Martyn Vaughan - The Cave of Shadows

‘Come on!’ he yelled, ‘I’m ready!’ He had a short sword which he waved at the sphere in apparent defiance. The sphere remained motionless for a short time and then gave a small shivering movement, almost as if it were shrugging non-existent shoulders. It moved onto another, where a very similar scenario was enacted.

And then it stopped above another, who was very agitated. The man was some distance from Jon but it appeared that his features were contorted into a mask of fear and pleading.

Jon heard him cry ‘No not me! What have I done! Leave me be!’

And with that he dropped his sword, turned and ran, the crowd parting to let him through, laughing as they did so. The small ball of light remained motionless for a moment and then swept after him. Jon followed, mystified by the whole performance but determined to discover its denouement.

Forcing himself through the resisting mass of onlookers Jon caught up with the fugitive at almost the same moment as the questing sphere. It descended on the man’s head and then seemed to liquefy, running down his body in rippling cascades of swirling sapphire. The man screamed.

Then the crowd began to chant.

‘Degenerate! Degenerate!’ they chanted in ominous unison, ‘Kill the Degenerate!’

The light abruptly disappeared from the apparent victim and as if no longer supported by an invisible rope he crashed to the ground and, on his knees, looked around and cried ‘Please, I beg of you! Don’t do this!’

A wave of laughter swelled up from the others and the circle of unoccupied ground around him shrank as they moved closer, their swords raised ominously high. Jon stared in amazed horror, his own sword pointing at the ground.

Another metronomic chant began with a very simple message: ‘Kill. Kill. Kill.’

And then the cutting began. They closed in on him and jabbed with their short swords, stabbing, withdrawing, stabbing. Patches of blood began to appear through his tunic, rapidly spreading. He screamed but this did not stop the rhythmic stabbing.

As the man writhed on the ground he managed to glimpse Jon and realising in his pain that Jon was not holding his sword in the stabbing position saw a possible saviour. He crawled towards Jon who stood transfixed, unable to advance or retreat.

He came so close to Jon that his outstretched hand almost touched Jon’s foot with bloodied fingers.

Through a tumult of horror Jon heard the words: ‘Help me!’

Jon could not move. His time with the Lords had made violence familiar to him but never had he seen such a vile display of sadistic terror inflicted on a totally helpless being. The Lords had only ever fought one on one, even if the final outcome had never been in doubt. So profound was his shock that he found he could not move; everything was as unreal as if he was in a nightmare from which there was no awakening – the widening pools of blood sinking into the ground; the look of uncomprehending horror in the victim’s eyes, blinking as rivulets of blood ran over and into them. The lust-thickened chants of the crowds beat on his ears as he stood there, hesitant.

‘Death to the Degenerate! Death to the Degenerate!’

And then Jon’s indecision was rendered meaningless. There was one final thrust, one final groan and then the man lay silent and still.

A great roar of approval went up all around then, breaking into a thunderclap of crazed exultation. Jon did not attempt to listen to the words; he could guess their meaning without having to consciously take them in. Sheathing his useless sword, he turned abruptly and forced his way through the chanting throng, angrily pushing out of the way any who impeded his path.

In his room he sat with his back to the open door, vaguely aware that the shouting was gradually fading away. Why had he done nothing? Why had he not defended the man? What kind of man had he become?

He heard movement behind him and spun around, expecting the crowd to have followed him to taunt him. But it was Jarz.

The man’s face was flushed and he was breathing heavily as if coming down from some unclean orgasm.

‘Jon, wasn’t that wonderful!’ he gasped in a breathy voice, as if still too excited for normal speech, ‘The way of the Degenerate!’

‘What do you want here?’ was the stony reply.

Jarz looked slightly startled by this unenthusiastic response and just a little hurt.

‘Well I was intending to show you how to use the viewing device but I don’t think I’ll bother now.’ He indicated the small device with the padded ends that Jon had wondered about earlier on in their acquaintance. Jon glanced at it and then turned back to stare at Jarz.

‘Why was that man killed?’

Jarz shrugged. ‘Obvious isn’t it? He was a Degenerate.’

‘Was he a Degenerate before that ball thing touched him?’

‘He must have been. Do you think the Lord Korok makes mistakes? Have a care Jon.’

Jon leapt up and crossing the space between them in a blur of movement grabbed Jarz by the throat.

‘Korok! Korok! Stop this stupid game! Either there is no Korok or you and the rest of that sick Council are Korok, hiding behind a shadow so you can play your vile games with human prey!’

With surprising strength Jarz tore Jon’s hand away from his throat and stepped back.

‘You go too far Jon, much too far. You’ve already been warned, in what we thought were clear enough terms but it seems you are too stupid to understand what was said.

‘You’ll get no more warnings – the next time you step out of line it’ll be actions – actions you won’t like!’

With that he was gone.

Jon sat down heavily, choking in a mass of conflicting emotions – anger, guilt and just a little fear. He had earlier decided to leave – surely it was more obvious than ever that this place was some kind of trap. Now – he must go now!

It was then a great voice filled his room and his head, a deep, powerful voice as if colliding boulders could suddenly speak.

‘Jon, Jon, you have disappointed me. I had great hopes for you; hopes that you could lead my vanguard. You had the chance to display courage and resolve, to show that you are not afraid to be magnificently cruel in my service to those who can only grovel and plead for mercy. But you backed away, you could not wield the fatal scimitar.

‘But I will not abandon you, Jon. I sense greatness in you. I am certain you will achieve many things which are at present beyond your understanding. Therefore I will not cast you out.

‘But you must be punished for your weakness, for that is the one sin which is above all others. This is your punishment. Accept it. Affirm it. And soon we will talk again.’

And with that, the voice ended and the pain began.

Licking tongues of fires ascended Jon’s body and began invading his innards like flesh dissolving leeches. He felt as if molten metal was being sprayed over and into him. The world dissolved into a red opacity in which there was only pain. Pain piled high upon pain. Pain which laughed and shrieked as it explored his innermost being.

Then it ended leaving Jon limp and sweating on the floor. As he regained some semblance of control over his tremblings and shudderings he forced himself to his feet, thrust the sword into its scabbard and without a backward glance burst out of the door, He looked neither to the left or to the right but fixed his gaze firmly on the world which lay beyond the hill, the world to which he was returning.

But then he stopped. Someone was climbing over the lip of the terrace, someone who did not look like anyone he had ever seen before, a tall figure with a tumbling mass of amber-gold hair.

Jon stared in fascinated puzzlement as the stranger drew nearer. Its point of entry to the village meant it was heading straight for him so he had plenty of time to study it.