Read an Excerpt
The Royal Prisoner
A TALE FROM THE DUNGEON'S DEPTHS
By S. R. Christian
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 S. R. Christian
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-3350-8
Chapter One
The Royal Cell Welcome to the dungeon's depths,
where bone-chilling claws unclench
beneath the royal rugs unfurled.
Above the cherished, enchanted pearls,
you lie chained by wrists on a vertical bed,
your back on cold stones, stewing in dread.
Like many before you and like many beside,
you wait for your doom when head's severed from hide.
But this is your price, your reward for your crimes,
you've been condemned to hot flames rather than blessed white chimes.
You call out to echoes, preaching tales of loyalty,
of how your deeds were soul-good; its release shouldn't be fee.
But your cries only stir moaners who beg,
and beggars who moan, claiming pain's privilege.
And only the deserving are those who hang still,
quiet but determined, faith a test of their will.
But you strive for your shouts, now revealing your anger;
'I didn't do this! I acted only in honour!'
Your petty voice is hoarse.
Is this true justice? Your thoughts surface from despair.
This is what trust is? Ironically, your torment evokes a strange bliss
of memories that anchor sanity from being dismissed.
Your life was once worthwhile, simple but true.
Your conscience was moral-guided, and happiness ruled.
Your eyes rim with wetness as you remember your loss.
The remorse you feel now is the worst of crime's cost.
Abruptly your voice quits, your head limply droops,
your shaking transitions to trembles; you brood.
Your emotion is depressed, your optimism broken—
a fool to trust that your king's word would hold token!
But now you know nothing, no thoughts can trespass.
Your morals are shot; your soul cracked its last breath.
You wait for your doom, for departure, release.
For this royal cell offers no hope, only grief.
You, the Bounty Hunter You cry out in joy,
arms wide, smile proud.
A child runs forward,
her head held high, her laugh loud.
You embrace her as she nears—
a cherished bonding of love.
Your daughter's confusion is apparent
but dismissed with a shrug.
She'll never understand—
at least that's what you hope—
never be tied down
with the vile king's rope.
The setting was evening,
with little light from the sun.
You hold her at arm's length;
oh, how her face resembles her mom!
'How beautiful you are,' you say,
'And I will never forget,
but right now I must leave you
to collect another's grave debt.'
Your child's head tilts,
showing her internal questions,
but you cannot answer now;
they're too shameful to mention.
How did you get here,
to live this sore existence?
Your honed skills were meant for good ...
Not to carry forth penance.
But your king—damn his soul!—
the one you believed hallowed,
he and his hegemony forced you
to bring on justice most foul.
And you drank in his words,
motivated at first
to become a man of renown,
bring your family's name some gold worth.
But you were a fool
to believe that royal justice was just!
To believe that your leader
acted of necessity, not lust!
You were blinded by sanguinity;
your skills were too great.
Your bane was upon you
before you saw your mistake.
Now, with your child staring at you,
your knife at your side,
the profound frown on your lips
is the only hint of your lies.
For you could not speak the truth,
not to this innocent child so cherished.
Such brutality would scar her, break her,
cause her to perish.
You force a dull smile.
'Tell your mother I'll be late'—
and you, the King's Bounty Hunter,
go seek your next victim's domain.
The Hilt and Blade Softly you land on your feet,
leather boots a layer of skin,
as you, the Bounty Hunter, the Stalker,
close and move in.
What your prey did
to invoke the wrath of your king
is unknown to you
as your knife is drawn with a ring.
A knife is all you need;
the Hunter's true weapon is stealth.
The blade in your palm
is enough to slice through a foe's health.
Then you see him:
the man is shuffling his feet.
He knows he is hunted;
he keeps to the shadows of the street.
But you are not fooled
by things like shadows and darkness.
You revel in them;
they are your strengths and your prowess.
You could use a sword,
a spear, or a bow,
but such things are cumbersome,
like an over-sized worm for a crow.
You gain your ground quickly
on the clumsy small peasant;
he will be delivered, efficiently, with ease,
under this night's feeble crescent.
He has failed to pay his debts,
has angered the wrong people,
and the king is impatient,
as is his most holy of councils.
Silent as the non-existent breeze,
the Hunter is close;
your arms tighten, ready to plunge
your knife through his vulnerable pose.
For the victim has stopped.
Sensing another,
he turns on the spot,
ready to face his foe, his death-bearer.
Your hand flies,
pointing forth the hilt and blade,
but it stops an inch away
from the throat connected to a woman's face.
Your eyes widen;
you can't conceal your surprise,
for this young woman bears the image
of your very child's eyes.
It is not your daughter, of course,
but this woman is young,
too young, too lively,
too defiant, too strong.
This woman is different,
her sharp blue gaze steadfast.
You can't kill such youth,
just as you couldn't tell your daughter your past.
You sheathe your gleaming knife
and then turn away,
into the shadows, your strength,
wondering the price you will pay.
You have failed your king;
he is an unforgiving man.
Will he kill you for steadily staying
your merciful hand?
Audience with the King As you walk towards home,
the distance still long,
your wife sits comfortably,
joining your daughter in song.
A knock comes at the door,
a royal messenger the cause,
with his purple garments
signifying his status and clause.
He asks your love if her husband is back,
not looking at her directly,
and if not, would she please come
and discuss some matters of secrecy?
Bewildered,
but with no choice but to oblige,
your wife follows the messenger
out into the moon's crescent light.
'What about my daughter?' she asks.
'You can take her along, too.'
His grim voice makes her think twice
of some hidden, treacherous ruse.
But with such limited choices,
she beckons her daughter to join,
who, confused once again,
wonders the cause of this ploy.
Through the city's streets they walk,
past the shops and their signs,
down the main roads
to the palace's shine.
Past the iron gates,
into the courtyard's peace,
up a set of stairs,
then through wooden doors greased.
Into the great hall
and into the castle,
where the king himself awaits,
with his guards and his council.
Portraits of heroes
hang along the walls,
up and up and up,
your wife and child pass them all.
At last, behind another door,
is the king himself, sitting
upon a royal throne
with silk lace and bright gilding.
He invites your wife to sit before him,
and she cannot but accept,
and the two begin to talk,
until suspicion your wife neglects.
The king makes your wife relax,
flatters her; she blushes.
Meanwhile your child sits quietly
under the tapestries' lushness.
'Now,' the king says
'To the business near at hand.
We must discuss your husband ...
And of the deeds of his dark past.'
The king then orders
the child quickly removed,
to a safe place, he claims,
without waiting for your wife to approve.
With the child gone,
the king leans in his chair.
The mother ignores the prickling
on her neck from her hair.
The king explains nastily
that the mother's husband has erred,
how he failed to deliver services
that were under his care.
Your love listens as the king explains
the lie you have lived,
how you kill for the king's money,
how death you mercilessly give.
He lists a horrible array of men
that you have chased and hunted,
and tonight you have failed,
and now the king himself is insulted.
Your wife doesn't believe a word,
liking her king less, less and worse.
How can he spread such lies about you!
Dare he speak of such curse!
The king eyes her sharply, then he roars,
'You want proof? Go see for yourself!'
He points to the side, where a bedroom lurks,
'There, above the bed on the shelf!'
After giving a look of distaste, your love strides to the room,
not understanding the lure.
With a nod to the guards, the king follows;
the guards lock the door.
Your child soon hears her mother's screams
and she tries to be of aid,
but the cursed guards hold your child,
mention something of 'young flesh' and 'trade'.
Then abruptly, the screams cease.
understood now is the ruse.
Your child cries and struggles.
Your wife's life has been removed.
Silence warms the castle.
Your child's sobs are soundless.
Neither of you will again see her smile,
her eyes, her loving liveliness.
The guards say nothing
when the king re-emerges.
They have seen the sight too often,
and they, too, look to tend their own urges.
Into the Crescent Night You open the door
to the house of your life's loves,
but the dark and gloom is ominous;
something's not right, not welcome.
You call out and search their rooms,
knowing deep down it is vain,
then, lying at the entrance
is an explanation of your pain.
A note. A royal, official-looking script,
it is addressed to you
with formal lettering
signed by the one who rules.
The messenger left it earlier
as your wife had fetched your child.
It was from the king, stating
how he knew of your denial.
How did he know so quickly
that you had abandoned your last kill?
Did the king send scouts to stalk you,
report to him your lost will?
Yes, there it was, printed on the note,
along with other disturbing revelations:
your wife and your child are in custody,
were deemed 'in violation.'
The note read on that your wife had fornicated with a man—
it didn't say when or whom—
and she would be imprisoned,
but you, sharp Stalker, did not miss the clues.
The king had ordered
the assassination of your family,
framing them with his lies
of law-breaking and adultery.
Oh could it be?
Could fate twist so evilly?
The king has taken your lover
and your daughter so swiftly?
You drop to your knees.
your hands can't stop their shaking.
The note drops to the ground,
followed by the tears you're weeping.
The only things you cherished
are gone, are gone, are gone!
Snatched away from you tonight
because you showed mercy over brawn!
And now that they've been taken,
you came back for them too late.
You have failed them, you have lost them,
have allowed them to suffer your earned fate.
After a blurry while,
your tears stop their flowing.
Your senses become steady again.
You consider the path you're to be treading.
You spring to your feet with suddenness,
for in the pit of your despair,
you summon forth your anger,
a fury sought in sadness' dark lair.
Your long strides carry you
to the back of the fine house,
into the shed, behind a wall,
where your weapons will be found.
You belt on a sword,
hide in pockets your daggers.
You, the Bounty Hunter, the Stalker,
are about to collect the last from your debtors.
Then, as silent as the non-existent breeze,
you follow in your strength,
into the crescent night,
silver lining your sword's length.
From Hunter to Prey Your stride is a march of danger.
You immerse yourself in your strength.
You are the Bounty Hunter, the Stalker,
anger driven, mind coldly blank.
But then you meet your enemy's slaves:
the guards of the mighty king,
long before you reach the castle's gates,
but you are happy to meet these vile finks.
Your wrist snaps up, a small knife shoots forth,
and a royal soldier is killed.
The other four scramble into formation,
but, with sword and dagger drawn, you fall into your skill.
Three are down, then four and five,
the sixth, he runs away.
A knife flies end over end,
digging into his back with its blade.
But there are others in the area;
the hunt for your head is over.
Now comes phase two:
the fight for your capture.
One man lunges before the rest,
and you swat him like a leaf.
You twist, feet steady, breathing light,
looking for the next man to meet.
You fight marvellously, valiantly,
no other man achieving your skill,
but you don't notice; you see nothing,
only searching for the kill ...
Metal on metal fills the night,
closely followed by the screams.
Man after man drops and dies,
whetting and egging your blazing fury.
But the king fights dirty.
He uses overwhelming odds.
Minutes pass and you begin to tire,
to the sound of the king's applause.
For he knew you wouldn't be easy,
not after what he did to you.
Your wife is no more and, soon, he plans,
you will follow suit.
You persist to keep fighting bravely,
relentlessly a-hacking,
but a bowman targets you from behind
and his arrow is searching, tracking ...
The metal tip buries in your shoulder,
limiting your arm's movement,
but you can keep going, ignoring a blow,
and a slash, a stab, the building of your torment.
Your balance is weakened,
your whirling arms decrease in speed,
you're tripped from behind, you land on your back,
but still you try to satisfy your greed.
But you become disarmed,
held down at sword- and spear-point,
with multiple wounds from various slashes
and from two arrow-joints.
You struggle as they chain you,
bind you to your death.
You spit in their faces and curses are entwined
within each heavy breath.
Five of them take you away;
a couple of them stay counting;
over a dozen and a half of the king's guards lay
dead or near to dying.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Royal Prisoner by S. R. Christian Copyright © 2011 by S. R. Christian. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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