The Silver Door

The Sleeper

Chapter II

Around the courtyard of the castle grounds, men, women and children were jeering, cursing the stranger from within his cage and shouting viscous insults. Some of them began to pick up clods of earth and filth so that they could hurl them at the cage. Splatters of mud had already covered the strangers face like speckles of brown rain. He did not wipe them away, nor did he turn his back to them. This was all too much for him, the strange sights, the sounds, the tongues. Even the smells were somehow by right, even though the world around him looked vaguely familiar; perhaps as if some childhood dream, or a vision long past. The high walls of the castle towered over him, almost blocking out the rising sun of the late morning. Stone and mortar as far as the eye could see. It was a city of grey lights and only the odd painted house to differentiate from the turrets, walkways, towers and walls that surrounded the central castle keep, which itself towered high above the rest, so that to see the precipice one would have to strain their neck. Never in his life could he remember seeing such marvels, not that he could remember much more than echoes of a past life before he washed up on the beach. Everything was too much, and so he just tried to close his eyes and focus on what he did know; he knew himself, nothing more ham a name in speech, but he knew that deep within himself, his character had not changed. He had lived, somewhere and at some time, he had loved someone and some when. Was he a father? A husband? A brother? Was he a good man in the eyes of his kin?

He saw the other prisoners taken from their cages and dragged forth by the leather clad warriors and one by one, they were handed over to an array of soldiers and guards. These new men, standing before the huge doors of what seemed to be the greatest and tallest Cathedral any race had ever built, its shining spire clouded by the heights of the sky, so that swirling mists blotted out its upmost point. Ornate sculptures looked down from the heights of the Cathedrals walls, figures of men battling dragons, and huge ogreish creatures, naked and menacing. Harley a blemish marked the huge wooden doors or the stone grotesques, in fact the while building looked newly built, perhaps just fifty years old at the very most.

The new soldiers of this Cathedral, head to toe in shining steel, faces covered in heavy helmets, took the prisoners one by one and knelt them before the steps of the huge Cathedral doors, beating the odd man or woman who refused to bend the knee. Looking to the prisoners, the stranger noticed the short stubby, red-headed man who he remembered seeing on the beach. He still looked angry, with a hatred as pure as fire in the man's eyes. The red-hair and big bushy beard did nothing to quell this look of hellish fury which emirates from him. Runic tattoos covered the stocky man's chest, he wore just a simple pair of leathery trousers, and no shirt. He noticed the stranger, as the stranger noticed him; and at that moment, his anger quelled. His eyes were blue, deepest blue that glistened in the sun even from this distance. The stocky red-headed man was being ushered alongside the others, waiting in line for some ritual execution, and when he was pushed by the guards, the stranger heard him grumble like a bear.

The stranger was next. He saw the leather-clad warriors come for him, one of them pointing and smirking. He recognised this man as the very same who had thrown him from the beach into the cage when first he had woken, though barely conscious. The man to his left took a long spear with a noose of leather about its tip, and thrust this forth into the cage, trying to fondle the noise around the stranger’s neck. The stranger struggled, which only allowed him to receive the butt end of a spear to his stomach. A sickening churning pain filled his chest and he almost keeled over, before the noose was finally thrown over his head and pulled tight around his neck, strong arms pulling his body out from the cage. Rusting iron scrapped his legs as he tumbled head first from his prison and felt for the first time, the feel of the grey stone city of Skane touch his skin. For the first time since his arrival in this land, the stranger felt sudden fear grip his heart and pulse through his veins. Was this Hell? If so, it had the sure beauty of Heaven.

'Get him up! Put him with the others, and if he struggles...' the leader of this band of warriors growled at his second, 'clap his head in irons.'

The man in leather pulled up hard on the noose, and the stranger was on his feet, walking towards the overbearing Cathedral steps to join the row of prisoners, no doubt awaiting their judgment. Who was to judge, surely as the huge ornate doors began to creak open, he would know; and their fate be decided. 'What a beautiful day to die.' He thought, grimacing.

Atop the steps, three grey-cloaked old men appeared, one by one, each holding something unique in their right hands. The first Priest came out of the doors, walking regally through a row of guards, their spears tips glistening in the sunlit afternoon. In his hand, he held an orb of the purest silver that the stranger had ever seen. No doubt the purest silver that anyone had ever seen. The orb was the girth of the man's hand, no bigger than a large apple, and was as unblemished as the Cathedral itself, a perfect sphere. The second Priest followed, in his hand, was a heap of grey ash which he kept concealed from the elements as he moved down the steps behind the first. Last to follow was a Priest who came bearing a sceptre of the very same silver as the first, glimmering, pure of colour and unblemished.

When the three old Priests had slowly trundled down the long steps of the Cathedral, they came to a stop before the prisoners and their guards, presenting each of their possessions to one another in ritual fashion and then turning to the crowd they exclaimed in unison, 'These are the gifts of the Elder Dragons.' Which they repeated thrice, before turning back to each other and using the sceptre, with its hollowed end, to place the sphere atop it, so that now the first Priest, the oldest, held two of the gifts before the crowd.

Again, they spoke in unison, 'With these gifts, the Elder Priests are made whole.' It was indeed a very unusual ritual, as they next placed the sceptre in the ground so that the length was nearly as high as the first Priest. The second of the Elder Priests, the one with the closed hand, now opened his palm flat, and by magic, the heap of ash billowed out like a living cloud and came to settle as a halo around the sphere atop the sceptre. This whole sight was extremely confusing to the stranger, but he was in awe at the ritual, and stared at the turning ring of dust and ash that turned the very apex of the sphere into an equator of magical grey light.

The stranger fidgeted in his restraints, making the leather-clad warrior, grumble and pull the cord around his neck tighter. Everything now became harder to see, as his breath grew shorter. He was kneeling before the steps and the Elder Priests of this strange Cathedral, wondering just what in the name of Heaven was happening, when the oldest of the grey-bearded Priests, lowered the sceptre of gifts so it was horizontal to the ground and he immediately pointed it at one of the prisoners. But no one spoke, no one moved, save for the Elder Priest, who stepped lightly sideways, dragging the sceptre across the face of the prisoners. One by one it passed by them, every so often, the ash halo around the sphere would quiver and there would be a rumble of hushed voices which would just as quickly subside. It passed the faces of women and men, the eyes of the Priest concentrating on the ashen halo as it swept along the row of people. The stranger at the very end, and it would land before his face last. What would happen? Would it quiver again, would it usher in his doom? His heart began to pulse again, the bright white hair on his face and scalp shook. The guard beside him sensed him shifting and pulled again, tighter on the cord.

Once more the ashen halo quivered and subsided with the murmurs from the crowd. It was now passing a young man, three places down from the stranger. He was well-built, muscular, maybe in his twentieth year, barely a hair on his face and a lovely braided blonde lock flowing behind his back. The ashen halo around the sceptre quivered slightly, and just as it seemed to subside, it began to shake violently, making the entire sceptre barely controlled by the Elder Priest, a look of anger across his wizened face. Everyone could see the strength it was taking for him to keep the sceptre steady, they saw the look in the old man's eyes as he struggled to hold on to the trembling sceptres' handle.

'Sleeper! He's a Sleeper!' The Elder Priest cried, then, 'Kill him, kill the Sleeper!'

Immediately the guard holding the young man's neck, tried to pull the restraint tighter, but he young man had already begun to change. He was transforming, his very body growing in size and weight. With a loud crack, the cord around his neck snapped and the guard beside him fell flat on his back. Great grumbling noises erupted from the young man's mouth, and hair was beginning to sprout from every inch of his body, dark and coarse as brush-wire.

'Kill him! Stop the beast!' The Elder Priest was still crying out, terrified. His two compatriots trying to climb the Cathedral steps as fast as they could. The young man, who was no longer a man, but some growing beast, began to shuffle his shoulders and knees, all his bonds of leather breaking. Strips of cloth and straps flew like billowing hay around the beast, who roared a mighty cry up into the air. The crowd was in utter chaos, women shielded their children, men held back their friends, and threw their bodies before their families. This had happened before, but never in such a violent fashion. They had never seen the change so sudden before, the Corruption was deep inside this young man, and they all felt its gripping fear, that spread like a plague across the courtyard.

With the final snap of bonds, the young man, now the great hairy beast, stood upon its hind legs. He was now at least twice the size of a man, and thrice the girth. Once blonde and lovely locks of hair, were mahogany brown patches of fur. Almost bear, almost wolf, and larger than most, the beast swept a heavy clawed hand to his right, taking away the spear from a guardsman's hand and toppling him to the floor, blood spilling from his helmet. With a second thud, the beast kicked backwards, sending another two steel guards flying off their feet and coming together on the floor with a sickening crunch. Blossom had begun to fall again, as the beast roared and filed the air with the most hideous cries of terror. Children cried, women screamed. Some brace souls tried to pick up fallen weapons and subdue the beast, only to be torn or thrown to the ground which was becoming littered with corpses and injured souls.

The stranger backed away, seizing his opportunity to break free. What could he do? At first, his mind was only cloudy, his sight only watery and fearful. The leather-clad warrior who held his restraint, dropped the pole and drew his ceremonial dagger, taking it upon himself to stop the flailing beast. He ran, screaming his barbaric war-cry, 'Dracaaaaaa!'

He reached the corpses, leapt over them and plunged the dagger deep into the flank of the beast, who wailed in anger, not pain, and with two hands picked up the warrior and slammed him onto the ground. He twitches once, and was still; his dagger skidding across the ground to land just feet from the stranger. Now was his chance to escape this nightmare. He shuffled on his knees to the dagger, whilst the beast was being assailed by even more guards. He fell to his side and used his bound hands to fondle for the hilt of the dagger and begin cutting his bonds. First, he freed his hands, then his feet, and finally he pulled the cord restraint from around his neck and tossed it aside and spat. Freedom, but what now?

'Stop the beast!', stop it now!', 'Protect the Elders!' Guards from all corners of the courtyard came running. Some used their spears to fend of the huge bear-like creature and attempt to kept it cornered between them. Others ran to save their Elder Priests, escorting them into the Cathedral to safety. The mystical scepter being taken first and foremost as the greatest treasure. The stranger watched all of this and planned his next steps carefully.

With a terrible and thunderous roar, the beast tilted its head like a bull, and charged through scores of guards and men, heading towards the women and children of the crowds. It stomped alone the stony grey ground, cracking flags and crushing those injured beneath it. Moments before it reached the crowds, the beast started to flail its arms wildly, long blackened claws swiping left to right. Something whistled behind it, coming closer. The beast shrieked, this time in utter pain. Many of the guards stepped back, watching the screaming beast stop still in its charge, a long spear shaft protruding from the rear of its back, deep in the spinal column. Once more it shrieked and tried to scratch away the spear, though the tip was deeply embedded in its flesh and bone, blackened blood trickling down to the earth and steaming, as hit touched the cool stone beneath. Another whistling, and a second spear came thudding into the beast's shoulder blade, cracking the bone and coming with such force that the tip cleared straight brought sinew and flesh and stuck and inch out from its chest. The beast turned to see its attacker, and the stranger stared back. He waited, expecting the beast to charge again. One of its black clawed hands fondled in the earth and found grip. Shrieking, it tilted its head once more and came towards the stranger, its nails digging into the stone and propelling it forward with each thrust of its bulging, hairy arms.

'Stranger, take this!' It was the stocky red-headed man, who, with his huge tattooed arms, buying with energy, hurled another spear over towards him. All around was chaos, the guards were spread thin, many of them dead or dying on the ground, those who were left cared not for the prisoners any longer and tried to quell the beast from further attack. The stranger caught the spear in his hand, twirled it around and faced the tip toward the beast, his sights firmly set.

The stranger held his ground, a third spear in hand. This time he did not throw, merely stood, the butt of the weapon firmly planted on the stone, his hands a man's arm-breadth apart, ready. Lunging forward, the beast let out a preemptive roar of triumph, but alas, the long spear thrust forth at the final moment, the wood gripped tightly in the stranger’s hand, and as the beast fell to its side, black trickles of blood pouring out into the street, it shut its eyes for the last time.

The stranger stood, uneasily and shaken, as the world became silent, just an ocean of faces staring at him, amazed. Nobody spoke, everyone just watched, waiting to see what he would do next. Perhaps they were scared? Most certainly they had seen nothing quite like this before; a stranger, no weapons or armor, staring down one of the most ferocious beasts in all Altheim. Skin-Changers, Skin-Eaters, Sleepers, men and women who were so filled with the Corruption that their bodies could twist and form into monstrous beasts. None had been seen this large, outside of the Forgotten Realm; where the mad dwelt.

Then something happened, that the stranger had not expected. It started as a small clutter, something that seemed distant, but then, as more and more people in the crowds joined in, it grew. Thunderous applause. It shook throughout the courtyard, growing and growing. The stranger could not decide how to react, he was overwhelmed with feelings. He could feel his hands trembling by his side, trembling as they never had before in all his years. Even in the heat of battle, even here standing against the beast, he felt nothing but strength; and yet now, he was terrified.

'The prisoner!' The stocky red-headed man, threw his bulging arms in the air and cried aloud, 'the prisoner!'

Soon the crowds were also joining in, screaming his title, 'the prisoner!' 'Prisoner!' Men, women, children, all bathed him in glory, the applause erupting again. All was cut short, as a legion of armed guards, in polished nail began to stream into the courtyard from side streets and archways. The sound of clinking steel and heavy footsteps thundered through the city, as almost one hundred of them formed up in lines, spears pointed to the crowds and the prisoners. They had come to restore order and peace, yet it was the stranger who had won the battle.

'Kneel!' One of the guards thrust his spear point into the stranger’s lower back. He threw up his arms in surrender, but would not kneel.

'On your knees!' The guard shouted again jabbing him a second time. The other prisoners, including the red-bearded and stocky man, who had come to the stranger’s aid, were either laying down or kneeling before the troops.

'I said on your knees, prisoner!' And just as he raised his spear to bash the stranger on top of his head, there was a glimmer of steel and a flash of limbs, before the stranger grabbed hold of the wooden spear shaft, and pulled the guard forward so that he went sprawling onto the floor.

Then, raising the spear upwards in triumph, the stranger cried aloud, 'I am no man's prisoner! I am Ethelwulf!'

Murmurs began in the crowds once more. People looked at each other astonished. How was Ethelwulf to know what this meant, he was but a wanderer in these lands; lost to the sea. The murmurs were growing louder. Getting to his feet, the guard who had attacked him, simply stood in awe of the man, and Ethelwulf could not understand why. Why were they all watching him and whispering? It was now, that he thought his end was surely near, they would execute him right here. He might take a few of the guards with him though; and so, he tightened his grip on the spear, readying himself.

No one did attack, no one came for him, and the crowd was almost in cheers again. It started low, just whispers, before it was as if the whole city chanted his name.

'It's the wolf.' Some said.

'The wolf has returned', whispered others, before the chanted exploded. Even a few of the guards joined in.

'Wolf! Wolf! Wolf!' And the stranger, Ethelwulf, just stood there, bewildered. He barely noticed as the oldest of the Elder Priests of the Cathedral returned to the steps to see the people's hero being exalted. If you saw the Priests face in that moment, you would never have believed it. For the first moment in many long years, there was hope across the City of Skane.