Short Story Excerpt     Fiction

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From: The Ghosts of the Past    (c) 1996 Thomas A. Bradley 

…While I tentatively explored our surroundings, Poet sat in a heap muttering to himself.

I couldn’t understand exactly what it was that he was repeating, nor was I sure I wanted to.  But, every so often, I could make out a word or phrase.  Apparently, he was desperately trying to wake himself from this Kingian nightmare.

   ‘C’mon, Poet.  We gotta keep moving.” I said, gently placing my hands on his shoulders.  “We can’t just sit here.  There’s just no point to it.”

   It took me a few minutes to bring him back to himself, but eventually, I got him functional again.  With great care, we moved slowly up the passage.  As would be expected, we shared the tunnel with rats, and an assortment of other unpleasant, lower life forms.  (In retrospect, they were probably the only truly living things around us).

   Fifteen minutes later we came to a round, wooden barrier, which was partially rotted and mildewed.  I tested its strength with my right shoulder, and it gave easily.  It dropped to the stone floor with a dull thunk, giving entrance to a large, well illuminated chamber.

   I stepped in, dragging Poet along by his flannel shirt.  Save for us, it was empty.  Against the wall to our right, almost dead-center, was a huge canopied bed.  Its gauzy drapes were completely lowered, gently rippling in the drafty breeze that issued from the passage behind us.

   We advanced slowly, fearing that any noise would summon the ghostly apparitions we left outside.  Step by step, we made our way to the door on the opposite side of the room, cracked it open, and peered out.

   Without a moment’s thought or hesitation, I slammed it shut, as three knights lumbered down the hallway toward us.  I pressed my ear against the door and listened, my heart pounding with enough force to be felt.  Clank-clank.  Clank-clank.  They passed without stopping, presumably on their way to join their embattled comrades.

   After waiting a few breathless minutes, I made a second attempt.  This time the hallway was empty.  Cautiously, we crept out of the bed chamber and made our way toward the steps.  The closer we got, the louder grew the sounds of battle.  Our hearts almost seemed to synchronize themselves with the grating clangs of steel on steel.

   At the top of the staircase, we turned and made our descent.  One stair at a time, we eased our way down the spiraled stones.  We were halfway through the second curve when we drew to an abrupt halt and pressed ourselves back against the wall as firmly as we could.  Neither of us dared even breathe as we gazed at the interplay that transpired before us.

   Two lone contestants faced each other across a large, oaken table.  The one on the right, from our viewpoint, was pointing his left index finger at the other.  His right hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of his broadsword, which hung loosely by his side, point on the floor.  Intense anger twisted his face, what we could see of it, into something almost demonic in appearance.

   His adversary, a broad shouldered man at least six inches taller, stood with legs apart, and both hands resting on the haft of his battle-axe, the head of which sat heavily on the table.  A broad grin gave his countenance a look of utter disinterest and contempt.

   From our shadowed hiding place, we could clearly hear what was being said.  The man with outstretched, pointing finger was violently shouting at the other.

   “I just can’t believer you, Marric.  Father has seen to your every need, desire and whim.  And now…for you to turn on him, like some rabid hound, is more vile an action than I believed even you capable of…”