Curse of the Red Evil

by Zel Spasov

  “Benji, I hope you remember who you are talking to—”

  “I heard you're no longer a Captain of the Guard,” the pig interrupted him. Zacharie shut his mouth. “News travels fast. There’s a new captain appointed in your place. Which tells me that whatever you’re doing here, it isn’t at the palace’s orders. And if I tell the guards where you are, there may be a reward for me.”

  The pig was right. Zacharie was in trouble. He didn’t even have a weapon to defend himself.

  “I won’t hand you over to the guards,” Benji said. “With that, my debt to you is paid. For your own good, I’m telling you to hide somewhere until the war with Windhaven is over. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” the captain said sarcastically and walked out of the bar.

  He was hopeless. His other confidants had, without a doubt, already heard of his demotion. Moreover, if someone were to betray him, he would certainly be executed. Planning his next step was going to be difficult.

  He walked down one of the side streets as he considered his situation. As soon as he turned the corner, he came across a group of drunk merrymakers shouting something. Since they were noisy and coarse, the captain was startled. His attention was drawn to their conversation. A goat, wearing a white toga, was reciting a poem:

  “To continue, we’re unable,

  this ill-fated fable

  of the beautiful Agapea

  and her forsaken lad.

  To love condemned

  by the fate’s hand

  once he saw Agapea’s bliss

  on the edge of the abyss.”

  Zacharie had heard of the Rhymester’s bicker and of the bards, dressed in strange robes, drinking their liquor. Although the fighting was usually done in rhyme, last year three had been injured before lunchtime. This had led to social friction and nearly to a formal conviction. Although it was just a quarrel, many thought these meetings immoral. The Captain didn’t see the problem; the Rhymesters were the city’s emblem. Caught up in contemplation, he didn’t notice the poets looking at him like an aberration.

  “Here!” exclaimed the goat.

  “A new contestant in our game so swell,

  Famed in all corners of glorious Agapea!

  Tell us, stranger, comment tu t’appelles?”

  The captain was smitten. The disorder in his mind on his face was written. The goat waited for a reply well phrased, but it wasn’t coming from the new contender, dazed. Once the confusion of the wolf he’d ascertained, the poet knew, and simply explained: “What's your name?”

  “So that is what he asked,” Gèroux grasped. Perhaps I can escape this situation, he thought after some consideration.

  “Captain Gèroux, Captain of the Guard!” he proclaimed.

  “Will the city guard go unscarred—after he participates in our competition?” the goat exclaimed.

  “No, no, I won’t participate in anything,” Zacharie protested.

  “But the captain doesn’t have a choice,” the goat attested, “for the Captain not to, it is a great taboo.”

  “Make me,” he declared.

  “Rhymesters, we attack!” The goat wasn’t scared.

  The group pulled out their daggers with lightning speed. The captain reached for his weapon but realized he couldn’t succeed. He’d forgotten that his sword he’d had to yield. The Rhymesters were numerous, and he was but one, so Zacharie kneeled.

  “I will take part in your battle,” he succumbed.

  “What does the guardsman wager?” the goat hummed.

  “A wager?” the captain asked.

  “The rules say it all, my friend: a bet, not small, one needs to extend.”

  “I have nothing much.”

  “Your life, then, as such—a pledge I will offer on your behalf!”

  Seeing the dagger in his hands, Zacharie felt queasy. Alas, the battle would not be easy.

  “What will I get in return?” the wolf was on edge.

  “A life for a life, the captain can discern.” The goat explained the pledge.

  “I do not want your life,” said Zacharie. “Your knowledge is what I need.”

  “The watchman may ask us anything and we’ll answer. Agreed?”

  “Shall we shake hands?”

  “We will see if my knife finishes the captain before he receives what he demands.” The goat shook his hand.

  Thus, an arrangement was made. The wolf would never forget this violent raid.

  “Then let us begin our emulation!

  Dear guardsman, in your current situation,

  Abandon all hope,

  for you are walking on a slippery slope.

  I am the Master Weaver of rhymes

  There is no equal to my lines.

  I cannot reckon

  a watchman without his trusty weapon.

  Are you so incompetent?

  Your existence—no comment.

  Your future—in harm.

  The end for you is nigh,

  The odds are high,

  You dance with death!

  I sense—you will breathe your last breath,

  Tonight!”

  The goat whispered ominously, “Feel at peace. You’ll soon find your sweet release!”

  The Rhymesters came forward, battle-ready. Zacharie felt sweaty.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop this insanity!

  What’s this brutality?

  A bargain we struck,

  A response I can construct!”

  The Rhymesters seemed suddenly dejected. They couldn’t pretend to be unaffected.

  The goat looked surly. “Let's hear your rhymes so praiseworthy!”

  “Master Weaver, you are a master of rhyme, I do not doubt it,” the captain started,

  “for your mind is three times sharper than mine,

  no need to lie about it.

  But have you heard this great story

  of Hamlet and his glory?”

  Hearing that name, the Rhymesters’ hearts sank. Their eyes went blank—if “Hamlet” was uttered, every weaver had to recite the whole tragedy repeatedly without a stutter. A natural calling for which they went all in.

  “The guardsman is trying to cheat. How would a simple warden know this masterpiece complete?”

  “You are right, Master Weaver. It is incredible if I confide that I know the epic of Hamlet as well as an erudite.”

  A smirk grew on the goat’s face. Of his uneasiness there was no trace. “But you must be aware, that you will despair once I declare, ‘Who’s there?’”

  As those words were stated, the goat’s smile faded. His poetic instincts were ignited.

  Without being invited, “Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!” The words came out on their own.

  “Long live the king!” continued another Rhymester unbeknown.

  “Bernardo?”

  “He.”

  Thus, the Rhymesters were caught in the captain’s clever plot; the play they must complete, or announce their defeat.

  “I'll save you from your trouble if you acknowledge my victory on the double,” Zacharie said aloud.

  “Never!” the Master Weaver vowed.

  “You come most carefully upon your hour,” another line from Hamlet was heard from the crowd.

  “'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.”

  “All right!” The Master Weaver gave up.

  “We accept your condition.

  The victory is yours.

  Free us from this affliction.”

  It was now Geroux’s turn to chuckle. With the wave of his hand, the recitation of Hamlet was hushed without struggle. The decision was already made, marking the end of a battle well played. The captain was triumphant; this time his luck was abundant.

  “Now, I need information, as I previously stated.”

  “What is it you want to know?” answered the goat, degraded.

  “That's enough with these rhymes,” the captain said. �
�I'm looking for some badgers; they’ve committed serious crimes.”

  “The badger is an animal that longs for the earth,” said the Master Weaver. “Ask yourself, where would an animal go that lives in the dirt?”

  When he felt he was on the right track, the wolf cracked a smile. Reassurance was something he hadn’t felt in a while. His nature’s calling was confronting. It was time to go a-hunting.

  Chapter 10

  T he wagon wobbled slightly as it traveled on the bumpy road. The constant bouncing woke Cayden from his sleep. The Sloth had rolled down from chest and was sleeping peacefully on the straw. Cayden carefully scooped him up and put him in his pocket. He didn’t want to lose the little guy in the hay.

  Their surroundings were very different from the flat and empty fields where they had met Tony. They were in the mountains—giant peaks, covered in snow, towered over them. Coniferous trees covered the hills around them. The air here was fresher and cooler. Although the road seemed to be well traveled, there was no one on it besides them.

  “How much longer until we arrive at Windhaven?” Cayden asked.

  “Another hour or two,” said Tony. “It depends on how long we have to wait at the gates. Because of the upcoming war with Agapea, Windhaven is stockpiling supplies and weapons. Traders from near and far have come with their caravans to sell their goods. Many peasants are also carrying their yield to be used by the army.”

  A few minutes passed and Tony spoke again. “You can’t use your real names at the gate. It’s best if you give them fake ones.”

  “I already came up with some,” said the Rabbit proudly. “I’ll be Martin Morosie, and you’ll be Casimir Dolion. We’ll say we come from Upper Valley and are traveling with Tony to the city.”

  Cayden guessed that the fake names were as good as any. He probably couldn’t use Master Rhymester again. The memory of his disastrous first attempt at pretending to be somebody else flooded his brain and immediately filled him with fear. What if something went wrong again? This time he really could lose his head. Danger was all around him, and he was stuck with a delusional Rabbit and a magical Sloth, who, if he was being honest, scared him a little bit.

  Cayden thought about escaping. He’d just run away from Agapea, a place where everyone wanted to kill him, and now he was headed to another place where his life would be endangered. No, he wasn’t crazy enough to go through with this plan. On one side of the road was a steep cliff, and on the other was a deep chasm. His only chance was to jump out of the cart and run back down the mountain road.

  However, if he did that, he would lose his chance to meet Mira and regain his lost memories. He wanted to run far away from everything, but his desire to piece himself together, to see Mira, was stronger. He hated himself for being so weak. If only he could ignore his emotions, he would be so much happier. But if he ran away, his conscience would never leave him alone. The thought of never seeing Mira would eat him alive. He decided to stay.

  “I think we should hide in the straw,” he said. He wanted to expose himself to as little danger as possible. Hiding underneath the hay seemed like the best idea.

  “That’s a terrible idea,” said Charles. “They’re going to find us and kill us.”

  “I think it’s a great idea,” said Cayden, who was annoyed at the Rabbit’s remark. In fact, he had no idea if it would work, but the mere fact that the Rabbit dared put his idea down annoyed Cayden. “Tony will smuggle us into the city and, once we’re safe, we’ll jump out of the hay and run.”

  “That’s literally the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” said Charles.

  “I have to agree with your rabbit friend,” said Tony. “It’s war times. They’ll be checking all goods very thoroughly, you know, in case someone is transporting spies.”

  Tony’s logic made sense, and Cayden had to agree. He had proposed the idea of hiding in the straw partially out of stubbornness, but also because he felt his fate was being decided by external forces pushing him around like a puppet. He wanted to regain at least partial control over his life.

  At that moment, a caravan surrounded by guards emerged behind them. On the breastplates of the guards was the coat of arms of Windhaven—a white hawk with its wings spread wide, holding a snake in its talons. Charles noticed the guards and said, “They’re soldiers from Windhaven. Play it cool.”

  Cayden remembered the Frog telling him to play it cool, too, when they were in front of the palace. It bothered him enormously, and it didn’t do anything besides make him more nervous.

  “Could you please stop saying that?” he said, annoyed.

  In spite of his own words, Charles looked more nervous than ever. Cayden felt it too, and on top of it all, his stomach growled. He hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday.

  Eventually, they ran into a long column of vehicles all approaching the city gates. The line moved slowly. The cart moved a centimeter or two and then stopped. Another one or two centimeters, and another stop. It was a few hours before the city gate came into view.

  It was set in a massive entrance tower that loomed above them. While the gates of Agapea were exquisite and beautiful, those of Windhaven were built for a single purpose: defense. They were created to withstand any kind of attack. Which must happen rarely—the only path to the city was the narrow road from which they had come. A siege of the city would be very difficult for any potential attacker, as she would have to position her forces on the limited space the pathway offered.

  The line of carts behind them continued forever. The wagons were filled with all kinds of supplies—oats, wheat, weapons, armor. On top of that, crowds of people waited in a separate row to enter the city. Many peasants living between Agapea and Windhaven had heard about the upcoming war and had come seeking refuge. If they’d stayed in their homes, they would’ve been caught on the battlefield between two armies.

  A clerk, dressed in a white shirt and a blue vest, was sitting on a wooden table in front of the city gate. On his desk lay a bunch of sheets, ink, feather quills and stamps. It was his responsibility to check the documentation of the newcomers and allow—or deny—them passage. At his command, the guards let the people and the caravans into the city.

  The clerk was nervously shaking his foot. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky. It was time for his lunch break. He was letting the carts into the city without bothering to inspect them closely. He still had a lot of work, and he wanted to finish it quickly.

  Cayden noticed that the Rabbit was fidgeting and looking around nervously, his eyes wide open. It looked like he was afraid of something.

  “What’s going on?” he asked him.

  “Oh God,” said the Rabbit. “I don’t think I can do this. The stress is too much.”

  Cayden put a hand on his back and said, “It’s going to be fine.”

  “But what if it isn’t? What if they see through our disguise and throw us into prison? I can’t handle prison; I was made for an outdoors type of life. Maybe we should just quit!”

  Cayden felt anxious too, but the sight of Charles freaking out made him calmer. It was a confirmation that his emotions were justified.

  “Are you serious?” he said. “You, the Rabbit that broke me out of prison? That made us walk through an enchanted forest, where we could’ve been lost forever? I didn’t even know you were capable of feeling fear.”

  “Well, I am,” said the Rabbit, who had started developing a facial tic. “And I was also afraid while doing all the things you mentioned; I just hide it well. But maybe we should find another way into the city. It’s too risky.”

  Cayden liked the proposition of just giving up on the plan. But he knew he couldn’t do it. His desire to meet this Mira in person was stronger than everything else. It was too late to turn back.

  “Listen,” Cayden said. “I’m afraid too.”

  The Rabbit looked at him, surprised. “You don’t look afraid.”

  “Well, I hide it well too. It’s all right to feel fear. Otherwise, there woul
dn’t be any heroes. I promise you that it’s going to be all right. After all, it’s your plan, isn’t it? It’s foolproof.”

  That short speech seemed to relax Charles a bit. He still looked anxious, but a bit less than before.

  “You know, for a moment there, you sounded exactly like your old self,” he said to Cayden. “You’re right. We’re going to be fine. Saving Agapea is more important than everything.”

  Cayden didn’t know if they would make it. Maybe the Rabbit was right, and they were going to fail miserably. But the sight of the frightened Charles made him feel like he could be there for someone else than himself, and that felt good. Like he was able to help someone and his actions mattered. That feeling gave him some confidence.

  Within a few minutes, the column moved again. Now it was their turn to be inspected before they could pass through the gate.

  The cart stopped.

  “Name?” asked the clerk with his loud, nasal voice.

  “Tony Brasher.”

  “Residence?”

  “Upper Valley.”

  “Profession?”

  “Merchant.”

  “Oh, a merchant. As if we don’t have enough of you people already,” said the clerk sarcastically. “What are you selling?”

  “Hay for the horses, that kind of thing,” Tony said.

  “What do you mean 'that kind of thing’?” the clerk said irritably. “We're not at the market. I need accurate information—what are you transporting, how much does it weigh, how many items, and so on. Don’t you have a list?”

  “Well, that's not... I can’t write,” Tony replied shamefully.

  “I can’t catch a break today,” said the clerk with annoyance. “All right, let's get started now. What do you have in the cart? Hay, is that right?”

  “Yes, yes, hay,” Tony said.

  “All right. How much does this hay weigh?”

  “Well, I don’t know, it’s a cartload.”

  “Didn’t you weigh it before loading it in the cart?” the clerk asked.

  “Not really.”