I

When the bell for justice tolls,
how will you be found -
not hearing, not heeding,
complacent, lame, or bound?

"Well, well, well.....and whadda we have here?" a leathery old sentry spoke as he worked a key into the tarnished lock of a prison door. Taking a step into the dank cell, he stood and leered at a lovely young maiden with ill intent. "Me an' you's takin' a liddle walk, lassie. King's got sump'n special waitin' fer ya."

A fragile flower ruthlessly trampled into the mud, Chastney made no comment; she simply stared at the filthy surroundings from her battered cot with listless eyes - cold, pained, distant.

"Seems a shame to waste sucha priddy thing," the grubby guard lamented as he hobbled over and began pawing at her hair with awkward strokes, his mangled club of a hand twitching in uncontrollable spasms.

Casting an anxious glance behind, the guard then kneeled down and pushed his face into Chastney's. "Useta know one jes like you - long time ago," he muttered in a shaky voice through labored breath. "Watched her come into town ever' day, but couldn't never even git that girl to pay me no mind," the sentry continued, now caressing the maiden's shoulders.

Despite the foul presence and intentions that were upon her, Chastney remained as a corpse.

"Guess she thought she's too good fer me. What about you, lassie – you too good fer me, too?"

The cruel weeks of abuse suffered during her imprisonment had taught Chastney that physical resistance was futile. She learned long ago that remaining deep inside herself was the only way to endure the pain. So there her body lay, awaiting its degradation, numb and devoid of spirit.

But just as the attacker prepared to make Chastney a victim yet again, he caught a stone-like fist on the side of his head that came from behind and in silence. The force of the blow sent the guard sprawling into a limp heap as his ring of iron keys clattered across the coarse granite floor.

A seven-and-a-half-foot monster now towered over the girl, casting upon her an ominous shadow. It was a zhangar, a merciless killer covered with short, fine, tawny fur that patrolled these depths for the dungeon-master. There was no wanton desire etched into its face, only primal, slavish obedience unencumbered by the troubling weight of conscience. The muscular brute stared at her through greenish eyes, their vertical pupils narrowing into reflective slits each time the erratic torchlight pierced them through the gloom. Its flat, triangular nose throbbed, as if picking up a scent, then it released a guttural growl from deep within the pit of its colossal frame that would have turned the innards of most living beings into a mass of quivering gelatin. But Chastney lay unmoved at the terrifying sound, her face still a frozen mask.

Another zhangar promptly appeared in answer to its comrade's call. The summoning beast made a motion toward the unconscious guard, then hoisted Chastney up by her arms and began to drag her through the dungeon.

The helpless maiden, pale, dirty, and disheveled, revealed a waning sign of life through a single tear that meandered its way down her delicate cheek. The future she had planned with her soul-mate, the children she was to bear, and the memories that would comfort the two lovers in their old age - all these beautiful dreams from better days had long since turned to ghosts. Now, even the fleeting wisps of her most desperate hopes vanished into the clammy darkness as she was hauled across the subterranean path that led to her fate.

After traveling through an eternity of winding tunnels, the zhangar reached a large, circular chamber. Its entire circumference was walled with barred cells that were packed full with vulgar rogues of every description. Chastney was unceremoniously dumped at the base of a newly-invented contrivance called a "guillotine" that stood at cold attention in the very center of that hellish arena.

The savage miscreants penned within the cages howled in rapacious hunger at the luscious morsel that was placed before them, just outside their grasp. They pressed their grubby, toothless faces into the iron bars as they reached through, clawing and gesturing with all the madness their years of imprisonment had woven into their feeble brains. Their jeers and obscenities reached a deafening crescendo that echoed throughout the cavern when the girl's hands were bound behind her back by a hooded executioner, then her long, silky black hair was sheared off in a single stroke with a red-hot blade. She was forced to her knees in front of the guillotine and pushed into a metal collar that locked her slender neck in place. Chastney now found herself staring down into the bloody bucket that was about to catch her head.

The roaring crowd, which had turned to making bids for the shorn black mane held aloft in the executioner's hand, let their single voice fall off in a dying wave as an effeminate young male suddenly, and slowly, entered the chamber. Like the final, desperate gasp from a moribund beast, the din ebbed until it was swallowed by a tense and timid silence. The air grew heavy as the young man paused dramatically in the chamber entrance to make certain he was seen by all, his thin lips curling into a contemptuous sneer as his subjects softened their breath and held their tongues in mute submission. Two small boys trailed the newcomer as he entered, holding aloft the tail of his extravagant robe to keep it from dragging the damp stones.

Only the sputtering torches fastened to the walls dared compete with the sound of his clicking heels as the temperamental King Nevin approached the executioner with a painfully slow and deliberate gait. The king's long, scrawny neck with its protuberant adam's apple jutted upward from a gaudy fur collar at the top of the thick, embroidered robe that made him appear much more frail than he actually was. Upon reaching the executioner Nevin simply held out his hand and was given the maiden's hair, his sallow eyes thrilling with the abject surrender displayed from so many bowed heads. The pompous monarch pushed the black locks into his pointed nose, gave them a sniff, then whacked them repeatedly across his palm as he continued to parade toward Chastney.

"The disillusioned little Lowlander who would be queen," Nevin's taunting voice split the hush of the chamber. "I do hope my attentive staff has taken good care of you during your stay," he added, sparking a chorus of muffled snickers from among the human guards. The king waved the shorn strands of Chastney's hair in front of her face with a practiced arrogance as he came into her view. She craned to get a look at her tormentor as he continued. "Just think, if that bastard, would-be brother of mine were still alive, you two could have had the privilege of watching each other die. But with him gone, there's no reason to prolong your agony, I suppose."

Chastney lowered her head again, preferring to look into the rancid receptacle below instead of the cruel face before her.

But Nevin wasn't finished. Bending down, he yanked her back to face him by the short crop that remained on her head. "You could have been etched into history as the woman who reconciled the competing families. You would have been queen of this nation, the envy of the world. But you threw everything away for a traitorous mongrel, and now your foolishness will cost you even your own life."

Chastney's emotionless eyes refused to give him the fear or recognition he sought, the psychological sustenance he craved. In anger, Nevin rose and wrenched her head with him. A sickening and audible pop was followed by a bolt of piercing pain that shot through the back of Chastney's neck. "Behold! the crown jewel of the Thanic Dynasty," he announced to his audience of ghouls. "How proud her distinguished ancestors would be to see their lovely princess hunched over the dirty dungeon floor like a tavern sot, waiting to have her head lopped off."

Over her involuntary cries Nevin continued to pull Chastney's face toward his, forcefully, with each emphatic statement he uttered.

"I don't think you realize how much I wanted to kill him. You were given the chance to turn that traitor over to me. But because of your betrayal, I missed the moment he drew his final breath. And for that, you – will – pay!" Nevin released the remaining fragments of his fury by whipping the handful of silken strands into her face several times before releasing her.

The torn and swollen muscles in Chastney's neck seized and kept her head locked in an upright position. The abrasive ropes bit into her cramped wrists as she feebly tried to work loose her hands and bring them to her stinging, watering eyes. The young girl sobbed and moaned, writhing in absolute, crippled agony.

Nevin's expression of satisfaction lingered as he turned and addressed his chief engineer, the groveling servant who had invented the killing machine in which Chastney was now bound. "This will be the final test. If all goes well, I want several of these devices installed on the parade grounds, next to the gallows," he instructed.

Knowing the king's penchant for giving ambiguous orders to his subordinates and then punishing them for not meeting his expectations, the engineer tried to pinpoint some detail on his newest assignment. "How many exactly, and in what particular fashion would you like them arranged, my lord?"

"Surprise me," he answered with a sly smile.

"Yes, my lord," gulped the engineer in response.

Turning back to Chastney, Nevin sang out, "Give my regards to your lover." He nodded to the executioner. A jerking motion, a loud clank, and then.......................

Aidan shot upright. His eyes were wide as he stared into his dusky surroundings, hands clutching his bedroll in terror, swimming in his own perspiration. Erratic beats hammered against his chest, his thundering heart threatening to tear itself from the very arteries which fed it life.
 
"Just a dream," he sighed in relief when he came to his senses. But then the vision of Chastney's shorn and severed head dropping into the bucket flashed through his mind again. The young knight winced and futilely mopped his forehead with an already sweat-soaked arm, then reached for a dry shirt. Pushing his face into it, he released another labored, grateful sigh. "No, it was only a dream," he repeated, reassuring himself.

Aidan sat for a few moments, massaging his temples until the veins in them stopped throbbing. He peered again into the stagnant dusk, aimlessly, as if searching for something he wished, but knew was not there. A light gust of wind ruffled the sides of his tent, and he looked toward its entrance. "That's what I need," he mumbled, "a little night air."

Aidan threw open the tent flaps to be greeted by a cool breeze that gave wings to his long brown hair. He began to survey his surroundings from the small knoll upon which his tent was situated. A dozen other tents, placed in precise order, encircled his vantage point on this lonely mountain plateau.

Aidan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, purging the last of the nightmare's tension from his body. But his relief did not last long. Looking once more at the tents blockading his position, he began to think about those who had followed him and the reason they were all there. The placement of their temporary abodes was symbolic to Aidan, and he sighed once more as the all-too-familiar heaviness of leadership again bore down on his shoulders. These men protecting him were his friends - knights of their kingdom, each one equal under its laws - yet they were ready and willing to follow him to any end. It was that very uncertain end of their current mission now attempting to lay waste his resolve with the baneful blades of doubt and fear.

"Sleep not to be found tonight?" a familiar voice flowed from behind Aidan in the darkness.

It was a voice so familiar, Aidan did not even turn toward it; he simply replied as if he had been conversing with its owner all along. "At this hour, I could ask you the same."
 
"Darkness is wasted in sleep. Night is for hunting," Lancelot replied.

"And what do you hunt?"

"Whoever needs to be hunted."

Aidan smiled. Nothing harmful would be able to get within a league of their location while Lancelot was on patrol. "Any success?"

Lancelot returned Aidan's smile as he exited the shadows. "All is quiet."

A sudden flash of light turned their attention to the sky. In eerie silence the waning moon hung, blood-red and angry, its pointed crescent bathing the entire mountaintop in a scarlet glow. The streaks of multicolored lightning that drew their eyes skyward intensified as the strengthening wind continued to buffet the encampment.

"It's just as she said," Aidan remarked in awe. "'On the third eve of a crimson moon, piercing lights will cleave the sky.'"

"At least now we can be certain she is not a false prophetess." Unnerved by these signs in the heavens, Lancelot's tone became uneasy. "And yet, we return to unify the kingdom with nothing more than vague instructions and a handful of men."

"She made it quite clear this mission would entail much more than surmounting blades and bows," Aidan replied. "Truth in purpose is the only weapon able to undo what has been done...for what we ride to face will not be entirely mortal, I fear."

The men were silent a few moments more.

"It seems the forces of the Shadow Realm mean to pursue me until they've had their revenge," Lancelot muttered in resignation as the aurora danced across his pained expression.

"You know this task is ultimately mine. I ask no one to follow...."

Lancelot was already shaking his head in disapproval. "After all we've endured these past few years?" came his incredulous reply as he interrupted Aidan. "Like it or not, our paths lie together."

Aidan could not help but smile again as his gaze remained fixed upon the sky. "All will be well once more - we'll see to that," he uttered in an effort to reassure himself as much as his friend.

They would descend from their current heights onto the upper kingdom of Nordaka and join forces with Aidan's younger brother, Holden. Together, they would find their mother in health and restore her stolen dignity. Chastney would be waiting for him, and at long last they would wed. His father's murderers would be hunted down and executed, the tenuous bond between the dynastic families would be solidified, and all would resume their lives in peace and prosperity. Despite the gnawing doubts coming to life deep inside, Aidan told himself this is how it would be.