Homme Mort Marchant or Dead Man Walking

NOTE: This story is set in a medieval dungeon. While the contents are not so much graphic as realistic in a historical context, torture, death, and corpses are mentioned more in passing than in overly disturbing detail

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England, 1139 A.D.

Leaning against the wall in hopelessness, the warrior contemplated falling from his saddle all those weeks ago. Bleeding profusely, he’d prayed his mount escaped the fray and made his way to the royal keep. If Caturix prevailed, his blood-soaked saddle would tell the tale he might not live to share. If the horse failed no one would learn of their betrayal or the severed truce. Fifteen valiant warriors would disappear into the mists never reappearing as their attackers intended.

Growling to himself, the prisoner recalled that day with virulent scorn. Outmanned and overwhelmed, he’d lain in the mud feigning death. While his eyes were closed and his body limp his other senses were highly engaged. Tapping into the same sensory efficiency a sightless person used to map their environment he had a fair grasp of everything and everyone around him.

“Locate any of these fools unfortunate enough to linger and load them up.” From the grunts and groans around him, he’d realized he wasn’t the only man to survive the attack. Though not likely for long from the man’s cruel laughter. “Tate and Bescomb will appreciate their new toys.”

Although his heart rate accelerated in recognition the more the brute talked, he remained limp. The one mark in his favor was he recognized that voice, but the monster didn’t recognize him. One of Stephen’s less scrupulous minions, Ricard de Vescy was a soulless bastard known for his pointless cruelty and treacherous ways. Feeling his body lifted and tossed over a horse’s back, he’d known they were nowhere near the nightmare’s end. He was right. Nothing had changed in the weeks since.

Watching Bescomb and Tate lock the bloody, brutalized body back in his manacles through slitted eyes, he hung his head in sorrow. Gervaise was naught but a boy. A handsome, courageous, silver-haired youth destined to become a fine warrior in time but still a boy. Ever valiant, he'd known nothing of the king’s plans. Why should he?

He was but a fledgling knight drunk on the excitement of war. He knew nothing of the gore, the stench, or the cries of dying men. Or he hadn’t before now. He should be home with his family celebrating his bravery, investiture, and the king’s victories instead of slowly drowning in his blood.

Tate and Bescomb had taken malicious pleasure in beating the youngest member of their party to death bruise by painful bruise, break by painful break, over the last weeks until he’d finally reached the end of his endurance. If he didn’t miss his guess, and he didn’t, the boy would succumb to his injuries in a short while. He suspected the final beating shattered a rib that pierced his lung and sealed his fate. He’d know the moment his spirit departed his body by those final painful, shuddering rattles.

Closing his eyes, the man lamented being one of only three still living. Nine of their party perished outright in the ambush. Two died within the first week from their injuries while another lingered a few agonizing days before infection claimed his life. A third warrior he didn’t know succumbed to starvation two weeks ago and Gervaise was drawing his final ragged breaths if those sloppy wet gasps were any indication.

He knew the torturers would go for Theobald next and they would relish the torment. The demons preyed on the weakest link and Teddy was it. Not that the poor fool knew anything either. He didn’t. He hadn’t before. He knew even less caught in the thrall of madness. The warrior knew he was fortunate the trolls ceased to torment him a while back. There was no pleasure in abusing a man who made no sound.

Truthfully, he had no sound to make. Not anything they wanted to hear. He’d quickly learned the moans, groans, and cries of his fellow prisoners did nothing to ease their suffering. Begging for mercy made the torture worse. Even had he been a man to utter such sounds, he wouldn’t have. He learned from others’ mistakes.

Besides, how could he tell them anything? He didn’t know his name. He’d realized that soon after his fever broke a while back. Nor did he know the names of his companions. Not at first. He’d learned them from the brief snatches of conversations he’d overheard the last few weeks.

From what he recalled, there hadn’t been an opportunity to get acquainted before the attack. No, there had been. They’d preferred to ride hell for leather toward home instead. There would be time for small talk over a light repast of bread and cheese while their horses rested. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for him, everyone who knew his identity must have died outright. Or he hoped they had. Closing his eyes in weariness, the man slipped into oblivion and waited for an end not yet come…

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One week later

Eyes adjusting to the inkiness around him, Thor knew it was night. Faint glimmers of light penetrated his prison during the daylight hours adding a deeper dimension to the impenetrable darkness once the sun went down; one filled with unsettling creatures and sounds.

While common sense told him this affliction was but the skittering and gnawing of rats and the slithering of snakes or newts, he understood why Theobald lost his mind long before he was suspended in that cage. Suggestion was an effective weapon in the hands of the enemy. He knew that from experience. He’d used it many times to his advantage. Immobile within his newest prison, his final companion had expired in a torrent of spit, gibberish, and bodily fluids on the third day.

While Theobald’s passing wasn’t unexpected, the added stench of rotting flesh and excrement grew oppressive within hours of his death. His passing signaled as well that as the only surviving prisoner, the torturers would come for him next. His only option was to escape or die.

Thor would have known that with or without his memory. This wasn’t his first sojourn in hell’s hostel. He doubted it would be his last. However, being surrounded by rotting corpses wasn’t healthy mentally or physically for anyone, so it was time to go. Knowing who and what he was had given him an edge he didn’t have even a day ago.

Overhearing the guards discussing a breach in the walls that couldn’t be repaired for days energized him in ways he hadn’t been since his capture. Just knowing there was a window of possibility gave him hope. Rising to his feet, Thor carefully pulled against his manacles.

Ignoring the sting of metal grating flesh, he slowly worked both hands out of the restraints as quietly as possible. While he lamented the agony of shredding skin, he appreciated the slick lubrication of blood against iron. Grateful his guardians no longer found it necessary to bind his ankles, he carefully stepped away from the wall glad to be free.

Heading towards the breach, Thor used his hands to guide him along the lichen and nitre-encrusted tunnel ignoring the feel of slime beneath his palms. Snorting at the skitter of rats running over his feet and the slithering of snakes and newts nearby, he continued through the darkness praying for the faintest shimmer of light to illuminate the opening before his strength departed.

Sliding down the wall he rolled over to drag his body along the floor stopping every few feet to catch his breath. While a lesser man might find his condition shameful, this wasn’t the first time he’d propelled himself across the ground on his belly, usually through far more unpleasant substances than filthy groundwater and sewage.

Hanging his head and leaning against the wall to rest, he caught the faintest glimmer of light from the corner of his eye. Taking a few deep breaths, Thor summoned a fresh wave of strength from deep within his gut. Forcing his legs to support him, he dragged himself along the wall to the edge of the jagged break.

From the debris littering the massive hole, it was evident the ground had given away beneath a section of the inner wall due to underground instabilities easily detected by a good engineer. It was equally apparent that step was bypassed here. Knowing de Vescy was either too arrogant to use the services of good engineers or too shallow in the coffers to hire them would play in his favor down the road.

Slipping through the breach, Thor flattened himself against the wall blending easily into the shadows. Scoping the guards milling about, he realized no one considered the breach of an inner wall a liability. Even a breach accessible to the prisoners languishing in the dungeon.

Oh, that’s right, the only prisoner still alive was on his last leg. Barely breathing much less moving the last time he was seen. Since there was no danger from that quarter guards near the breach weren’t necessary. While a common mistake, it wasn’t one he would have made. If there was one thing he knew, it was the little things one ignored that came back to bite one on the arse. He’d learned that lesson early on.

Noting the guards playing dice and being lax in their duties, Thor slipped along the wall a few feet at a time until he reached the outer wall. As he expected, there was a small breach in the corner yet to be detected. Again, another breach suddenly appearing not far from the first break wasn’t unexpected either.

Mistakes were made in constructing the keep that compromised the foundations. He’d noted that from his prison cell. However, he never expected to use those errors to his advantage. While it was unlikely his captor knew of this latest breach, he would learn soon after daybreak on the morrow.

Stopping to glance at his wrists and hands he was pleased to see he was no longer bleeding and the ground water had washed the last of the blood away. Satisfied he wouldn’t leave telltale droplets behind to give his route away, Thor slipped through a crack he would have never fit through at his most robust. Literal skin and bones were another matter.

Flattening himself against the wall yet again, he listened to the talk above him. He needed to pinpoint where each sentry was to the best of his ability while he edged ever closer to the clump of trees nearest the keep. While it was a cloudy night, being seen weaving across the open land between the keep and the cover of brush was the last thing he wanted to happen.

If he survived, he would end up trapped in the dungeon he’d just escaped. He’d likely be offed with a short bow arrow to the back instead. Seeing the forest looming before him, Thor stopped and leaned against the wall. From the commotion above him, it seemed some fools were getting into a scuffle over weighted dice while others were trying to stop them.

Deciding it was now or never, he headed for the forest listening for the soft, high-pitched whistle of arrows flying toward their target. Hearing nothing, he penetrated deep into the thicket and collapsed against a tree. While unable to prevent leaving tracks, he’d zigzagged over grass hoping to leave as few footprints as possible. If it rained as he suspected it would, his tracks would disappear before morning. Picking his way through the forest, Thor used the trees to remain upright as he fought to get as far from de Vescy’s keep as possible before he stopped just long enough to get his second wind.

Once he exited the other side, he’d use Polaris and the moon to get his bearings. He didn’t believe he was that far from where they were ambushed. He was counting on it. If he were right, that would signal they were attacked on Alba’s soil adding to the heinousness of the attack. But, it also signaled he wasn’t far from the dangers of the borderlands either. For good or for evil, he had a rough idea of the lay of the land and how many miles stood between him and his king.

What he didn’t know was if he would ever get there…