Chapter Twenty-Three

THE DUNGEON

 

The gorpes who made up the so-called Palace Guard were personally chosen by Dredgemont. Chosen not only for their exceptional height and strength, but also for their cruel and sadistic natures. Six of them muscled Brighton down a dark, rocky tunnel to an ore train that had been converted to their specific needs—namely the transportation of condemned prisoners. They threw him into one of the cars. They jumped in with him, then released the brake, allowing gravity to carry them deep into the mountain. It was a cold and wild ride.

Brighton couldn’t see where they were going. He was too busy trying to shield himself from the blows landing on his face and body. He only knew he was flying through the darkness while lumps and bruises from gorpe fists grew in number. You’re going to pay for this. He imagined slaying them and burning their bodies. Too tired now. Need to get my strength back. For some reason, they tore his boots off. Brighton opened his eyes. He saw a gorpe toss them over the side.

By the time the car stopped, Brighton could smell the air was again filled with the familiar stench of the smelting chambers.

The goons hauled him out of the car. He was too weak to stay on his feet at this point. They dragged him down a long, dreary tunnel lined with dungeon cells. His eyes were swollen shut from the beatings. He heard voices, gorpes probably, shouting and groaning miserably. “Let me out, brother.” “I’ve done no wrong.” “I’m innocent,” pleaded another.

He could hear the clanging of keys and the squeaking hinges of a heavy door. “Rot in there,” grumbled one of the gorpes. Brighton felt himself flying through the air.

He hit the ground about the same time the door slammed shut with sharp bang. Then the jangling keys again. And the haughty cackling of departing guards.

“Brighton?”

He knew that voice. It was matronly and kind. It belonged to someone he had always felt a secret fondness for. He opened his eyes, just a crack. He saw blurry shapes standing around him in the almost pitch black cell.

“Brighton Aviamore, Second Assistant Game Warden from the Islet of Meland,” said Lady Sharpeye. “Just as you said.”

“Just as they said,” answered Pello.

“Can he hear us?” asked Biffee.

Brighton could start to make out the shapes that were speaking to him. Then another, larger and blacker than the others, came up behind them. “Dear me, it is indeed,” said Wark.

Pello and Biffee helped Brighton sit up. He yelped with unexpected pain, wondering if he had broken bones. He leaned against the rear of the cell. He felt icy rock on his back. His bare feet were already stinging with cold.

Lady Sharpeye examined him with her gentle beak. Being a skilled healer, she possessed a keen ability to assess his injuries.

“Nothing broken,” she said. “He’ll mend.”

“I’m sorry to see you here, Lady Sharpeye,” Brighton managed to say in a raspy whisper. His mouth was puffy. He could feel the blood forming a crust on his lips. “You and Commander Wark.”

Wark and Sharpeye could only gaze at him with sympathy. Brighton peered at Pello and Biffee. “I was wondering what had become of you.” He strained to focus on his monkrat companions. “Are you hurt?”

“Nothing a good, hot bath wouldn’t cure,” Pello said.

“Or a firm massage from a buxom lass,” Biffee quipped. He then stomped and kicked at the thing that was nibbling on his heel. Whatever it was scurried away in the dark. Biffee sniffed the air. “Something died in here.”

“Has Valkyrie fallen?” Brighton said with alarm. He’d suddenly realized that might be the only reason to find the two Raven leaders sharing a cell with him.

“I don’t believe so,” Wark said. “Then again, we’d have no way of knowing.” Wark stared out through the bars. Distant sounds of the mining equipment rumbled through the mountain. “But we’ve learned the reason for the invasion,” he went on, turning his gaze back to Brighton.

Brighton tried to focus his eyes on the raven.

Wark looked grim, grim indeed. “A certain Seigneur Dredgemont is the power behind the mining operation. He’s promised Perpetua’s entire West Coast to his workers. And Valkyrie as their very own township. Can you imagine?” And with that Wark grimaced and shook his head. Brighton knew it wasn’t like him to worry. The powerful raven was normally brash and proud, unwilling to kowtow to anyone or any challenge.

Chancellor Wark, Lady Sharpeye, Pello, and Biffee huddled in the cold, dark cell. They seemed like a band of phantoms doomed to eternity in a living tomb. Seeing their despairing faces, Brighton’s own spirit began to falter. He felt the aches in his body growing sharper and more painful. He wondered if Lady Sharpeye’s assessment had been correct—that he wasn’t broken and that he’d mend. Then his worry came to an abyss. In his mind, he stood there, on the edge of a great precipice. He looked out over an endless gray miasma. And before he knew it, he was falling.

And as he plummeted through that emptiness, he asked himself the same questions he’d asked at Drakton days earlier: Why did I ever leave Meland? It was quiet there. And safe. I had nothing to worry about but me and Handower. “Handower!” At that moment, he heard the bird cry out.

Brighton jolted back to the present. He was no longer falling, but back on solid ground. The ground of cold, hard reality. Stunned, he looked at the others.

“Captured,” Wark said, his brow in a grim knot. “Handower and Bill both.”

“No!” Brighton felt like some brute, a brute like Gretch, had just kicked him in the gut. He groaned from the pang that shot through his body. Without thinking, he rolled onto his hands and knees, and crawled to the bars of the dungeon. The others could only watch him, as he made his way, like some wounded ape, across the cell.

He pulled himself upright, onto trembling knees. He pressed his face between the thick bars. He felt the cold iron bite his cheeks and hands. He listened to Handower’s cries reverberate through the chambers of the underworld. Karawk! Karawk! And he could tell the bird was crying out directly to him. He could tell Handower knew that Brighton, his rider, was near. Brighton listened and felt his heart being torn in two. He felt that as bad as this situation was, it was somehow going to get worse.

“Handower,” Brighton gasped. Willowmena, whispered his soul.

 

 

A special detachment of gorpe engineers had been assigned to construct a cage strong enough to hold a Magradore. The devil-men took delight in doing so. It brought them a distraction from the day-to-day drudgery of mining.

The fiends who’d stolen Handower and Bill from the clutches of Cape Kragmaur had hauled their prisoners all the way into the heart of Mount Pegosa. The cage, built from massive timbers and specially cast iron fittings, was finished and waiting for the hunting party when they’d returned. Suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains, it was more than strong enough to hold the fifteen foot raptor. Handower screeched and flapped his wings in a futile rage.

The gorpes surrounded the bird. They tormented him with the tips of their lances and sabers. They cackled and made bets with one another on how much torment the bird could endure before he broke down and became submissive. Or died. But Handower was defiant. And little did they know, he would remain so. Even until his last breath should death be his fate.

 

 

Gretch watched them. He crouched against the back wall of the dark chamber, his bloodshot eyes filled with psychosis. He wasn’t sure if Malgor, his mutant bat, would be jealous of the falcon. Or if the flying rodent would be just as happy to hang upside down in the peace and quiet of some lightless chasm. Mattered not. Gretch would do as he pleased. He imagined himself gliding through the heavens on Handower’s back, higher and faster than Malgor was able to fly.

“No mercy,” Gretch growled from the shadows. “I want him to heed my commands like a well-trained hound.”

The leader of the gorpes looked at him. The devil-man was already perturbed that Gretch had interfered with their hunt and was taking half the kettle of gold. What was the mongrel suggesting now?

“Dredgemont wants the bird for himself,” the gorpe growled back at Gretch.

“You question me?” Gretch barked back.

The gorpe scowled at him, then turned his attention back to Handower.

Gretch knew very well that Dredgemont fancied Handower for himself. But the troll was already planning to receive the falcon as his reward for delivering an even greater prize. He scratched at the roaches crawling in and out of his fur, then turned his gaze to the side. He studied Bill, bound and gagged in the corner.

She glared at him, and struggled against her bonds. She kicked at the long-haired rats that kept coming for her ankles. Gretch had ordered she be dressed in an old gown that had been discarded by Lady Aviamore. The troll wanted the girl to look appealing to the old buzzard, Dredgemont. Gretch had also ordered one of the gorpes to coif her. The eunuch crouched like a frog at Bill’s feet. He snatched at her tangled hair with a brush used for grooming Malgor, the bat. The instrument’s steely bristles snagged her scalp causing her to squeal and yelp as much as she tried not to.

“Why do you fight?” Gretch snarled. “This servant only desires to improve your appearance. Alas, it may prove difficult considering your natural ugliness.” Gretch was sincere about her appearance. Despite her youthful beauty, to him, she was a wretched looking thing—quite different to what a troll would consider attractive.

He studied her face, and found it so revolting, he began to have second thoughts about offering her to Dredgemont. What if the old man found her repulsive as well? The plan might backfire and succeed only in aggravating the Dark Lord.

Better to simply do away with her, Gretch thought. And have a bit of fun doing so. Yes, that’s it. We’ll toss her in a furnace. Watch her burst into flames, then bloat like a balloon until she explodes. Sending her bits of flesh flying into the walls. Leaving only her bones to glow bright red before they crumble into ashes. Gretch knew well what happened to a body thrown into a smelting furnace. He’d ordered it as punishment on more occasions than he could remember. He knew it was great entertainment indeed.

Handower screeched and beat his wings with greater fury.

Gretch turned his gaze to the falcon. He could see the bird’s proud, defiant nature. Maybe they should both go into the furnace. Then he had a better idea. The gorpes were so engaged in torturing the Magradore, they didn’t notice when Gretch rose to his clompy feet, and began to sidle toward the cage.

A smolder of words began to rise from his throat. “Malum falco terribile vostrato.”

Handower froze, as if gripped by some invisible force. He focused on Gretch with such intensity the gorpes looked startled. They glanced back and forth between the Magradore and the foul Komodo Troll who was growling some strange, barely audible spell.

“Malum falco terribile vostrato,” Gretch chanted, stopping a leapspan from the cage.

Bill watched, too. She appeared to be mystified by the bird’s sudden strange behavior. Handower’s eyes turned ruby red, and shone like embers in his skull. His feathers flattened against his sides. His body began to shiver. He opened his beak just a crack and made a slow, deep hissing noise.

Gretch went on. “Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.” Just as he had all those years ago when he’d bewitched Fumor and caused the bird to turn on Lord Aviamore.

The leader of the guards was caught off guard when Handower shot out like a viper. He shoved his beak through the cage bars and grabbed the devil-man by the shoulder. The gorpe wasn’t even able to put up a fight. Handower broke his neck instantly and nearly severed his head from his body.

The other guards stood there, paralyzed. The giant falcon pulled the guard through the bars, mutilating his body in the process. Handower thrashed it around and shredded it before their eyes. The bird made such a hideous mess in such a short period of time, some of the gorpes gagged as though sick to their stomachs.

Bill watched, too, her eyes wide and incredulous.

Even Gretch was surprised to witness the power of the incantation. He’d forgotten the terrible affect it had on a Magradore. “Malum falco terribile vostrato.” The words trailed off and drifted out of the chamber. Everyone in attendance watched in silence. The only sounds were Handower’s growls. And the ripping of sinew as he threw mouthful after mouthful of bloody entrails back into his gullet.

The gorpes slowly came back to their senses. One of them turned to Gretch. “Might we feed it the wench as well, Commander?” said the fiend, his limbs trembling with excitement.

Gretch stared at Handower. He watched the bird feed, and felt perverse delight. After several moments, he spoke. “I have other plans for the wench. Bring her.” Gretch turned and lumbered out of the chamber.

The gorpes fixed their attention on Bill. Their eyes grew round with anticipation. They swept upon her like a school of piranhas. They untied her from the wall and dragged her, kicking and screaming, after Gretch.

Handower would have screeched and flapped his wings in protest. But he was still under Gretch’s spell. And still savoring his unexpected meal.

 

Brighton listened to Bill’s cries. His face was still pressed between the cell bars, his brow knotted with anguish. A voice in the back of his head kept suggesting he was at fault for her capture. For sending her to Valkyrie on her own. I had no choice! But the voice was relentless: She’d wanted to stay together. You should have gone back to Valkyrie with her and Handower. Now look, they’re both suffering something unimaginable. All because of you.

He was ready to sob. He could hear Pello and Biffee behind him in the dark. They were bickering about whose fault it was they’d been caught. He spun around. “Will you two stop!” he screamed at them.

The monkrats looked surprised by his outburst. So, too, Wark and Sharpeye who huddled in the corner. Brighton began to pace the cell, mumbling to himself as if badgered by demons.

“We’ve got to get along. Work together,” they heard him say to no one in particular. Peculiar words for the young man who chose to live on his own on the tiny islet of Meland. The one who’d shunned any attempts to recruit him into the community.

And so they occupied the dark and dirty cell together. They listened to Bill’s distant cries echo through the underworld. They felt not only the earth trembling beneath their feet, but the angst in their hearts for their failures and their hopeless situation.

Brighton gripped the bars again and shook them with all his might. He roared, so loudly the others thought he would roar out his innards.

 

Later that night, the rumbling of mining equipment had ceased as it did every night for a few hours of reprieve. The operation slowed down, and most of the workers were allowed a bit of sleep. Smaller night shifts oiled the machinery and swept the cart tracks.

The mountain rats took advantage of this time to scavenge for food. And perhaps even splash about in the tainted underground springs. Most of them were losing their filthy hair. They bore open sores on their skin caused by the smelting acids that polluted the water and air. Their scabby, little feet padded everywhere. The miners beat them with their shovels, and shouted to scare them away.

 

These were the things Brighton could hear wafting through the underworld as he sat on the cold dungeon floor staring into the dark. His feet were so cold, he feared they might crack into pieces. Bill’s cries had stopped, which was almost worst than hearing them. Pello, Biffee, Wark, and Sharpeye slept, passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Brighton was tormented by so many black thoughts he was ready to beat his face on the ground to try to stop them. He pulled the parchment drawing out from his shirt. He opened it, and gazed at the crude image of boy and falcon. He recalled the day he’d watched his father draw it. He began to pray. His voice was a whisper so soft he couldn’t tell if his words were exiting his mouth or just swimming inside his head.

“Father. I need your help. Can you hear me? Can you come to my aid?”

He listened for some response. He stared into the blackness, hoping to see the glow that would signal the arrival of Lord Aviamore’s spirit. He hung his head, feeling foolish for trying to communicate with the dead. He wondered if his father’s apparition had been nothing more than some bizarre hallucination. He wondered if, in truth, he’d never seen his father’s ghost. Nor heard his voice.

“Brighton!”

Brighton’s head snapped up. It was not his father who appeared before him outside the dungeon bars. It was Lady Aviamore. Her psychotic eyes glared in the dark. Her body was wrapped in heavy furs to protect her from the mountain’s bone-chilling cold. Brighton’s alarm transformed into rage.

“Get out of my sight,” he growled.

“I want you to listen to me.” Her gaze was fierce as ever.

“You’re an abomination!”

“Stop being a fool. Look at you. You and your friends. Do you think there’s any hope for you? You may as well be rotting in a dunghill.”

Brighton glared at her. She was taking little steps now. Back and forth in front of him. Those panther steps. The same way she’d always paced ever since he could remember.

“Dredgemont is a good man,” she said, her voice a tad softer now.

Brighton was amazed. Does she really expect me to believe such a thing?

“He’s cared for me. Like no one ever has. I’m here to beg you. Give him a chance!” She stopped and stared into Brighton’s eyes. He stared back and somehow felt part of himself in her. It revolted him.

“Why did you leave me?” he said, surprised by his own words. And he began to shake. He realized, at that moment, the question had been burning inside him. Yet he’d never before dared to ask it. Not even of himself.

She wrung her hands and raised her forehead in a look of regret. “Forgive me,” she said in a hush. Her face trembled.

Brighton could only stare at her. He wondered if deep down inside, beneath her madness, there remained some remnants of humanity.

“I was young,” she said. “I was weak. Terrified by the situation I was in. Let go of the past. Join us. Dredgemont is going rule all of Perpetua. And beyond. You’ll never have an opportunity like this again. Believe me!”

Still, Brighton could only glare. There was something about everything she was saying that caused in him a kind of alchemical reaction. A reaction that resulted in a tempering of his character. Something that could not have occurred had she not spoken. He felt more like a man in that moment than he ever had before.

“The day I join you is the day I should burn in Hades.”

Their eyes bore into each other. She knotted her face in frustration, and stormed away back into the darkness. He watched her go, shaking and afraid. He wondered if he should have been gentler. More understanding. Part of him wished he could love her.

“Who was that woman?” asked Pello.

Brighton glanced behind him. He saw that Pello and the others were awake. He looked away again and felt his blood simmering inside.

“Smells like a witch,” Pello said, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Brighton stared into the dark, again so beleaguered by his own mental demons, he couldn’t even begin to sort them out.

Something caught his eye—the old Lizard King clinging to the wall of the cell, looking right at him. Then he saw the king’s entourage surrounding their liege. And when he heard the king’s thoughts enter his head, he wanted to swat them away. But they were persistent as pesky flies. Bill suffers because of you, Falcon Rider.

Brighton crumpled over into fetal position, unable to bear the accusation. The Lizard King spoke again. This time the old reptile was crouched next to his ear. She shares your failure because of her affection for you.

Brighton groaned in pain. But the old Lizard King was relentless. Stop groveling in your useless self-pity. Pull yourself together. The key to freedom is already within you.

And with that, Brighton looked up. The Lizard King and his kind were gone. The key to freedom is already within you.

What did he mean? What could he possibly mean?

“What is it, Brighton?” said Wark who was awake again.

Brighton straightened up. A whole new thought blossomed in his head. “Chancellor. Will you swear me in? As Sky Sheriff?”

Wark looked taken aback. “Well, I…” he hesitated. “Of course, I can.”

Brighton scrambled over to him. “How do we do it?”

“We’ll need a witness.” They both turned to Lady Sharpeye. She was awake, too. She nodded her head in agreement. Pello opened his eyes. He and Biffee sat up, curious about what was going on.

“Normally you would place your hand on the Book of Laws,” Wark said. “But since we don’t have a copy, we’ll improvise.”

Brighton stayed on his knees as Wark stood up.

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve sworn in a sheriff. Your father was the last. I think I can remember the words. Most of them anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Brighton Aviamore, do you swear to uphold the laws of the great isle of Perpetua?”

“Yes.”

“Wait. Let me finish.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you, Brighton Aviamore, Second Assistant Game Warden of Meland solemnly swear to uphold the laws of Perpetua Isle? To protect the people, without prejudice, as Sky Sheriff and Falcon Rider? And to stand up for those who are not strong enough to defend themselves against aggressors? Even to sacrifice your own life if need be to save this land and her children? And do you swear these things before all the gods?”

“I do solemnly swear these things by all the gods. Even to sacrifice my own life, if need be.”

“Very good. I hereby pronounce you Sky Sheriff of Perpetua. Congratulations.” Wark settled back to the ground again, and closed his eyes. “Although I don’t see what good it’s going to do us now.”

Lady Sharpeye gave Brighton a gentle smile. “Congratulations, Brighton. We’re very proud of you.”

“Indeed. Congratulations,” Pello and Biffee said in unison.

Brighton smiled back, then stared at the floor. He knew Wark was right. Nothing would matter unless they could escape. And they’d have to do it soon. Still, he felt good about himself. It was like a little fire had been rekindled deep inside him. It gave him warmth, and he could feel it was slowly growing. All this, even though his frozen feet were now completely without feeling.