J. A. Stardust

         Atel Santor stood guard at the archway to the upper prison cells of the palace dungeon.  His helmet didn't fit quite right, seeing as it had a large dent on the top right side from a previous fight, the one that had gotten him guard duty in the first place.  Good fortune in disguise, given the state of affairs in the kingdom for the past twenty years.  The rule of King Uron left many wishing for the earlier days, though none would dare say so aloud.  Better to be bored half the time than marching in the miserable winter weather, down a frosty road, and wondering if Milya was safe with his half-brother.  She was all he had left.   

         Grind lounged against the wall across from him, oblivious, unconcerned, and half-asleep, as usual.  Atel sighed and returned to staring at the empty stairwell.  He knew that soon they would make their way to her cell.  There was only one prisoner in the section of the dungeon Atel guarded.  A woman—Atel refused to use her name, even to himself.  It gave her identity, made her more real, and did nothing for his conscience—the niece of the former queen who'd refused Uron's attentions.  The prison was her punishment and persuasion.  All she had to do was agree to be his mistress.  

         Several sets of footfalls resounded in the empty stairwell, accompanied by raucous laughter and the ominous sound of chain clinking against stone.  Atel didn't have to wait long before Jarb appeared with five other, bored guardsmen.  Jarb swaggered down the stairs, just finishing a joke.  In the dim torchlight he didn't appear all that menacing, a slight man.  Had Atel not known better, Jarb could've passed for nobility with his light frame and high speech.  Karm, a pinch-faced man who reminded Atel of a weasel walked behind him and carried a silver tray with her meal inside.  Broad-shouldered Yor brought up the rear, holding four fist-sized balls of iron with chains attached.  Atel watched Jarb come forward, his halfway content mood sinking, knowing what was going to happen. 

         "Atel, Grind, my comrades, any troubles from the royal high one?"  He chuckled and a few of the others followed suit. 

         "Jarb, why don't you leave?"  Grind asked, sounding disgruntled, though Atel knew better.  "Thanks to you, she won't shut up.  It's impossible to sleep with that whimpering."  Grind smirked.

         At his words, the stifled, small sobs of a woman entered Atel's hearing.  He'd managed to block it out most days, daydreaming about a better life in the low torchlight.  Far from feeling sorry from her, he knew, rather, that her sorrows would drive him mad as much as their echoes shamed him in the silence. 

         Yor chuckled at Grind's remark and Jarb clipped him on the shoulder.  "Come on boys.  Let's go have some fun." 

         Atel dragged behind the rest of them.  He hated this time of day, but there was nothing he could do about it.  A glance at all the empty cells, bars, hay, and scraps of old clothing from prisoners long gone gave him small respite.  Some of the old clothes in one of the cells close-by hers rustled for a moment then laid still.  Atel paused and frowned before continuing on, shaking his head.  Rats. 

         Jarb was already at the cell.  There sat the object of their torment.  She sat huddled in a corner, arms around her legs, chains encircling her ankles and wrists.  One of her ankles was tethered to the cell wall, giving her some leeway.  Around her were several balls of iron, the size of a fist and the heft of heavy sword, all linked to the chains on her wrists and ankles. 

         "Lady Margareet."  Jarb gave a mocking bow.  "I don't suppose you've changed your mind?"

         She buried her face into her arms. 

         "Ah, I thought not.  We have brought you a royal feast today as usual." 

         Karm walked in and placed the silver tray on the ground, opening the cover.  The smell of fresh bread and cooked pheasant wafted into the dank, musky hallway.  Yor, meanwhile, squatted down next to her, locking the new balls of iron he carried onto her chains. 

         Atel watched with pity as Karm stepped back and Yor clicked the lock.  The woman did not seem to notice, though Atel felt certain she was hungry.  She knew by now that if she did not move to eat it soon, then the rats would get it, or the guards would.  The first couple of times she'd refused, Jarb had let the rats feast.  Then Karm had suggested they not let such good food go to waste, but first they'd had to offer it to her.  After all, if Uron were to discover that she hadn't been given the opportunity, well...

         Her torment reminded him of his days on the Plains of Gibral, where soldiers spoke bravely enough of how they would handle being taking prisoner.  How they'd prefer starvation to co-operation.  But the truth was hunger drove people to do crazy things.  His father had told him once of what hunger had driven him to do and eat.  A cold shiver ran up Atel's spine.  The thought of Milya having to endure that hardship kept him silent.

         The guards closed the cell door and waited.

         Chains clinked.  Yor began to take bets. 

         "There's not enough weight.  She'll get it," Karm said.

         "Nah, she didn't eat last time.  She's too weak."  Grind waved his hand in the air.

         Her head rose.  Tears streamed down her face.  Atel watched as her thinned shape moved forward an inch, set out to crawl.  The chains and malnourishment had long since begun to wear on her enough to make walking too difficult.  Iron raking across stone echoed in the prison chamber.  The guardsmen commented and laughed at her progress, but silence filled Atel.  He was not the only one silent.  A younger guard, new to Atel, also watched with a serious face, but elation filled it when she paused, half-way to her meal. 

         "Ha, I win that one," the new guard said.  Grind grumbled. 

         Time passed, but Atel took no notice.  He thought only of Milya.  It was what sustained him during these hours.  How she would put her arms around his neck.  How she would give him kisses when he carried her up to bed and told her tales of princesses in far away castles. 

         The woman before him sniffled before looking upward with pleading eyes that quickly found the opposite wall more comforting.  She struggled forward, again, moving iron ball by iron ball, pausing here and there to gather breath and strength.  Suddenly, she jerked back.  Her ankle chain would not allow her to go farther.  So she left one foot back and used the other to edge herself closer, followed by howls of laughter.  She managed to pull the chains of one arm forward just enough for her fingertips to touch the bread.  But the bread sat on the edge of the platter and her touch tipped the bread it over the edge, into the plate and out of reach. 

         Her shoulders shook in silent sobs, head down.

         "Hey, that counts.  She reached it," Karm said. 

         "Nah, she didn't get it.  That was the bet," Yor replied, crossing his arms.

         "That's not fair.  She couldn't have gotten to it anyway."

         Jarb laughed.  "You're the one that placed it, Karm." 

         Karm glared at Jarb, but kept his grumbling below audible levels.  Jarb sighed.  "Well Grind, Atel, until tomorrow.  Let the rats have it tonight.  She put up a good enough fight to let them get it.  Maybe it'll inspire her next time, or Karm to put it closer, but Yor is going to have special iron made for her tomorrow." 

         Jarb barked a laugh and clipped Atel on the shoulder as the other guards followed him out.  Grind stayed with Atel, frowning at the woman.  "Last time I bet on the halfway mark.  Stubborn woman."  He spat at her before turning back toward the light of the dying torch at the entryway.  "It's your turn to get the oilcloth." 

         Atel spared one last glance at the woman before turning to the door at the far end of the hallway.  It used to be a solitary room; its purpose was for torture, so that the prisoners could hear but not see what was happening to their fellows.  Most of the activity had long since moved to danker, lower areas of the dungeons.  Thus, the room had become a storage place for spare torch rags because the smell of the oil was something less than to be desired.

         He rummaged in the room for a few moments, choosing a fresh stick and oilcloth.  On his way back, he once again glanced into the only occupied cell.  The woman had not moved.  He would've thought her dead, but for the rise and fall of her midsection.  Glancing down the hallway revealed Grind was nowhere to be seen.  Taking a breath, he knelt and used the end of the torch to nudge the platter a few inches closer.  The sound made him cringe and Atel recoiled as if stung when the plate touched the woman's limp hand.  But she made no movement to indicate she felt anything. 

         His heart racing, he turned around and made his way quickly to the entryway.  It wasn't the first time he'd done it.  Sometimes, while she slept, he left her his portion when the Jarb decided the guards should share the meal.  If he was ever caught...but worse, should she ever know, she might reveal his role to the other guards by seeking his help aloud.  Then he would have to hope that Uron's wrath didn't extend his own chastisement and that his half-brother would take very good care of Milya. 

         Atel's world was thrown into chaos, for two days later the woman died of a sudden fever.  Uron had been furious. 

         Five days later, Uron was overthrown.

         Atel found himself with his fellow guardsmen in the palace courtyard, on his knees, head down, arms tied behind his back.  Before him were three people.  Two were older men, one in uniform, the other in robes, and the third, a young boy.  A child really, no more than ten years to Atel's eyes.  Surrounding the courtyard were soldiers in purple and white, the colors of the new king, the true king.  The overthrow had taken but a day with supporters of the true king removing the usurper Uron who had taken the kingdom twenty years ago from the widowed queen.  Now her grandson ruled.  It was still a mystery how they'd overrun the palace, though rumor said the young king himself was responsible.

         Shivering in the newly fallen snow, Atel awaited his fate.  The new king was to decide what would happen to the followers and soldiers of Uron.  The child stopped before Jarb. 

         "Highness, I still don't understand why you bother with this," the man in uniform addressed the child.  "They all served Uron in the dungeons.  Why not just hang them?" 

         Atel could see the child king easily out of the corner of his eyes. 

         "Commander Hurn, they are still my people."  Such sage words sounded odd coming from one so young.  The child held a grim, thoughtful expression on his face.  "Him," the king said, pointing to Jarb, "put onto the ship for exile, along with the three behind him." 

         "As your highness commands," said the man in robes.  He jabbed his fingers at Jarb, Grind, Karm and Yor who were promptly removed by some of the surrounding soldiers.

         Exile.  It was bad enough to think how Milya would take it if he were executed, but to be parted from her, always wondering and never knowing.  The seas were rough in winter and there was no guarantee the ship would even make it to the Island of Exile.  Atel shivered in sorrow. 

         The child king stood before him.  Atel looked up into his smooth, round face and kind, innocent, but troubled eyes. 

         "You."  The king spoke in a quiet, stern voice.  "You.  You watched every day while my cousin was tortured.  Broken and mocked."

         Atel dropped his gaze and awaited his sentence.  The words to defend himself wouldn't come.  How weak his defense sounded in his own mind.

         I did it for my daughter, for Milya.  Only for love of her. 

         Was that the real reason? Or were you just too afraid for yourself?

         If I had done something to stop them, to free her, what would have happened to my Milya? Uron would've never stood for it.  I couldn't risk it.

         You could've tried.

         The truth.  He was a coward.  He saw that now.  What would Milya think of him when she grew older? Her father, a coward and traitor to the true heir.

         "And every day, for the past two years," the king's voice grew softer, "I watched from beneath hay and old clothes in the cell across the way as you set food within her reach." 

         Atel jerked his head up and looked into the king's searching gaze. 

         "Yes, I was there.  I did what I could for her when I could.  But she knew I could do nothing to free her, that I had not enough knowledge or support.  Margareet knew this; she knew this and accepted it.  So with her help, I planned.  And when her torturers came, you allowed her to have the strength of body to endure it." 

         The king glanced up at the man in the robe, who nodded, before speaking again.  "Michalus tells me you have a daughter.  Go home to her." 

         Atel could do nothing but stare at the child monarch.  Had he heard right? A soldier came forward with a knife.  Atel flinched, thinking he'd misheard.  The soldier cut his bonds.  The king moved on to the next of Uron's guardsmen while Atel was escorted outside to the street.  There he walked in a daze toward his house, contemplating his unexpected freedom.

 

 

Copyright 2006, J. A. Stardust

This is J.  A.  Stardust's first work to appear in The Sword Review.

 

 

Cover: "Discover" 

Copyright 2006, Teresa Tunaley

Originating from the UK but now residing in the Canary Islands, freelance artist Teresa Tunaley finds more time to devote to her love of art and painting. For years she has been doodling traditionally with pencils and dabbling with watercolors. More recently she uses a more modern technique and creates with her electronic tablet and pen in software such as PhotoShop, Corel Draw, and Paint Shop Pro.

Along with published stories and poetry, she can be credited with award winning cover art and illustrations for author stories. Her work can be seen online and in print across the UK, US, Canada, Denmark and Europe.

"I like to think that I am very versatile in my choice of subject matter – my new surroundings provide the inspiration for me to paint on a daily basis and the fact that others may enjoy my work gives me the confidence to continue."