Disguises proved to be no problem at all. The festivities were drawing guests to the castle, and those unlucky enough to be traveling alone and in proximity to the three friends, found their throats silently and efficiently slashed by Peter Tork. It was unclear how this new skill had been learned and honed to perfection in such a short period of time, but it served the trio well and they were not inclined to question it. Covered in the thick, heavy robes of their still-warm victims, Micky, Davy and Peter crossed the lowered bridge and entered the castle unhindered.

“Now what?”

“We find the way to the dungeon.”

“Man, this place is huge. We’ll never find it.”

“I will,” Micky stated. It wasn’t false confidence. The maze of hallways and dank, dark stairwells were clearly mapped in his mind.

Davy’s skin began to crawl as the all too memorable odors of the castle’s darkest recesses assaulted his nostrils. It was a putrid conglomeration of human waste and blood, and the unmistakable stench of fear and misery. For a moment, he thought he was going to be ill. Darkness closed in around him until all he could see was one narrow tunnel of light before his legs gave way beneath him.

Peter caught him before he fell, but the sudden noise echoed in the barren space.

“ ‘Oo goes there?”

The three men pressed their bodies back against the wall, trying to keep their shadows from betraying them. Heavy footsteps moved closer across the stone floor.

“I’ve lost my way, kind sir. Can you help me?” Micky’s high voice called out timidly.

The dungeon guard smiled. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a total loss. “Come closer, right, lass.”

Micky held the robe at his throat and stepped out of the darkness.

“Aye, right, but yor a pretty one, aren’t yer, lass?” The burly man reached out with one huge hand and brushed the curls from Micky’s cheek with long, dirty nails. “No ‘urry ter hammer and tack now, is there? We can ‘ave us own knees-up right ‘ere.”

Micky turned away and lowered his eyes, silently beckoning the man to move in front of him and take a closer look at his face beneath the hood. The guard accepted the invitation eagerly and bent his head down to get a closer look at his evening’s diversion. Micky had one brief glimpse of rotting teeth and yellowed eyeballs before Peter’s knife put a swift end to the man’s mating game. The guard’s face froze and the slightest hint of surprise flickered across his features before he fell in a shapeless heap at Micky’s feet.

Davy lifted the heavy key from the guard’s wrist and looked at his two friends. They’d know for sure now - either way.

“Open the door,” Micky said.

+++++++

At times, the heat pressed in around him, lying heavy against his skin until the rough cloth beneath him was soaked with his sweat. Other times, the cold surrounded him like a shroud, seeping in through his pores until he was helpless to stop the violent trembling of his body. He could hear sounds in the distance, but hadn’t the strength to interpret them. Objects moved around him, but even when he managed to open his eyes for more than a brief moment, the world was only a blurry mass of threatening shadows. And always, there was the pain. Deep, penetrating, all-encompassing pain that even sleep couldn’t completely erase.

Demons haunted him in his slumber until he thrashed and screamed at them to end this intolerable misery. Why did they torment him, making him believe that it was Micky who sat beside him, stroking his skin with cool, gentle fingers and murmuring soothing words of comfort? How did they manage to capture the scent of him and the sound of his voice? It made Mike cry sometimes, knowing that it wasn’t real - knowing the illusion would soon be replaced by the faces of his captors. They’d laugh at his foolishness and send new waves of pain to make him moan out loud, though there was no one to hear him.

“Come, my son. There is nothing you can do here.”

“I know,” Micky said softly. “I just wanna be here in case he wakes up.”

“Time must be used wisely, young one. You will serve your friend well by attending to your studies.”

Micky sighed and rose to his feet, reluctantly leaving Mike’s side to follow his mentor.

+++++++

Mike woke to a blast of cold air and the sound of a door being slammed. Frantically scanning his surroundings, he was startled to find himself in a large room that was most definitely not the dungeon. From the crude furniture scattered throughout and the fire that crackled and hissed from the nearby hearth, this appeared to be someone’s cabin. He’d almost convinced himself that he was dreaming again when the door opened and another cold blast of air rushed through the room.

“Ah, I see that you have awakened at last. Your friends will be very happy.”

The source of the voice stood just inside the door, with a stack of firewood in his arms. As his eyes began to focus, Mike could make out the figure of a wizened old man with long gray hair and a beard to match. Beside him stood a young boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen.

Mike tried to sit up, but he was too weak from months of inactivity. He slumped back down to the mattress, his temples throbbing from the strain.

“You have been ill. It would be best if you kept still until your strength returns.”

“Yeah? Who are you?”

“I am Vortigern,” the old man replied. “You are in my home.”

Mike tried to digest that piece of information. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten from the dungeon to here.

“I had three friends.”

Vortigern looked at him with a hint of amusement. “Yes, I know your friends. I owe them a great debt.”

Tears flooded Mike’s eyes and he swallowed to dissolve the sudden lump in his throat. They weren’t dead. He turned his face away so the old man wouldn’t see.

“Why’s that,” he asked.

The old man pulled the young boy close. “They have returned my only son to me.”

Mike turned back with a puzzled look.

Next to Vortigern stood the boy who had cared for him in the castle.

“This is my son, Seth.”

Mike had a vague, uncomfortable feeling about the boy, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what was causing it. As the boy moved closer to the bed and smiled down at him, the sudden memories of their last encounter made Mike’s face grow hot with embarrassment. He’d almost let this young child seduce him back at the castle. What the hell had he been thinking?

Vortigern moved toward the hearth, busying himself with something Mike couldn’t see. Seth seated himself at the foot of Mike’s bed and smiled.

“You look much better,” he said.

Mike peered at him closely. It was inconceivable to him that such a young child could have brought him here.

“Did you get me out of that dungeon?”

“I only helped,” Seth explained. “Your friends came during the feast and they killed the guard. We slipped from the castle and stole horses from the Lord’s stables.”

Mike remembered none of it.

“You were so silent that we feared you were dead.”

Passed out was more like it. Thank goodness. Mike couldn’t imagine what the trip would’ve been like if he’d been conscious. A sudden thought occurred to him and he tried to sit up again, his eyes blazing with renewed fear.

“Do they know where we are? What if someone followed us?”

“You are safe here,” Seth assured him. “There are forces in the woods that will protect us.”

Oh yeah? Mike raised his eyebrows at the boy, clearly communicating his skepticism.

“My father is a wizard,” the boy explained.

Mike curled his lip. “Ain’t no such thing as wizards.”

Vortigern snorted. “Such arrogance for one so young! You have not lived long enough to know all there is of the world.”

Mike lowered his eyes at the reproof.

Vortigern’s demeanor softened a bit. After all, the young man before him had danced with death, and some ill manners could be overlooked. He filled a cup with steaming liquid and brought it to Mike’s lips. “Drink,” he said.

The old man had indeed been a powerful wizard who would have been content to live in the castle for the rest of his days; but Lord Dargon had had a different plan. He’d wanted the man’s only son for his own, and had plied the boy with gifts and empty promises. If only the wizard could have used his magic on Lord Dargon, but he had taken a solemn oath to Lord Dargon’s father. The magic could never be used against a member of the family. The wizard had been left with no choice but to flee with his son to a place where Lord Dargon would never find him.

Ah, but fate was a stubborn creature. Against his father’s will, the boy stole away one night to visit the Lord, but was captured and made a slave as punishment for his father’s insolence.

Two long years had passed, and the wizard had begun to believe he might never see his son again. Miraculously, the boy had returned after all, accompanied by three promising young men - each with a special talent to be nurtured. Time would only tell about this fourth who watched him so intently with his shrewd, black eyes.

+++++++

Slowly, through the cold, dark months of winter, Mike convalesced. At first, it took all his concentration to rebuild his strength, but soon he was able to perform simple tasks around the cabin. Mixed with his pride at each new accomplishment was a vague, uneasy feeling that something about his friends wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t just the change in their appearance, though that had been strange enough at first. It had been startling to see Davy wearing loose robes that left no hint of the body beneath them, and even more shocking when the hood had slipped to his shoulders, revealing the closely shaved head it had covered. Something about modesty, Davy had explained, and how the gods frowned upon vanity. Whatever. Mike was pretty sure Davy would change his mind about that if a hot looking chick came into the picture.

As for Peter, his hair had grown to his shoulders and he had a full, tawny colored beard. The muscles in his arms and legs were well developed and he had a wild, rugged look about him that was not without appeal.

Micky looked the most like he had before, except for the longer hair. It hung in loose, thick curls, giving him the appearance of a lion - or an angel. Mike wasn’t sure which. Then again, there was something different about his features too. They looked sharper, more angular than they had before, and the little-boy quality was no longer there. Mike had chalked it up to a faulty memory. Being sick for so long could change your perception of things, couldn't it?

“Help me with this, will ya?” Peter dropped a large bundle on the floor in front of the hearth.

“Sure,” Micky said with a disinterested shrug as he dropped down next to the bundle and waited for Peter to open it.

The pair sat for a long time, carefully examining each and every article while Mike watched in silence from the bed. Neither one of them spoke to him. Finally, Peter grew restless, as he always did when he was in the cabin too long.

“I gotta go out for a while, Mick. I’ll see ya later.”

“Uh-huh,” Micky responded without looking up.

It was rare for Mike to find himself alone with Micky. Wasting no time, he moved to sit on the floor next to him, sliding one long leg behind him and the other across his knees.

Micky turned to him and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Mike responded, resting one hand against Micky’s upper back. “Whatcha got there?”

Micky looked down at the small leather pouch in his hand. It was heavy with coins that meant nothing to him. He tossed it aside and turned his head away slightly.

“It’s nothin’.”

“Sure it is. Where did it come from?”

“Peter brought it.”

“I know. Where’d he get it from?”

Micky was silent, refusing to meet Mike’s eyes. Mike leaned in closer and used his free hand to turn Micky’s face toward his.

“Come on, Mick. Talk to me. Where does Pete go when he leaves here? What does he do out there all day and night?”

Wide, brown eyes looked up at him. “He hunts.”

Mike snorted. “And I suppose the animals wear clothes and carry coin purses full of money.”

Micky stared at Mike’s leg. He was pinned beneath it, and there was no way to escape without risking injury to Mike. He didn’t respond.

“What about Davy, Mick? What does he do?”

“He … he prays.”

Okay, no harm in that. Now, for the toughest question.

“And you?”

His only response was a shrug. Mike pulled him close, holding him in his arms and rubbing his back with firm, soothing strokes of his hand.

“Micky, why are you always with Vortigern? What is it that you do?”

“He’s teaching me.”

“Teaching you what?”

“Magic,” Micky whispered, knowing that Mike would never believe him.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Mike hugged Micky even closer to him and kissed the side of his face.

“Has he touched you?”

As soon as Micky realized what Mike really meant, he pulled back and stared up at him with angry eyes.

“No! It’s nothin’ like that, Mike! He teaches me magic. Watch.” Micky stared into the fire until it exploded in a great pouf of smoke and flames.

Mike was dumbfounded. “Shit. This is all too weird for me.”

Micky squirmed out of his embrace and slid his legs out from under Mike’s. He rose to his feet and glared down at him. “Don’t fuck with us, man. I mean it.”

No sooner had Micky stormed out of the door than Peter came back in, stomping his feet to remove the snow and ice that clung to his boots.

“What the fuck is wrong with all of you,” Mike shouted.

“Well, well, Michael. Your temper has recovered nicely.”

“Never mind that. What’s goin’ on around here? What’s that old man done to you and Micky?”

Peter’s voice turned cold. “Nothing but save our lives Michael - and yours.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Micky….”

“Micky’s a big boy, Mike. You can’t tell him what to do anymore.”

“Fuck you.”

Peter chuckled. “Sucks to lose your power, doesn’t it, Mike?”

“Where’s Davy?” It seemed a good idea to change his strategy a bit.

“What do you want with Davy?”

“He’s the only normal one around here anymore.”

“Normal?”

“Yeah! At least all he does is pray. Wouldn’t hurt any of us to do a little more of that.”

“And that’s what you call normal.” Peter shook his head.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with prayin’ for stuff. You think I don’t pray that we all get out of this okay?”

Peter turned to Mike with the coldest smile he’d ever seen.

“You think that’s what he prays for,” Peter asked.

+++++++

Spring arrived early that year, and with the re-awakening of the earth came a rejuvenation of spirits. Mike spent as much time as possible outdoors, working in the wizard’s garden, chopping wood for next winter, and tending the ever-present pot of stew that now cooked over an open fire. He stretched tall and inhaled the warm air as he basked in the beauty of the woods.

“Don’t forget who’s holding the bow and arrow, Mick.”

Mike turned toward the sound of Peter’s voice. He was standing in the clearing with his bow and arrow aimed into the air. Suddenly, a large falcon swooped down at him and grabbed at his head with its powerful claws.

“Okay, I’m joking! I’m joking! Cut it out,” Peter yelled, dropping the weapons and covering his head with his arms.

Davy’s laughter echoed in the trees. “You never learn, do you, Peter?” He raised one hand high in the air and the falcon dove toward it, landing gracefully on his padded arm.

“Damn bird is supposed to help me hunt, not try to kill me,” Peter complained, causing Davy to laugh again.

Mike hurried toward his friends, following them just beyond a thick clump of bushes. He wanted a closer look at the falcon, but when he got there, it was gone. He was pleasantly surprised, however, to find Micky with them. He’d just assumed he was off somewhere with Vortigern, as usual.

They seemed surprised to see him at first, but then they greeted him warmly, surrounding him and making sure he was all right. It felt good to be a part of them again. They laughed and joked together until Peter and then Davy had to leave. Micky’s smile reminded him that they were alone now, and Mike accepted the silent invitation, wrapping his arms around Micky’s bare torso and kissing him, long and deep.

“Make love to me, Mike,” Micky whispered.

The arms that encircled his body tensed suddenly, and Micky regretted what he’d said.

“I….I can’t, Mick. You know I….I…”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, really, Mike, it doesn’t matter. It just slipped out. I’m sorry,” he trailed off in a near whisper.

“Aw, I wish I could give you what you want, Mick.”

“You do. Forget it, Mike. Please. There’ll be lots of time when you’re all healed.” Micky hugged Mike hard and kissed him again, wishing he could wipe all the sadness from his mind.

Something was pressing painfully against Mike’s chest and he pulled away enough to see between their bodies. His fingers lifted a small vial that hung from a leather cord around Micky’s neck.

“What’s this?”

Micky snatched it away. “Don’t touch that!”

“Why? What is it?”

Micky sighed. There wasn’t much point in lying about it. Mike would have to know sooner or later. “It’s poison.”

“Poison! Mick, what’re you doin’ with a thing like that?”

“I’ll never let them take us alive again, Mike. If we’re ever captured, this’ll kill us before they have a chance to hurt any of us again.”

Mike understood. He would’ve welcomed death more than once in the castle. “You sure there’s enough poison in the vial to kill us all?”

“It only takes a tiny drop. There’s enough poison in this vial to kill an entire army.”

“Then why do you carry so much?”

Micky smiled sweetly, but his words sent a chill through Mike’s spine. “You never know when I’ll want to kill an entire army.”

+++++++

They were going back, or so his friends believed. Micky had spent endless hours poring over ancient transcripts, and he was now convinced that they could return to their own dimension. All they had to do was be in the right place at the right time.

Mike was certain it was all a lot of nonsense. As far as he was concerned, they could forget about ever seeing 1968 again. But then … what if it was true? What if they really could find their way back, the same way they’d come to this god-forsaken time? They weren’t the same men they’d been before coming here.

In his daydreams, he could almost make himself believe that it was only his imagination, but in reality, there was no denying it any longer. As much as he wished it wasn’t true, in his heart of hearts he knew. His friends were evil.

Peter was a murderer. He stalked his prey, playing a silent game of cat and mouse until he grew bored with them. How many times had Mike seen him slip into the small stable with a bundle under his arm? How many items of clothing and trinkets had appeared, unexplained, in the cabin? How many visitors to Lord Dargon’s castle never reached their destination?

Davy prayed - or channeled, as Mike preferred to call it. Mike couldn’t prove a connection, but he’d heard tales of Lord Dargon’s descent into madness. It was said that a strange voice spoke to him, urging him to inflict wounds upon his body so that he was covered from head to toe with deep cuts and painful burns. He now spent his days and nights with his hands and feet tied to the bedposts so he couldn’t injure himself any more, screaming at the voice that still taunted him - a voice he could only describe as an Englishman, who spoke with a dialect unfamiliar to his ears.

And then there was Micky. A year ago, Mike would’ve thought it impossible, but now he was almost certain that his best friend could take the form of other creatures. He sometimes disappeared for two or three days at a time, and the falcon always preceded his return. It would swoop down from incredible heights to land just beyond the clearing. A short time later, Micky would appear, his hair a tangled mass of curls and a wild look in his eyes. Word would reach them soon after of the latest catastrophe to befall the castle. Fire, pestilence, rats, floods, insects. Seems they’d had quite a year. But Micky sat silent and wide-eyed with innocence as he listened to the tales.

It was Micky that bothered him the most. A casual observer might have missed the subtle changes in his personality, but to Mike, they were as obvious as the effects of a first hard frost on the last flowers of summer. His once playful humor was tinged with coldness now, and the easy smile Mike loved had been replaced by a brooding seriousness that added years to his youthful features.

Each day it became more evident that the souls of his friends were quickly slipping away, and Mike feared the men they would become. It no longer mattered where they were. Something had to be done to stop the tide - while some small essence of the men he loved still remained.

+++++++

Mike lay awake in the darkness, concentrating on each man’s distinctive sound to assure himself that all were asleep. He reached down and slowly drew the cork from a flask of wine he’d hidden near the bed. Satisfied that it was ready and within easy reach, he turned to face Micky.

How beautiful he looked. His long lashes cast a lacy shadow on his cheeks, and his lips were parted as if they were waiting to be kissed.

Mike sighed. If only it hadn’t come to this. With trembling hands, he reached for the vial of poison and very slowly and carefully worked the stopper free, pausing every few seconds to make sure Micky was still asleep. When it was finally open, he lifted the flask of wine to the bed and poured half the contents of the vial into it. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, but he couldn’t take a chance. If this didn’t work, he’d never gain their trust again - and he could end up losing his life for nothing. He closed the vial carefully and set the flask of wine on the floor, pushing the cork firmly back in. His hand fumbled in the dark and the flask fell over with a small thud.

He spun to face Micky and found him staring with startled, sleep-befuddled eyes.

“What was that?”

“Nothin’, babe. I just knocked over one of my shoes.” He stroked Micky’s hair gently. “Go back to sleep.”

Micky drowsily accepted the explanation and lay his head back down on the pillow. When he turned onto his side, Mike spooned up behind him and wrapped one arm around his chest. “I love you, Mick,” he whispered into the dark curls. “I’ll always love you.”

+++++++

On the eve of the summer solstice, the four young men returned to Arbor Low Circle. Fearing for Seth’s safety, Vortigern had not accompanied them. They set up a small camp, distant enough from the other vigilant observers to avoid attracting any attention. Far too nervous to sleep, they spent the night talking about home, wondering out loud if their families and friends had given up hope of ever seeing them again. As the faint pink light of dawn shown just above the horizon, Mike proposed a toast.

“To righting wrongs,” he said.

“Here, here,” Peter agreed.

Mike passed him the flask of wine.

+++++

As usual, Micky had forgotten to turn the television set off before leaving the hotel room. Responding to a complaint from an irate guest, the night manager rapped several times with his knuckles and then pressed his ear to the door. All he could hear was the evening news report.

The bodies of four young men, one originally from Manchester and three Americans, were discovered this morning near Arbor Low Circle. Each year, one to two hundred people visit the ancient monument on the summer solstice.

Based on initial reports, the young men had attended a family reunion in Manchester the previous evening. The men bore no signs of injury, and the cause of death has not been determined. Names are being withheld pending notification of the victim’s families.