This Novel currently consists of over 100 finished parts so I promise you will not be reading something that has no finale. Enjoy.
Taken Alive.
Bennett woke, and for a few confused seconds could not comprehend where he was. Realizing with a start he was in a prison cell, and the events of last night's failed attack came flooding back into his mind, bitter and devastating. He had no idea of how long he had been asleep here, or any inkling as to the hour of the day.
He sat up taking in his environment, discovering he was incarcerated in a steel cell some ten, by ten feet square, its bars a good two inches thick, impossible to flex even for one as powerful as he, running all the way from floor to ceiling, and anchored firmly in place. Overhead the illumination came from a single bright, dichroic led light, recessed into the steel plate ceiling. The only items in the room besides himself, were a steel bed that slung out from the wall supported by two thick chains at either end, and on top of this a thin mattress that offered little real comfort, and of all things a stainless steel toilet which flushed, its cistern built into the rear wall.
Bennett realized he had been divested of all his clothing, bathed, and his few minor wounds seen to. All he wore currently were a pair of shapeless gray flannel trousers that were laced with a drawstring around the waist, they were of course too short for him, the hems barely covering his lower calves.
Further observation revealed to Bennett that the prison contained ten identical cells, arranged in blocks of five running parallel down either side, and separated by some twenty foot of passageway running through its center. In the cells furthermost from his own he could see his two companions Gareth and Sven, they too appeared unhurt, still sleeping it off, and dressed in the same gray attire as he was.
To his extreme left, just beyond the cells of his fellow henchmen was a door, and this was slightly ajar. Though Bennett craned his neck to see what was beyond he could not make out anymore than what he could currently see, which was next to nothing.
He was situated at the right hand end of the row of cells which faced on to the warden's area, a space some forty feet across and thirty feet wide, incorporating a large wooden desk, and a comfortable chair where a soldier now sat on duty eyeing him but saying nothing. There was a door here also, this one barred and locked, and Bennett rightly assumed that this was the way out. He sat back down on the bed, unused to having the tables so cruelly turned, and wondered just how he was going to extract himself from this one, and he had no ideas.
*****
The detachment of soldiers finished the morning burying Bennett's dead just beyond the gate in a large pit, they numbered eleven in all. Nathan watched the proceedings from the sidelines in such a state of morbid fear he was almost paralyzed by it.
Occasionally Captain Harris would glance over at the boy, as he took some respite from his grisly duty, for the day was indeed beginning to get quite warm. Nathan's frightened eyes met Harris' over the pile of displaced dirt and rising dust, as the men shoveled it into the mass grave, and Harris felt a flood of pity deciding at once to speak to Lord Lothar asking that the boy be spared.
Orphans were usually looked upon as liabilities in this hard place, unless they had some unusual talent and Harris' conscience could not rest easy thinking that this tortured lad without a name, would probably be gifted to the evil Krosse, ever eager for subjects to assist him in his cruel medical and psychological studies. Harris shuddered at the thought, hadn't the boy suffered enough already? No, he would plead his case to his Lord himself asking that the boy might be spared this horrible fate. At least then whatever happened, he would feel somewhat better.
Hearing the soldier's talk amongst themselves, Nathan soon began to understand the nature of last night's events more clearly, and things had not quite played out the way he had first envisaged. His heart almost skipped a beat to learn that Bennett had been captured, and was very much alive, and Nathan's only desire at that moment was to gaze on his Master again, and to curl up into warmth and protection that the formidable warrior offered, whatever it might cost.
The bodies buried, the soldier's work here was done, and for Harris it was time to report to his Lord and fill him in on the events of the past twelve hours, and see if he would be benevolent enough to spare the wretched boy in his triumph.
Krosse spent most of his morning in the hospital operating theater, with his small staff in attendance, his responsibilities as the only doctor in this place demanded his full attention, and he had no time to spare for anything else since the battle's conclusion.
There were many injured, a good percentage grievously, and a couple of men Krosse suspected would be lucky to survive. It was well into midday before Krosse had satisfactorily completed his duties, and could take the opportunity for a bath, and a much needed brief rest before he knew he would have to report to his Lord.
Krosse dressed taking his time in one of his neat well fitting suits, the usual black, offset with gold buttons, a pressed white shirt, and tie also black. His leather boots held such a shine they were almost reflective, and not a hair on his steel gray head was out of place. This man loved nothing more than to look neat and impeccably groomed, something many who lived in these times found difficult to achieve. It made him feel superior and important, and generated feelings of fear and inadequacy in most.
Krosse was the type of man who loved nothing more than to project power and control, and delighted in the humiliation and misery of others. This little tendency, and his desire to experiment, had seen him get into plenty of trouble in his time. In his youth he was a brilliant medical student finishing top in his class, and rose quickly through the medical ranks to become a surgeon of great ability. However, his dark desires he found difficult to deny, and eventually they led to his downfall. He was struck off the medical register never to be readmitted, and though he was not imprisoned for his crimes, Krosse became embittered with the verdict, continuing his work underground.
He was by this time independently wealthy and had many powerful connections still managing to further his medical knowledge in secret. He found no shortage of willing victims for his experiments, he prayed on the poor, the isolated, the desperate. He covered his tracks well, and honed his evil skills to ever greater heights, a task that became progressively easier as the international climate edged ever closer to war, and human rights were eroded in those final days.
Just prior to the war, his long time friend Lothar had asked Krosse to join him, and having little else to go on with he willingly agreed. Since that day some eight years distant he had been in this place forging a new life for himself, restored again as a respected, practicing surgeon. As for his black hunger it was adequately catered for, and as a consequence Krosse was feared by all. Understandably he was very happy with this arrangement.
Lothar had since been relocated to his own chambers, a place of unbridled luxury and decadence deep within the fortress. Krosse had deemed he would rest and recover better here away from the noise and bustle of the fast filling infirmary.
Lothar reclined in his massive, beautifully carved mahogany four poster bed. The rich voluminous, blood red velvet drapes cascading from the intricately carved framework, and spilling in glorious folds on to the sumptuously carpeted floor. Gargoyles leered from the corner posts, and a pair of elaborate, solid silver candle holders some four foot high, their bases adorned with silver flowers, leaves and doves, sporting a dozen white candles in each sat either side of the bed. Stolen paintings by old masters in ornate gilt frames lined the walls, and numerous marble pedestals stood below them like sentinels, crouched on their tops alabaster and ivory statues of great beauty, and value.
Lothar loved beautiful things, they pleased his eyes in this hard edged, and cruel world, they made for a welcome respite from the ugliness and despair of everyday life in this place. His inner living quarters were filled with their extravagance, every room overflowing, and over adorned to ostentatious garishness.
Captain Harris stood amongst all this opulence, so different to his own Spartan quarters, at the foot of his Lord's bed, and with him Nathan, his hands still bound tightly behind his back. Harris with a firm grip on the boy's ragged shirt bought him closer to his Lord, at Lothar's request that he might see him better. Though Harris was careful not to bring him too close as unpredictable as Nathan had proven earlier that day.
Lothar leaned closer to look at the boy, he was too thin and pale and his eyes were shifty and wild like an animals, deciding at once the lad would have very little potential for training as a soldier, or anything else for that matter. "Not much is he? You say he was left at the enemy campsite?"
"Yes, Sir he was, chained to a rock. He cannot speak sir, at first I thought he was just scared, but on closer inspection I discovered he has no tongue my Lord."
Harris could guess where Lothar's thoughts were heading on the fate of this poor orphan, and he promptly took a risk, speaking out of turn. "Might I beg you Sir that this lad be spared, Krosse has others at the moment. Can you find it in your heart to be merciful Sir? You can see he has suffered much already?"
Lothar sat in silence for sometime, Harris uncomfortable with his leader's quiet thoughts. Nathan becoming agitated, and Harris having to tighten his grip on the lad considerably as he waited for his Lord's verdict on the matter. Finally Lothar spoke. "Perhaps the boy can write, though I doubt it, still, cut his hands free and humor me will you Harris?"
Harris did as his Lord bid somewhat reluctantly, praying that the boy would do nothing stupid and undo all his good work.
Lothar ordered a servant to fetch him a pen and paper and almost immediately the servant reappeared with the requested items placing them gently in Lothar's lap, and retreating from whence he came.
Lothar looked into Nathan's fearful eyes, as he handed the hesitant boy the pen and paper. Nathan took the proffered items carefully, unsure whether he should reveal his little secret to this man, or not.
"Let's start with something simple shall we. Do you have a name lad?" The two men incredulous, watched as Nathan wrote his name in black ink on the paper, his handwriting neat and precise, bordering on the almost beautiful.
Both men looked at each other clearly surprised, Lothar deciding to try something else. "Well, Nathan, now that we know you have a name and can communicate with us. Tell us what do you know about this man Bennett?"
Nathan found it strange to hear his name called again, it made him feel important, he had not heard it for such a long time, and was more used to the derogatory terms and curses that his Master frequently used to gain his attention. So he began to write again on the piece of white paper spread before him. A plan already forming in his manipulative mind, something probably that his grandmother would not have approved of, but something he just had to do anyway.
Lothar took the paper in his hands, scrawled on it were these hatefully inscribed words, the pen cutting through the paper in places.
