Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “From where do you come?”

  “From away, sir. A black cat brought me here.”

  The shaggy grey and white eyebrows rose and the eyes opened a fraction. “Indeed. You must be exhausted from your journey.”

  “I was, yes, sir.”

  The man inhaled, then paused. He leaned farther forward and sniffed, then sniffed again. Steve wondered if he’d stepped in something, or had spilled wine or fish sauce on his clothes. “Huh.” The old man sat back, then rested one finger on the stick. “My son’s daughters failed to tell me your name.”

  “I am Steven Zolnerovich, called Steve, sir.”

  The old man’s eyes flashed open, and Steve saw fire in them. He stood, looming up and up. “What’s wrong, um, sir? What’d I say? I didn’t make a pass at your granddaughter, honest.” Steve backed up one step, then two.

  The old man picked up the wooden pointer in one hand. Steve backed up a little more. His heel caught the edge of the carpet and he tripped, flailing around as he fell over backwards. Thunk his head hit the gap between carpets. “Oof,” his head hurt again. Before he could get back up, the old man stood over him, pointing down with one knobby finger. Ugly green light darted from the finger.

  It hit Steve in the upper chest and bounced. “Ow! Holy shit, ow, ow,” he rolled over, clawing at his shirt to open it and fan. Something burned, like he’d been branded or had held a coal to his skin.

  “You are a believer,” the old man snarled. “You wear the protection.”

  Steve tried to rip the burning thing off but it seemed stuck fast to his body. “Oh, shit, for the love of God get it off.” Pulling the chain on the St. George medallion did no good.

  “You are of the blood of the man who hurt me and my father. You are of the blood of the soldier’s son.”

  Steve barely heard him because of the pain from his chest and head. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave, just—”

  The scrawny hand grabbed his collar and lifted him, choking him as the old man held him at eye level. He smiled, revealing large pointed yellow teeth. “No, you will not leave. Not until justice is done.” The old man’s breath stank like a swamp in later summer, and if he could have breathed, Steve would have gagged. “My father’s justice and mine. Your sire owes us much.”

  Steve tried to pull the hand loose and failed. Instead the old man tossed him against the wall. His head hit the wood and the world went black.

  Chapter 4: Nightmares’ Vengeance

  Steve came to, shook his head and had second, third, and fourth thoughts. He hurt. His hair hurt, his bones hurt, and he felt worse than when he’d tried to match the Byelorussian math TA on vodka shots. “Ugh.” At least he didn’t have the same nasty taste in his mouth. Thinking felt like trying to walk through half-dried cement, so he didn’t bother. Instead he lay still as his head throbbed in time with his heart. He’d pissed someone off big time, either a deity or karma. That never ended well. His older brother talked about “so and so got run over by the karma bus” and it seemed pretty accurate. Except getting run over by a bus would hurt less.

  He tried to wipe his face. Something dragged across the cold, damp floor, rattling a little, and his wrist hurt, felt heavy. He curled his fingers down but couldn’t quite reach whatever it was. The thing cut into his skin a little. His other wrist had something on it too. After a few deep breaths, Steve pulled one arm across his chest to where he could feel the thing. Cold metal, like rough forged iron, a cuff on his wrist and a chain attached to it. That explained the weight and the dragging. Someone had shoved his shirt sleeve up so it didn’t interfere with the cuff. I’m in big trouble. What the hell did I say? Or did the girls say something? No, it was my name. The old man flipped out when he heard my name. Oh crap, he’s pissed at Dad for something and so he’s going to take it out on me. I need to wake up, I really need to wake up and get out of this dream.

  Steve opened his eyes. He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. It seemed to be made of wood, with little glowy things on it. No, it was stone and those were some kind of bug? He did not want to know. It did not look too high above him. His head still pounded, but now his back and shoulders did too from the cold and hard surface under him. He sat up, mindful of his head and of the chains on his arms. He had enough slack to sit, and he could extend his arm forward straight out, but that seemed to be the end of his tether. The world swung back and forth and he closed his eyes again until things settled down.

  Anger began replacing shock as Steve looked around again. The cell, dungeon, whatever it was, had a bucket in one corner, a solid looking door with a grate in the top and something like a cat flap at the bottom, and a pile of straw in a different corner. Steve scooted backwards on his rump, got onto all fours, and stood. The ceiling turned out to be higher than he’d feared, but standing also brought his head closer to the glowing bug things. Behind him he discovered a gap in the stones of the floor that smelled like a national forest outhouse.

  The bucket sat just out of his reach. He also had chains on his ankles, keeping him from wandering too far. He sat again, after making use of the hole in the floor. Why in the hell did Dad not warn me that he’d pissed off a god? I’d change my name or something. This is so not fair. He touched the spot on his chest. It still hurt, and when he tried to remove the silver medallion the pain made him stop. It had burned into his skin, it felt like. The old man had said that the silver protected him? That he was a believer? Believer in what? He wasn’t really Orthodox like his parents were or either set of grandparents. His dad’s fault. All this was his dad’s fault for pissing off a god and not telling Steve to be careful. He’d probably warned the older ones, but Steve was the youngest, the one underfoot all the time, the one who wasn’t good enough.

  And that and six bucks will get me a cup of coffee at the campus book store. Pity parties were fun while they lasted, but they didn’t fix the broken pipe or stringer. He’d yell at his dad when he got out of this mess. In fact, that should be the first thing that he did, telling the old god-guy that he and his dad didn’t get along and that he, Steve, had nothing to do with whatever Alexi had done to upset the old man and his father. And that he’d not made passes at Rose, Pearl, or any of the other sisters. Complimenting the god’s taste in architecture and interior design wouldn’t hurt, either.

  Steve had made his plans for what he was going to do and say when the door opened. He heard heavy steps outside and grunting, like the bear that had investigated the campsite that one time. Something grated across the door and it opened. A large shape filled the doorway and Steve stared as a human-ish thing walked toward him. Before he could get past thinking, it looks like a cross between a troll and a bear, the heavy-jawed beast picked him up and pinned his arms to his side. The creature had small eyes, white eyes that gave Steve the creeps. It sniffed him. Something else came in and undid the chains, then reattached them, pulling his arms behind his back. It also shortened the chain between his ankles so he couldn’t walk too well, as he found when the bear-thing set him down. “Come,” it growled.

  He hesitated. It hit him with a large, smelly paw. “Come.” He followed, even though the world had started spinning again. More stone passages, and a few doors, and the creature pointed to a set of stairs. You’ve got to be shitting me. Steve had just enough slack in the chains to take each step, but slowly and carefully. At least his guards did not seem to be in a hurry, following close behind but not hitting him again for being slow. He climbed up and up and up forever it seemed like, until the smaller of the two creatures, this one more like a weasel, pushed him against the wall and opened another door. Steve shuffled forward down a long, wooden-floored hall, much plainer than the others he’d seen. Another door opened ahead of them and the bear-thing shoved him through it, making him trip and fall. He twisted, landing on his hip and almost dislocating his shoulder. He lay still until he caught his breath, then rolled onto his back, sat up, and tried to get his legs under him. The
chains kept him from getting onto one knee to get to his feet. Something large, with claws that dug into his shoulders, hauled him off the floor and plunked him into a standing position. Then it dug those claws into his neck and forced him forward, into a deep bow.

  “The offspring of the Soldier’s Son are as rude as their father.” It sounded like a woman’s voice, an old woman but deeper. Steve tried to look but the claw in his scalp kept him still.

  “Indeed. He needs lessons in manners, both of them.” That was the old man-god he’d offended.

  Steve gulped. “Your pardon, sir, but I am not my father. He never told me about—” The claws shifted from his head to his throat, cutting into his skin and choking him.

  “Until my father decides what he wishes to do with you, you will labor, paying the debt your blood owes to me and my father. After that, we shall see. Your sire owes a great deal, whelp and my lord father has first claim on that debt.”

  That’s not fair! But he did not try to speak, instead focusing on breathing. The claws in his throat loosened their grip a little, then let go. Steve made no effort to stand straight again until something pulled on his chains. Once upright he could see the old man-god watching him, a snarl on his lips. The silver burned into Steve’s chest began aching again, bringing tears to his eyes. Before it got any worse, the weasel thing turned him around and drove him out of the great wooden hall, out into the night, down a long ramp and more steps. The bear-thing reappeared and took over, chasing Steve, pushing him as fast as he could go without tripping. It took all of his concentration to walk without falling, and he had no idea how far they’d gone or which direction, until they stopped at a wooden gate, much rougher than the one at the palace. Steve’s medal burned a little as the gate opened and he bit his lip against the ache. The feeling passed as soon as he crossed the threshold.

  He stood facing a hole in the ground, a giant hole with people and creatures trudging in and out of it, pushing wheel-barrows or dragging what seemed to be sledges loaded with stones and dirt. The bear shoved him to the left, pushing Steve until they reached a shed-like place. An irritated voice from the shed growled, “What?”

  The bear-creature grunted, “New one. Belongs to the Dark One. Don’t kill him much.”

  The sound from the shed made Steve’s hair stand on end. A sort of hissing laughter, slow and with an undertone Steve did not want to think about. “Much. That we can do.” A hissing, dry sound like a snake on leaves came from the shed, and a blond man emerged. From the waist down he slithered, a giant snake with black and dark iridescent scales. He held a collar or something in one hand. Steve whimpered despite himself. The snake-man smiled, revealing a snake’s fangs. “Ah, a strong one. Good. We’re opening a new shaft and need strong ones.” He nodded to the bear-thing. “Turn him around.” The snake-man fastened the collar around Steve’s neck and it seemed to tighten of its own accord, pinching the chain of his medallion into his skin. The creature also released Steve’s hands and feet. Steve tried to lash out and the collar burned, pain bringing tears that blurred his vision and forced him to his knees, then onto all fours. “For your sake, I hope you learn quickly. Or perhaps not. Your blood owes a great debt indeed if we are not to kill you.”

  #

  A different beast-thing hounded Steve down into the open-pit mine. That’s what it proved to be, a mine that produced the gems for the old man. The raw amethysts and other stones came out of the ground unwillingly, requiring much digging and chipping away the matrix around them. Steve tried to refuse to work, and the others on his six-man crew beat him up. They got fed based on what the group produced, and let him know that he was not going to starve them. It’s not fair! he wailed inside his mind. He gritted his teeth and tried to work, hunched over in the tunnel, then on his knees. He hated his father, hated Ivan, hated the dream and wanted to escape. The tools left his hands raw and aching, his back hurt, his shoulders too, and the creatures with him smelled as foul as he could imagine. He finally freed a large chunk of something and thought he could stop. Oh no. “You. New boy. Take it up to weigh.”

  “Where? How?” He couldn’t get his arms around it to lift and carry, and rolling it up the long ramp out of the hole seemed foolish.

  “Up. This,” and a skinny weasel-man with mange-like sores threw a harness at him. The harness attached to ropes and a sledge. Pulling had to be better than digging a tunnel on his knees, and Steve shrugged into the thing, then started up the tunnel toward the ramp. He hadn’t even reached the tunnel mouth before he realized that he’d been a fool. That was why the new guy did it. The gem rock grew heavier, as if it did not want to leave the tunnel. At first he thought it was his imagination, but no, it really got heavier. He noticed other pullers struggling as well, in one case two people pushing the sledge as two more pulled, fighting their load. Steve gritted his teeth and trudged, bent over, trying to make his legs do most of the work. As soon as the sledges reached the “light,” the weight stopped increasing but it did not decrease, either. I hope we get fed by the pound.

  “Hurry up, boy, you’re slowing the rest of us,” a harsh voice cawed from behind him. Steve saved his breath for pulling. He hated his father, hated the old magic man, hated Ivan the cat, hated the world. That hate got the stone half-way up the ramp before Steve had to stop and straighten up, just for a moment, and look ahead. Eternity seemed to spiral up ahead of him. How long did it take to dig so deep? And why not just use magic to pull the rocks up? “I said move, fool,” and a rock hit him in the shoulder, stinging. Steve gritted his teeth and trudged on.

  At least in the line at the weighing office shed thing he could rest. Steve had already decided that gawping at the other prisoners might be a bad idea. I’m tired of everything beating up on me. This is worse than when I ticked off Ramon and his team in the building trades lab. They just scared the shit out of me and then took my stuff apart and made me redo it to their standards. Just like they did to all the other new guys. This . . .this hurts.

  “Next.” Steve hauled the sledge forward. “On here,” snakeman hissed.

  Steve looked from the rock to the scale, gulped quietly, and wrestled the thing off the sledge. He couldn’t quite lift it, and heard the others getting impatient and starting to yell behind him. A ravenman gave in and helped, a little, and they heaved the small boulder onto the scale. The pointer barely moved. Snakeman laughed as Steve stared. “Problem?”

  “But, it was so heavy. I, and the others, worked so hard!”

  “Not hard enough, boy.” The collar burned. “Now move. Back down.”

  He got out of the way of the others but stopped. “No. I’m not going back till you give me proper weight. That’s not fair.”

  “Really.” The other creatures all stopped moving and fell silent, watching as snakeman glided over to where Steve stood.

  “Really.” He folded his arms and stared back at the creature.

  The next thing he knew he was on his knees, fighting to breathe around the choking fire. “Ah, a slow learner. It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those as our . . . guest.” The creature’s voice turned cold. “Strip and prepare him.”

  Hands and a tentacle grabbed him, dragging Steve to what looked like a hitching rack from a western reconstruction. They ripped his shirts off, then tied his hands to the outer posts, so he was spread-eagled.

  “It has been a while indeed.” Snakeman held something in one hand. A stick as thick as Steve’s wrist with a bunch of braided cords hung from one end, like a whip. That’s exactly what it was a whip tipped with things! Steve tried to pull loose.

  “No, you can’t! It’s not fair, I didn’t do any—Aiiigh!”

  The blows hurt. Steve felt each tail of the lash tearing his skin, digging and then pulling free. He’d never hurt so badly in his life, and he screamed. He didn’t care, he screamed, trying to pull free of the chains holding him to the bar, twisting, tearing something in his shoulder. After the fourth blow the world went black.

  “Heh,�
� a rough voice whispered. “You should not have angered the Dark One’s oldest son.” Steve tried to sit up and failed. His left shoulder wouldn’t push and tears filled his eyes from the pain. He bit his tongue, hard, trying not to show how badly he hurt. His back felt worse and he wondered how he’d survived. “You are fortunate, mortal. Had you not been claimed by another, he would have used the true knout, not the magical one.” Something scraped on the stone and a wooden bowl appeared beside Steve’s left hand. “Drink. Eat. Work comes soon.”

  This time Steve listened. He drank the bitter stuff, choking it down. Once his stomach settled he felt a little better, and he managed to eat the dry hunk of bread that also appeared. Then he closed his eyes and prayed for the first time since his parents had dragged him to Easter liturgy. “Thank you.”

  The other person snorted. “You save that for later, once you do your work share. Whatever you did, do it not a second time.”

  “Agreed.” I didn’t do it. My father did. This is not fair. And fair or not, it doesn’t matter anymore, not in this world. The realization hurt. Yeah, Alexi had pissed off the old-man-god, but Steve had pissed off the snakeman. His dad had nothing to do with that. And Steve had blown off Ivan’s warning and had gone exploring deeper into the fairy-tale world, and had followed the girls. This is my fuck-up now. He lay on his stomach and let tears seep out in the darkness where no one could see them.

  All too soon someone kicked him, and he and the raven-thing and others returned to work. Steve decided that the breaks were not really for rest, but to make things worse for the prisoners. You worked until you dropped, got just enough food and water to stay alive and enough rest to make you realize how tired you were, and then the guards chased you back to the mining face.

  Once, as he dragged the sledge up the ramp, he overheard two down-bound prisoners whispering. “Coming here? They do not abide under one roof.”