A Traitor in His Midst

A Traitor in His Midst

         Orion’s senses were overloaded, every one of his nerves shrieking in protest to the white hot pain that surged through his body. The whip had already fallen twelve times, and there appeared to be no end to the tortuous weapon’s onslaught. Again it fell, leaving yet another bloody welt across his hideously mangled back. Finally, after momentarily losing control of his voice, the screams began.

         “Please . . . please stop,” he half sobbed, his eyes blinded by pain-induced tears. “What have I done to deserve this? Please . . . just kill me!”

         But the black hooded man was deaf to all his pleas, if not speeding up his rain of blows. Again and again the whip cracked, lashing out at his unprotected flesh like a voracious predator. Soon unconsciousness would set in, a blessed reprieve from the horrors he faced during every one of his waking moments.

         The pain began to dull, ever so slowly. Finally, his vision faded into dark oblivion. Just before his body fully shut down, Orion muttered an inaudible prayer to God begging to never awaken from this brief lapse in mortal agony.

         What seemed like an hour later, the wretched captive awoke to find himself still alive, still able to feel pain. “Am I dead after all?” he thought, “Is this hell? Was I not accepted into the heavenly gates despite my life of piety?” He knew better though. He was still alive and still a captive in this dismal hellhole.

         The dungeon had not changed a bit since he passed out. Chains still bound him to the wall, water still dripped from the ceiling, and all the instruments of human cruelty still surrounded him. A single ray of choked sunlight peeked through the only window in the entire room, his sole connection to the outside world.

         Just as he thought he would have a minute of peace, he heard the creaking of the dungeon’s rusty iron door. “And so it will begin again,” he thought in resignation. He attempted to build up his confidence, but it was simply no use. The devices in this room could break down even the strongest man’s mettle in minutes; that was what they were designed to do.

         There he was, his nameless, faceless torturer. The black-hooded man never said a word, always striding in silently and beginning  his macabre duty without hesitation. This time, he didn’t seem to be carrying any of his usual tools. At this point, the torturer was standing about one  pace away from Orion, seemingly sizing him up for some new unspeakable horror he would soon unleash.

         Nothing happened though, he just turned and went back the way he came. Orion was thoroughly confused, but grateful at the same time.

         Unaccustomed to having time spent without  pain searing through his body, the captive’s thoughts began to wander. He could still remember the fateful raid that landed him here as clear as if it had been minutes before.

         His second in command, Richard, had warned him of an impending attack on their fortress by a band of mercenaries hired by a rival manor. Seeing this as an imminent threat to the decade of peace he had brought to his people, he had set forth at once with a band of men Richard had hand picked, saying that “they were the best in his army.”

         The attack had been going well, his army crushing the ragtag band of “sell swords.” As the battle wore on, Orion had found himself at the very front of the charge, fighting back to back with Richard. They were a deadly combination, crimson swords hewing men down left and right.

         Then, it happened.

         He knew not why, but he suddenly found himself alone and surrounded by foes. His men were fleeing, with Richard sounding the horn that signaled retreat. No avenue of escape was open for him though, and the mercenaries were closing in. Still confused, he had been unwilling to go down without a fight.

         He had flown forward like an avenging angel, striking down at least three men before they cast a net over him and beat him into unconsciousness. He had awoken to find himself in this dungeon, and here he had been for the past four days.

         Still lost in his reverie, Orion didn’t notice the creaking of the dungeon door until the torturer was yet again standing before him. This time, he pulled forth a set of keys and unlocked the shackles that bound Orion to the wall. He wanted to strike the black-hooded fiend, but he no longer had the strength to even lift himself off the floor.

         The torturer roughly jerked Orion to his feet and began to drag him across the damp stone. Out of the dungeon they went, passing through dank corridors and up a flight of worn stairs. After the stairs, they entered a large entry hall, well furnished with various luxurious items. Through the great wooden double doors of this hall they passed, entering a large parade ground surrounded by the great stone walls of what Orion assumed to be a castle of some sort.

         Set up in the middle of this parade ground was a gallows, freshly built for the obvious purpose of putting him to death. Surrounding the gallows was a mob of various people, mercenaries and soldiers from the raid, as well as others whom Orion didn’t recognize. They were all staring at him, grim satisfaction written on their faces.

         Orion was dragged over to the gallows and forced to stand as a rope was tied around his neck, his legs shaking and barely able to keep him upright. The noose was tight across his throat, but the pain didn’t matter. He now had eyes for only one thing, the torturer who would now be his executioner.

         The black-hooded man stood silently before him, his veiled gaze fixed on Orion. Suddenly, he began to laugh. Not just a simple laugh of humor, but a maniacal sound of arrogant triumph. The entire crowd around him began to join in until an ear-splitting crescendo of malicious guffaws filled the parade ground.

         “You still don’t know what is happening, do you . . . my lord,” the tyrant mocked.

         Orion’s eyes widened in horrified realization, his heart almost freezing in his chest. “Ri . . . Richard, is that you?” he stammered.

         “Who else, sire,” the hooded man mocked.

         “Why? Was I not a good leader? Did not our land thrive under my rule? The people adored us . . . why Richard?” Orion inquired.

         Orion’s torturer tore off his hood, revealing the scarred face of the man who had served for so many years as the second in command of his thriving kingdom. Richard stepped forward and punched Orion hard across the face, spitting contemptuously on him afterward. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose, spattering the wooden trapdoor beneath him with crimson drops.

         “Because, my lord, I crave power. With you out of the way, I will be lord and the kingdom shall be mine. In all honesty, I have planned for this moment for over three years now. It was very difficult to root out the soldiers in my army who would align with me and to find a mercenary band willing to join in the scheme. But now, it is all over, and I shall be named lord and the people will be told that you died in battle with the mercenaries.”

         Fury was coursing through Orion’s veins at this point, causing him to clench his muscles, despite the pain he felt. Roaring in anger, the tethered man lashed out at Richard, but the traitor simply stepped backward out of his reach.

         “Goodbye, my lord, ‘twas so easy to deceive you,” Richard taunted.

         Clutching the wooden handle that would drop Orion to his untimely demise, Richard turned and faced him one last time. An arrogant smile flitted across his face.

         “And now my good people,” he shouted, “May Lord Orion rest in . . .”

         He never finished the sentence. A long bodkin shaft was protruding through his still open mouth. Gurgling once, the traitor fell backward off the wooden platform and crashed to the ground in a broken heap.

         Suddenly, the walls were filled with figures clad in leather armor, all clutching powerful longbows with arrows drawn taut. A rain of death fell upon the heads of the amassed soldiers and mercenaries, ensued by screams of fear and pain. Moments later, Orion found himself to be the only living man on the parade ground.

         One of the men on the walls dropped down a rope and swiftly descended to the ground below. Striding quickly over to the gallows, he untied Orion and stared at him with concern on his face. Baldwin was the man’s name, Orion remembered, head of his army’s archery division. Ironically, he had always been unsure of Baldwin’s motives, but now there was no doubt that he was trustworthy.

         “My lord,” Baldwin said, “You are safe. We tracked these wretches all the way here when you failed  to return on the morn of the third day as you said you would.”

         “Words cannot begin to show my gratitude,” Orion said weakly, “It will be good to return to the kingdom again."

         A half smile spread across Baldwin's face, "Oh we aren't returning to the kingdom just yet. Assuming you cooperate, everything is going to be fine."

Word Count: 1,569