Shadowland

Chapter 02 - Revolt - Part 01

Val Duval swam lazily into consciousness, warm light streaming through the curtains on the far side of the room as he luxuriated in the feeling of satin sheets and a thick comforter on his skin. There was a gentle moan beside him; soft skin and yielding flesh brushed against his arm. He tried to remember where he was and how he had got there. Nothing came.

Then he tried to remember who he was, or anything about his past. Nothing came.

Val Duval shrieked and leaped out of the bed, startling the nude woman beside him, who sat up, tanned skin and full breasts revealed. "What's wrong, love?" she muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Who are you?" Duval cried in panic. "Where are we? What's going on? Who am I? My God, who am I?" The woman reached out for him, lines of worry creasing her face, self-consciously brushing back her auburn hair with her other hand. "Get away from me, woman!" Duval shouted. He cast desperately about the room, seeking something familiar. It was a small room, barely space for a bed and a closet, wooden walls and a rag rug on the dusty floor. He glimpsed himself in a mirror - a white man with a lithe build, muscular chest with not an ounce of fat, long blonde hair and a goatee. It was as if he had never seen the face before. Desperate, he ran through the door of the room and down the stairs, finding himself in a large room with tables all about and a counter at one end. Several people sitting at the tables were staring in shock at him. "Who are you people?" he cried out. "Where am I? What is happening to me? I can't remember anything! For the love of God!"

He ran through the front door of the room and into the cobbled street. Whitewashed brick buildings marched away to both sides, each bearing a colourfully painted sign. He ran down the street, searching desperately for something familiar, some handle to grasp on to, but nothing came. The past was a huge blank.

Stumbling into a narrow alley, Duval held his head in his hands, weeping. "I can't remember," he howled. "Why can't I remember! This, this is not my life..."

"Lost yer way, have ye?" came a harsh voice from behind him.

He looked up and around. Two bodies blocked the entrance to the dead-end alley, big muscled men in rough leather jerkins and pants, men with grizzled faces roughly shorn and greasy, unkempt hair and villainous squinting eyes. Each held a small club in one hand, and both were grinning widely.

Duval spun around. "Who, who are you?" he asked. "What is this place? Can you tell me where I am, who I am?"

"Look at him," one of the men said, waving his hand dismissively. "He ain't got no valuables."

The second man grinned even wider. "He'll bring a handy enough price... in the slave pits!" The two men held their clubs up and advanced toward Duval. He backed up into the alley, but there was nowhere to run. Casting about, he noticed a stick of wood about 3 feet long leaning against the wall, and snatched it up. Something clicked in his mind; the stick felt familiar in his hand, not quite right but close. He held it out, pointed towards the men, who hesitated for a moment, then closed the remaining distance between them and Duval.

His muscles moved as if of their own accord, the stick flashing out and striking one tough smartly under the chin. The man cried out in pain and stumbled backwards. Duval moved the stick down and poked the other three times in the gut, very quickly; he doubled over, wheezing in pain. The first man rushed forward, club raised, and Duval easily struck his hand with the end of the stick; he dropped the club, howling, and grabbing his hand. Smiling confidently, Duval flourished the stick in a fancy spin. It felt almost like an extension of his arm, he was so comfortable holding it. The two rough men fell backwards, fear in their eyes. "Ain't worth it," the one still holding his club said. "Let's get out of here!" The two men faded toward the back of the alley. Duval danced forward on feet light as air, stick flashing to and fro, and the two men turned and ran.

Duval drew himself up, stick flashing upward, then down in a formal fencing salute. Here, at last, was something to hold on to. Whoever he was, wherever he was, and whatever had been going on in that hotel with the strange woman, he was a man who knew how to take care of himself, a man who clearly knew how to use a weapon. As he stood in the alley, confidence newly blooming, he chanced to look down at himself and saw almost nothing but bare skin, modesty protected only by a short pair of silk breeches and nothing else. "Good God," he cried out, "I'm naked!"