by D.E. Dunlop
“I will ask the questions, son. Now what have you done with the stones?” The stranger demanded.
“Ooooh, somebody’s a grumpy smurf. I have no idea what you’re talking about, schmuck, so get out of my face!” Ren retorted angrily. He realized this soldier was not buying his ruse.
“Of course you know what I’m speaking of. Two months ago my army chased you and your little boyfriend out of the Field of Lords and we were close on your heels for several weeks straight. Certainly your mind is not so small as to forget something like that so quickly, you pathetic little twit.”
Ren raised his arms out and looked dramatically about himself. “Apparently I’m alone here. Are you sure you have the right guy?” He responded rather sarcastically.
“Of course you’re alone. The dogs caught up to your buddy yesterday. He cried like a little girl when they took him down. I almost felt sorry for him.”
Ren wondered but refused to believe the man. He did realize the man recognized him and chose to abandon the charade.
“How did you find me? I left no trail.” Ren asked confidently and calm.
“Find you? You’re exactly where I put you.” The man replied smugly as he leaned against a poplar.
“And I was starting to think you were a lunatic; put me here?” Ren spit, half under his breath and quickly losing interest in the conversation.
“I am Milton, Prince of Sitty. I am a Story Teller…” Milton began haughtily with his brow raised waiting for recognition.
“I’ll say.” Ren interrupted. He returned the look with a slight shake of his head as if to say, “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you know of the Story Tellers. We speak over the stones and our words come to pass? Ring a bell? Your fate is in my hands boy. Just tell me where the stones are.” Milton demanded impatiently.
“No one decides my fate except me.” Ren replied sternly.
“I’ve heard that before.” Milton chortled. “Shall we test it?” He asked stepping forward and speaking with one hand while resting the other on the hilt of his sword.
Ren combed the area with his eyes for signs of a possible ambush as the two began to square off. “This is hardly fair, there’s only one of you.” He mused.
“And no witnesses.” Milton added.
A sly grin broke out on Ren’s face. He thoroughly enjoyed poker, music, theft and various types of mischief in general, but swordplay; swordplay was his absolute favourite pastime. Ren drew his weapon.
“Rather short, isn’t it?” Milton scoffed “And the red headed boy thief, in the heat of battle, tripped on a root and fell. He drops his sword and waits on his knees to meet his fate at the feet of the dashing Story Teller.” Milton prophesied with his nose in the air.
Ren laughed boisterously and leapt in. They exchanged assaults and insults over and over again. Their chests heaved. The cold damp air tore its way into their lungs. The men pushed themselves free of each other to square off again.
Ren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I should really quit smoking.” He laughed.
“How’s your dear old daddy doing?” Milton chided between breaths.
“How do you know my father?” Ren demanded, looking through his brow with his face down.
“I met him in the forest a number of years back. Oh, right. That’s where he met his fate wasn’t it?” Milton chuckled and smiled to himself, seeing Ren clench his body. “Ah, I assume correctly then. I thought you looked familiar, just like your dear old daddy. Silly me. Silly him rather, poor fool didn’t seem to think I would shoot him in the back.”
Ren’s face went red with rage. He charged at Milton with a roar. His foot twisted into some branches that had been partially buried under the leaves. Milton stepped to one side and mockingly buffed his nails on his chest as Ren fell on his face and dropped his sword. He scrambled to his knees and stopped suddenly when he heard the hammer of a pistol cock at his ear.
“Make a run, boy, make a run.” Milton dared. “You know, you’re a lot like your daddy…” He said. “He didn’t like hearing how his pappy died either.”
Ren breathed deeply, carefully grasped his fallen sword and reached his free hand around under his other arm while Milton continued his boast.
“Imagine, three generations of the same family killed by the same sword. Of course, it was my mother who killed your grandfather.” He teased. “You really don’t know who you are do you? Such a shame, you might have stood a chance here.” Milton had never been one for paying attention to detail. He didn’t see Ren’s slight movements nor was he quick to recall his mother teaching him the importance of the Gorchan in manifesting his stories. He assumed that because two of the stones were in their possession in Sitty that he was invulnerable.
In less time than it takes to blink, much to the prince’s shock and dismay, Ren managed to spin himself around, cut the pistol free of his would be assassin with his previously hidden sword and thrust Milton through with the other.
Ren supported his foe for a moment, looking into his face. “These short swords are called colichemardes and are prevalent among Florentines, and like I said, I decide my own fate. Now get off my sword.” He hissed through his teeth. He then spit in Milton’s face and pushed him backward. After a few minutes he leaned against a tree and lit a smoke, French inhaled once and exhaled through his nostrils. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and then leaned on his knees while he caught his breath. The vomit caught him entirely off guard and persisted a few times. As much as the fight had thrilled and excited him he had never had to take it that far before. Of course, no one knew that.
**********
The leaves of the trees drooped in the stifling heat. It had not rained for most of the spring and the ground was dry and crunched beneath the ancient Midew’s moccasins. He leaned against a mighty maple to catch his breath. A raven croaked a hollow song in the distance. He blinked his empty eyes and drank deeply from the gourd he carried his water in. For many weeks Grey Eyes had been out in the wilderness on what, some would call a vision quest. Much to Waiting Fox’s dismay and against his many protests the old sage went alone. He followed the Madawaska from the camp to Long Rapids where he perched himself on a precipice to meditate. He had awakened one morning with a strong feeling that the trek was necessary and so he went with a bedroll, a hollowed gourd and fishing equipment.
“You haven’t left the camp on your own in years.” Waiting Fox had argued.
“I’m sure the river still flows in the same direction.” Grey Eyes dismissed.
He had set himself on the top of the crag so he looked south over the rapids. The sun had visited him a number of times while he gazed within himself beyond the horizon. Only once each day he went to the river to fill his gourd, other than that he stayed beneath the giant pine, in the shade and out of reach of the scorching rays of his daily visitor. Sometime around the fourth day of his fast he had a vision.
He found himself floating over the trees, gliding like an eagle. He watched the ground as it passed slowly in circles below him. He could feel the wind beneath the feathers of his outstretched wings and enjoyed the sensation as it lifted and carried him effortlessly. While he floated there the sky grew dark as heavy clouds collected before the sun. Just before he lost sight of the ground he saw a great pack of wolves gathering beneath him. They looked at him with ravenous hunger. He could see their large sharp teeth and felt their hot breath. It scared him so he forgot he was an eagle. He began to fall in the darkness, rolling over and over, this way and that. Somewhere he heard a lion roar that distracted him from his fear. He remembered he was an eagle and he spread his great wings just before he would have hit the wolves and tore one across its back with his magnificent talons. As the injured wolf yelped the wind spirited the eagle far up and away.
With a new determination the blind man left his sac
red place and headed, once again for home.
When he entered the camp he was already calling for his apprentice. Waiting Fox arrived with obvious concern on his face.
“What’s the matter master?” He asked.
“Assemble the Knights of the Most High. It’s time.” The ancient Midew instructed through excited breaths. His apprentice would have taken his leave, but a distant memory, an echo of something long forgotten, rang in the old man’s mind. He took hold of Waiting fox’s arm and the young man turned with surprise. “Tell them not to take anything with them, only their cloaks.” Waiting Fox raised his eyebrows with disbelief.
“You want the Knights to go into battle with nothing but their cloaks? I can’t tell them that, they’ll all be killed.” The apprentice argued heatedly. Grey Eyes sighed a sigh of dismay and resignation.
“All these years and still you have not disposed of the thing that poisons your soul.” Grey Eyes said sadly. He looked, with his empty eyes, directly into his apprentice’s eyes. His sorrow was clearly described in the lines of his weathered old face. “Tell them only their cloaks.” Waiting Fox dismissed his master’s concerns and went to fulfill his charge.
Chapter 13
The Interrogation
“Bring me that one!” Captain Maynard demanded of a Sittyan soldier, pointing at Angela. “Where is the hiding place of the royal guard? Do an old friend a favour, Angela. Do yourself a favour, he obviously doesn’t love you or he wouldn’t have left without knowing your fate, now, would he? Where is it?” He growled in her down cast face.
“Why are you doing this...” she started with a soft fearful voice, but was interrupted by the back of his hand.
“Where is it?” He roared, spittle spattering the handprint on her face.
“Truly I do not know.” she began again but was put to her knees with a closed fist.
“How dare you!” One of the Simconian prisoners screamed from behind.
Maynard looked coldly at the troop who had protested his actions and then to one of the Sittyan soldiers. He motioned sharply with his head for the soldier to be removed from the other prisoners and to be taken out into the corridor. The woman fought and kicked as two Sittyan soldiers drug her out.
Still attempting to hide her shame, Angela continued to hunch between the soldiers who held her. The terror on her face was almost hidden in shadow as she watched her fellow disappear.
A pistol barked in the corridor and Angela would have fallen to the floor had it not been for those detaining her before Maynard. A small moan escaped her and the Captain continued his interrogation.
“Now, where were we?” He looked sternly at the two restraining the weeping, bent over young woman. They jerked her upright and she spit in the Captain’s face. After calmly removing the spit with a handkerchief he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head down and punched her in the lower ribs. She dropped to her knees, gasping and writhing.
“Tell me where the escape route is woman.” He ordered while grinding her fingers into the floor with his boot heel.
After a moment of silence Maynard ordered another prisoner to be taken out.
“No!!” Angela screamed “I’ll tell you, just don’t kill any more of them.” She pleaded through sobs and gasps. “Why are you doing this, Maynard, your own people?”
He leaned low and put his lips to her ear.
“All of this could have been avoided my dear, Angela. All I ever wanted was to love you and for you to love me. Is that too much to ask?”
“But I do love you, Maynard. I always have.” She replied through trembling lips.
“That’s no longer what I want from your lips. I’ve moved on. I have a new love, one much greater and more powerful than you; now tell me where they are before I resume exterminating these vermin.”
She turned to him and whispered into his ear through sobs of regret and guilt.
A short time later the passage was open and Maynard had soldiers enter in search of stragglers and the place the hidden halls lead to.
As many solders disappeared into the secret tunnels the two restraining Angela let down their guard. She had been huddled on her knees between them sobbing. At least that is what Maynard had supposed. Seeing that her guards were not paying attention she liberated a sword and attacked them ferociously, in spite of her nakedness. In a fight for life modesty has no place.
Maynard’s lieutenant drew and aimed his pistol at her but Maynard stopped him.
“She may have some entertainment value in her. Take her alive.” He instructed thoughtfully. Watching the fight had given him an idea.
By the time they had a net on her she had slain five of his men.
As the months passed Maynard grew ever fonder of tormenting and torturing the Simconians he had captured on that victorious summer night. Not only were his methods cruel and unusual, they were distasteful and ignorant. Not to say, of course, that any methods are not. His were especially crude. He wasn’t even interested in gaining information after a while. He just enjoyed the smell of spilled blood and the screams of pain and horror echoing through the cinder block corridors. He had even come up with ways to make the prisoners torture each other. However, his absolute pride and joy was his gladiator ring.
The ring was rather makeshift to start, but as time went on he eventually had a spectator’s ring like the ancient Romans. It was built in the centre of the fort where the main avenues intersected at the foot of the palace steps near the top of the hill. This location allowed Maynard to watch from the window of his palace chambers if he so chose. Initially he had thought that would be grand, but over time he found it much more enjoyable to sit at the edge of the ring where he could hear the screams and moans and see the blood.
He randomly separated the prisoners into squads of five or six members each. Each squad was given different coloured leather armour, which included full-face masks to keep their identities from the other squads. Each fighter was convinced that the more opponents they killed the closer they were to freedom for themselves and their friends. What they did not know was that the enemies they fought were the very friends and family members they fought to free. To keep the excitement high Maynard would occasionally release wild dogs into the ring. If any gladiators refused to fight he would shoot one of them in the knees and let the dogs tear them apart.
The whole debacle began as a one-time event. Kathryn, the fair princess of Sitty and heiress to the throne, had wanted to visit Fort Bayfield and Maynard, being deeply infatuated with his future queen, had desired greatly to impress her. Impress her he did.
That crisp October afternoon would be deeply engraved in his mind for the rest of his days. Being the one who conquered the fort he had been given the honour of sitting next to her, Kathryn, the object of his twisted obsession. He would barely keep his eyes off of her for the entire event, caught between the two very things that he lived for. Her hair was wrapped and coiled with jewels on top of her head, her lips parted stiffly and her jaw clenched ecstatically. The Captain’s eye lingered exuberantly on her bare neck and collarbones. His chest heaved and his heart leapt with her squeals of delight as she dug her fingers into the muscles above his right knee.
She was so incredibly pleased that he quickly set to work on building a permanent ring with weekly bouts. They varied the events by mixing up the odds. Sometimes they would pit one on one or one on several. Sometimes he put one against a pack of dogs or one whole squad against another. Occasionally he had one team dress as Sittyan soldiers to increase the rage in the atmosphere.
Much to Captain Maynard’s dismay, Kathryn was overjoyed at Angela’s performance and demanded that he give her special consideration.
“But your greatness,” Maynard whined, “I had hoped to feed that one to the dogs. She has made a mockery of me”.
“What could that sad little prisoner have done to mock my big brave Captain?” Kathryn asked with a pout.
“But, my lady, she must die. She has done nothing but humiliate me my whole life.” Maynard whined.
“Oh, my sweet thing, how could such a girl as this humiliate such a man as you? Did you not hold a higher rank than she in her own father’s army? Kathryn cooed.
“Yes.” Maynard said rather distantly as he stared at Angela. “Once, a long time ago, she and I were close…” He began. Of course, his idea of close was sending anonymous gifts and love letters and watching her reaction from a distance. She, the whole time, was being courted by, none other than, Jessie. He knew nothing of the courtship because his concentration was entirely on his own wants and his desire for Angela. “But she left me for my best friend.” He continued his distorted tale of the relationship between him, Jessie and Angela. “She made a public mockery of my skills with a sword on more than one occasion.” What he referred to now were the times he half jokingly challenged her in fencing class and combat sword fighting. He simply couldn’t get over the fact that Jessie got “his” girl. He had made some kind of snide remark when her opponent got a point. Before he knew it he was up there with her. She beat him effortlessly on both occasions, even though he was the top in his age group. He just couldn’t forgive her. “How could she? She’s three years my younger.” He brooded for years. “Besides, if I can’t have her no one should have her.” He smiled.
“You will do nothing to increase the chance of her death. Kathryn instructed as she returned to watching Angela fight. “You will provide a larger cage for her team and give her a bed of her own.”
“But…” Maynard began to argue again with a pleading tone.
“No buts Captain, you will do as I have said. This event you have arranged has clearly overshadowed any slight this woman may have caused you. Besides, I think she’s so damn sexy.” Kathryn purred delightedly with a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. “And if you comply with my wishes, perhaps I may consider moving into this fort permanently.” She gave him a slightly flirtatious flicker with her lashes. “Really?” He started with only half of his voice working. “I mean,” He cleared his throat, “very well then, my liege, I will ignore what she has done. I will not forgive it, but I will not act on it either.”