The Horlock Chronicles

As usual, I got back to my cell before Billy had returned to his. I wasn't sure what exactly kept him out later than me, but I assumed it had something to do with his job. Whatever he was doing, it clearly kept him moving during hours when the rest of us were back in our cages. Amir, on the other hand, was always back before me. I had no idea what work he did, and, as I'd mentioned before, I hadn't dared ask around. My fear that he might find out and retaliate had kept me firmly silent.

Lately, the idea that Amir had unfettered access to my cell while I was gone had started gnawing at me. It played on my mind more than I cared to admit as I trudged back after third meal. There was no guarantee he wasn't already going through my things every day. I recognised that it was a paranoid thought but not an unfounded one. He had stolen from me before, and if I decided to start siphoning metal from the workshop, the risk would only grow. If he found a stash hidden away in my cell, he would almost certainly steal it. And if that happened, I knew myself well enough to admit there'd be a fight. No way was I letting him walk off with my hard-earned contraband.

If I was serious about this plan, then I needed to either find a way to keep Amir out, or a way to hide my materials so well he wouldn't find them. The second option didn't seem promising. There wasn't enough furniture or clutter in the cell to conceal anything properly. I considered trying to pry up a few stones from the floor or wall, maybe hide things behind them. But that seemed like a dead end. My luck, I'd accidentally tunnel into the next cell and end up accused of an escape attempt. The thought made me shudder. I'd be caught with stolen metal and facing the guards' wrath all in one go. Not exactly part of my long-term survival plan.

My train of thought was broken by the sound of Billy returning to his cell. It wasn't anything obvious about the footsteps; I just knew somehow that it was him. Nobody else would be going into his room, at least not uninvited. I jumped up from my bed and moved to meet him.

"Billy! How's your day been?" I asked, plastering a big smile across my face, hoping to charm him right from the start.

The way he looked at me—eyebrows raised, face suspicious—made it clear he wasn't buying it for a second.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly, narrowing his eyes at me.

"How do you know I want something?" I protested, trying to keep my tone light.

He chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "I've been around the block, lad. I know when someone's trying to butter me up. Especially when they're this clumsy about it. So go on—out with it."

I glanced nervously toward the door, then fully stepped into his cell. Billy noticed my look and gestured for me to close the door. He pulled out two chairs from the side wall so we could sit.

"You in trouble?" he asked, his voice serious now.

"No, nothing like that," I said quickly, then paused. "Well... not yet anyway."

He didn't comment. He just kept looking at me, waiting. His patience was heavy, pressing down on me until I cracked.

"I've had an idea..." I said cautiously.

"And what idea would that be, Brandon?" His tone was calm, but I could sense the undercurrent of expectation beneath it.

My nerves were fraying. Part of me wanted to back out, to claim I had changed my mind, but I knew that would only make things worse. I had already stepped into the water; now I had to swim.

"I think I can siphon off metal from the workshop," I said in a low voice. "And... maybe learn how to make weapons."

I immediately regretted how small my voice sounded. My feet shuffled nervously under the table, and my hands fidgeted on the tabletop before I tucked them underneath, cursing myself for not bringing something to keep them busy. I avoided his gaze, too cowardly to see the reaction firsthand.

When I finally mustered the courage to look up, Billy was smiling slightly.

"You could be in big trouble just for saying that," he said, his voice mild.

I froze. Was that a warning? A threat? My mind raced through every excuse, every denial I could offer, but before I could speak, he continued.

"Or maybe this is an attempt to entrap me." His tone remained light, even friendly, but my instincts screamed that something was wrong. He spread both hands flat on the table, a completely innocuous gesture, yet it sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. My heart hammered in my chest.

"No," I said quickly. "This isn't a setup. Why would it be? I wouldn't do that to you."

I leaned back slightly, muscles tensed to kick the table into him and bolt if he made a move. I wasn't sure what I'd do after that—probably scream for the guards and pray—but at least I'd have a chance to defend myself.

Billy held my gaze, unblinking. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The longer it went on, the more I felt the urge to flee.

Finally, he tilted his head slightly and asked a question.

"Why would you tell me about this?"

The tension in the room sharpened. It wasn't just a casual inquiry. There was something loaded behind it, something I didn't yet understand. It felt like I was walking a razor's edge and one wrong word would cut me badly.

There was clearly a history here I didn't know. Maybe something about Billy's past, about his own involvement in smuggling or other prison politics. Maybe this was why the guards treated him with such respect, why the other inmates never gossiped about him. Maybe he wasn't just a respected old-timer. Maybe he was something more dangerous than that.

A part of me wanted to backpedal, to retreat before I said anything else incriminating. To claim it was all a misunderstanding and hope he believed me. But another part—the stubborn part, the part that wanted to survive and thrive in here—knew there was no going back. I hadn't come this far to chicken out. Besides, I wasn't lying. I wasn't trying to set him up. I genuinely trusted him more than anyone else I had met in this place. So I went with honesty.

"You seemed like the only person who would be able to help me," I said.

Billy's look told me that wasn't going to be enough. I pressed on.

"I haven't been here long enough to know what really goes on, or who controls what. When I thought of my idea today, I knew there was a real chance I'd step on the wrong toes. I'm not naive enough to think I came up with something no one else has thought of."

I looked up at him, hoping my humility would earn me a scrap of approval. But Billy's expression didn't change. Stone cold. No reaction.

"I didn't think it was safe to bring it up to the people I work with in the workshop," I continued. "I like them. They're good guys. It's just... they don't strike me as the kind who would be involved in anything organised. I needed to talk to someone who was connected. Respected."

I nodded slightly toward him, but still he kept that unreadable face. I let out a sigh, my fingers tapping against the table without me even realising it. Somewhere along the way I'd pulled them from underneath, fidgeting like a child.

"And why would you think that was me?" he asked finally.

My fingers stilled. "Everyone seems to respect you. I've never heard anyone gossip about you."

"There's others who are 'connected and respected' too. Grian, for instance. Amir. Why not them?" His voice still held that same eerie pleasantness. Calm and measured, but every word edged like a blade.

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"I don't trust them," I said bluntly. "Amir would shaft me the first chance he got, and Grian... well, Grian could decide one morning that I don't need both my eyes."

Billy laughed, and the tension in the room eased just a little.

"'Is reputation's worse than the reality, trust me. Grian's not as bad as people make out."

He took a slow breath, looking me up and down, then nodded once.

"You're a fuckin' idiot, Brandon."

I jerked back, startled. "What?"

"You're a fuckin' idiot," he repeated. "What do you know about me?"

"Umm..." I stammered, scrambling for an answer.

"Exactly," he said, leaning forward slightly. "You know fuck all. And you don't even realise how big of a mess you could 'ave just stepped into."

I swallowed hard. Part of me wanted to argue, but deep down, I knew he was right. I hadn't dug into Billy's background at all. I'd jumped straight into this conversation blind, thinking because he was kind to me, he must be safe.

"What do you mean?" I asked quietly.

He sighed, settling back into his chair.

"This place wasn't always run by the Brutan House. When I got 'ere, it was before their time. Way before they brought in Warden Slavi. Back then, it was chaos. A real 'ell'ole. The cells were packed three, four men deep. Gangs ran every wing. You couldn't walk ten steps without getting dragged into a brawl."

It sounded like something out of an old story. Those were the prisons we were warned about as kids. The violent nightmares meant to scare us onto the right path. But here, in my reality, it was almost civilised. Sure, there was the occasional fight, and the gang undercurrents were obvious if you looked but nothing like the war zone Billy was describing.

"Back before Slavi showed up," Billy continued, "I was part of a crew that ran weapons."

He met my eyes, letting the weight of the confession sink in.

"We were responsible for about ninety percent of the weapons in the prison. If you had a blade, it was either made by us or smuggled in by us. We weren't the biggest gang—not by numbers—but everyone knew better than to cross us. Lose your supply, you lose your life."

A small, almost wistful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It made me wonder how I would have fared back then. I probably would've been fighting every day, burning through my healing magic faster than I could replenish it.

"What changed?" I asked, dragging him back from his memories.

"The king 'anded over the running of the place to Brutan House," Billy said, his tone growing bitter. "Put it in the slimy hands of Lord Mykov."

He spat on the floor between us without hesitation.

"I beat up his son," I said casually.

Billy blinked. "You what?"

"Yeah," I said. "On a train. Beat him and his mates down when they were headed to school. That's why I'm here. Thirty years, assault and robbery."

Billy stared at me for a long second. Then he roared with laughter.

"You got one over on that prick Mykov? Ha! I wish I could see his face when he finds out!"

I grinned, a bit of pride swelling in my chest. It felt good to have the tension broken, to have Billy smiling at me again instead of weighing my soul with his eyes.

"How come you hate him so much?" I asked.

Billy's face darkened again.

"The Warden runs this place, day to day. But it's Mykov that pulls the strings. Sets the agenda. Makes the rules. It's 'is vision that turned this prison into what it is now."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "No offence, but it sounds better than what you're describing. Cleaner. Safer."

Billy gave me a knowing look.

"Of course it seems better. More guards. More space. Prisoners work, produce goods, sell them back to the real world. Looks clean. Efficient. Respectable."

I nodded slowly, waiting for the twist I could feel coming.

"This place was 'orrible back then, no doubt. Deaths and fights everywhere. But what do you expect? You throw a bunch of criminals together, they're gonna act like criminals."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Mykov had a solution. He came in one day with his private army, the Wallowhackers."

He spat the name like it was poison and I stiffened.

I'd heard of them. The Wallowhackers were Brutan's elite. Famous for their role in the House Challenges. Famous for tearing their way up the ranks almost single-handedly.

"Let me tell you, kid," Billy said, leaning in slightly. "Those pricks belong in 'ere with us. They're scum. Their leader, some geezer called Sebastian, is a sadistic freak. Loves to hear his victims scream before they die. Plays with 'em like a cat does with a mouse."

He shook his head in disgust before continuing.

"So anyway, Mykov turns up with his army of killers and assembles all the prisoners in the yard. Has us surrounded, guards on the catwalks, crossbows trained on us from every angle. Then he steps forward and gives a little speech."

Billy cleared his throat theatrically and adopted a snooty, pompous tone.

"'Good day. You have been left to your own devices for too long, and our glorious King has tasked me, on behalf of the great Brutan House, to get you back into shape.'"

He took a breath, his lip curling as he dropped the act for a moment.

"A real pompous prick 'e was. Looked down 'is nose at us like we were muck."

Billy shook his head before slipping back into the impression.

"'Around you are some of the best soldiers our fine country has produced—the Wallowhackers. I suggest you get used to their presence because they are to take over from your current jailors, effective immediately. For too long the dogs have run free in this place. That stops now. So-called gangs will no longer be tolerated. Anyone deemed to be a member will be treated as an enemy of the Brutan House. How do we treat enemies, you ask?'"

Billy paused dramatically, his voice darkening.

"'e gave a little signal, and suddenly Sebastian and his goons started cuttin' people down. They weren't even targeting gang members specifically. Just whoever was closest."

I stared at him, stunned. I had heard of prison riots and violent crackdowns before, but nothing like this.

"So the guards... they're Wallowhackers?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

"Not anymore," Billy said, shaking his head. "At least, not active ones. Most of 'em are retired from the Challenges now. But back then? They were fresh. They were killers through and through."

He took another breath before continuing.

"They killed dozens of people that day, just to prove a point. And the demonstration wasn't over yet."

Billy resumed his mocking impression of Lord Mykov.

"'I hope that message has been received loud and clear, because rest assured, we will happily repeat it should it be deemed necessary.'"

Billy dropped the act again and leaned forward, voice dropping low.

"'e paused there, waitin' to see if any of us would make a move. We didn't. We knew better. Then 'e carried on. 'There are those among you drawn to violence, like beasts who cannot control their temper. It is embarrassing. But alas, we understand you are little more than animals. To that end, we have decided that if you wish to fight... we shall let you. After all, the people of Radan always need fresh bodies for the Challenges.'"

My jaw dropped. "They send prisoners into the Challenges?"

The gears in my head started turning fast. If they sent us out armed, into a battle, that meant I might actually have a chance. A real chance. If I could grab a weapon, blend into the chaos, maybe—just maybe—I could escape.

Billy gave me a look like he could read every thought flashing through my mind.

"I can see it," he said, almost amused. "You think it'd be easy to slip away in the carnage, don't ya?"

I looked down sheepishly, feeling foolish for being read so easily.

"That's what a lot of people thought, too," Billy said. "Led to the biggest riot this place 'ad ever seen. Everyone thought they were clever. Everyone thought they were gonna be the one who made it out."

He paused for a moment, his expression darkening.

"Maybe a few did. Maybe. But most? Most ended up dead."

I swallowed hard.

"See, the Wallowhackers were green back then," Billy explained. "Brand new. Mykov's pet project. They needed real-world experience before their first official Challenge. And they got it. By using us as their training dummies."

"They used prisoners for practice?" I asked, horrified.

Billy nodded grimly.

"'Trainin'' is a generous word. They armed the prisoners with blunt swords, old axes, sometimes even sticks. Meanwhile, the Wallowhackers kept their steel. Real weapons. Sharp as razors."

He looked away for a moment, as if seeing it all again.

"Mykov wanted them to learn what it was like to stab a real body. 'ow blood spurts. How it feels when a blade hits bone. Where to strike to kill fast, and where to strike to make someone suffer."

I felt sick. "That's horrible. Surely someone would have stopped it? The King? Someone?"

Billy gave a cold, humorless laugh.

"Who would've told him? By the time anyone came to inspect the prison, it was already over. The blood had been washed away. The bodies buried or burned. The survivors too scared to talk. As far as the outside world knows, the Dungeons of Achrane is a model prison now. A place of order. A place where criminals are reformed."

He shook his head slowly, his voice low.

"But underneath all that polish? It's still rotten. And it always will be."