Stolen

by Adam Collins

  'I see! And my mission?'

  'Find Princess Megan and rescue her, or failing that...kill her.'

  'Sir?'

  'She cannot fall into the hands of the enemy, if she does all will be lost. The King is weak when it comes to his daughter.'

  'Am I to understand, the King knows nothing about this?'

  'We have a higher responsibility to our nation, Antillus. AL-Imri is renowned for his callous disregard for life. His followers live in abject fear of his displeasure, for it is without cause or rational. All perceived slights, punished beyond merit or sanity, and double so for those who openly defy him. There would be little mercy if we capitulate. Every man, woman, and child would be put to the sword, it would be genocide. We cannot allow them to use the Princess as a weapon against us.'

  'General, this is treason!'

  'Yes it is, Major, but for the greater good.' Chael could see that Brok was close to walking out. 'If it was in your power to save your people by sacrificing your princess and you refused, would that not also constitute treason?'

  Brok stood up and walked over to the window, his mind ablaze.

  Chael walked over and stood beside him, 'We've been through much together, you and I, Antillus. I remember when you were a spirited and eager second lieutenant under my command,' he paused and smiled, 'I would not entrust this mission to anyone else. There's simply too much at stake.' Chael shook his head sadly.

  Outside the barrack walls, the city spread out into the distance. Street lamps winked on here and there in slow progression, a preparation for the fast approaching night. Brok felt trapped. On one hand, his heart demanded loyalty to the Crown, while on the other, his head agreed with the logic of Chael's argument. He stood for a long time before finally speaking. 'Okay, I'll do it.'

  'Thank you, Antillus. Believe me, I'm as unhappy as you that it comes to this.'

  'Wait, General, I have a condition.'

  The general blinked, 'And that is?'

  'I want Brinn Thronso released.'

  'That could be difficult in the circumstances. After-all he murdered the King's cousin.'

  'Panther may be the only chance we have of getting her out alive. Either he is in, or I am out. I will use any means at my disposal to return her safely. Now it's your turn for the hard call, General. So what's it to be?'

  Chael mopped his brow before answering. 'Okay, I'll see what I can do.'

  Brok turned to leave.

  'Antillus, one thing more.'

  'Sir?'

  'Your men cannot know of the second part. They must never know that the Princess may have to be...well...'

  'General, if they did, they'd gut me and leave me for the crows. And who could blame them,' Brok opened the door and left.

  4. From Bad to Worse

  As Megan's head began to clear her eyes opened to profound darkness. She was inside a container of some kind. The sides were concave and the air stank of stale wine. As her iris regained focus, a small air-hole, emanating a shaft of pale light, confirmed it was indeed an empty barrel. The constant rocking motion lead her to believe that she was most likely on a wagon of some sort. Outside the confines of her tiny prison she could hear muffled voices.

  Gagged, and with her hands firmly tied behind her back, there was nothing she could do. The voices were those of her captors, so there was little point, drawing their attention. Sleep encroached.

  Groggy, half aware that she was awake again and staring blankly ahead, her mind returned. Memories of the last few days were hazy at best. They were drugging her, that much she remembered. Every day the same routine; the wagon would stop, the sound of approaching voices, and a blast of fresh air as the lid was removed. Dragged out, fed, watered, and allowed to relieve herself. The regimen finished off by the forced consumption of a foul-tasting grey liquid.

  The drug was powerful; causing her to vacillate between comatose, mindless delirium, semi-consciousness, and then back again in a constant unending loop. On the few occasions that clarity returned, her world was a confusing blur of twisting unfocused images before sleep swept back in to take her again. Some days were better than others. Some days she could remember the ambush; remember seeing all of those brave men dying. Those images were vivid; so much blood, so much noise, the cries of the wounded and panicked squeals of terrified rider-less horses. Careering left and then right, sensing the fear and smelling the blood, galloping for their lives. Followed, all too soon, by that terrible quiet.

  In her mind she had imagined battles lasting for hours with gallant soldiers fighting backwards and forwards, and heroes rushing to the fore slaying all in their stead. Reality was very different. One minute she was safely surrounded by handsome men in shining armour, ready to die at her command. A short few minutes later, they were all lifeless bloodied heaps.

  Then there was that huge bear of a man, with his wiry black hair and bushy beard, laughing as he dragged them out of the carriage. Tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn't try to stop them. Sleep dragged her down; this time she welcomed it.

  A heavy jolt made the barrel sway and she banged her head hard against the side. It really hurt, but at least she was awake again. It could have been minutes, hours, days, there was no way of knowing how long she had slumbered. It was cold, her legs were numb and lifeless, her knees jammed right up under her chin. They had placed something soft on the bottom for her to sit on, but it made little difference, she was still in agony.

  The wagon was no longer moving. Rough deep voices drew closer. She felt movement as someone jumped onboard. After a few seconds of fumbling the lid was opened. Cold fresh air washed over her face. Megan inhaled the refreshing coolness, it felt so good, intoxicating, a promise of life. Stars twinkled in the night sky overhead. Her eyes began to slowly focus on those tiny little pearls, so high and free. A shadow loomed, there was a face looking down at her. It was the bearded man, and he was grinning. Her heart sank.

  'Come on, Highness, out you come.'

  He bent down, removed her from the barrel, and placed her on the bed of the wagon.

  Anabel had also been released, and was laying curled in a ball, eyes firmly shut.

  With one hand supporting Megan's head, the bearded man slipped a blade between her bonds and severed the chords. Blood rushed back into her hands and legs in a joyous tingling rush. She was as weak as a day old babe, but free at last from the hateful ropes.

  He looked at her for a moment drinking in her beauty and perfect form. 'You're a pretty one aren't you. We could have a lot of fun together, you and me.' He bent closer, smelt her neck and face, and ran his hot fetid tongue up her cheek. His breath was a rancid mixture of tobac and spicy food, a foul expulsion, onerous and repugnant.

  Megan cried out in disgust and tried to pull away but had no strength. She weakly punched the side of his head, but he just laughed. He stank of wine, stale sweat, and other vile odours, and she was completely powerless to resist his intentions.

  'Leave her!' boomed a deep powerful voice from somewhere behind the giant.

  He turned slowly and looked. 'I wasn't goin' to cause her no mischief, m'lord. Just Grik's way of funnin', sir. No harm done.'

  The hairy brute released Megan and jumped down from the wagon-bed in one quick movement, 'Just getting her out for you as ordered. An' there she is, with not a hair touched,' his black-toothed smile failing to conceal his anger.

  'Tend your troop, Grik. I would ssspeak with her alone.'

  'Yes, Lord Alsheer.' Grik nodded and banged a fist against his chest, fear tremoring his tone.

  Megan could see why. Lord Alsheer had a strangely menacing look. He was tall but not broad, and his eyes were as black as a demon's heart. They had no pupils, just inky black emotionless ovals under hairless brows. Megan noticed that there was no hair at all anywhere on his face nor on his head from what she could see. Though the greater portion of his bulbous head lay hidden beneath the shadow of a dark cowl; his skin had a corpse-like deathly white quality. A cold shiver ran the
length of her spine. Evil was at hand.

  'Sssincere apologiesss, Highnessss, for this rudimentary mode of transssport,' he spoke with a strange slow lisp. 'But we are ssshort of fineriesss at the moment, you will underssstand. That will be remedied when we reach our dessstination.'

  'And what is our destination?'

  'All in good time, Hignessss. For now, know that essscape isss pointlessss. You are no longer in your homeland. Your only hope of sssurvival lays in accepting your sssituation. Out there in the wildsss there isss only death...or worssse, for you.'

  'My friend needs help, she's sick.'

  'Jussst a ssside effect of the sssleeping potion. It will wear off sssoon. Now eat and drink and we will ssspeak again another time.'

  Alsheer clapped his hands together, turned and walked away. One of his men hurried up with a tray of food and a jug of water, and placed them on the rig bed beside her feet. Megan splashed some of water on Anabel's face causing her to open her eyes briefly. Megan held a cup up to her friend's lips, allowing little sips, as she started to wake.

  Glancing around the campsite, she watched as men moved here and there with familiar purpose. Some preparing food, others tending horses. They had stopped for the night by the side of a small stream. There was very little she could see in the darkness but the land felt alien. Alsheer had spoken true, she somehow knew that they were no longer in Jarro.

  'Oh my head,' groaned Anabel.

  Megan raised the cup to her friend's face again and for the first time noticed that Anabel's hair was different. Her long blond locks were gone, chopped back into a rough bob and dyed black. Her own hair was the same. Gone too were their fine clothes, replaced by roughly made breeches and shirt. Her face reddened at the thought of being stripped and redressed while unconscious. At a distance they would look like two boys or young men. "Very clever," she thought.

  A strangely dressed slightly-built man approached. 'Good evening, Highness. I am Karem Toriz. I have been assigned to you by Lord Alsheer, for both your comfort and protection. My Lord felt it prudent, you have someone at hand to watch over you while we travel these barbarian lands,' Karem gave a quick nod in the direction of Grik and his men.

  'Are these not Lord Alsheer's men?' asked Megan.

  'Heavens no, Highness. Slavers and pirates most of them. They would cut your throat in a blink if there was a profit in it.'

  'Your clothes are strange to my eyes. Silks and satins I see, but of a different cut.'

  'They would look strange to your western eyes,' he nodded. 'It is a style best known in the East, my homeland, before I was called to serve the Great One.'

  'Lord Alsheer?'

  'No,' he smiled. 'My Lord Alsheer also serves the Great One.'

  'So exactly who is this...Great One?' asked Anabel, finally coming fully awake.

  Karem's smile was warm, 'Some say he has been sent by the gods to unite the world and bring peace, happiness, and tranquillity to all.'

  'And his name?' Anabel raised an eyebrow.

  'Why, Sulan AL-Imri of course. Lord of the East and South; and soon...the West.'

  The women looked at each other in silence. Things had suddenly gone from bad to worse.

  5. Old Friends

  Here it is, Major, and I had a hell of a time getting it!'

  It was late, the sparsely illumed city reduced to a dapple of lantern-glow islands on a sea of black. General Chael could move surprisingly quickly for a rotund mid-sixties desk warrior. Bounding steps by the two, he ran the length of the stairway leading from the palace, holding a scroll in one hand. Chael handed Brinn's release papers to Major Brok.

  'How did he take it?' asked the Major.

  'Not very well as you can imagine. At one point I thought he was going to have me thrown in jail, for the asking alone. The King's a hard man to cajole.'

  'Thank you, General. At least now we have a fighting chance.'

  'Don't thank me yet. He is being released, on condition, into your custody. If...the mission is a success...that is, if you bring the Princess back alive; Panther gets a full pardon and reinstatement into the Pathfinders with full rank and privileges restored.'

  'And if we fail?'

  'He is to be returned to the capital to finish his sentence in full.'

  'What happens if he refuses to return?'

  'He would be labelled an enemy of the Crown and hunted mercilessly.'

  Brok smiled to himself.

  'You seem amused.'

  'It's nothing, General, just a soldier's humour,' answered Brok.

  'Indulge me.'

  'If we fail...the Crown will cease to exist.' Brok mounted, and rode away.

  Chael stood rooted, speechless, and alone.

  The others were waiting as agreed by the prison's main gate. Pathfinders were an irreverent bunch at the best of times. Military pomposity was despised and mostly overlooked in the field. Each man earning respect by deed; that was the Pathfinder way. Captain Martam Brand was simply known as Tam. A tall slim South Jarro landowner with dark blond hair and a fair complexion; joined the Pathfinders after losing the family estate in a game of cards. Tam was fast of hand, good with a sword, and could run at speed for many miles.

  Sergeant Polom Matby, was an extremely large and muscular farmer's son. When his father's only horse died, Lom took over pulling the plough. That was the way of it for years until his father scraped together enough money to get a new horse. Lom was not the quickest nor brightest, but he could crush granite when properly motivated.

  Sergeant Ingram Rattiger, was a small and slim ferret of a man. A born pick pocket and assassin with an affinity for knives. Rat was not a man you would want walking behind you, day or night.

  Brok dismounted, walked to the main entrance of the prison and rapped on the wicket-door. A small window opened revealing a bloodshot pair eyes and the crushed upper portion of a badly broken nose. 'I'm here to collect a prisoner,' he informed the guard.

  'That so? Any chance you could be a tad more specific?'

  'I'm here for Brinn Thronso,'

  There was a pause, 'Did you say...Thronso?'

  'Yes, by order of the King,' Brok passed the prisoner release scroll through the window slot. A longer pause followed.

  'You'll have to wait, I've just sent for the Warden.' said broken-nose.

  The minutes slowly passed, finally the wicket-door was opened and a round-bellied warden stepped out wearing a coat over his night-shirt.

  'Major, I must protest, this is most irregular. Do you realise what time it is? I was in my bed, for pity's sake!' the fat man moaned.

  'Apologies, Warden, but time is an issue.'

  'This is an outrage. I have a good mind to make a complaint. Dragging me out of bed at this hour!'

  'Be my guest. To my knowledge the King has not taken to his bed as of yet. Though he is short to temper at the moment, or so I'm told. We can go there right now and you can place your petition before him...personally.'

  'The King, did you say?'

  'Yes, Warden, the King. The man who signed the release form that you are holding in your hand. King Frederick. The King of Jarro!' Brok roared at the stupefied warden.

  'I do apologise, Major...I...I will release him...at once, of course. I am the King's loyal servant.' he stuttered, red-faced and flustered. With a curt nod he turned and almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away.

  Long moments passed before the warden reappeared followed by two very large guards; between them hung an emaciated figure dressed in black. Manacled wrists and ankles, skinned and bleeding, his dark shoulder-length hair matted with dirt; an unkempt beard from nose to chest. The guards let go, and he slumped to the ground. Brok knelt down and turned the prisoner over onto his back. It was Brinn.

  The year in jail had obviously not been an easy one. A nasty black and purple bruise covered much of the left side of his face and his left eye was swollen shut. Brinn smiled, belched, and passed out.

  Stale wine assailed Brok's nostrils,
'This man is drunk. How in the...?' Brok looked up at the warden who was already backing up towards the safety of the door.

  'It was the only way we could keep him...contained. He smashed up three cells, and put six of my men in the sick house.'

  'So...you pacified him using alcohol. How long?' Brok was visibly angry now.

  'Usually until he passed out,' the warden gave a helpless palms up gesture.

  'What I meant was, how long has this practice been going on?'

  'Oh...I see. About ten months, roughly speaking.'

  Brok stood.

  The two guards retreated back inside the prison door, quickly followed by the warden, who briefly stopped before shutting it, 'Oh before I forget, you'll need these, Major.' A set of keys came flying through the air.

  Brok snatched them, knelt down beside his friend and opened the manacles.

  The warden quickly shut the door, but opened the little window slot, 'Glad to have been able to help you, Major. All's in order, a very good night to you.' he quickly closed the window again.

  'Bit jumpy wasn't he?' said Tam, in his drawling South Jarro accent.

  'Give me a hand here will you.' Brok struggled trying to lift the dead weight of a near unconscious Brinn.

  "He's out cold, sir. Ain't nothin' wakin' him this side of the Summer Festival, by the looks." said Rat.

  An old horse trough caught Brok's eye, he winked at Tam. Five strides and they were there. 'Get ready to run.' he cautioned.

  On the third swing the unconscious body cleared the lip of the trough and disappeared beneath its frigid contents, with a loud plop.

  A cascade of water shot upwards and outwards like a steaming jet from an erupting geyser. Brinn's arms and legs flailed, left and right, up and down, in a vain attempt to gain purchase. After what seemed like an age, he finally grabbed hold of the hand-pump's spout, and with great effort rolled out onto the ground, on his hands and knees, coughing and sneezing. 'What in the Seven Halls of Hell...?' he finally managed to blurt, as his vision cleared and wits returned in one painful blinding moment. On seeing the familiar faces of his comrades, he smiled. 'It took you long enough.' Spitting a large glob of horse-water onto the ground, he stood, and with a quick shake of the head, staggered forward to greet them.