Shackles of Sunlight

by J. Daniel Layfield

  From what he could tell, the room appeared to be empty. The wall to his left consisted entirely of barred cells carved directly into the stone, stacked three high. More cages, narrow cylinders, dangled from the ceiling, and scattered around the room were devices for which Braughton didn’t even want to imagine their use. He looked quickly past them, and there, on the far side of the room, he spotted it. An exit.

  He glanced behind him again, making sure he was still alone, then headed for the door. His footsteps were lost in the room’s expanse, and he kept his eyes on the short staircase leading up to the open doorway. It wasn’t until he placed his foot on the first step that he heard the voices.

  More guards, headed right for him. He needed someplace to hide. Now. The problem with dungeons, Braughton noticed, was there weren’t places to hide. It was, in fact, this unfortunate property which had allowed him to determine it was empty in the first place. He searched frantically for something that might provide cover, and then he noticed it. Right in front of him, hidden in the shadow of the staircase, another door.

  He raced towards the closed door, hoping he could make it before the guards entered. It wasn’t until his hand was on the handle he even considered it might be locked. Oblivious to his fears, the latch opened and Braughton slipped silently through the door.

  He stood at the top of a stairwell lit only by torchlight from a hall below, one ear pressed against the door. How long would it take for the guards to pass? Then another thought occurred to him. What if their rounds included his hiding place?

  He backed slowly down the stairs, eyes fixed on the latch, begging it not to move. It was only when he reached the bottom that he finally turned to face the hallway. It was lined with wooden doors on both sides, all slightly ajar. He crept to the closest one, and peeked inside what appeared to be a small cell. Other than a plain, wooden cot, the room was empty. He stepped across the hall and discovered the same behind the next door. It wasn’t much, but it might provide a place to hide. He slid behind one of the doors and waited.

  A minute went by, then two, and he heard nothing. Finally realizing he couldn’t stay in this room forever, Braughton eased back out into the hall and started back towards the steps. Before he could reach them, something stopped him.

  No, stopped wasn’t the right word. He was pulled. Something tugged at him, pulling him back into the hall. He turned and noticed at the far end of the hall was another wooden door. It was larger than the others, the boards broader, the iron banding thicker, and it was closed. It was also from where the pull was coming.

  That wasn’t exactly right either, he realized as his feet moved a few steps towards it on their own. He was definitely being pulled to the door, but the source was beyond it. What was it? He closed his eyes and could almost see a string stretching down the hall, through the door, connecting him to the source. He followed, and there he found it, the source was … Samuel.

  He hadn’t given one thought to Samuel since exiting the tunnel. A wave of guilt threatened to wash over him, until he remembered Samuel had left him in the tunnel, asleep and alone. Why had he done that? Confusion and anger drowned the guilt, leaving Braughton to wonder what was behind the door, and why was Samuel there?

  Braughton let himself be pulled down the hall, already imagining his argument with Samuel. Whose idea had it been to come here anyway? It no longer seemed like a fun idea, and Braughton was ready to just leave before they were caught, or worse, he thought as he rubbed his ankle. He placed a hand on the door handle, barely noting it was warm while everything else down here was cool to the touch, before opening the door and slipping inside.

  Grandmother never spoke much about her religious beliefs, but she believed in heaven and hell. Her descriptions to him were so vivid, Braughton often wondered if she might not have somehow glimpsed them both. With the vision before him now, he likewise wondered if he weren’t getting his own peek into hell.

  The first thing to hit him was the heat. It rolled out from a pit in the center of the room, pushing against everything it encountered before crashing into the stone walls. Sweat instantly appeared on his arms and forehead, threatening to streak down and sting his eyes. He absently wiped his brow and stepped forward into the room.

  The room was circular, a pit in the middle ringed by supporting columns. As he stepped closer, Braughton could see the pit was filled with a black liquid, and four large pillars of flame danced upon its surface. They were the sole source of both heat and light. Chains were mounted to the walls around him, and thankfully they were empty. Peering across the lake of fire, waves of heat distorted his view of the far side of the room.

  He closed his eyes. The thread was still there, stretching across the room, oblivious of the flames. Samuel was on the other side, he was sure of it. When he opened his eyes, Braughton was shocked to find himself standing at the edge of the pit. He gasped and shuffled backwards until his back touched the wall. It only remained there a moment before he realized the wall was uncomfortably hot.

  Why was he surprised? Of course it was hot. He’d only been in here a few minutes and was already covered in sweat. He glanced up at the walls again, thankful he hadn’t backed into one of them, but unable to keep his mind from wondering what it would feel like to be bound by them.

  He felt the small tug again, and turned back to face the pit. The only way across was around. He only made it a few meters before he saw the room wasn’t round. Where there should have been a continuous curving wall, instead Braughton saw the hard edges of a corner ahead. As he drew nearer, it became obvious the back wall was flat.

  Opposite the corner he was approaching should have been its mirror image, but there was only a black, impenetrable shadow reaching out into the room. Had he noticed it, the shadow might have given Braughton a reason to pause. Instead his eyes stopped half-way across the back wall, fixed on the body chained to it.

  “Samuel!” he called out as he ran for the bound boy, already sure it was him, but uncertain whether or not he was still alive. He could only reach as high as Samuel’s knees, but before he could reach out and touch him, Braughton felt a strong hand on the back of his neck.

  “I told you he would come to us, boy,” the owner of the hand sneered. Braughton’s eyes followed the arm up to the grinning face of his captor. “Your friend was beginning to think you’d forgot about him,” he said to Braughton, then pulled him closer, and added in a whisper, “but I knew better.” Then louder, “I told him you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

  Samuel stirred behind him. “No!” His voice was weak, but firm. “Braughton, run!”

  Braughton tried to look back at Samuel, but the hand squeezed harder. “Too late for that now, boy.”

  “Bring him here,” said a deep voice from the shadowed corner.

  Braughton was steered to the edge of the shadow. The darkness was absolute. He could see nothing within it, but it somehow seemed alive. It was as if it moved and swirled, chasing itself in all directions, almost like smoke. He was close enough to touch it, and he wondered, would his hand feel something solid at that light-dark line, or be swallowed by it? Before he had a chance to find out, he was forced down to his knees. “Show some respect to the Baron,” he was commanded.

  “Now, now, no need for all that,” the Baron said, breaking the dark’s hypnotic hold. “I’ve been anxious to meet you, Braughton. Stand up so I can get a better look at you.”

  Braughton thought of that late night visit to Grandmother’s house, her refusal to hand him over to the Overseer, defying the will of the Baron. Now, here he was. He had practically delivered himself to the Baron. Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea?

  “On your feet, boy,” the man whispered harshly in his ear as he pulled him up.

  Braughton was suddenly self-conscious of how he must look after spending a day travelling through the woods, and then who knew how long in the tunnel. He was certainly in no shape to meet nobility.

  �
�You’ve grown in to a fine young man,” the Baron said, a strange hint of pride in his voice. “Perhaps a bit skinny,” he added, “but we can fix that.”

  He had heard Grandmother say the same thing about him, and he lowered his head in shame. What would she say now? He suddenly wanted nothing more than to just leave. A slap on the back of his head interrupted his thoughts.

  “The Baron gave you a compliment, whelp.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Braughton replied, though he kept his head down. He could almost hear the Baron wave his hand, dismissing the thanks.

  “You know,” the Baron said, “there’s no need to use the back door, Braughton. You’re always welcome in my home.” He paused, and when he spoke again the smile in his voice was gone. “Your friend here though, is a different story.”

  Samuel. He had forgotten him again. Braughton looked back at the small figure hanging still against the wall. How much had he already endured? How much more could he take? Braughton turned back to the shadow corner. “Please, my Lord,” he said, “we meant no harm. Can’t you just let us go?”

  “No harm?” he chuckled. “What exactly were your intentions then?”

  Braughton paused, searching his mind. Why had they come? “Just looking for a bit of adventure, my Lord,” he offered. Silence answered him. “The tale of secret tunnels was too tempting for us to ignore,” he explained further. He swallowed hard, then added, “If you could just let us leave, we swear we’ll never come back.”

  Another laugh escaped the darkness. “I was a boy once too, long ago. I sought out adventure, explored places I shouldn’t, and could almost be persuaded to believe you. Almost.” A large, bone-handled knife slid into the light. “Care to explain this?” Braughton stared open-mouthed at Samuel’s father’s hunting knife. Where had it come from? Reading his mind, “Your companion was carrying it hidden under his shirt.”

  “Just for protection, my Lord,” he scrambled to explain, though he had no idea why Samuel had kept it hidden from him. “The forest may hold many dangers for two young boys.”

  “I might have actually believed that story,” the Baron mused. “It’s certainly much better than anything your friend could come up with. What was the first thing he said?”

  “Found it,” the Baron’s man said.

  “That’s right, he found it.” Both men laughed. “It took a little encouraging, but we finally got the truth out of him. He admits he came here looking for revenge.”

  “Revenge,” Samuel echoed softly, and the chains rattled as he winced. Braughton stood still, frozen in place. He knew the story of what the Overseers had done to Samuel’s father, but what had he come here planning to do? How could Samuel have involved him in this mad scheme?

  “My Lord, I-,” Braughton began, but was interrupted by the Baron.

  “No need for worry, my dear boy. Your friend has assured us you knew nothing of his plans, and I’m inclined to believe him.” Braughton relaxed a tiny bit. “I simply need to hear you say the words, and all is forgiven.”

  “The words?”

  “Yes, just tell me you had nothing to do with planning this attempt on my life, that it was completely conceived and executed by your friend, and all will be well between us.”

  “Forgiven?”

  “And forgotten.”

  Braughton’s entire mouth had gone dry. He licked his parched lips as he looked back at Samuel hanging helplessly. The words were the truth, so why did it feel like a betrayal to say them?

  This wasn’t his fault. None of it. The plan, looking for the tunnels, deceiving Grandmother, coming here, had all been Samuel’s idea. Samuel had already confessed, Braughton had even heard him admit it, so why should he share the blame?

  Braughton spoke quickly, afraid if he paused too long, the words would refuse to come. “I had nothing to do with his plan to kill you.”

  “There, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” the Baron soothed, but it did little to relieve the sickening feeling in Braughton’s stomach.

  “So, can we go now?” Braughton asked softly.

  “Certainly. You are free to go.” Braughton didn’t miss the emphasis.

  “Wh-what about Samuel?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not going anywhere. Not until he’s been punished for his crimes.” Braughton looked back again at Samuel. His face was puffy, red, and covered in sweat and tears. His clothes were torn, and the skin showing underneath was bruised, cut, and swollen.

  “Has he not already been punished, my Lord?” Braughton asked.

  The darkness was silent and still. Behind him, Braughton could hear the man enjoying a small laugh. When the Baron spoke again, there was no kindness in his voice.

  “Your friend has admitted to an act of treason. Do you know the punishment for treason?”

  Braughton’s eyes widened, and he simply nodded his reply.

  “That’s not good enough, boy. Say it!” the Baron commanded.

  Braughton struggled to keep his voice even, as he whispered, “Death.”

  “Death,” the Baron echoed. “And you suggest I let him leave with a few scrapes and bumps? Do you disagree with the laws given to us by our King, decreed by royal doctrine?”

  “Mercy,” Braughton mumbled, falling to his knees, the tears he had felt threatening to spill, now rolling freely down his face. “Mercy, please, my Lord,” he cried out. “Spare his life, I beg of you.”

  “Very well,” the Baron reluctantly agreed. “The boy will not be killed.” Braughton beamed, and the tears now streaming down his face were of joy. “But,” the Baron added, and Braughton began to wonder why he even bothered to feel relieved anymore, “the boy’s punishment will be delivered by your hand, Braughton.”

  “What must I do?”

  “Twenty lashes.” The man offered a rigid leather whip to Braughton, who simply stared at it in silence for a few moments. “If you will not administer the boy’s punishment, I will be forced to have my Overseer do it,” the Baron warned. “I can’t guarantee the boy will survive. My Overseers are all a bit over zealous when it comes to their work.” The man grinned and started to withdraw the whip, but Braughton reached out and stopped him.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, pulling the whip from the man’s hands. The thick braided strands extending from the handle each ended with a small, spiked barb. Braughton dragged them across his hand, trying to imagine the pain they would inflict on Samuel. It would be excruciating, but he had only to glance at the look of disappointment on the man’s face to know he had made the right choice. This was the only way to save Samuel’s life.

  “Prepare the prisoner,” the Baron ordered. The man walked to the wall and lowered Samuel far enough to remove the manacles from his wrists. Samuel tumbled forward onto the man’s shoulder, who then roughly flipped him around and placed him face-first against the wall.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boy,” the man said with a toothy grin as he stepped away from Samuel.

  Braughton flexed his hand around the smooth, worn grip of the whip, and wondered how many hands had held it. The barb-tipped braids brushed against his leg, and he tried not to think about how much use that end had seen. He moved closer to Samuel, raised his arm, and flipped the whip towards his friend’s defenseless form. There was a meaty thwack as the whip contacted Samuel’s back, and he responded with a small shake and a groan.

  “No, no, no,” the Baron scolded. “That simply will not do. There was barely a cry of pain from him at all, and I doubt it even left a mark. Now, try again. And remember, this is his punishment, not just for what he tried to do to me, but also for putting your life in danger.”

  Braughton adjusted his grip, raised the whip over his head, and let it fly. It shrieked as it cut through the air, and Samuel cried out when it struck his back. Small rips were left in his shirt, and drops of red began to soak through.

  “Excellent,” the Baron called out. “Now we need only nineteen more just like it.”


  Nineteen. Braughton’s shoulders sagged under the weight of delivering nineteen more blows to his friend. The alternative though was to have them come from the Overseer. Braughton only had to look at his over-eager face a moment to find the strength to continue.

  Braughton started slowly, flinching nearly as much as Samuel with each strike. By the eighth hit though, he could feel himself starting to lose control. Samuel’s shirt was in shreds and trails of blood trickled down his back, soaking into the waistband of his pants. Each flip of the whip sent sprays of the ruby red liquid over everything – the wall, the ground, Braughton’s hand, arm, chest, and even his face. The smell of blood was thick and rich in the air, reminding Braughton of the tunnel, the feeling of Samuel’s blood mingling with his own, and its promise of a divine sweetness unlike anything he’d tasted before.

  He could feel the warm droplets landing around his lips, the temptation to reach out and lick them was almost overwhelming. A gnawing hunger was driving that desire. How long had it been since he’d eaten? It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a hunger pang from his stomach, it was rising up from much deeper.

  Unable to resist the urge, he swiped at the corner of his mouth with his tongue. The drop of red nectar left a lingering trail of sweetness as it slid across his tongue, into his mouth, and down his throat. For a moment he forgot where he was, and what he was doing. There was only the sheer joy and fulfilment of satiating that hunger. As the taste dissipated, the hunger quickly returned with an unexpected ferociousness. He needed more.

  Braughton began whipping furiously, manic even, and he was rewarded with more splashes of crimson across his face. He licked greedily around his mouth, then began using his free hand to wipe it from his face into his open mouth. He had become deaf to the slap of leather against flesh, and even to Samuel’s screams, hearing only the call to feed his hunger.

  It wasn’t enough. He was only getting drops, when right in front of him there was a gushing waterfall of the precious elixir that could soothe his parched throat. He needed only walk over and drink his fill.