by Chuck Black
When the ropes were secure, one of the men behind Rowan kicked his legs just behind his knees, forcing him into a kneeling position before their leader. The man played with the moneybag that had been retrieved from Rowan’s horse.
“You have our money,” Rowan said. “Now let us go.”
The marauder to Rowan’s left kicked him in the stomach so hard that he fell to the ground. The pain was so intense he thought he might be sick. He opened his eyes just in time to see another riveted leather boot smash into the right side of his face. A tooth in his lower jaw broke loose, and blood filled his mouth.
Rowan spit the tooth and blood on the ground, hoping the beating would stop. Two more kicks to his abdomen left him breathless.
“You are in no position to make demands!” the voice of his captor exclaimed.
Two men grabbed him by his arms and lifted him again to a kneeling position. Rowan was dizzy with pain, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. The leader grabbed his chin and lifted it so he could look into Rowan’s eyes.
“Camerian hero—ha!” the man spit on Rowan’s face, then motioned to his companions. “Bring him. Kill the others.”
“No!” Rowan screamed.
Hatfield and the squire struggled briefly, but two swords pierced them each from behind. The look of absolute horror on their faces made Rowan close his eyes and turn away, but the images remained etched in his mind.
Rowan was placed on a horse and taken deeper into the forest. The marauders stopped once they were well clear of the road and placed a black bag over his head, then journeyed onward. For two days the marauders traveled without giving Rowan any food or water. He thought he would die of thirst. At last they stopped, pulled him off the horse and onto the ground, and dragged him deep into a cavern that echoed with each curse and footstep the marauders made. He was left facedown in the dirt with the bag still over his head.
“Water … please,” Rowan begged. His plea was rewarded with a powerful kick to his unprotected ribs. He knew his ribs were bruised, if not cracked, and the pain made his stomach churn. Footsteps echoed in the cavern and faded away.
He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious, but he was glad for the oblivion. Then he was jerked awake as hands brusquely grabbed his arms and yanked him to a sitting position. The bag was removed, and he blinked against the brilliant torchlight that burned his eyes. Two of the men moved aside to allow their leader access to Rowan.
“The mighty Sir Rowan—a champion of Cameria.” A black-haired scoundrel with a full, scruffy beard paraded in front of Rowan, flaunting the victory cloak that now hung about his shoulders. “What do you think? Does it look as good on me as it did on you?”
Anger burned in Rowan’s bosom. How dare this lowly villain pretend he could wear such a prize? The man stopped directly in front of Rowan and looked down his nose at him, pretending to be a gallant tournament knight. Then he whipped off the cloak, threw it down in front of Rowan, lifted his boot, and trampled it into the dirt.
“You think you are something special, but you are just Camerian scum.”
The man knelt down close to his captive’s face and smiled. Rowan raised his chin in defiance, and the man’s smile contorted into a snarl.
“You arrogant Camerian,” the man planted a fist into Rowan’s face, reopening wounds from his previous beatings. Rowan’s head jerked to the side; then he slowly turned back to face the man.
“I will collect a ransom for your life that will give Lord Malizimar and our allies enough money to continue our great work. Would you like to know what that great work is?”
Rowan just stared at the vengeful, weathered face. “It is the conquest of Cameria, the great evil eagle that is feeding Chessington and its pathetic pigs. You play in tournaments while my people die in starvation. Now you will live what our children live!”
The man made a fist and brought it close to Rowan’s face. “Your life means nothing to me,” he spat. “I would love to kill you along with every other Camerian, for you all disgust me!” The man reached down, lifted the cloak from the dirt, and rubbed it across Rowan’s face.
“Your blood on your cloak will prove you are my prisoner. Your money will be mine, just as your life is mine!”
The man stood straight and walked to what looked like the entrance of the cave, though Rowan could see no light beyond it.
“Chain him up,” the man said to his men. “When you’re done, give him some water. He must at least be alive when they bring the money.”
They replaced Rowan’s ropes with chains, binding his wrists and ankles together, and secured him with another short chain to an iron stake in the ground. One of them poured fetid water from a dirty canteen into his mouth, nearly choking him in the process.
When they left with the torch, darkness swallowed him whole.
PRISON WITH NO END
Rowan had heard of Lord Malizimar and a region of people far to the southwest, near Chessington, but he had never given much thought to such faraway affairs. Why should a pauper-turned-champion care about such issues between people who were in constant strife?
He knew that the United Cities of Cameria supported Chessington, mostly because of the influence of the Knights of the Prince. Early on, it had seemed that nearly all of Cameria followed the Prince. In fact, being Camerian had been nearly synonymous with being a Follower. That had slowly changed, however, and support for Chessington from the masses had gradually diminished. In spite of this, the leadership of Cameria had continued to support Chessington and the King’s people, and this had angered Lord Malizimar and his subjects. Now Rowan had somehow become entangled in the web of conflict on the far side of the kingdom, when the only thing he was guilty of was being successful and Camerian.
How long would it take for them to collect the ransom? As ruthless as these marauders seemed to be, Rowan doubted he would be set free even then. He figured his best chance was to escape on his own.
The fetters were too strong for him to break, but the stake was another matter. Rowan was strong—stronger perhaps than the marauders realized. If he could pull the stake from the ground …
He positioned himself directly over it, wrapped his hands around the short length of chain, took a deep breath, and pulled up with all of his might. His ribs burned with pain and he wanted to yell, but he dared not alarm his captors. He could feel his muscles strain as never before.
Just as he was about to give up, something moved ever so slightly. He relaxed and felt for the stake. It hadn’t budged. But then he felt the link that attached his chain to the stake and realized it had opened just a sliver. It wasn’t much, but it gave him the encouragement to try again.
He shook off the strain of the last attempt and gathered himself for another. After filling his lungs with the cave’s dank air, he pulled up with every fiber of strength he had and felt the link give again, this time farther. He tried to pull his chain through the open link, but the opening was not yet wide enough. After one more mighty try, the chain slipped through the link, and he was free from the stake.
It was a moment of glorious hope. The short chain section between his ankles allowed him to take small steps. If he could escape out of the cave undetected, he might have a chance.
Rowan felt his way along the cave wall until he came to the alcove leading to another larger cavern. Then he hesitated as he realized that without a torch, he could easily walk right over a fifty-foot ledge to his death. The realization was nearly enough to cause him to turn back and wait for the guards to return, but then he realized that in chains his odds of overcoming two guards at once were slim at best.
He took a deep breath and maneuvered forward but stopped when he saw something quite remarkable. High above and before him were hundreds of soft blue glowing lights on what must be the ceiling of a large outer chamber. The glow wasn’t strong enough to let him see anything directly in front of him, but it gave him a good idea where the cavern walls were and which direction to move.
Qui
etly and carefully, Rowan moved toward what seemed to be the far end of the cavern. After a few minutes he was directly beneath the glowing lights. What could make such a pleasant effect in such a forsaken place?
Just as he was about to continue, two of the blue lights above him began to move in tandem, obviously connected together. As they did, their glow brightened. Judging by the way the lights circled out into the dark and then returned, Rowan thought perhaps they belonged to some kind of unusual firefly. He watched in wonder as the dual light came closer, growing brighter with each passing moment. It passed directly over him, and he heard the flutter of soft wings.
Now six or so other pairs of lights began to move in circling flights above him. Mesmerized, he watched the cavern fill with hundreds of beautiful, glowing pairs of orbs.
Swish-thunk. Something large fluttered past him from behind and pricked the back of his neck.
“Ouch!” Rowan cried softly as the creature flew up and away from him. He caught a brief glimpse of a mothlike creature the size of a crow with dangling antennae that hung down from the back of its body. At the end of each antenna was a glowing, bulbous sac.
Rowan reached up to feel the back of his neck and felt warm fluid oozing from a small puncture. He brought his hand to the front of his face and saw a glowing blue liquid mixed with blood on his fingers.
“What in the—” he exclaimed just as another set of wings fluttered near his left shoulder.
Swish-thunk.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed again. This time his left shoulder had been punctured. Rowan ducked down and began to bat at the flying orbs. Hundreds were diving down, and by their light he could just barely see the floor of the cave. He began to make his way through the tapered columns of rock, but something felt wrong, as if his chained feet had become stuck in mud.
The moths continued to dive. Swish-thunk. Another one hit his arm, and he swiped at it. Rowan tried to move away, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He felt himself falling and reached for a rock column to steady himself, but his arm would not lift up. He fell against the column and rolled to the ground on his back. His entire body was quickly becoming paralyzed.
“Help!” he called out, but it was a weak cry at best.
The moths swarmed above him, and he thought they might land on him and devour him in some horrid way. Instead, they hovered and then, one by one, alighted on the columns of stone nearby. Their wings flapped slowly and the orbs glowed even brighter, immersing him in a shower of beautiful blue light.
It took monumental effort to turn his head, and when he managed it, his gaze fell upon something horrific. The wall of the cavern was crawling with hundreds of foot-long caterpillars—all moving downward toward him. The caterpillars moved much like centipedes, with hundreds of legs moving in fluidic harmony to propel the creatures toward the blue light … and their meal.
Rowan tried to yell again, but he could not make his mouth form the sound. He tried to roll away from the wall, but his body wouldn’t move. Some of the caterpillars were now at the base of the cavern wall and crawling toward him on the ground. Fear overwhelmed him as he watched his horrific fate unfold.
“Though you can’t move or scream, you will feel every bite these nasty little creatures take.”
Rowan heard a voice mock him from the side of the cavern opposite the approaching caterpillars. “It won’t take long, though.” The man laughed, and another voice joined in. “Only an hour or two.”
The caterpillars were now just three paces away.
The bright yellow light of a lantern suddenly mixed with the blue. Most of the moths fluttered and took flight.
“The only thing that will stop the moths is bright light,” Rowan heard the bearded marauder say. “But there is nothing that can stop the flesh-eating caterpillars.”
Rowan felt a rough hand grab his chin and turn his head away from his approaching doom. The bearded man’s face appeared, smiling sadistically. Rowan pleaded with his eyes for help.
“Promise not to try and escape again?” the marauder teased. “Because if you do”—the man flipped Rowan’s head back toward the caterpillars, now only two paces away—“I will not stop them again.”
The caterpillars were close enough for Rowan to see powerful mandibles opening and closing in anticipation of their feast. They were almost upon him, and Rowan was in near panic.
“Drag him back to the cave,” the bearded man ordered as he stood up.
Rowan waited, but nothing happened until the first caterpillar reached his leg. Then he felt his shoulders lift up and his body began to move, but not before the creature’s powerful jaws chomped into his leg. Pain pierced through him, and he wanted to scream but couldn’t.
Much to his relief, the bearded man kicked the caterpillar away from Rowan, then yelled and held a lighted torch down at the ground toward the army of crawling creatures. The light seemed to halt them, at least for a minute. Rowan felt himself being dragged, and he watched as whoever was pulling him slowly outdistanced the caterpillars. The light of the lantern and the torches the men were carrying illumined the cavern enough for Rowan to see hundreds of cocoons hanging from the ceiling. Some were splitting open to reveal young moths spreading their new wings.
Rowan felt himself sag with relief when they finally made it back to the cave where he had been imprisoned. The bearded man pointed his sword at Rowan’s throat. “You’re lucky you’re worth a lot of money to me,” he said. “Don’t be stupid again. I don’t give second chances.”
He sneered at Rowan and turned away. “Chain him up again. This time make it so he can’t stand up.”
Rowan lay in the dark, unable to move, for a long while after the marauders left. As the hours passed, he gradually regained control of his body, though he was tied so tightly he still could not move much. His mind raced, trying to fathom what had just happened to him.
He had been through a horrific experience, one he knew he would never forget, and he had no idea what would happen next. His only hope now was that Balenteen had escaped and would negotiate to pay his ransom.
Time crept by as Rowan lay there in utter darkness, with no way of knowing how long he was held prisoner. Occasionally he heard creatures scurrying across the floor, and he shuddered when one brushed up against his leg. Every so often he would hear voices in the distance or the flutter of bat wings. It was the occasional squealing of rats that shook Rowan the most, however, for he imagined that they often fell prey to the glowing moths and caterpillars. A captured rat would squeal frantically for a short time, then slowly the screams would fade away to silence.
The marauders came each day and loosened him from the short chain that bound him to the stake and allowed him to walk about the cave in fetters. They gave Rowan only enough food and water to keep him alive. His howling hunger faded gradually to a dull ache, but thirst was ever with him. His tongue and mouth were so dry that they stuck to each other. He dreaded the visits from the bearded man, who never failed to insult and beat him. Each beating was worse than the previous one, for the man seemed to grow more and more frustrated.
Rowan grew weaker and weaker, withering away in the darkness until his arms and legs weren’t much thicker than bone. By the growth of his beard, he guessed that many weeks had passed, and he began to lose hope. Where was Balenteen?
To keep himself from going insane, Rowan relived the glory days of his tournaments over and over in his mind. But as the weeks turned to months, his tournament memories seemed so far in the past that he began to wonder if he’d even lived them at all.
Then, finally, the bearded leader of the marauders came to kill him.
JOURNEY OF DREAMS
For nearly a year I have waited for the promise of your ransom, and for all of my trouble with you I have gained nothing!” The bearded man was in a fury. Rowan just lay in a fetal position, hoping the end would be swift.
“Your own people don’t think enough of you to even pay for the food I’ve fed you—you pathetic, worthless Camer
ian!” The enraged man drew his sword to plunge it into Rowan’s heart. Rowan opened his arms to welcome the blade.
The man hesitated. “Why don’t you cower?”
“Kill me,” Rowan begged with a weak voice.
The man slowly lowered his sword and began to smile. He stepped backward away from Rowan.
“Kill me!” Rowan begged again.
“I am.” The man gave a short laugh, then turned and left, the light of his torch flickering and fading away.
Rowan realized the marauders would never be back. His cruel execution from thirst and starvation would be their last horrific act. In his condition, it would not take long—perhaps a day or two.
As he lay there in the dark, Rowan wondered about the purpose of his life and realized that all his glorious trophies and medals, the applause of thousands, and the admiration of squires and maidens alike meant nothing to him. Only then did he realize that he truly had taken only one significant action in his life, and that was to become a Follower of the Prince. It was that day that he joined something larger than himself. Why did it take so long and so much pain for me to finally understand this? he wondered.
“What a fool I’ve been,” he whispered in the darkness. “Forgive me, my Prince. If I could live another life, I would live it wholly committed to You. Forgive me.”
Rowan wept softly at first and then uncontrollably—dry, tearless sobs that hurt his chest. His wails echoed off the walls of his small chamber and into the cavern beyond. Eventually, his cries softened into sighs of relinquishment. Curling up quietly on the hard dirt floor, Rowan finally released himself to the death that awaited him. His mind wallowed in the fringes between life and death, hallucinating in freedom from the chains and the darkness of the cave that would be his grave.