Chapter 1 #2
Kicking the rope off the wall into the courtyard, he waited, wondering if anyone heard the noise he’d just made. Nothing.
Not wanting to push his luck, he climbed down quickly while contemplating his next move. The dungeon was most likely below the keep and over there was an unshuttered window. It had been left open as it was too small for a man to climb through. Perfect for one such as him.
He squeezed between the rough stones, his hips catching, scraped cruelly by the jagged edges. For a moment he thought he was stuck but then with a shove of his arms he was through, falling heavily onto the wooden boards on the far side.
At this point something odd happened. He became aware of exactly where his father was being held prisoner. He could never have explained it, but he knew exactly which route to take.
He passed along the pitch-black corridor, needing no light. When he reached stairs, he descended them without hesitation, guided by something outside himself. Could it be the letter was helping him?
Whatever it was, he was glad of the assistance because the keep was a maze. He marveled that man could build something so large. How did anyone find their way around such a place?
At the end of the next corridor he found a candle in a sconce. He took it, knowing he would soon need light to read the incantation.
At the foot of a second flight of stairs the air changed, growing staler and colder. He shivered, his nostrils wrinkling, a strong stench hitting him from ahead.
One more door. He knew it would be locked.
It was.
He set down the candle and then felt the hinges of the door. Rotten wood just like in the barn back home. He had watched the villagers pull that door free with little more than their hands. Could he do the same?
Digging into the rotten wood, ignoring the splinters that scraped his skin, he gouged out the hinge at the top and then the bottom of the door.
One firm pull when that was done, and the door gave way with a loud crash. It fell against him, almost crushing him against the far wall, the noise echoing far into the distance.
Wallace’s heart pounded in his chest as he freed himself from behind the door. Surely someone would have heard that? He would have to hurry.
Passing through into the darkness beyond he stopped dead. What was that sound? The rattling of chains somewhere beyond the low glow of the spluttering candle. The air was thick with the stench. It clung to the inside of his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.
“Father,” he said quietly, hand over his nose, hardly daring to believe. “Is that you?”
“Who’s there?” a man’s voice replied hoarsely.
“It’s me, father. Wallace. I’ve come to save you.”
“Get out of here! Now!”
“I have an incantation to recite. Soon you will be free.”
The candle light fell on a figure slumped against the far side of the room. His ankles and wrists were bound to rusty iron chains, his flesh marked and swollen from years bound in place.
The man winced at the glow of the candlelight. His face could not be seen behind lank greasy hair and a thick straggly beard. Only his eyes were visible as they focused on Wallace for the first time.
Jock held up a hand, the fingernails yellowed and broken. “Go!” he said. “Now!” The hoarseness of his voice was gone and suddenly he was on his feet, towering over Wallace, his head brushing the ceiling.
Jock reached out to push the boy away, but his chains held him too tight to the wall. He looked at his son as if with fresh eyes. “My boy,” he said, his voice failing for just a moment. “Has it been this long? You have grown so much.”
Wallace started to read the incantation.
Jock yelled at him. “Stop. You must not read that.”
It was already done.
The chains fell away, thudding into the floor.
“What have you done?” Jock asked, grabbing at the manacles and trying to bind them around his wrists once more. “Take me back, he has nothing to do with this.”
Wallace ran to his father, tugging at his arm. “Come, let us leave now. You are free.”
Wallace tried to pull his father away but for some reason he could not move his own arm. He looked down. The manacles were bound tightly around his own wrists. He moved his feet and immediately found they had become chained as well.
The manacles that had held his father had silently locked around his limbs, bound with a strength stronger than any metal, trapping him in the dungeon.
“Let him go,” Jock screamed into the air. “It is me you cursed, not the boy. I beg you, let him go.”
“What’s happening?” Wallace asked, bewildered. “What have I done?”
“You are the last of the MacGregor line,” Jock said. “You freed me and condemned yourself.” He suddenly staggered and fell to his knees.
“Father, are you all right?”
One hand gripped his chest. “I am fine,” he said. “Just a pain in my arm-”
He fell onto the letter, his face hitting the scum covered stone floor with a horrible crunch. He lay still, nothing moving other than the slightest twitch of his foot.
“Father!” Wallace said, pulling at the chains that bound him, trying desperately to reach the stricken figure. “Please, say something.”
There was no answer.
Wallace began to sob. He was still crying when guards appeared in the doorway shortly afterward. They took one look at him and then at the corpse beside him.
They began to laugh. “Looks like we got ourselves a new prisoner,” the hook nosed one said, taking a step far enough into the dungeon to kick Jock’s prone body.
“Did you not ken about the curse?” the squat one added.
“Poor snot nose doesn’t ken anything about anything. Look at him crying.”
“Help him,” Wallace begged. “Please.”
The squat guard kicked the body. “It’s your fault he’s dead, you ken that, don’t you? Only the last of the line can shift them chains and only onto himself.”
“Dinnae worry, lad,” added the hook-nosed guard. “We’ll leave him there for company. Father and son, happily together at last.”
“The MacCallisters always win. Didn’t you know that?”
“I curse the MacCallisters,” Wallace spat, his tears drying up, anger consuming him like a fire. “I curse all MacCallisters.”
“Curse us as much as you like. You’ll still be trapped in our dungeon and bound in our chains.”
They turned and walked away, laughing as they went.
Wallace yelled after them. “I curse the MacCallister line. My soul will not rest until the last of the MacCallister line takes my place in these wretched chains. Then I shall laugh, and your clan shall die. This I vow in the name of my father, Jock MacGregor. I will get my revenge on the last of the MacCallisters.”
“Course you will,” a voice echoed back. “Once you find a way out of those chains and find a sword and a swordmaster to train you and find the way past the guards to the clan laird.”
“And an army to back you up,” a second voice added. “Best of luck with that.”
The mocking laughter faded away.
Wallace was left alone. The candle beside him spluttered and then died.
In the darkness he saw nothing. He swore the oath once again, this time to himself. His soul would not rest until he made the last of the MacCallisters pay for what the clan had done to his father.
Seven hundred years later, the last of the MacCallister line shuddered despite the warmth of the sun streaming through her bedroom window.
She had a sudden strange feeling that, as she looked at MacCallister Castle, the castle was looking back at her.
Not just looking, glaring with a furious rage fierce enough to make her stomach turn over. She found herself unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but stand there.
She had no idea how long it lasted but the feeling only ended when she heard someone shouting from downstairs.
“Natalie. Better get a move on. You’re going to be late.”