

  Had they been just a few years older they would have never even tried it. At this age though, they didn’t question any of it. Not the existence of secret tunnels, not the ridiculousness of following vague directions of ‘north through the woods until you reach a clearing with stone pillars’, and not the ramblings of an old drunken soldier.

  They travelled in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Braughton thinking again of Grandmother, and Samuel absently rubbing the hidden hilt of his father’s knife. It was Samuel who finally broke it.

  “I was beginning to worry,” he said with a sigh of relief. Braughton looked up, worried he’d missed part of a conversation again, and then he saw it. The clearing. From the small rise they now stood upon, the break in the trees below was easy to spot, as were the stones within. This was more than just a clearing, it was the clearing. The feeling of relief didn’t last.

  Samuel turned to Braughton with a smile, but it faded as he looked past Braughton and pointed. “What’s that?”

  A sheet of grey moved swiftly through the trees, swallowing them from view, and Braughton realized what he had mistaken for wind was actually a deluge of rain.

  “Run,” Braughton said quietly, entranced by the approaching storm. A fat raindrop splashed on the ground next to him, followed closely by another, breaking his sort of paralysis. “Run!” he yelled, and both boys scrambled for the field of stones in a race they both knew they were going to lose.

  The rain caught them just before they reached the field. With no hope of being heard over the roar of rain, Samuel grabbed Braughton’s arm and began leading him to a stone table in the middle of the circle of stones. When he saw where Samuel was headed, Braughton rushed forward, hoping the entire contents of his pack wouldn’t be soaked before they could reach the table.

  The top of the table was chest high, and rested on three stones, creating a sort of shallow cave. It was a tight fit for both boys and their bags, but it was dry. The table stood on a small mound in the middle of the field, which was high enough to keep from flooding, for now.

  Satisfied the interior of his pack had remained mostly dry, Braughton put it behind him and leaned back against the stone slab. Samuel took the same position opposite Braughton, and they both stared silently out into the pouring rain. This circle of stones hid a secret tunnel leading directly to the castle dungeons, and as Braughton’s mind produced possibilities of what would happen after they found it, his eyes were lulled to close by the pounding rain.

  When his eyes opened again, it was dark. The only noise besides Samuel’s even breathing was the almost constant drip of water onto the saturated ground. What woke him, he wondered. Then he heard it. Several small splashes in a row, headed towards him. Footsteps.

  They stopped just outside the stone circle, and Braughton strained against the darkness to see. Probably just some small animal, he assured himself, while wishing he had brought some sort of weapon. He knew nothing of Samuel’s knife, and Samuel snored on, oblivious.

  Several silent minutes passed with nothing more than the steady drip of water. It made it easy to believe he had imagined the sounds, or that maybe whatever was out there had silently moved on. His eyelids were just starting to feel heavy again when the splashes returned. This time though, from behind.

  Braughton moved to wake Samuel, and cursed under his breath when he heard the splashing steps in front of him draw a few paces closer. Whatever was out there could definitely see them, but his worry quickly turned to whatever approached from behind. It had not stopped advancing at the boundary of the stone circle, but continued right up to the mound where they rested. It stopped just on the other side of the stone wall against which they were propped.

  Braughton’s mind raced. What he wouldn’t give for just a pointed stick. If everything around them wasn’t completely soaked, he might have even managed a fire. He shook Samuel, hoping he had something they could use. Samuel replied with an irritated groan. Sniffing sounds answered from the other side of the stone support, followed by scratching. Whatever it was, it was big, and it had claws.

  “It’s too dark to be morning yet,” Samuel mumbled, and the thing behind them growled. Samuel shot up, his hand reaching for the hidden knife.

  A heavy thud from above shook the stone table and covered the boys in a shower of fine grit. As Samuel coughed and rubbed his eyes, Braughton’s attention was caught by the sound of sniffing above them.

  He could just make out the top edge of their little cave in the gloom, and he watched in silent horror as a snout covered in black fur slid into view. The nose at the end continued to sniff and test the air while the jaws opened enough to reveal rows of pointed teeth.

  Braughton sat frozen in fear as his eyes finally met the glowing red eyes of the creature above. The skin around its jaws wrinkled in what looked to be a grin just before it let loose the deepest growl Braughton had heard yet. It was answered by another growl in front of them. Another pair of red eyes appeared in the darkness. It was finally enough to break Braughton’s paralysis.

  Braughton frantically reached for his pack still wedged against the back wall, hoping to put something between him and the claws of whatever was coming for them. He pushed himself as far into the back corner as possible. His heart was pounding so loudly it was a wonder he heard the small ‘click’ under him at all. The sound of stone grinding against stone that followed, though, drowned out everything else for a moment. Braughton began sliding down the wall behind him as the floor fell out from beneath them, pitching him and Samuel into the inky blackness below.

  It wasn’t a long drop, but it was unexpected. Both boys tumbled to the dirt floor, and lay stunned while the opening above snapped shut, leaving them in complete darkness. They both had the wind knocked out of them, and scratches on their hands and arms, but considering the alternative of being stuck outside, neither boy complained. The sound of claws scraping against stone filtered down, as whatever was up there tried desperately to reach them.

  “What were those things?” Braughton asked, a small hitch in his voice.

  “Most likely wolves,�
� Samuel answered with a groan as he sat up. Almost in reply, a long howl rang out from above, and echoed around them. Both boys shivered, as the frantic clawing started back.

  “Yeah, wolves,” Braughton mumbled, sure of two things: he’d never heard of wolves with red eyes, and Samuel had obviously not seen what he had. “What do we do now?”

  “We go forward,” Samuel said. “We were lucky to find this tunnel when we did.” He tilted his head sideways and listened for a moment. “And we should probably go quickly, or we might not be the only ones down here.”

  As if on cue, another howl bellowed out from above. Braughton jumped at the sound, but Samuel merely shook his head. Back was definitely not an option.

  “Forward it is then,” Braughton agreed. “And I’m all for quickly. Let’s get moving.”

  Samuel was on all fours, his hands stretched out in front of him, feeling along the ground. “Just as soon as I find my pack, I’ll get a torch lit so we can have some light.”

  “You have torches in your bag?” Braughton asked as he stood and moved towards Samuel. “Those might have been handy a few minutes ago.”

  “What do you mean?” Samuel shot back. “They’re going to come in handy right now! Now, help me find my bag.”

  “Farther to your left.” Braughton could easily make out the bag, and wondered if the fall had hurt Samuel more than he realized. Samuel stopped waving his hands back and forth, and leaned to his left until his fingers found the bag. He pulled it into his lap and began blindly digging through its contents.

  “How’d you know where it was?” Samuel asked as his hands fumbled with lighting the torch.

  “I saw it,” Braughton shrugged. He was about to ask Samuel if he was alright when the torch sprang to life, and filled the small tunnel with its light. Braughton shielded his eyes, wincing with pain as they adjusted to the brightness.

  “There we go,” Samuel said. “Much better! I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face.” He extended his hand towards Braughton. “Now give me a hand up.”

  Samuel’s hand was covered in scratches oozing blood, and as Braughton held out his own hand, he noticed the same was true of it. Samuel grasped Braughton’s hand, and pulled himself up, noticing their bloody hands once he was on his feet.

  “Looks like we’re finally blood brothers,” Samuel said with a small grin, then licked his palm and wiped it clean on his pants.

  Braughton simply nodded, examining his hand. Helping Samuel up had stretched some of the small wounds, reopening them, allowing Samuel’s blood to mix with his own. He could feel it creeping across his hand and seeping into his veins, but it was the smell he noticed most. The thick, rich scent of Samuel’s blood filled his nostrils, begging him to have a taste. It promised him a sweetness he had never experienced, and swirled into candy shapes in the palm of his hand.

  A loud growl from above echoed through the tunnel, startling Braughton, and breaking the blood’s pull on him. He peered up at the roof of the tunnel, relieved to see the stone door remained solidly in place. When he looked back again at his hand, it was covered in shadow, and was nothing more than a boy’s soiled hand. Samuel, unaware Braughton was not following, was already moving swiftly down the tunnel, away from the creatures above and towards the castle.

  Braughton absently wiped his hand on his pants, dismissing the thoughts that had stirred in his mind. The scratching above resumed, urging him to follow Samuel. By the time he caught up and entered the warm glow of Samuel’s torch, the strange sensations he had felt were barely even a memory.

  Only one thing still rang in his head: blood brothers. They certainly were that now, and so much more.

  Chapter Seven

  Cold. It seeped through her clothes, permeating her entire body. It was the first sensation she felt, marking her return to consciousness, and was followed by her first clear thought: am I dead? It was a fair question, especially considering her last clear memory was being told she had to die. Deep down there was some relief that she wasn’t feeling searing heat.

  Even through her closed eyelids she could tell a spotlight shone down on her, but she could tell little else about her surroundings. An involuntary shiver shook her body, and she realized there was no use pretending she was still unconscious.

  She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh overhead light, and slowly opened her eyes. She was still in her police uniform, lying on a metal table, but couldn’t see much beyond the pool of light around her. That would not do.

  She sprang up, and swung her legs to the side, dangling them off the tall metal table. She faced a blank white cinderblock wall, which she had little time to admire before her vision started to darken at the edges. She had moved too quickly, and fought hard to keep her recently regained consciousness.

  She gripped the sides of the table, lowered her head, and focused on taking deep breaths. She tried telling herself this was no more of a vulnerable position than lying on the table, but it felt worse. It felt weak. And weakness was the last thing she wanted to show to whoever was watching.

  The wave of nausea slowly passed, and her vision cleared, but she kept her head down. Directly below her, just visible between her swinging feet, she could see the black rounded tip of her police baton. That’s what she needed. A weapon. Now, what was the best way to get a hold of it?

  From the corners of her eyes she saw more blank white walls on either side of her. It was a small room, but there was plenty of unknown behind her to make her uncomfortable. She sat very still, and held her breath, but heard nothing more than the soft sigh of an air duct somewhere above. Maybe she was alone. Or maybe she hadn’t heard anything else because until only a few moments ago the sound of her pounding heart had drowned out everything else.

  The baton beckoned her, just out of reach, but closer than anything else she could see. She wanted it. She would have to be fast, but how would her body respond? Having the baton in her grip only to succumb to another round of nausea and dizziness would do her no good.

  She gripped the sides of the table, confident in the strength she felt. She had to take the chance. Her body tensed, ready to leap for the baton.

  “Good morning, Elizabeth.”

  She nearly tumbled head-first onto the tiled floor, but managed to keep herself upright on the table. The voice came from directly behind her, and she instantly recognized it. The man she had been chasing, her captor.

  She didn’t answer him, eyes still fixed on the baton. Looking him in the eyes again would be a mistake, and she hoped his mistake would be assuming she was too weak to attack. At least now she knew where he was, and exactly what she wanted to do with the baton.

  She dropped to her knees, grabbed the stick, and swung it hard under the table. She expected to hear the meaty slap of it against his legs. In her mind, she had already seen the blow knock him off his feet, and watched his look of surprise change to fear as she moved in, baton raised to deliver another strike. Instead, it clanged against the far table leg, echoing through the small, empty room.

  She slumped under the table, shaking her head as she saw the fourth wall of this concrete room. It was exactly the same as the others, but for one thing. A door. Somewhere on the other side of it, she imagined he must be laughing at her.

  Just above the door, she spotted a solid red light shining from the darkness. A camera, no doubt. If she were to look above the table, she was sure she would find a speaker. He was playing games with her, but what he didn’t know was she did not play well with others.

  Under the table, Liz found her duty belt. She pulled her service pistol from its holster, then baton in her other hand, she stood up. Her intent was to smash the camera. She lost the baton before she was even eye-level with the top of the table.

  “You’re going to have to learn faster than that, if you expect to survive.” He was seated on top of the table, and disarmed her even easier than last time. He had changed clothes and cleaned the blood from his face,
but he looked no less dangerous. Was he bad though? It was an odd thought, and one she didn’t have time to consider. Right now she needed to stay in control. She swung her other hand up and brought the pistol barrel within a few inches of his face.

  “You might be surprised at what a fast learner I am,” she said with a grin. The slight widening of his eyes revealed he was at least a little surprised, but it didn’t last long. He was staring into her eyes, and the grin slowly dissolved from her face.

  Why? Why wasn’t he looking at the gun? They always looked at the gun. It was as if the gun between them didn’t even exist, as though his denial of it negated its power. But she could feel the weight of it, could see the cold metal pointed at his face. He should be staring down that black barrel, but instead he firmly held her unsteady gaze, and she could feel what should have been his fear now rising in herself.

  Too late she realized she had made another mistake. She had allowed herself to be captured again by his eyes. A tunnel closed in around them, allowing her to see only his eyes, to hear only his command to put the gun down bounce and echo along its length.

  The gun’s weight became almost unbearable, and her arms screamed for reprieve, while a tiny part of her mind frantically tried to look away. His eyes were again circles of pitch black, and she was staring down twin barrels pointed into her soul, her fear and doubt laid bare for them both to see.

  Sweat trickled down the side of her face and her arms trembled, but she didn’t dare blink. How long did she spend staring into his eyes? With the thought came the undeniable desire to close her eyelids. Her dry, scratchy eyes pleaded for moisture, and the tunnel began to slip closed. She was going to lose this battle. She only had one choice, and one chance. While she could still hold the gun up, she squeezed the trigger. A flash of fire and smoke obscured her vision, and the tunnel collapsed with the sound of a gunshot.