Marooned

by Travis Smith

  “So your need is nobler than ours?” someone demanded.

  “No,” Fallon reiterated. He could feel the negative energy of the crowd rising against him. His resolve faltered, but only minutely. “Can you see not what they’ve done to you?” he shouted. “You care more for this coin than for yourselves! They have buried your value amid a pile of metal, and now you tear apart your fellow man, for whom you once cared!”

  More jeers and taunts rose from the crowd to form an incomprehensible cacophony. The group took one collective step toward Fallon, and his lifelong timidity and instinct to flee nearly took over. No matter what he said to these people, their once beneficent compassion had been eroded by a desperation to survive, a notion incited by fear that could breed only selfish despair.

  “Listen to me!” His commanding tone wavered and bordered on a plea. He was running out of options if he didn’t want to be torn to shreds by a rabid mob. “This was once a peaceful city!”

  His claim fell flat as the crowd grew more unruly and continued to advance. When the first of the mob approached him and seized Fallon’s smock in both fists, he did not run. It was a neighbor whom he recognized but whose name he could not recall in the moment. The familiar face was contorted in irrational rage, and the man screamed angrily in Fallon’s face as he pulled him near and forced his back against a nearby wall.

  Fallon felt the back of his head connect with the brick wall. His eyes closed, but he could feel the rest of the mob closing in around them. He felt countless more hands fall upon his clothes and begin to pull and tear. His mind went to Anda. He saw her awakening well in Luka’s cabin only to find her sole protector missing. He envisioned her stumbling through the streets looking for her father for eternity, never understanding why he’d abandoned her.

  He had only one thing left to try.

  “I killed him,” he murmured darkly, his voice loud enough for only his old neighbor to hear.

  “What?” the man demanded, pulling himself back from his onslaught. Men all around them continued to shout and scratch and pull. Rocks and rubble rained down on them as those in the back of the crowd resorted to hurling debris in their direction.

  “I killed him!” Fallon bellowed.

  At this, the crowd quieted in a wave that rushed from the front to those farthest away.

  Fallon shoved his old neighbor backward into the now silent crowd. He straightened up and forced his way back around the corner, away from both the wall and the crowd. He assessed his torn smock and looked at his old friend Corin. His greying hair hung in dirty locks around his face, a face that conveyed a mixture of dismay, disappointment, and befuddlement that words could never intimate.

  “Yes,” he confirmed to his friend. He nodded enthusiastically. “I killed my overseer, and I stole his paga to help my daughter. I had to! He refused to pay me honestly for my craft.”

  A soft murmur rustled through the crowd.

  Fallon turned to face the rest. “And I took extra for you! I brought it back to help others as I had helped myself. Do you see? They have demeaned us. They have enslaved us. They have destroyed our homes, torn apart our families, and forced us to work for them in exchange for their coins only to purchase their services back from them with the same coin! They have played us for fools and turned us against one another instead of against them. They have blinded us to the real enemy with the sheen of their metal!”

  The men before him shuffled in discomfort, but he could feel the tide turning ever more in his favor.

  “We are greater than they, both in number and in spirit! We may quarrel and steal and batter in the name of this new world, but why do it to our friends and neighbors? Turn your animosity to the real enemy, and fight for change!”

  At this, the crowd shouted in disorganized but unanimous agreement.

  “Storm the doorways of your overseers in the dead of night!”

  “Aye!”

  “Take back your homes!”

  “Aye!”

  “Take back your crafts! Take back your children! Take back your lives!”

  “Aye! Aye! Aye!”

  Fallon heard a sudden explosion to his left. He felt the instantaneous warm spray of blood and brain matter of his friend Corin. He winced and turned to see a wild-eyed guard standing over his old friend’s corpse.

  “What in—?”

  The assailant’s interjection was halted mid-stream as the massive crowd erupted as one and stormed forward and bowled him over. His weapon exploded thrice more as his futile orders to halt were drowned out by the angry shouts of the horde.

  Fallon was unable to see if the subsequent shots landed, for the crowd continued forward as one, and he himself stumbled backward and out of the way in a daze. The guard was likely dead in moments beneath a hundred trampling feet. A numb hand he could not swear was his own reached upward and wiped his cheek, smearing his friend’s blood in a grotesque streak. He had to look away from Corin’s remains, as they, too, had been trampled by the mob. His head swam with a wave of nausea as the last of the crowd rushed by, leaving behind two dead bodies and no weapon.

  Fallon squeezed his eyes closed and shuffled around the corner on unsteady legs. He tore his mind from the horror he’d just incited and back to his daughter.

  “I’m coming, Anda,” he muttered and stumbled along the dark streets, shouting and gunfire rising all around him in the distance.

  11

  A pounding upon his cabin door awakened Antonio Staig in the wee hours of the night. The clamor of various small and disorganized insurgencies still echoed throughout the city, but tonight they sounded different, somehow more urgent.

  He heaved an ill-tempered groan and rolled himself out of bed. Wearing only his signature scowl, he stomped to his front door and flung it open. A squirrely overseer whose name he cared not to recall stood on his porch. He winced at the sight of Antonio’s naked form.

  “What?” Antonio demanded.

  “Err—” the overseer began, “that ’n’ ’at slayed Gremly, sire, we’ve found ’is lassie.”

  “You woke me fer this gossip?” he drawled with a darkly level tone.

  “Well, ’at ’n’ the rebels,” the man croaked. “They’s a good bit o’ new activity t’night.”

  “Kill t’ girl. Kill ’er father. Kill ’em all. Ye wear ’at weapon from worlds y’ couldn’t think up wiv ten o’ yer mates so’s ye c’n handle this shit wivout wakin’ me from dead sleep!” Antonio made to slam the door in the halfwit’s face when another voice spoke up from outside.

  “You lack imagination, my friend.”

  Antonio opened the door anew to see Bernard making his way down the steps from the castle’s terrace.

  “You, loyal dignitary, take me to the girl,” Bernard continued. “Antonio, dress yourself. New world order never sleeps.” He waved a nonchalant hand as if to point out this invisible but obvious truth.

  “T’ wot end?” Staig growled.

  “Find the baker who killed Gremly. We shall make an example of them both. End the uprisings with one fell swoop.”

  12

  By the time Antonio stepped out into the light of the moon, the city had erupted into chaos. Multiple scrimmages were ensuing all over Krake, it seemed. He could hear shouts and gunfire rising into the night sky from every direction.

  As he paced the tumultuous streets, the idea of defeat never crossed his mind. He watched with dispassionate intrigue as the helpless townsfolk were mowed down in sprays of tiny bullets from automatic weaponry. He snarled and drew his own rifle which was slung over his shoulder. How did Bernard expect him to find one lone baker in this sulfur pit of a city? The Baron’s plans had become increasingly erratic since he’d returned from killing his brother with the man’s son and heir to the throne. He’d grown obsessed with gaining access to the Throne Room, and his aims to restructure the nation had fallen by the wayside.

  A group of four men rushed around the dark corner of a run-down building and attempted to accost Antonio. Hi
s dark mood shifted as a malicious grin spread across his face to reveal his crooked, pointy teeth. He met the first attacker with the butt of his rifle, square upon the man’s nose. His head whipped back sickeningly as he let out a gurgled yelp; his hands came to his face in a futile attempt to stay the gush of fresh blood from his broken nose.

  Antonio whipped the gun around and nestled the butt into his shoulder. He deftly flicked the lever that prevented accidental shooting with his thumb and squeezed his forefinger against the trigger. The other three assailants were blown off their feet in rapid succession beneath a series of small explosions from the barrel of the gun. Sprays of blood jetted from their backs as the bullets ripped through their chests and flung their bodies to the ground. He then stood over the wretched slave with the broken nose, writhing in a growing pool of his own blood. His grin widened as he watched the man’s suffering.

  When The Baron had first begun handing out these strange relics to his most loyal followers, Antonio had been wary. Despite his repeated pressing, Bernard had never divulged where he had procured the powerful weapons. But after he’d seen how efficiently they dealt destruction, Antonio had decided to relinquish the grudge he felt at being left out of his leader’s circle.

  He tilted his head and watched the man whimper pitifully while the city fell to shambles all around him. The sounds of mutiny from sea to hills were strangely calming to him. While he knew the way the world should work, he would be lying if he claimed he didn’t enjoy the struggle of those who tried to resist the inevitable. He aimed the weapon at the slave’s gut and fired a single shot into it. Likely not a fatal wound, but certainly one that would halt his naughtiness indefinitely.

  13

  As the night wore on, the chaos intensified. Small rebellions had been erupting for days now, but this felt different. Something large was brewing, but Antonio felt no dread or disquiet. He was far too complacent to entertain the notion of defeat. The Baron had lain in wait his entire adult life, planning and scheming—hiding his true motives from his closest confidants and relatives. He had executed an unprecedented coup without hiccup. The king and each blood-linked heir were slain, and all that remained was the future-would-be king, now a mere helpless babe—that had been the plan, anyway. He and Bernard had control of communications, of international travel, and of unthinkable weaponry. Whatever was to transpire this eve—to Antonio’s eye—was as futile as attempting to tame a punisher. It represented naught but an opportunity to inflict justifiable cruelty and pain.

  Antonio combed the frenzied streets for much of the night. He felt his contempt at being dragged out of bed melt away into a cold thrill. The dull crunch of an unprotected skull beneath the weight of his new rifle gave him an unmatched satisfaction. He scurried from one skirmish to the next as he made his way toward the healer’s cabin, as Bernard had commanded. His eyes scanned the frantic crowds for a person of interest. At no time since the first instance did anyone attempt to accost him, so his intervention in the scattered mutinies remained minimal. While his delight in violence discriminated not between watching the guards slaughtering slaves and the slaves slaughtering guards, he deemed it unprofessional to watch his men meet death at the hands of these disorganized militants; he fired a couple shots into one crowd that looked to be gaining the better of his men. Several civilians dropped, lifeless, and Antonio moved on to carry out his mission when the guards took better control.

  At last he rounded a bend not far from the cabin of interest to find a stunned man staggering rigidly along the dirty path. The man seemed to be in a trance as he shuffled alongside and unaffected by the violence. Antonio closed in on the man and readied his weapon as he drew near. He struck the unsuspecting fool low on the back with the butt of his rifle, bringing him to his knees. He grabbed a fistful of the man’s unkempt hair and cranked downward, forcing his neck backward.

  “Y’ lookin’ fer yer girl?” he growled into his prisoner’s wide, frantic eyes.

  “Anda …” the wretch croaked in a hoarse gasp.

  “Tha’s wot I reckoned.” He yanked the man upright and shoved him toward the cabin just outside the market square as Bernard had instructed.

  14

  Antonio Staig dragged Fallon first through the chaos and then away from it down dark side-streets. As they made their way, dense clouds that had been brewing for days skirted over the bright, waxing moon, and its light faded with the cacophony of the rebellions. Distant thunder rolled over the eastern hills, and sheets of rain began falling over the city. Fallon remained suspended in numbness until the pair reached a bleak, run-down cabin and he was dragged through the front door.

  “Anda!” he exclaimed, his heart sinking. He writhed and lurched in a futile effort to rush to her side.

  The Baron stood beside the girl, one hand on her shoulder. She winced and whimpered as he apparently clamped his fingers tighter into her skin to keep her from running into her father’s arms. Her hair hung over her shoulders in dark, wet clumps, and her face was streaked with drying blood. Fallon could not tell if it was her own, or that of some other poor soul.

  “Father,” she whined, her face pouting into a weak sob.

  “Are you proud?” The Baron asked him in a dark tone.

  Fallon’s eyes darted from his daughter’s to The Baron’s.

  “You should be proud,” he continued when no one responded. “Look at all you’ve accomplished.” He motioned toward the cabin wall facing the city. Distant gunfire accented this statement.

  “Bernard, please,” Fallon began.

  The Baron all but winced at the insult. “You dare address me with such familiarity?”

  “Baron, sir, we were boys together. Our families broke bread …”

  “Enough about family!” Bernard barked, cutting the man off. “Do not speak of my family.” He emphasized the word which still rubbed him so sorely. “I’ll show you what I think of family,” he snarled, leaning forward toward his kneeling prisoner but tightening his grip on Anda’s shoulder.

  “Please,” she moaned, struggling to keep her tears silent. “He’s hurting me.”

  Fallon looked down at her and stretched out his hands until Antonio stomped a heavy boot on the back of his bent leg. “Stay strong, love. I am here. All will be well.”

  “Promises as empty as your former lives,” The Baron snarled.

  “I acted only in the interest of my daughter’s safety. Surely you’d not condemn a helpless child to death from fever?” Fallon pled.

  “You question my rule?” The Baron asked. “I brought you here not to discuss leadership!”

  Fallon’s face contorted as he fought against the helpless tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. He shook his head slowly. “No, sir. I do not question.”

  “Do you believe in me?” The Baron asked without tone.

  Fallon blinked in silence at the stark question. His eyes moved cautiously from his daughter’s to Bernard’s.

  “Do you believe in me?” The Baron repeated plainly.

  “Well—” Fallon stammered. “Of—of course I do believe …” His voice tapered off with an unconvincing decrescendo.

  “Do you believe in my leadership?” Bernard repeated once more. “More importantly, do you believe in my capabilities to deliver upon my promises? To enforce my rules? To ensure that my men remain safe?”

  A heavy silence hung in the air, interrupted only by the soft tapping of rain drizzling upon the cabin roof.

  Fallon swallowed hard. His dry throat clicked, the slight sound seeming to echo from wall to wall. “Yes, my liege,” he stated. “Of course I believe. I beg of you to spare my Anda. I accept responsibility for what I have done, but she played no role in it.”

  “From what you say, her role is central in your treasonous actions.”

  “No—!”

  “Quite so!” Bernard interrupted. “If not for your poor, sick Anda—as you claim—you would never have thought to assail my men and to incite unavailing revolution! Is this not the c
ase?” he growled.

  “Sir, as I tried to explain, I—I only did what I did out of desperation.”

  “On behalf of your daughter.”

  “On behalf of her well-being! It is no fault of hers that illness befell her.”

  “Look at what your actions have sparked.” Bernard gestured toward the city’s center. “Murder, thievery, treason, conspiracy! You’ve been busy, and you’ve created quite a headache for me. How do you expect one to lead and to fulfill his duties to the people, if he’s busy containing futile mutiny and chaos such as this which you’ve inspired?”

  “My sir,” Fallon struggled, “I meant not to inspire such catastrophe. It is you who introduced the paga to the lands. I merely sought an honest compensation for my work …”

  “You question the honesty of my most faithful men?” Bernard interjected.

  “I mean you and your men no offense,” Fallon pled, his hands outstretched before him, “but the healer could not offer his services in exchange for my own, because of the systems you’ve introduced. Those systems failed me, and I regrettably acted out of character.” As he looked into Bernard’s eyes, expressionless, seemingly in another place, another world, Fallon’s desperation mounted. “I could not get the coin required to allow my daughter to live … What kind of a life is that? Surely our leader would not want his people to go without the aid they require simply because the promised compensation was not being delivered.”

  Bernard was gazing out a window into the night, and Fallon could not discern whether he had been listening at all. Slowly, he dragged his eyes from the window to meet Fallon’s own. The severity of his gaze sent a chilling crawl down Fallon’s spine.

  “Please, sir! I beg of you. Imprison me. Make me work double. I will pay any price to keep Anda sa—”

  “You question,” Bernard began again, in a slow, deliberate tone, “my leadership.” This time it was not a question.

  Fallon’s heart raced out of his chest. He struggled not to visibly hyperventilate as he fixed his eyes on Anda’s own and willed himself to remain calm for her sake.