Chapter Two
Even given its purpose, Snow White Memorial Prison was a dreary sight to behold, a towering fortress of pale stone and iron bars. In its wake, the dark green forest and hills surrounding it became more intimidating, towering higher and casting darker shadows than even the sun could supersede. Then there was the cherry on the top of the incarceration sundae: a line of rusty, wrought iron cages hanging along the front path, some of which still contained the moldering, vulture-pecked remains of former prisoners.
The overarching effect of these details was inherent to anyone who saw it: go away and stay away! Not only did the facility currently house some of the worst villains in the history of the Nine Kingdoms, but the prison itself had become the stuff of legend, a vile conflation of rehabilitation and sadism.
Yet Wendell only yawned as the carriage rolled through the front gates and up a narrow, bumpy drive. In his short 21 years, he had grown used to a certain type of response to his presence. Wherever he went, enthusiastic fanfare followed. Trumpets erupted when he entered a ballroom, accompanied by tumultuous applause. As he walked by, his subjects bowed or curtsied before him, bright smiles immediately plastered on their faces. If he were visiting a local village, there might be a speech in his honor by the mayor, or little girls throwing flower petals and confetti in his path. His audience today would be made up of prisoners and guards, but Wendell still expected no less pageantry.
Only there was no such display when the carriage finally came to a halt. Instead, the front yard was entirely empty, no banner or cheering crowd in sight. A grim cluster of guards wasn't even waiting to greet them, as they would for even the lowliest of incoming prisoners.
"Well, this is marvelous, isn't it?" Wendell grumbled as he exited the carriage. "Not exactly the red carpet treatment."
"I'm sure they won't have forgotten about our visit, Your Majesty" Giles replied as he brushed past the young prince.
Smug satisfaction spreading across his face, Wendell watched as the elderly man stormed to the large, iron-studded entry door, pounded the knocker once, and then entered without waiting for a response. Yes, the prison wasn't exactly known for its hospitality, but that was no reason to shirk royal propriety. Wendell only wished he could be there to witness Giles' confrontation with the prison warden.
Keeping an eye on the door, Wendell began to pace in front of the carriage. Five minutes passed, but the door remained firmly closed. At one point, he looked up, noting the lack of guards standing post in the watchtowers above. Come to think of it, he couldn't see anyone in any of the surrounding turrets and ramparts. That was odd—when had prison security become so lax? He—or more likely, Giles—would have to remember to bring up the matter at the next Council meeting.
Another five minutes, and still no warden stumbled forth with blubbering apologies. No sign of Giles' return either. Really, this was getting ridiculous! Did they expect him to remain there all evening, waiting like some serving maid for her fairy godmother?
"Giles?" he finally called out. "Giles?" When there was, unsurprisingly, no response, he decided he had been inconvenienced long enough and marched to the door.
The door was a little heavier than he anticipated, but Wendell managed to push open it enough to let himself in. A shadowy antechamber lay in front of him, empty except for a few benches and haphazard crates.
"Hello? Giles?" he tried again, certain that someone will have heard him this time.
Behind him, the door slammed shut, and Wendell turned around. Suddenly, it was clear why there had been no one present to greet him. Impaled on several spikes on back of the door was Giles. Blood stained the front of his jacket, dripping into a small puddle on the stone floor, and his head slumped unnaturally against his chest.
No sooner had Wendell taken in his advisor's lifeless form than a pair of hands grabbed him from behind.
"Hello, Princey!" a grating male voice shouted in his ear.
In the dim light, Wendell could just make out the shaggy black hair, bulbous nose, and distended teeth of his attacker. He was most definitely a troll, if the accompanying stench of leather and sweat was any indication, and strong to boot. As if Wendell weighed no more than an apple, the troll jerked him hard backwards into the adjacent wall.
No, not a wall. Another troll, shorter and ganglier than the first, but no less enthusiastic in his violence. This one wasted no time in punching him in the jaw and kneeing him in the stomach. Wendell stumbled from the impact, but before he could hit the ground, a pair of hands caught him and rammed him face-first into the stone wall.
"Did that hurt?," teased the second troll. "I'd like you to meet my sister."
A dizzying spin, and Wendell collided with the aforementioned sister, who immediately boxed his ears and tore at his jacket. The trio half-dragged, half-kicked him around the room, pitching him from one wall into another whenever he tried to deflect their blows. At one point, the female troll pushed him backwards so that he tripped over one of her crouching brothers. His body ached as it connected with the stone floor, and when he tried to crawl away, the room seemed to spin.
"Now he's mine," one of the male trolls declared from above him.
"Ah-ah, I get the first shot," the female troll protested.
"You had the first last time."
"Enough!" commanded a new female voice behind Wendell. A very familiar voice that instantly brought Wendell back to a cold, sickly chapter of his childhood. The trolls backed away, and he slowly stood up to face the one person he had hoped never to see again.
Even after a decade in maximum security, his stepmother was still captivating. She wore a dark green velvet cloak and purple gown, both of which appeared fresh and clean in spite of the dingy surroundings. The hood was pulled back just enough to reveal perfectly coiffed auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and piercing eyes.
A few paces behind her lurked a fourth troll. This one was older than the other three, but carried himself with quiet menace, like a wolf just waiting for the right moment to strike.
"You're a long way from your castle, Wendell," his stepmother goaded as she approached him. "Perhaps you should have stayed there. My silly, little stepson."
Indeed, Wendell would rather he was safe and sound at home right now, or even back on a boring carriage ride with Giles, but he wasn't about to admit that to her. If the aptly titled Evil Queen was freed from her cell, and these trolls had helped her, then he had more pressing matters on his hands. Matters that could mean the difference between peace and anarchy in the entire Nine Kingdoms.
Drawing his shoulders back, Wendell cast her what he hoped was a firm and most regal glare. "Y-y-you will pay for this."
It was a feeble defensive strategy at best, more to stall for time while he could think of a better plan. Unfortunately, his stepmother saw right through him.
"On the contrary," she simpered with a wry smile that sent his stomach plummeting, "I think that you will beg at my feet for food." Her eyes never leaving him, she bent down to what he now noticed was a large, golden retriever sitting at her feet.
"Do you know what this is?" she continued, beginning to methodically stroke the dog's head with a gloved hand. "This is a very special kind of dog. This is a magical dog."
As she petted the dog, its fur beneath her hands seemed to glow brighter in the dim light. The dog shifted as if in anticipation under her ministrations, its equally bright eyes fixing on the prince. Wendell, too, found himself so transfixed by the stare that he almost missed the Queen's next words.
"I hope you like dogs, Wendell—you're going to spend the rest of your life as one."
What happened next only took a few seconds, but felt much longer. The Queen released the dog, who instantly bounded for Wendell. He tried to back away, raising his arms in defense, but the dog still reared up and put its paws squarely on his chest. On impact, the dog began to grow in size and shape, its fur and nose shifting into a human face and body. Wendell's face and body, albeit with an inquisitive, tongue-lolling expression.
In turn, Wendell's own body began to shrink, his perspective shifting so that he was looking up, light and colors blending into a muted haze. His skin and bones likewise twisted painfully as they morphed into a new, smaller form. The trolls' triumphant laughter now echoing in his ears, Wendell tried one last time to call for help, but only a canine bark emerged.
Yes, he most definitely should have stayed at home the Council was going to get an earful when he got back.
Thanks for reading! Until next time . . .
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