John Avery - Black Cobra

A thin shaft of sunlight angled down across the dank space, illuminating a small patch on the floor, revealing a swarm of roaches feeding on a scrap of something disgusting.

Aaron stood up from his bunk, but the pavers underfoot were treacherous with slime, and in the gloom he tripped on the torn hem of his robe and fell hard to the stone floor.

From his prone position, he noticed something startling: although his chest and hands were in contact with the stone, his chin and face appeared to be suspended in cold, thin air. He reached out in front of him and shuddered at finding nothing but empty space. His nostrils drew in the damp, disgusting smell of mold and decaying flesh, nearly gagging him. He spat into the darkness, waiting several seconds before hearing the faint sound of spittle hitting water. A cold thrill of terror arced up his spine. Through a stroke of pure dumb luck, he had escaped the horror of falling headlong into some sort of deep well, or pit. His malevolent captors had thoughtfully provided him more than just a bellowing thug with a club with which to facilitate his untimely doom, and he considered himself exceedingly fortunate to have avoided what he hoped was the more terrifying of the two options.

He edged back from the well, finding it difficult to maintain enough grip with his hands to regain his feet. He groped backward and grasped the chain suspending the low bunk from the wall, managing to pull himself up.

He lay back down on the mat and shut his eyes tightly, hoping to shut out the ghastly nightmare. This can’t be happening, he cried to himself. This can’t possibly be happening!

But every time he dared open his eyes, he was greeted by the same forbidding surroundings.

After tossing blindly on the iron bunk for what felt like hours, Aaron heard the dismal echo of heavy footsteps in the corridor.

He froze, tucking his legs up under his arms, straining to see through the bars into the corridor beyond.

KaClank!

The turnkey had unlocked the heavy lock on the cell door. He swung the iron gate wide and stepped into the narrow shaft of light. A giant of a man, the jailer stood seven feet at the shoulders, with the girth of an ox. He wore a leather vest with no shirt, revealing a massive chest soaked with sweat and crisscrossed with jagged scars. In lieu of pants he wore a rough leather kilt, held in place by a wide belt from which hung a long, straight sword and a coiled, leather whip. Legs like pier pilings ended in huge troll feet wrapped in leather.

“The sun is high,” he boomed. “Come with me.” He stepped into the hall and waited.

Aaron hesitated, frightfully perplexed. None of this made any sense, but strain as he may, he couldn’t wake himself. Knowing of no other option but to go with the man, he stood up from the bunk, pulled up the hem of his robe, and shuffled cautiously past the pit toward the door.

Aaron followed the towering goon down a dark, narrow, stone corridor, hewn from and polished to the same smooth finish as the stone in his cell. Wrought-iron torches mounted at intervals along the way providing what little light there was.

They passed other cells, and once again the sour stench of decay filled Aaron’s nostrils. Most of the cells appeared to be empty, but the ones that were occupied held sights that would chill a coroner’s blood — sights that Aaron would be long to forget.

In one cell Aaron saw a nude woman with long, red hair, lying on her back strapped to an evil looking instrument of torture. As he passed, she turned her head and stared at him through blood-red eyes. Then she hissed at him, causing the hair on his neck to stand. He couldn’t help but imagine what the machine was designed to do to her, but he quickly pushed the horrid image out of his mind.

In another cell Aaron saw a man sitting on the stone floor dressed in rags. He held a large knife in one hand, and it looked like he was attempting to chew his own arm off — and it appeared that he was succeeding. He looked up, and Aaron saw that his face was tattooed with a flower, but where his eyes should have been, there were only dark holes through which Aaron could see the very depths of hell.

After that Aaron kept his eyes to himself.

When at last they reached the end of the corridor, they climbed to the top of a long flight of steps. The turnkey shoved hard against a heavy door and the stairway flooded with sunlight. Aaron shaded his eyes from the painful glare, unable to see what awaited him outside.

They stepped through the door into a large courtyard of packed earth strewn with straw. The hot sun hung directly overhead.

Aaron saw a shiny new tungsten silver Aston Martin DBS parked near a stable with horses, but it meant nothing to him.

A crowd had gathered, dressed like they were attending a Renaissance festival: the men in tunics, with leather belts and feathered hats; the ladies in flowing dresses, with flowers in their hair and their bosoms mostly exposed. But it wasn’t long before Aaron saw what the crowd had come to see — and it wasn’t a festival.

Toward the back of the courtyard stood a large, wooden scaffold, erected from sturdy timbers with wooden stairs leading up one side. Standing on top of the raised platform, overlooking the crowd, was a large man wearing a black hood that covered his face.

“Keep moving,” the jailer said gruffly, giving Aaron a hefty shove toward the scaffold.

Surely that man’s not waiting for me, Aaron thought, looking around.

The crowd had grown quite large, and as he and his jailer worked their way through, Aaron was spat upon, poked with sticks, and pelted with rotten fruit. At times he thought he might faint, but the harrowing thought of being underfoot in this mob motivated him to keep moving.

When at last they reached the scaffold, the turnkey let go of Aaron’s arm, indicating the stairs with a wave of his hand.

Aaron’s robes were drenched with sweat and covered with muck. He looked around in disbelief. What am I doing here? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Why can’t I make any sense of this? Who am I, really?

He placed his foot on the first step, and then took another step, and another, and at last he reached top of the platform.

The man in the hood directed him to kneel in front of a large block of wood with a basket sitting next to it — both were soaked with fresh blood.

The man selected a large, double-bladed axe from a rack full of such weapons. Its razor edges glinted in the sun. Aaron noticed that there was no blood on the blade. Clearly the man took pride in his work.

The axeman had Aaron rest his forehead on the block — it felt warm and sticky against his skin. He could not believe that after all he’d been through he was about to die at the hands of a medieval executioner.

“Do you have any last words?” the axeman said, his tone jaded, not at all sympathetic.

The crowd stared at Aaron expectantly, some of them no doubt pondering what they would say in answer to that most provocative of questions.

“No,” Aaron replied. “I have nothing to say.”

A round of enthusiastic booing could be heard from the crowd. Aaron knew he had disappointed them. But he really didn’t have anything to say. What could he say? He had no idea why he was being executed, and he could think of nothing to give penance for.

The axeman stepped over next to the block and adjusted the position of Aaron’s head so that he faced slightly to one side. To his dismay, Aaron could now see the people who had arrived early and secured the front row. Some of them had brought their children, the youngest of whom wouldn’t look squarely at him; but some of the older ones were obviously getting a kick out of Aaron’s dire predicament, and they had no problem making eye contact as they jeered at him with rotting teeth.