Chapter 4
I
“Catrina. Catrina! Talk to me. What happened to Daniel and Adam?” Matthew said, shaking her as he spoke, though she remained oblivious to his questioning. Edward had died shortly after they had been brought to the cell, but she had refused to accept it. Instead, she sat there, motionless, staring blankly into space. So far, not a tear had been shed from her eyes, but everyone else knew that it was only a matter of time. Even so, from what they knew so far, time could be a precious commodity.
The inside of the cell was as cramped and unpleasant as possible, lit only by a dim oil lantern on the wall opposite a wooden door with a small barred window. Edward’s dead body had been left with them, for all of Matthew’s shouting through the door on the subject. The single bunk was covered in a blanket that looked, and smelled, as though it had never been washed, and the constantly dripping water from the overhead pipe was enough to drive anyone insane.
Safran sat with Arian, the two of them holding each other tightly under the blanket, vainly attempting to protect their modesty. They had been dragged from their rooms in their nightclothes, not given any opportunity to dress. Ben, dressed only in his boxers and a T-shirt, held his head in his hands, massaging his painful nose.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Matthew returned to the cell door, pounding on the heavy wood. Ben moved close to his side. “What's going on, Matthew?” he asked. “Look, I can talk to the Regent. We can sort this out.”
“Don’t be a fool, Ben, this has nothing to do with you,” Matthew replied, before hitting the door for the last time and stepping over to the bunk.
“Safran, tell me exactly what they said to you before they brought you down here,” he asked. “Try not to leave anything out.”
“I. . . I’m not sure I can remember,” Safran replied, holding back tears.
“Look, just tell me anything you can remember!” Matthew shouted, grabbing hold of Safran’s shoulders.
“Get your hands off me!” Safran demanded. “How dare you speak to me in that manner! Are you forgetting who I am?” Safran was fuming as she spoke, turning her anger towards Matthew.
“For the moment, my Lady, I really don't care,” Matthew said bitterly.
Ben stepped in, gripping Matthew’s shoulder before he had opportunity to say anything else. “Come on, calm down,” Ben pleaded. “We’re all on the same side in here. Let's not forget that.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, his shoulders falling as though the fight was out of him.
Safran only looked at him, not saying a word. When she did speak, there was no mention of an apology. “The soldier called me a traitorous assassin,” she informed them. “That’s all, and then they dragged me down here and threw me in with you. That’s all I know.”
Matthew stood again and returned to the door, pounding hard against the wood, but his face told everyone that he knew it was pointless. “Guard!” he yelled. “Where are the children? Guard! There’s a man dead in here. Guard!!!”
“Matthew, come on, leave it,” Ben suggested. “They’re not coming. We’re on our own.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Matthew replied. “If they called her an assassin, who are we supposed to have killed?”
“The Regent,” Catrina said, though when they turned to look at her, she was still staring through them into space, her dead husband’s hand held tightly in hers.
II
“Make a sound, and I’ll blow your brains out right here,” Carl hissed.
Sergeant Anderson awoke to find Carl standing over him, holding a knife at his throat and pressing the barrel of a gun hard against his temple.
“Carl, what…” the sergeant began, but Carl cocked back the hammer on the pistol, silencing the sergeant immediately.
“Move for one, and I’ll kill you with the other,” Carl said, his voice calm and steady. Sergeant Anderson stared up at him, eyes open wide with terror. “Now, I’m going to step back, okay,” Carl continued, “and I want your word that you won’t scream like a girl or nothing.” Sergeant Anderson didn’t need to give him an answer, he knew what the consequences would be if he disobeyed.
Carl moved away from the bed, gun aimed constantly at the sergeant’s head as he did so, tucking the knife back into the sheath on his belt. Carl always felt safer with his back against a wall, as opposed to the open doorway that was opposite the foot of the bed.
With his life out of immediate danger, the sergeant took a chance and spoke. “Carl,” he pleaded, “whatever I’ve done to offend you, please, let’s talk about it. There’s no need for any of this.”
“This morning,” Carl informed him, “a little after sunrise, both yours and the Regent’s men attacked and killed almost everyone I knew, without warning and, as far as I know, without provocation. I managed to get away, and I’ve come to find out what’s going on.” Again, Carl spoke with a slow, measured pace.
He had rehearsed what he was going to say in his head earlier, as he had watched Sergeant Anderson sleeping soundly in his bed. He couldn’t risk succumbing to the growing rage within him, taking out the anger he felt at the soldiers on this one man. Still, though, the sergeant noticed that his finger hovered dangerously close to the trigger.
“Carl, I don’t know,” Anderson pleaded. “The Regent’s men, well, I have no authority there, but the militia. You must be mistaken. I . . . I didn’t order it. No one told me. Look, Carl, I didn’t know.”
The sergeant’s voice trembled as he spoke. He had been in the Watch for over twenty years, but he had never been so scared for his life as he was at that moment. He remembered a voice from the earliest days of his basic training, telling him that there was nothing more dangerous than a cocked weapon. Now he understood that they should have said a cocked weapon in the hand of a madman.
“That’s not the answer I was looking for, Pete,” Carl continued angrily. “How long have we known each other, eh, and this is how your men repay us?”
Peter moved to sit up, saying “Carl, I…”
“Don’t you move!” Carl bellowed. “Don’t you dare move, Pete, or I’ll shoot you here and now. I’ve got nothing left to lose.” Carl was close to the edge, his rage covering his vision with a red haze.
Peter froze, mid-movement, staring down the barrel of the gun as it shook dangerously in front of his face, eyes frozen wide in terror.
The stalemate was shattered by the sounds of bells ringing out throughout the city, the noise moving from one side of the island to the other and then back again. Peter ducked sideways moments before the pistol discharged, the bullet narrowly missing his temple before burrowing through his pillow to the stone wall behind the bed. He looked Carl in the eye, his breathing quickened by the sudden shock, as he waited for the gun to fire a second time. Luckily, it didn’t.
“Sit up, Pete,” Carl said. “I . . . I didn’t mean for the gun to go off like that.” His voice had lost its confident edge, wavering almost as much as Peter's had moments before.
“Why don’t you just put the gun down, Carl,” Peter begged. “I’m not going to try anything.”
“I can’t do that. I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t trust you for the moment,” Carl told him, but he held the gun less tightly and lowered the barrel a bit all the same. His calm voice had returned as quickly as it had left.
“Those bells, they haven’t sounded like that for years,” Peter told him. “They’re to call people to the town meeting area in times of crisis. I have to be there; they’ll miss me if I’m not and chances are they’ll come looking.” The last part of what Peter had said wasn’t strictly true, but Carl didn’t know that. Peter’s presence would be missed, of course, but chances were his men would just get on with whatever it was themselves.
Carl just continued to look at him for a while, considering what he had said. Eventually, Carl lowered the gun and tucked it back into his belt.
Peter took in a deep breath before he spoke. “That’s a good start, Carl,” he
said. “I’m going to get up now, and find out what’s going on. Whatever happened, I can’t imagine any reason for the Regent to order his and my men to attack the Road Trains. Something is definitely not right here, and believe it or not, I’m on your side.”
“Wherever you’re going now, I’m coming with you,” Carl said sternly. “I still don’t trust you Pete, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re still the enemy. Make a wrong move and, so help me Pete, I’ll take you with me.”
“But you can’t; you’ll be recognised,” Peter insisted.
Carl stood there for a moment, rubbing his scar as he thought. “Maybe not,” he began. “You got a razor?”
III
“Catrina, what do you mean?” Matthew said. “This is insane. Even if the Regent is dead, how could they think we did it? Most of us have known him since we were kids.”
“But not all of us, though, eh?” Ben added, but he had the impression that no one was listening to him.
“There’s something wrong here. I don’t like this one bit,” Matthew continued, opening and closing his fists in frustration.
Arian spoke next, holding her hand out to her man in comfort. “You know,” she began, “they have a saying in the Wastelands. ‘Friends are only enemies who don’t have the guts to kill you.’”
“And what, you’re saying they think we’ve got ourselves some guts?” Matthew asked. “I don’t get it. It still doesn’t make any sense. We didn’t kill anybody.”
“But only we know that,” Ben said, not wishing to be left out. He was starting to get an idea about what was really going on.
“Just wait,” Safran said. “Aren’t we jumping to conclusions? We don’t know for sure if the Regent’s really dead.”
“Oh, he’s dead all right,” someone said from outside the door. Matthew and Ben turned around together, fighting for a view through the small square of window in the door.
Alexander stepped from the relative shadow into the light cast by the solitary candle, standing a short distance away on the other side of the door. As far as Ben or Matthew could see, he was alone.
“Murdered last night,” Alexander continued. “Stabbed to death by a traitorous assassin.”
“But how can you imagine we had anything to do with it?” Matthew asked.
“Oh, I don’t, but you’re going to hang for it anyway,” Alexander replied, a smile on his lips.
Matthew reached for the bars on the small window, attempting to shake the door open with all of his strength. “What's going on?” he demanded.
Alexander shouted down the hall for the guards. Within moments, four of the Regent’s personal guards were at the door, two of whom were the guards who had assisted Alexander on the previous night.
“Prepare that one for my return,” Alexander said, pointing at Ben, “and keep the others quiet. This is to be a day of mourning.”
As Alexander walked back up the dark hallway, one of the guards struck Matthew’s fingers hard with the butt of his rifle, forcing Matthew back for fear of another blow.
“Wait,” Matthew called after him. “There’s a dead man in here.”
“Good,” Alexander shouted back. “I’ll have the guards throw him in the pit with the others.”
Before Alexander had even reached the steps leading back up to the palace, Ben was being forcibly dragged down the hall to whatever fate awaited him, while his companions comforted each other within their cell. Alexander couldn’t help chuckling to himself as he made his way towards his destiny.
IV
Carl stayed close to Peter Anderson as they made their way through the back streets of the city towards the meeting area. Following the ringing of the bells, it looked as though everyone in Island City had left what they were doing and were walking along with them, with the sound of thousands of people asking each other if anyone knew what was going on.
Carl had taken five minutes to trim and shave his beard and also his head, so as to make himself look as different as possible. With only his beard gone, Carl felt that he still looked enough like himself to be easily recognised even in a large crowd of people, if those who had slaughtered his friends were still looking for him. Carl had no way of telling if the attackers had known anyone had escaped, and for all Carl knew, there may have been others who had managed to get away from the soldiers before being captured or killed.
Pete had waited for him as he had said he would, with no attempt to flee or get help. Carl had no intention of harming Pete, or anyone else unless it became absolutely necessary, but he still held the gun against Peter’s back as they made their way to the centre of town.
Of course, Carl had killed men before, as had most people who rode with the Road Trains for long enough, but hardly ever up close, and only once someone he knew. He had no desire to repeat the experience. Carl’s experience of guns was either through fun at the roadside, shooting cans or small creatures to prove his marksmanship, or during running gun battles with would-be attackers, who would leave everyone on the Road Trains for dead if only they could steal some of their precious cargo. Carl had no love for the weapons, being brought up more of a fist fighter like his father before him, but he knew that when the time came, there was nothing more useful than a reliable firearm in your hand.
He had found a long coat in Peter’s wardrobe, which he had decided to wear with the collar up so as to try to hide his distinguishing scar. Even without his facial hair, it was still a marker by which most people who knew him could recognise him. The long loose sleeves of the coat also served to conceal the pistol, allowing him to hold it close to Peter’s back in a crowd full of people without anyone noticing.
The crowd around the Road Trains was already spilling back into the streets by the time Carl and Peter arrived at the town meeting area, but with some gentle nudging of the gun in Peter’s back, Carl edged him forward through the crowd towards the front. The sergeant’s uniform Peter was wearing commanded a lot of respect from the crowd. People moved aside to let him through without him even having to ask them, the civilians recognising his importance. Peter paid them no attention as they demanded he tell them what was going on, but only edged them out of his way as he moved forwards through the crowd.
“Pete, Pete! Over here!” someone shouted. “We could do with a hand!”
Both men stopped dead in their tracks, Carl pushing the barrel of the pistol harder into Peter’s back as he turned to respond to whoever was calling after him.
The man shouting was a young, fresh-faced soldier, waving his arms frantically to get the sergeant’s attention. He was stood at the front of the crowd as other similarly dressed men attempted to push the growing crowd backwards, away from the foremost Road Trains and the walls of the palace beyond.
“Hey, Pete!” he shouted again as the crowd made another push forwards, attempting to get past the soldiers and the Road Trains to get a better view of the palace walls, and find out why the bells had sounded.
Carl gripped Peter’s arm as he pushed the pistol harder into his back, reminding him that he should be careful about what he said next. After the morning’s ordeal, Peter knew all too well.
“Sorry, Mitch, gotta go, gotta report to the palace!” Peter shouted, but the noise of the crowd was enough to drown him out. After a bewildered look from the young soldier, Peter pointed towards the palace gates as Carl gripped tighter on his other arm.
The young soldier understood. “Well, tell them to get a move on,” he replied, “or this is going to get ugly!”
Carl released his arm as they moved closer to the front of the crowd. He leaned in close to Peter’s ear and whispered, “Good job back there, but don't get sloppy. No messages or signalling your men or this is going to get messy.”
The sergeant only nodded.
Outside the palace gate, another large group of soldiers had gathered in a vain attempt to hold the crowd at bay. Carl edged Peter to a stop about five or six rows from the front, giving him a good view of what was going on, but b
eing far enough away to give him good warning if any of the soldiers made a move towards him. Peter ducked low within the crowd so as not to be recognised by his men, as Carl again held his arm tightly and nudged the gun further up his back to lie directly behind his heart.
V
“Ah, General Boshtok,” Alexander said as he reached the ageing soldier on the balcony overlooking the town meeting area, “I would hope that matters are moving according to plan, yes?” Alexander met the soldier’s worried stare with a predator’s smile.
“Of course,” Boshtok replied. “My . . . our men are ready to march on your orders, my, ah, Regent?”
“Regent,” Alexander mused. “You know, I like the sound of that!”
Alexander laughed at the soldier before turning to face the crowd, his face a picture of glee, which he quickly moulded into a look of sadness and loss as the crowd gazed upon him.
Alexander beckoned the crowd to quiet with gestures of his arms, but it took a few shots from one of the Regent’s two guards to get their attention. Within seconds, the crowd fell into a deathly silence. Alexander opened his arms wide as he spoke to the crowd, as though beckoning them towards him or asking for a hug. Either way, they remained silent and turned to face him, hanging on his every word.
“People, please listen to what I have to say,” he began. “As you know, today was to be a day of celebration, but sadly, it has turned into a day of tragedy and great sorrow.”
It was unlikely that even a small portion of the crowd could hear what he was saying, but Alexander was sure that his message would be passed backwards and his words repeated many times over.
“Friends,” he continued, “heed these words and remember. Our beloved Regent is dead.”
His statement was met by the sound of shocked responses and of hundreds of people speaking at once. The message passed backwards through the streets and alleyways, with the comments of disbelief moving forwards back towards the palace. Alexander raised his arms high, begging the people to listen.
“The Regent was found this morning,” he announced, “murdered in his bed chamber by the woman he had chosen to become his bride, a Draxian dagger piercing his heart.” This statement was met by another surge of sound and activity from the crowd below as they pushed forwards again against the soldiers, trying to gain access to the palace gates that they might see for themselves.
“People, please listen to me,” Alexander pleaded. “The assassin is in our custody, caught as she fled from the deed, the blood of our leader still dripping from her hands. I speak of none other than Lady Safran, Daughter of Stephen III, forty-eighth Baron of Draxis!”
This was met by a battle cry from the crowd as they surged forwards, crushing the soldiers against the palace wall as the soldiers tried in vain to force them back. With a glance to his left, Alexander commanded more of the personal guard be dispatched to help with crowd control.
“People, people! Please!” Alexander continued. “The assassin and her comrades are in custody, and I say to you, justice will be done! As it has always been, blood shall be taken for blood!”
The crowd was rapidly becoming a mob and Alexander realised it was right to push forward. The people were angry and looking for blood. He would tell them where to point their swords.
“Those guilty will be punished for everyone to see,” he promised. “But, people, the Regent has left us without an heir. It has fallen upon me to step reluctantly into his shoes until a rightful successor can be decided upon.”
There was a general murmuring of acknowledgement as he continued. “And now,” he told them, “I must make the most difficult decision for you. For too long, those in the south have had everything, and we have had nothing but the scraps they choose to offer us! We are not animals! We are not savages, and we do not deserve to be treated as such! They send their assassins to murder our beloved leader, and they expect no retaliation? They’ve had it their way for far too long!”
The crowd was hanging onto his every word as if they had been waiting for this moment all of their lives.
“No longer will they hold us back!” he continued. “No longer will they look down on us with scorn. I say to you, it is time to take what is rightfully ours!”
Thousands of arms were raised in cheer as they were given direction for the hatred and fear that the death of their Regent had created.
“Tell your friends and neighbours,” Alexander yelled, “for tomorrow we execute those that would plot against us, and then we march on Draxis! Anyone of age may join this most glorious battle!
“In Cotran's name, we will have our vengeance!”
The people continued to cheer Alexander as he held his arms high, relishing in the feeling of power he was experiencing. He had already decided that any man who did not choose to join the military would be conscripted, but from the look of the crowd, that wouldn't be a problem.
Within minutes, he had gone from Regent’s aide and announcer of his death to the leader of a people’s army that was set to move on a foreign land, and all of it without foundation.
The people were continuing to push forwards, shouting and cheering support at the thought of spilling the blood of an age-old enemy for the murder of their beloved leader. The knowledge that, on the previous day, similar enthusiasm had been shown for the first day of the Road Trains market had momentarily slipped their minds.
With all of the pushing and shoving in the crowd, Carl and Peter had become separated. Carl tucked the pistol back into his coat as he scoured the crowd, looking for Peter or any sign of the militia coming after him. His heart sank as he felt a tight grip on his shoulder.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here now!” Peter shouted at him over the noise of the crowd, dragging him backwards against the tide, his uniform not commanding the respect that it had minutes before.
Carl followed where he was led, pushing his way through the throngs of people. As he made it out of the meeting area, he saw the first of his prized Road Trains destroyed, the engine smashed by whatever weapons the people could find to hand, the walls of the trailers torn down and the contents scattered throughout the crowd.
VI
By the time Carl and Peter made it back to Peter’s house, the activity of people in the streets was close to riotous, as the crowds moved through the streets and alleyways, telling people who had not made it to the town meeting area the “good news.” Carl felt sick to his stomach as he followed Peter through the half open door.
As the door behind him was shut and bolted, Carl found himself propelled through the hallway and into the lounge beyond. Peter gripped him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him close, a menacing look on his face that had broken many a prisoner in the cells.
“Now I don’t care if you shoot me,” Peter yelled, “but even if I have to beat it out of you, you’re going to tell me what’s going on!”
Carl pushed Peter back and steadied his feet, standing his ground. “Come on, Pete,” he said, “you know we’d have nothing to do with killing the Regent. Island City's our livelihood. We’ve been set up. You can see that. I don’t think it’d take us three guesses to work out by who.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass somewhere outside, followed by two loud gunshots and the crashing of furniture. Both men pretended not to notice.
“I don't believe that you could do it, Carl,” Peter replied, “but part of my brain keeps insisting that it's true.”
“Just think about it Pete,” Carl insisted. “There's only one person I can think of who profits from this.”
“Alexander, right?” Peter said. “This is all happening too fast, Carl. This morning, I was looking forward to a pleasant day at work. Now, I find my leader dead, some slimy skeet in his place, and we’re at war. I mean, no one had ever heard of him a couple of years ago, and all of a sudden, he’s the Regent’s chief aide. And what was Lady Safran doing here anyway?”
“We escorted her here, Pete,” Carl confided. “In
secret, just like we were told to, but she didn’t have anything to do killing the Regent. They were supposed to announcing their wedding today.”
“That’s news to me,” Peter replied, looking surprised.
“That was the general idea,” Carl told him. “We couldn’t risk anyone trying for her on the way here, so no one knew about it, including most of the people on the Road Trains. I’m not sure what news about the Baronies reaches here, but things aren’t going to well down there at the moment. Truth is, war’s only just around the corner, and Draxis needs new allies, a proposition the Regent was looking forward to.”
“And now you’re going to get a war anyway,” Peter replied, “but not the one you were expecting. Seems like this is the perfect time for someone to attack, don’t you think, like they’ve been waiting for this for a while? We’ve got to do something about it, Carl.”
“We do. We need to tell someone and stop all this madness,” Carl said.
There was another sound of destruction from outside as Peter said, “What, you want to go out there and tell them they can’t have their war? Come one, Carl, there’s centuries of hatred between our people, and now they’ve been given a chance to do something about it. If we go out there and say a word against Alexander, we’re likely to get ourselves killed.”
Carl looked at him, rubbing his scar as he thought. “You’re right,” he said, “of course, but we can’t just sit here.”
“And we’re not going to,” Peter told him. “But like it or not, Carl, the armies are going to march south, and unless we do something about it, they’re going to kill your friends before they leave.”
Carl deflated, falling into a chair and holding his head in his hands. “So what are you thinking?” Carl asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Peter replied, “but we need a plan. Look, why don’t you wait here and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“No, wait, where you going?” Carl shouted after him.
“Just wait here,” Peter shouted back, and with that, he was out of the door.
VII
Ben didn’t know how much time had passed since he had been dragged here from the cell. With his arms and legs tightly bound to a chair, his eyes blindfolded and his mouth gagged, he could have been sitting there for minutes or hours. The only sound was of his heart pounding fast in his chest and the occasional cry or scream from elsewhere in the dungeon.
He heard the creak of a door opening somewhere to his left, and then the light footsteps of someone entering. The man walked slowly around his chair before speaking, and Ben had the distinct impression that whoever it was, was staring at him intently.
The man untied Ben’s blindfold and light from the open doorway burned his eyes. Ben tried to turn his head away from the glare, but hands gripped his face and held it in place.
“Good afternoon, Mr Knight,” the man said, and although Ben was unable to focus, he recognised it to be Alexander. His voice had the same mocking quality that it had had when Alexander laughed at the death of Edward.
With an effort and a lot of blinking, Ben was able to look Alexander in the eye as he released him and stepped back, slowly circling around Ben’s chair as he spoke.
“I’m glad to see you looking so well,” Alexander continued. “I always think it’s important to be fit in body and mind before we begin. Where is the sport in breaking one who is already broken, hmm? Oh, please forgive me.”
Alexander untied Ben’s gag, allowing Ben the opportunity to speak.
“What going on? What do you want from me?” Ben asked as he pulled at his restraints, all to no avail.
“Why, information, of course, Mr Knight,” Alexander informed him. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“What do I know? I’ve only been here for a couple of weeks,” Ben replied.
“Exactly my point. If your story, as you tell it, is true, you could be just the person I’ve been looking for!”
Alexander stopped in front Ben’s chair, and, gripping Ben’s arms tightly, moved his head to within inches of Ben’s face. His voice took on a menacing whisper that sent a sensation of pure terror up Ben's spine.
“Start talking,” Alexander hissed.
Ben tried to shy away, but there was nowhere to go. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. “I don’t know anything.”
Alexander moved away from Ben’s face and started circling the chair again, his hands clasped behind his back. “Tell me your story again, Mr Knight,” he said. “I had a feeling it was, shall we say, a little rushed last night? Try not to leave anything out.”
“Like I said yesterday,” Ben told him, “I just went to the laboratory, there was an incident, and I woke up in the Wastelands. There’s nothing more to it.” Ben tried to make himself sound relaxed and believable as he spoke, but he could still hear the fear and dishonesty in his voice. From the way Alexander was looking at him as he passed, Ben was sure that he could as well.
“Right, I see,” Alexander said smiling.
Ben watched Alexander leave the room, closing the door behind him and immersing Ben in total darkness. Ben tried again to loosen his restraints, but the pain from his wrists was already beginning to deter him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he started to be able to see the outlines of his hands against the chair, lit by the small sliver of light that slid under the door into the room. His mind was telling him that the restraints hadn’t moved at all.
His heart had slowed for the time being and he turned his attention to listening to anything that was happening outside. Apart from the occasional scream, he could only perceive the hazy underwater sound that you hear when in total silence. He strained all of his senses, trying to pick up the slightest sound or sense of movement from outside the door, but none came to him. There wasn’t even a comforting drip from the corner, like he had had in the other cell, allowing him no sense of the passage of time at all.
Ben wasn’t sure how far away from the others he was. After he had been dragged from the room, the guards had bound his wrists and blindfolded him, seemingly walking him through a maze of corridors and passageways until he had no sense of direction. Eventually, they had bound him to the chair and left him to it, until Ben no longer knew if it was day or night. Alexander had wished him a good afternoon, but that didn’t mean anything as far as Ben was concerned. He needed to keep his mind focused and tell them what they wanted to hear, not necessarily what was true.
“Hello,” Ben called out, listening to the sound of his voice come back to him as it echoed around the small stone cell. “Can anybody hear me?”
There was no response or activity from outside, so Ben went back to trying to loosen his restraints.
Alexander returned some time later, opening the door wide, and flooding Ben’s dark adapted eyes with light. This time he was not alone.
As his eyes adjusted, Ben watched as Alexander came to stand on his right, and the burly guard on his left. Alexander was smiling to himself as he walked.
“Good afternoon, Mr Knight,” Alexander said. “Still looking well, I see.”
Ben’s head was snapped sharply to the side as the guard punched him squarely on the jaw. Alexander smiled as he relished Ben’s pain.
“So, we’ll start again, shall we,” he said. “Tell me who you are and where you’re from.”
Ben moved his head to look Alexander in the eye, moving his jaw painfully to make sure that it was still working, tasting the blood flowing into his mouth. “I told you what happened,” he pleaded. “I just woke up here, like I said.”
“I don’t believe you. Guard,” Alexander replied.
The guard hit Ben again, harder than the first time, snapping his head to the side and creaking his neck. Ben reflexively tried to move his hands to his face, rubbing his wrists on the restraints and making the pain even worse.
“Please, please don't, I told you,” Ben begged.
“Guard.”
Again, the guard struck Ben in the face. Ben was c
lose to tears as he pleaded with Alexander to stop.
“Please, I told you everything,” he told him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me the truth, Mr Knight. Tell me again who you are and where you’re from?”
“I don't know. I’m not sure any more,” Ben replied as his tears began to flow and he broke down before them, wishing for it all to end.
The guard raised his fist again, causing Ben to shrink himself away as much as possible. “Please, stop it, just stop,” Ben said, crying as he spoke, broken in body and almost in spirit.
“Okay, we’ll start again,” Alexander said. “Who are you and where are you from?”
Ben spoke through his tears. “I told you the truth,” he said. “I just woke up in the Wastelands. There was an accident at the lab and the next thing I knew, I was here. I don’t know what happened.”
“And this laboratory you mentioned, what is it exactly?” Alexander asked, leaning over him again, intimidating him with every word.
“It’s just a lab. We were conducting research, experiments,” Ben replied.
“And would this have anything to do with the electricity?” Alexander continued.
“What do you mean…” Ben began but the guard struck him again in the face, the hardest blow so far. Ben strained to say what he intended. “I don’t, don’t know what you mean. What electricity?”
The guard raised his fist again, but Alexander stopped him with a look. “Come on, Mr Knight,” he said calmly. “I know that you have knowledge of the electricity. You admitted it yourself to the Regent, before his, untimely demise.” Alexander’s smile widened as he spoke. “Why don’t you start telling me where you got this information from?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ben said. “Electricity’s just that, electricity. We don’t have to research it. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This time Alexander hit Ben himself, striking him across the face with the flat of his hand instead of his fist. Grabbing Ben by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him as far forwards as the restraints would allow and spoke directly in front of his face.
“We’ve known for centuries that the electricity is needed to get most of the old technology to work,” he hissed, “and now you come to us and tell us that you can make it? For centuries, the Wastelanders have told stories of a place with the answer to electricity, but no one has ever been able to find it. Now you come here and tell us you were there only weeks ago? Is this another of the secrets those in the Southern Baronies have been keeping from us?”
“No, no,” Ben begged. “I don’t know any more. Please, let me go, just let me go.”
Alexander stepped back, allowing the guard to punch Ben again. Ben was sobbing again as he spoke.
“You can have the dynamo, it’s in the trailer,” he offered. “Take it, just please let me go.”
“Oh, don’t worry, everything that was in the trailer is now mine,” Alexander informed him. “I’m sure I’ll find the, dynamo, did you say, soon enough. There’s just the little matter of this.”
Alexander held out Ben’s pager, which had been confiscated when Ben and his companions were thrown into the cell. “I need to know what it is, and what these numbers mean,” he said.
Alexander pressed the button on the top of the pager, causing the numbers 6479 to flash up in the small window.
Ben’s face was swelling from the repeated beatings, making speech more and more painful, and his voice more and more unintelligible. “It’s a pager, just a message device,” he told him. “They’re commonplace where I come from.”
“What, this laboratory?” Alexander asked. “It’s powered by the electricity though, isn’t it? Now tell me where it comes from.”
“I don’t know, it's mine, I mean I found it,” Ben said.
“It's yours or you found it?” Alexander asked.
“No, no. I found it where I come from,” Ben clarified. “It’s not from here, that’s what I’m telling you.”
The guard hit Ben for the last time, nearly knocking him unconscious. Ben felt his head swim and his vision blur as the cell moved in and out around him.
“Where is the laboratory?” Alexander asked again.
Ben tried to answer, but no words came from his mouth. Alexander grabbed him again, pulling Ben towards him and shaking him violently as he asked his question for a second time.
“Tell me now,” he yelled into his face. “Where is this laboratory you came from?”
Ben was unable to hold his head up any longer, his chin slumping against his chest. The guard supported his head by holding a chunk of hair, allowing Ben to look Alexander in the eye one last time before he passed out completely.
“Don’t worry, Mr Knight,” Alexander reassured him. “These are all questions you will answer, in time.”
With his closing words, Alexander and the guard left the room, closing the door behind them and immersing Ben’s unconscious body once again in total darkness.
VIII
When Alexander returned some time later, two guards accompanied him instead of one. They came to stand either side of Ben while Alexander began his pacing again, circling the chair in slow measured steps as he spoke.
“I’ll ask you again, Mr Knight,” he began. “Tell me who you are and where you’re from, and how exactly you know of the electricity?”
Every word was painful and Ben's swollen lip made everything sound slurred. “I’ve told you everything I know,” he said, “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“That’s exactly what I thought you’d say,” Alexander said in a matter-of-fact way before leaving the room with the same measured steps he had used to circle the chair.
Ben prepared himself mentally for another beating as the two guards stepped close to him, but instead on throwing a fist at his face, the first guard grabbed his head and wrenched it back as far as it could go, forcing his mouth open. Ben struggled as much as he could, but the guard was much too strong for him, holding his face steadfast as the second guard forced a handful of leaves down his throat, pushing them all the way back until Ben was almost retching. He tried to bite the man’s fingers, but the first guard held his mouth open, forcing his jaw down towards his chest. Eventually, Ben allowed himself to swallow the leaves just to make the men let him go.
After Ben had swallowed the leaves, the guards left him also, but this time left the door open, taunting him with the prospect of freedom and light. Ben tried to struggle against his restraints once more, but his arms and legs were too weak to have any real effect on the straps. Within a matter of minutes, his arms were so weak, he was unable to move them at all.
Ben turned his attention towards the light in the doorway as it shimmered first towards and then away from him, growing brighter and then dimmer as he strained his eyes to pick up on any details.
A shadow leapt from the doorway to attack him, slashing at his face as it passed his shoulder. Ben tried to move out of its way, but his body was so weak it refused to move at his commands. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound came much later, from outside of himself, outside the door maybe.
More shadow creatures moved along the floor, creeping slowly towards him as though trying to escape the light from the doorway. Ben tried to make his legs kick them away as they leapt up at him, climbed his chest, and snapped at his face before jumping from the back of the chair to wherever they were going.
Ben could hear his heart pounding in his chest like a drum, getting louder and faster with each beat, slamming against his rib cage as though trying to force its way out of his body. His stomach churned and wretched and he felt the sour burning of acid in the back of his throat before it ran down his chin to drip in slow moving droplets on his lap.
With another wretch, Ben’s body convulsed, pulling him forwards against his chair as he coughed and spluttered against the leaves moving up to the back of his throat. Another convulsion and he was thrown backward
s, taking his chair with him and striking the back of his head on the cold hard stone floor beneath his feet. He felt the pressure of the blow, and heard the crack rush into his ears from all four corners of the room, but his sense of pain was gone.
Upon hearing the crash of the falling chair, Alexander followed the two guards into the room and instructed them to pick the chair up and return it to its original position. Ben’s face looked deathly white as more of his stomach contents dripped down his chin, his expression absent, as though his mind had gone somewhere and left his body behind.
Alexander instructed one of the guards to support Ben’s head as Alexander spoke to him, holding his nose to try and protect himself against the smell.
“I’m so sorry it came to this,” he said pleasantly, “but I’m sure you understand.”
Ben heard the words, but they seemed to come from far away and as though underwater, bubbling through the ether to reach him. He coughed and spluttered again as he tried to speak.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re coming around to my way of thinking,” Alexander continued. “I’m going to leave you for a little while, let you think about what I said. I’ll be back soon, when you’re a little more . . . agreeable.”
Ben coughed an almost intelligible word after Alexander as he left, spitting more fluid and leaf pieces to the floor around his feet. Alexander smiled back at him, his broad beaming grin looking to be a foot wide in Ben’s distorted vision.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Alexander said as he reached the door, “I’ll leave someone here to look after you, to make sure you don’t do anything foolish, like die. That’s the only trouble with these methods; you never know how much to give.”
The guard released Ben’s head, allowing it to slump down to rest on his chest, the two men laughing as they followed the Regent to stand guard at the door. The sound of the men's footsteps echoed around Ben’s ears as he lapsed in and out of consciousness.
By the time Alexander returned, Ben’s nausea had receded and the pain from his jaw was gone. He still lacked the strength to move any of his limbs, but that no longer seemed to bother him. As he saw the Picasso-like image of Alexander enter, he forced himself to raise his head and look Alexander in the eye.
“I’m glad to see you’re still with us,” Alexander announced.
Ben coughed and spluttered as he spoke, his words barely intelligible. Alexander understood him all too well though. “Still here,” he coughed, spitting saliva to the floor, missing Alexander’s feet by inches.
For a moment, two copies of Alexander stood in front of him, swimming and swirling around his field of vision before slowly merging once more into one discernible shape. Ben felt his head sway to follow them as they shimmered.
“We were having a little chat before, if you remember?” Alexander asked. “The laboratory?”
Ben no longer had the strength to support his head, letting it fall heavily to his chest. A guard stepped up behind him and again supported his head with a healthy handful of hair.
“The laboratory,” Ben was able to say, drool sliding down his chin.
“That’s right, Mr Knight,” Alexander continued. “I want to know everything about it. Firstly, I want you to tell me where it is.”
“The laboratory,” was all Ben was able to say again as he tried in vain to focus on the Regent’s face.
“Yes, the laboratory. Where is it?”
Before he realised what he was doing, Ben was telling Alexander everything that was asked of him, and for all of his mental struggling, he was completely unable to stop himself. The Regent only stood there and smiled, gently rubbing his hands together as new plans formed in his mind.
IX
Peter returned to his home just before nightfall, finding Carl sitting in a chair, helping himself to Peter’s whiskey. Carl looked decidedly odd without his hair or beard, his face taking on a childlike quality if not for the angry scar.
Peter shook the rain off his overcoat as he entered, before hanging it beside the door and smearing his sopping hair back with his hands. Carl almost leapt to his feet as he heard the door close.
“Losing your touch, Carl, or is it just the liquor slowing you down?” Peter asked, looking down at the glass in Carl’s hand.
“Eh, no, I was just,” Carl stammered. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Where have you been all this time?”
“Getting us some information,” Peter replied. “I might not have any authority over the personal guard, but that doesn’t mean I’ve no friends there. Seems like they handle their beer as well as you do. It only took a couple of pints before they were telling me everything I wanted to know.”
“And what did you want to know?” Carl asked.
“How many of your friends are alive and how we get them out.”
“Tell me more,” Carl said as Peter came and sat opposite him, gladly accepting a drink of his own.
“It seems your friends, Matthew, Catrina, and those close to them are being held with the Baron’s daughter beneath the palace,” Peter began. “The rest of the prisoners are down there with them, in a separate part of the palace dungeons. The people I spoke to didn’t know any names, but I don’t think that there were many of them. I’m sorry, Carl.”
Carl dropped his head at the news, vowing revenge. He had been with the Road Trains longer than most, and knew all of the people travelling with them as friends, someone to share a drink with on a cold evening, or someone he could count on to cover him when things turned bad. If he really thought about it, most people on the trains had probably saved his life once or twice, as he had theirs, and now they were reduced to a few survivors locked away in a foreign land for a crime they had nothing to do with.
As he listened to the rest of Peter’s plan, Carl watched his fists open and close as the anger within him grew.
Peter continued, “Here it is, Carl. I can get us in, no problem there, but once we’re in, there’s ten or twelve guards or more, armed and just itching to start killing. I tell you, the people out there tonight, you’d think we were halfway to Draxis already the way they’re speaking. I doubt there’s a man in the city tonight who isn’t sitting cleaning a sword or gun.”
“How many with us?” Carl asked, not looking up from his fists.
“That’s the problem,” Peter told him. “I’ve got friends, sure, but I couldn’t tell you who’s loyal to Alexander and who isn't. I really don’t want to risk finding out tonight, though, if I can avoid it. Once we get down there, we’d be on our own.”
“So what are you saying?” Carl said.
“Look, Carl,” Peter continued, “someone needs to warn the Baronies that they’re about to be attacked. Neither of us wants this war to happen, but I think it’s going to happen anyway, regardless of anything we do. I don’t know, maybe I can slow them down or something, get more people to listen. There’s got to be others out there who see this new Regent for what he is. If enough of us speak, maybe the armies will start listening.”
“You said yourself, Pete,” Carl replied, “people want this war. I bet even those that do suspect the truth don’t care too much about it. They’ve got a better enemy to hate now.”
“So how do you think getting you and your friends killed beneath the palace is going to change that?” Peter asked. “At least if you went south, you could warn your people, get them ready.”
“No way,” Carl insisted. “Like you said, they’re my friends, and to tell you the truth, they’d do it for me, whatever the odds. With or without you, Pete, I'm going down there, so if you don’t start talking quick, I’m going to end up using the front door.”
Peter rubbed the back of his own head in frustration, tightly working his fingers through his thinning hair as he went through strategies in his head. “You know what, Carl,” he told him, “you really get on my nerves sometimes.”
For the first time in minutes, Carl looked up and met his gaze, his steadfast expression complemented by a wry smile. “So what’s the plan then?�
� he asked matter-of-factly.
“For a start, we’re going to need more than that pea shooter you brought with you. You’d better come with me.”
X
The guard escorted him into the room, bound at the hands and feet, purposefully tripping him up as they crossed the threshold. The man landed flat on his face, unable to protect himself.
“Thank you; you can leave us now,” Alexander said to the guard, dismissing him before Alexander helped the prisoner to his feet. He sat the prisoner down in the chair beside his antique wooden desk.
“I’m glad to see you didn’t get yourself killed this morning,” Alexander began, sitting down himself on the other side of the desk.
“I put on a good show for them, but I surrendered before they got around to shooting me,” the prisoner replied.
“Yes, I can see by the black eye,” Alexander replied, “but that doesn’t concern me now. I have another important task for you, if you’re interested?”
“If it’ll get me out of that stinking cell, sir, I’ll take it,” the prisoner said.
“Good, good. Now tell me, do you know one Benjamin Knight; he was travelling with you?”
“Oh, yes,” the prisoner said, laughing to himself, “I know him. What about him?”
“Now, where to begin, where to begin.”
Alexander outlined his plan, explaining every intricate detail and ensuring the prisoner understood his role before calling for the guard to return him to his cell. A moment after he had left, another member of the personal guard knocked before entering the room.
“You wished to see me, Regent?” the guard asked.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I. Tell me, sergeant, how many men do you have guarding the prisoners?” Alexander asked dismissively.
“Just twelve, sir, at present,” the guard replied. “Why, do you wish me to increase it?”
“What? No, no of course not,” Alexander told him. “I want you to halve the number of guards. I have a very important job for you and your men to do.”
The sergeant just stood there for a minute, staring at him unbelievingly.
“Well,” Alexander continued, “what are you waiting for? Get to it.”
The sergeant bowed before leaving Alexander alone in his office, trying to think of an important task that he could send the guards on to keep them busy, and then the perfect answer dawned on him.
XI
“What are we taking that antique for?” Carl asked as Peter pulled the crossbow from the wall and slung it over his shoulder. It was cumbersome with the automatic rifle and the oil filled lantern already swinging from his other shoulder, but Peter made the best of it and turned to Carl with a smile.
“You might want to go in there shooting,” Peter replied. “But I’d rather sneak up on them and get this over with as quickly, and as quietly, as possible.”
Carl had his knife and pistol tucked into the waistline of his trousers, and the machine gun Peter had given him gripped tightly in his hands, knuckles white from the tension. Peter prised the weapon from one of Carl’s hands and gave him a lantern like his own.
“Trust me, where we’re going, you’ll need your hands free for a while yet,” Peter said, nodding to Carl before pushing past him and making his way down the stairs. Carl followed quickly after him, the weapon and lantern banging irritatingly against his sides as he moved.
They left the house at around midnight. Carl was worried about being seen armed in public, but as Peter pointed out, the town meeting area was probably already full of people, armed with whatever they could find, just waiting for the whiff of a southerner to start hacking and shooting.
Peter led the way through the dimly lit streets and alleyways, being careful to sneak along in shadows wherever possible, taking a moment’s breather in the confines of an unlit doorway or shop front if someone happened to be walking past them. He had plans about what he’d say if he was met by anyone he knew, but Peter didn’t want to put them to the test unless he had to, especially with the freshly shaven fugitive in tow.
Carl, however, took it all in his stride, neither hiding nor cowering from anyone that passed him, only giving them an angry stare as he held his gun menacingly. For the most part, he was returned a similar greeting.
“Come on,” Peter whispered behind him. “We’re nearly there.”
Carl turned to see him ducking into another dimly lit alleyway, soon lost in the gloom of the near moonless night. Taking a second to make sure they were not being watched by anyone in the street, Carl followed him in.
Peter was at the far end of the alleyway, trying in vain to force open a heavy metal grate covering a sewage inlet. Carl only stood there, watching him struggle.
“Well, what are you waiting for, give me a hand,” Peter whispered in between laboured breaths and the strenuous pulling of his arms. Carl shook his head and, swinging the machine gun over his shoulder, reached down to pull on the other side of the grate along with him.
“I had no idea we’d be taking the scenic route in,” Carl said as the grate finally moved from its rusted mounting, screeching loudly as they dragged it across the floor to rest against the far wall. The stench emanating from the hole was almost unbearable, both men clasping their hands to their faces as they gagged against the smell.
“Well, how did you think we were going to get into the palace?” Peter asked. “Just go knock on the door and ask to see the prisoners?”
“Just think, though,” Carl managed to say from between his fingers. “If we were being followed, just think what a nice surprise they’d get when they wandered down this alley.”
Both men managed a muffled laugh, and with a final look around the alleyway, and with one last deep breath of fresh air, they carefully climbed down the five short rungs to the sewer below.
Peter took a moment to light his lantern before leading the way through the intertwining network of sewage tunnels that he assured Carl led in the direction of the palace. Carl left his lantern unlit. They only had a limited supply of oil to burn, so if for any reason they got lost beneath the city, they might depend on the extra light.
Carl followed closely behind Peter, covering his back as they waded their way through the dimly lit tubular corridors that were barely high enough for both men to stand their full height. He repeatedly glanced backwards, gun ready in his hands for any intrusion, straining to see anything in the low light.
At the sound of a splash somewhere ahead of them, both men ducked to a crouch. With the way sound echoed through the sewers, gauging the distance was almost impossible, as was determining the cause. Carl had the machine gun propped against his shoulder, pointed forwards just to the right of Peter’s shoulder. For all of his training, Peter was still fumbling with the lantern in the process of trying to draw his weapon when the source of the noise was discovered.
The single splash became a barrage of echoed noise as a swarm of rats ran through the sewer towards them, both men jumping to their feet as the hundreds of creatures moved past their ankles as one. Carl instinctively aimed his gun towards the floor, but managed to hold back on his instinct to fire, while Peter lowered the lantern closer to the flurry of rats, effectively diverting the rats’ course away from them.
When the rats had passed them by, both men were able to breathe and relax. Carl relaxed his grip on the machine gun and let it hang loosely at his side.
“What was that you were saying about my reactions slowing?” Carl asked, tapping the lantern with the end of the machine gun.
“I usually have someone else to carry all my stuff,” Peter pointed out, taking a moment to run the lantern over the old and faded-looking map he held in his hand.
Carl glanced over his shoulder at the crudely drawn network of tunnels, trying to work out approximately where they were in the grand scheme of things. “Where’d you get that, Pete? It looks older than you.” he asked.
“My grandfather, or my great grandfather,” Peter informed him. “I don’t remember who had
it first. They were both in the militia about the time of the siege. A few key people needed to know where the siege tunnels were to help bring the food in and out of the city, and to maybe get people down here and out if the worse happened and the southerners pushed their assault. The tunnels all connect to the sewage network so you can get in and out from almost anywhere.”
“And that shows us how to get into the palace?” Carl asked.
“Well, not really,” Peter began, Carl turning away from him in disbelief. “But it shows where the palace is in relation to the tunnels, and there’s bound to be numerous exits from the palace to get the Regent away in times of crisis. It’s just up to us to find one.”
Carl kicked his foot through the effluent, immediately regretting it the moment he had done it. “So what you’re telling me is,” he muttered, “not only do we wade through shit to get there, you’re not entirely sure where we’re going in the first place?”
“Come on, Carl, how hard can it be?” Peter smiled.
“What, you reckon they put signposts up on secret ways to break into the Royal palace. I really don’t believe this.”
“Well, you came to me for help, and this is the best I got,” Peter reminded him. “So, are you coming or what?”
Carl took a moment to consider his options. “What choice have I got, Pete?” he said. “But I’m telling you, if this all comes to nothing, you owe me a new pair of boots.”
With that, Peter led the way again, scrutinising his map as they went.
The smell in the sewers was far worse than the initial blast both men had received after lifting up the metal grate, but after only ten minutes or so, neither man complained about the smell. Their noses had quickly adjusted to the stench, allowing them to think about more important matters.
After another twenty minutes, Peter directed them across a narrow intersection to the tunnels he had mentioned. Instead of being cylindrical like the sewers, they had been dug from ground beneath the city, and quite hastily from their appearance. With only a few wooden supports remaining, which were already substantially rotted away, Carl was surprised that they were still standing at all. The only plus point was that he was able to stand his full height, much to the appreciation of his aching back.
“Right,” Peter began, after a full half-hour of what could have been walking around in circles for all Carl knew. “This tunnel here doesn’t appear to be on the map anywhere, and the palace should be somewhere over there,” he continued, pointing vaguely overhead and to the right.
“So, what, are we feeling lucky?” Carl asked.
“I guess so. Time to find out,” Peter replied before meticulously folding the map and returning it to his pocket before they continued on their way.
Carl estimated it to be only an hour or so before dawn by the time they found a doorway within the maze of tunnels beneath the palace. The only sound to be heard was his own laboured breathing and the echo of his footsteps as the sound travelled down the winding tunnels and then returned to him. Peter had learned from the Royal Guard that the prisoners weren’t due to be executed until later in the morning, but they were bound to be under heavy guard in preparation.
The door itself was heavy and wooden, with no obvious way of opening it on their side. Carl placed his ear against the wood and ran his hand around the frame before turning back to Peter, a perplexed look on his face.
“Okay, I’m all out of ideas,” he said. “What’s the plan now?”
“I’m not sure yet, I need a moment to think,” Peter replied, shrugging his shoulders. He placed the lantern on the floor along with his gun and crossbow, freeing himself from their burden.
“If we try and smash it down, we’ll have half the palace Guard on the other side by the time we get through,” Carl stated, pointing out the obvious. “Same thing if we try and blow any of the locks with some gunpowder.”
Peter repeated Carl’s procedure of running his hands around the edges of the door, looking for any hidden catches, and trying to force his fingers between the door and the frame.
“Yes, you’re right,” Peter said, scratching his head thoughtfully. “The only way we’re going to get through this door is if someone on the other side comes and opens it for us.”
“Like I was saying earlier, we should have just knocked,” Carl said under his breath.
“Maybe, but I’ve get a better idea,” Peter suggested, “so why don’t you just stop your moaning and pass me your lantern, eh?”
“Yes, boss, whatever you say,” Carl said gruffly, half throwing the lantern at Peter as he began cutting strips from his leather coat.
XII
“Pretty good, but it don’t beat three of these,” Simon Collingwood stated, throwing his cards at the old wooden table and scooping his Deniras towards him.
“Yeah, yeah, so you beat me again,” the younger Steve Price said, collecting the cards together ready to deal another hand.
“You any coins left for me to take? Maybe you should go ask your momma, I bet she gets a fair bit from all of her gentleman friends,” Simon replied, laughing.
“Shut up, Si. I’m not in the mood. I’m going to go have a look around, make sure everything’s going smooth and that. Here,” Steve said, throwing the cards down at the table and scattering them everywhere. “Why don’t you play with yourself for a while.”
Collecting his rifle from near the doorway, Steve left the small guardroom to go and check on the prisoners, trying to ignore the mumbled comments from behind him. Every guard duty was the same; one snide comment after another, wearing away at his patience.
Steve knew that he could take down the old soldier in a heartbeat, but Simon had been with the palace Guard long enough to get a few friends. The kind of friends who could turn a court martial into an execution if they felt like it. If only the usual bunch hadn’t been sent on their hush-hush secret mission, he wouldn’t have been left on his own with him.
Checking doors as he passed, Steve tried to focus his mind on the impending war. It was his chance to get away from guard duty, and Simon Collingwood, and do some real soldiering for a change. Oh, and of course, a chance to put down a few southerners and their uppity self-righteous ways.
Ordinarily, most prisoners were held in the guardhouse. If it wasn’t for the southerners being captured in the palace, they would have likely ended up there too. It was just too much of a hassle taking them through the streets, where either most of the city would get their execution over with early, or some loyal Southern Nationals would try and set them free.
Murdering skeets, what he wouldn’t give for the chance to be alone with them for a few minutes, killing the Regent in cold blood like that. Given the chance, he thought that he still might have a bit of a go. He couldn’t see what difference it would make, with them being executed in the morning and everything. Who’d care if they were a bit battered and bruised, as long as their necks still snapped when their feet dropped beneath the platform.
He was drawn from his thoughts by an unfamiliar smell from further down the corridor, and a distinct impression of smoke. He looked to the lantern hanging from the stone wall to his right, but it was still burning as cleanly as usual, and the smell was altogether different; unpleasant and almost sickly.
As he attempted to follow the smell, the sensation of smoke increased until he could see the definite wisps wafting down the corridor towards him, and the smell had almost certainly increased.
He considered going back to the guardroom, telling his superior about it, but he didn’t think that he could stand another comment about how young or useless he was. Besides, it was unlikely that Simon would believe him, and he’d have better luck just dealing with it himself. The fire couldn’t be too bad at the moment, but if he left it and wasted time getting help, there was always the chance of it getting a lot worse.
Holding the rifle in one hand, his steps turned into a jog as he chased the smell and the smoke through the corridor, turning left at an intersection and then of
f to his right. The smoke became thicker as he neared the source, the bottom of a few small stone steps. His eyes were already watering, but he was able to see the door below, smoke emanating from beneath it in pungent white plumes.
XIII
They heard a cough from the other side of the door and readied their weapons, Peter aiming the crossbow at the doorway, and Carl standing behind him, machine gun in hand. The dirt they had piled up against their side of the door had helped in directing most of the smoke out towards the other side, but the smell of the oil-soaked burning leather was still getting to them, and the smoke was beginning to sting their eyes.
“You sure this is going to work?” Carl whispered, flexing his grip on the weapon, finger resting delicately on the trigger.
“Positive, so shut up and be ready,” Peter snapped back, raising the tip of the crossbow as they heard the heavy wheel on the other side of the door begin to turn and the first of the locks snap open.
Carl stepped forwards as the door opened, striking the head of the guard that peered through with the butt of his machine gun, knocking him backwards against the stairway.
“Take his weapons!” Carl said as he dashed through the doorway. He climbed the stairs in a leap, charging into the corridor and making sure that there was no one running for help, his machine gun snapping left and then right as he covered every angle of escape. When he was confident that the guard had been alone, Carl stepped back down the stairs to help with the guard’s disposal.
“Cover that with more soil,” Peter said, indicating the smouldering leather pieces, as he dragged the guard's unconscious body back into the tunnel. In a moment, he had retrieved the guard’s rifle and the pistol from his belt.
“We can leave the lanterns here,” Peter continued as he tossed the rifle towards Carl, “but your friends are going to need the weapons when we break them out.”
Carl caught the rifle with one hand, his other hand still holding his machine gun ready to fire. He had buried the leather pieces under a mountain of dirt, but the smoke, and the smell was still present. Carl realised that he was wasting time and turned to Peter to tell him so. Peter had removed the small ring of keys from the guard’s pocket and hastily agreed.
They closed the door behind them, turning the wheel as far clockwise as it would go until all of the locks had engaged. The smoke could still be smelt, but it had cleared enough to allow them to breathe almost normally.
“Okay, then, which way now?” Carl asked as they reached the top of the stairs, each man covering their own length of corridor.
“What you asking me for? I’ve never been down here,” Peter reminded him.
“Wonderful,” Carl replied.
“Figure we should split up?” Peter asked.
“No chance, we’d cut our already slim chances in half.”
Carl quickly scoured both lengths of the corridor, looking for any clues as to which way the guard had come from. Finding none, he followed his instincts. “Right, we go this way,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt.
“Fine by me,” Peter said, his crossbow still held at his shoulder, bolt loaded.
“And remember,” Carl continued, “if they come at us, we hit them with everything we’ve got. No warning shots, no wounding shots. We make it count until we go down or we come out the other side.”
“I understand,” Peter said, knowing what Carl was saying.
Carl took the lead, moving stealthily through the corridors with Peter covering his back. Every sense was alert for any clues in the maze that would point them in the general direction of the prisoners. Luck had got them this far, and Carl was happy to continue to rely on it.
“Where is everyone?” Carl asked. “Truth be told, I’ve seen the inside of a few prisons in my time, and they’ve usually got a few more guards than this.”
“Can’t say, Carl,” Peter replied. “Preparing for the war, building the gallows, I’ve no…”
Both men stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of voices from somewhere ahead of them. The corridor led to a right turn from which the sounds were echoing. They both dropped to a crouch, but the voices didn’t grow louder, implying that whoever was speaking was probably stationary.
There were two different voices, both male, but not yet loud enough to understand what was being said. Both men strained to hear, but after a silent look between them, both agreed to move closer to the turning, as quietly as possible.
Carl held the machine gun against his shoulder as he moved in a crouched position, back against the wall. Resisting the urge to take a quick look around the corner, he beckoned Peter closer.
“Why has it gotta be us doing this, Sarge?” one voice asked.
“Because that’s what we’ve been told, that’s why, so stop your complaining,” the other voice said.
There was a heavy thud as though something had been dropped and then the conversation stopped for a while. Carl and Peter looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Going back probably wouldn’t help them, perhaps only leading them further away from the prisoners, but Carl wasn’t sure if he could risk open gunfire and the attention it would bring. Fortunately, the decision was taken out of his hands.
“Hey, watch what you’re doing,” the second voice said. “Oh for…just look what you’ve done now. I’m going to go and get myself cleaned up.”
The voice grew louder and both men heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Acting far more on instinct than foresight and planning, Carl stood from his crouched position and ran around the corner with his machine gun propped against his shoulder, taking in the scene in front of him in a split second.
A tall lean man was stepping through a doorway, white T-shirt and army trousers smeared in blood, though he looked uninjured. The shocked expression as he saw Carl was quickly removed as three or four bullets passed cleanly through his face, killing him instantly.
By the time Peter was around the corner after him, Carl was already most of the way to the doorway, following surprised sounds from inside the room. Carl half ran to the opening and shot down the second man just inside the room before he even had chance to retrieve a weapon. Running on adrenaline, and ignoring his sense of danger, Carl immediately stepped through the doorway to ensure that the second man was dead. A moment later, Peter was at his side.
The second man was dead also, but it was not that which stunned both men to silence. They had found the source of the bumps and bangs, and also the bloodstain.
The room was half full of wooden crates, mostly nailed shut, but some were still being filled. Both men saw the contents, bodies of Carl’s friends and companions from the Road Trains, piled high within the crates until there was room for no more. Men, women, and children, knife and bullet wounds having killed them all. In the open crate before him, Carl immediately recognised the face of Daniel, Catrina’s older son. He had to rest his hands on the side of the crate to steady himself.
Peter rested a hand on Carl’s shoulder, which was immediately shaken off. Peter found that he could no longer look at the faces of the bodies and had to turn away.
“Why?” was all Carl could say, his mouth dry and his eyes wet.
“I’m sorry,” Peter offered, though he doubted that Carl could hear him. Peter could imagine the reason, but he didn’t think that Carl would want to hear it, at least not now. The prisoners were to be executed in the morning, but for all of the hatred between north and south, there would be very few people who would want to see children hung. Most of the people had probably been killed during the initial assault, but Peter had seen the two children inside the crate had been killed by the single head shot of an execution.
The new Regent would no doubt have a story, explaining it all away, but Peter was glad that he wouldn’t be there to hear it.
His concentration was broke by the sound of heavy footfalls from outside of the room, getting closer. He had dropped the crossbow to the floor and was removing the rifle from his shoulder as Carl pushed past him th
rough the open doorway, his eyes blazing with a lust for vengeance.
Carl cleanly disposed of the two men at the front of the oncoming trio, head shots, first one and then the other in one swift motion. The third person, the older Simon Collingwood, ran to a stop a few metres in front of Carl. He dropped his weapon and snapped his arms above his head, his whole body now shaking with terror. With the muzzle of his machine gun still aimed at the guard’s head, Carl watched the small dark patch on the man’s trousers slowly begin to grow.
By the time Peter stepped through the doorway, Carl already had the situation well in hand.
“Where are the prisoners?” Carl asked, his voice that of emotionless authority.
The guard gestured that they were somewhere behind him, though he never took his eyes from the tip of the machine gun aimed at his head.
“Show me,” Carl demanded, taking a step towards him.
After a moment’s hesitation, the guard slowly turned his body, though he kept his head on the gun for as long as his neck would allow. Peter clanged along behind them, collecting as many of the weapons as he could carry.
The terrified guard, his arms still held above his head, led the two men through more stone walled corridors to Matthew’s cell, much to the appreciation of those inside. The guard fumbled with his keys, dropping them once and hurriedly returning them to the lock, wary of Carl’s wrath. Carl pulled the guard out of the way and threw him against the opposite wall once the door was unlocked.
“Hey, that you, Carl?” Matthew asked. “I almost didn’t recognise you.”
Matthew openly hugged Carl as he stepped through the door, slapping him on the back. As he looked up, he noticed Peter standing a short distance down the corridor.
“And Peter?” Matthew asked warily, unsure as to whether he was friend or foe.
Peter quickly offered him a weapon, ending his uncertainty.
“Come on,” Peter said. “I’m surprised half the palace Guard isn’t down on us already after all the gunfire. We don’t have much time.”
“Wait, what about Ben and the others?” Matthew said.
Carl turned his weapon back towards the guard, who muttered “down, down there,” pointing vaguely over Carl’s shoulder. Carl resisted the urge to shoot him. Instead, he swung the butt of the gun towards the guard’s head, knocking him unconscious.
Arian and Safran helped each other from the cell, weary from their ordeal. Arian whispered something into Matthew’s ear and he returned to the cell.
“Where’s Edward?” Carl asked, but the way neither woman could meet his gaze told him instantly. He offered them his coat and his condolences, though he was yet to face Catrina. As Matthew helped her from the cell, the look on Carl’s and Peter’s faces told her all she needed to know about her children.
“Adam, Daniel?” she managed to mouth, but no sound escaped her lips.
“Too late,” was all Carl was able to say.
Her face had a tortured quality that neither of them had ever seen, though she was unable to cry. Her silence had persisted from the time of Edward’s death, and looked as though it would continue to do so. Instead, she dropped to the floor and curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees as she rocked back and forth.
Matthew lowered himself to her level, conscious of the loss of his nephews, but also aware of the need to get everyone out as soon as possible. If he had heard the gunfire, he was sure that the rest of the palace had as well, so it was only a matter of time before half of the palace guard was on top of them.
“Catrina, we’ve got to go,” he insisted. “Come on, we’re running out of time.”
Catrina continued to sit there, rocking, seemingly oblivious of the world around her, waiting for all of the bad things to go away and it was time to wake up.
Peter distributed the weapons, including a pistol that Matthew took and handed to Catrina. She accepted it, clasping it in her hands and scrutinising it as though it was the first real thing that she had ever seen.
“Come on, Catrina, please,” Matthew continued, stroking her face. Eventually, she met his gaze and rose slowly to her feet. Peter was already moving slowly forwards with Safran and Arian while Carl stood waiting, watching the two of them and showing more emotion than the two of them combined.
With a look, Carl told Matthew that he would watch her, allowing Matthew to catch up with his wife-to-be, pulling her close to him as Peter cautiously moved further down the corridor, looking for any prisoners in the other cells.
Blam.
The first shot resonated around the confines of the narrow corridor, Matthew throwing himself on top of Arian and Safran as they instinctively dropped to the ground, Carl and Peter swinging their weapons around to cover the corridor behind them as the second shot rang out.
Blam. Blam. Blam.
Both men held back their urge to fire as they watched, open-mouthed as Catrina continued to fire into the once unconscious, but now dead, guard.
Blam. Blam. Blam. Click. Click. Click.
Matthew peered over his shoulder, taking in the full horror of what was occurring, a scene of cold-blooded murder and vengeance, and the look of pure hatred on the face of his sister.
Carl and Peter were frozen in their positions, weapons still trained on the woman, fingers still lingering on the triggers as they stood, still disbelieving at what they were seeing.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Matthew rose to his feet and moved past Carl to Catrina's side, taking hold of her hand as she continued to fire the empty weapon. Click. With an effort, he was able to prise open the death grip of her fingers and take the gun from her, tossing it down the corridor and away from the small group of people. He pulled Catrina close to him, trying not to look at the mutilated and blood soaked corpse at his feet.
For the first time since their capture, Catrina started to cry, sobbing into his shoulder. Whether it was because of her actions, or the reason behind her actions, even she was not entirely sure.
His rifle still in his hand, Matthew escorted his sister along the corridor, close behind the rest of the small group in search of the remaining survivors.
The second cell was a lot easier to find, the prisoners inside shouting for help at the sound of the gunfire. Not wanting to waste time finding the correct key, Peter ordered the prisoners back and shot out the lock.
The six prisoners, Mike and Joe among them, quickly helped themselves to weapons and urged the rest of the group to show them to the exit. Ben, however, was still nowhere to be seen.
“We can’t just leave him behind if he's alive,” Matthew stated, shuffling nervously as though there was an army of guards around every corner. “By rights he shouldn’t even be here. We got him into this.”
“Where’d he go?” Carl asked
“They took him some time ago,” Matthew said. “We’ve not seen him since.”
“That happened here too,” Joe cut in. “They questioned us and most didn’t come back. Chances are, he’s already dead.”
“I don’t believe that,” Matthew insisted. “Alexander only took him, and I think it was for a reason. I can’t see him killing him unless he had to.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Matthew,” Mike added, “but you’re on your own. We’ve wasted far too much time already.”
“He’s right,” Peter said.
“Okay, Pete,” Matthew replied. “You get these people out and I’ll follow on after, but I think we really have to look for him.”
“I’m with you boss, there’s no way you’d find your way out on your own,” Carl said to Matthew before turning to Peter. “Same way we came in?”
“Okay, fine, and I promise you we’ll wait for you, well, as long as we can. You have my word,” Peter replied, looking around the survivors nervously.
Arian looked concerned, but Matthew pulled her close to him and kissed her goodbye, promising that he would return.
In the end, Mike stayed with Carl and Matthew, watching their backs as they ra
n through the corridors, calling out Ben’s name. They had still seen no more guards below the palace, and that was starting to worry both Carl and Matthew, perhaps more so than if they were under attack. They had both realised that something was very wrong with the whole escape.
The three men slowed as they neared an open doorway, raising their weapons as they edged closer to the frame. It was Matthew who took the plunge, bursting around the doorway.
“Oh no. Guys, get in here!” Matthew shouted as he saw Ben’s body, slumped in a chair.
“He still alive?” Mike asked as he covered the doorway, allowing Matthew and Carl the chance to investigate.
Feeling Ben’s neck for a pulse, Matthew said, “He’s still with us, but barely. We’ve got to get him out of here.”
Carl withdrew his knife and began cutting away Ben’s restraints, catching his body as it fell forwards in the chair. “What have they done to him?” he asked generally.
From the colour, and more precisely the smell of the vomit that covered Ben’s clothes and the surrounding floor, Matthew had a fair idea. “Droca weed,” he stated, helping Carl lift Ben’s body from the chair.
The two men struggled to move Ben’s lifeless body from the chair, his legs dragging along the floor as they pulled him along between them. Matthew supported Ben’s lolling head by the hair, shaking it and shouting at Ben to try and get a response. The open but vacant eyes told him not to bother.
“Here, boss, you take this,” Carl said, handing Matthew the machine gun, “and I’ll get him out of here. Come on, time to leave.”
Carl lifted Ben’s body and balanced it over his shoulder, fireman style, and followed the two men out of the door. The pressure on Ben’s stomach emptied the remainder of the Droca weed onto Carl’s back, but he was too busy to notice.
“Hey, what’s this?” Mike asked, taking Ben’s pager from a small shelf opposite the open doorway. He turned it over in his hand before showing it to Matthew.
“It’s Ben’s, but what’s it doing here?” Matthew replied, puzzled. “Look, just bring it. We’ve got to go.”
Mike led the way, Carl shouting directions from behind him as he struggled along with Ben’s body, Matthew bringing up the rear.
The first spat of gunfire struck the wall behind Matthew’s head as he instinctively ducked for cover. Carl directed them around a corner, bullets splintering the stone as they turned it, narrowly missing them. Mike joined Matthew to help push back the attacking force.
Mike and Matthew fired together as the first guard rounded the corner, almost cutting him in half as the bullets tore through his chest to the wall behind. This managed to make the rest of the guards more cautious, and they were able to run after Carl as he continued down the corridor to the exit. They had turned another corner by the time more bullets pocked the stonework behind them.
A moment later, and Carl was descending the stairs to the open doorway that would allow them to escape, a line of weapons aimed at him as he burst through to the tunnels beyond. Matthew and Mike followed slowly behind, shooting back through the doorway to deter the guards before lowering their weapons. Arian clung to Matthew fiercely.
“Here, give me that,” Mike shouted at one of the other prisoners, snatching a lantern from his hand and throwing it through the doorway at the steps beyond.
The glass lantern shattered as it struck, casting oil throughout the corridor, which quickly caught light, engulfing the area in flames. Mike closed the door behind him and quickly followed the rest of the group, who were already making their way through the network of subterranean tunnels.
At a little after dawn, the sun still low over the watery horizon, Peter led the group out of a natural cave close to the sea, two small rowing boats attached to a jetty.
“They’re old,” he pointed out, “but they should get you to the mainland.”
Carl laid Ben gently on the floor before going to check out the boats. Ben murmured “home, home again” when Carl put him down, but his gaze was still fixed far in the distance and he said nothing more when prompted.
“So this is how you beat the siege?” Carl asked as he rocked the boats in the water, finding that they were indeed stable and seaworthy.
“So I’m told,” Peter said. He stepped from the jetty to a small alcove at the rear of the cavern and, after calling for help, he and Matthew dragged crates out to the waiting group.
Prising open the top, they found the food and supplies a century old, rotted well beyond all recognition. There were also some clothes, which, although they didn’t smell too good, were distributed to those who needed them.
Catrina was again unresponsive, sitting crouched on the floor, hugging her legs. She didn’t protest when Arian and Safran dressed her with the clothes that had been given to her, but she didn’t help them either. When they were happy that she was as warm as she was going to be, Arian and Safran left her alone.
“How are you holding up, my Lady?” Matthew asked as the two women approached.
“I’ll be fine, just as soon as you get me back to my father,” Safran replied, arms wrapped around her against the cold.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, “but I don’t think that’ll be any time soon.”
Before she had time to protest, Matthew had left her and returned to the main part of the cavern.
“Okay, people,” he shouted, taking on his role of leader once again, “everyone on the boats. There should be enough room for everybody if we’re careful.”
As the boats were slowly filled, Matthew went to Peter to ask him what he was going to do next.
“I can’t go back, they’ll know what I’ve done,” he said. “They’ll execute me instead of you guys.”
“You’re welcome to come with us, you know,” Matthew told him. “I’m sorry. I know what you’ve done for us, turning against your people.”
“I haven’t turned against anybody,” Peter insisted. “I’m just doing what's right. Once this new Regent is shown for what he is, I’ll be right back here, doing my job and cracking a few heads. It’ll only be a matter of time.”
“Fine by me, Pete,” Matthew said, tapping Peter on the back. “But for now why don’t you get yourself onto one of the boats. We could still use your help."
A short time later, the boats left the quiet of the small jetty on their way to the mainland.
XIV
By the time the boats were halfway across the bay, Alexander was making the final preparations for the executions. His door was opened by one of the palace Guards.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Alexander said to the guard without looking up from his plans. “Did they all escape?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. It was Samuel Larson, the guard who had supported Ben’s head during his interrogation.
“Casualties?” Alexander asked.
“Of course,” Samuel replied. “The six guards you posted with the prisoners, but only one of your men.”
“Was he expendable?” Alexander asked dismissively.
“Yes, sir,” Samuel informed him. “Plenty more where he came from. If he’s stupid enough to run into a barrage of bullets, he doesn’t deserve to be a member of your personal guard.”
Alexander smiled, thinking to himself that the guard was a man after his own heart. He finally looked up from his desk. “How are our special guests coping with their sudden incarceration?” he asked, referring to the six guards that he had had bound and beaten to replace the Road Trains members at the execution.
“They were . . . objectionable to begin with, sir, but we managed to keep them quiet.”
“And who knows about this?”
“Only those most loyal to you, sir,” Samuel insisted. “It wouldn’t do for your subjects to get the . . . the wrong impression of you at a time like this.”
“True, true,” Alexander said as he returned to his work and the guard hesitated beside the door. “Dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied, and with that, Alexander was
once again left alone.
Alexander left his office at a little after ten o’clock. His plans were still incomplete, but the noise from the still growing crowd outside of the palace was becoming intolerable. He had decided to get the executions over with earlier rather than later.
Strolling casually through the lush palace corridors, he spied the final piece of his deception, a young-looking scullery maid scrubbing one of staircases leading to the upper levels of the palace.
“You there, girl,” he said as he approached. She stood and curtseyed, bidding the Regent a good day, but not taking her eyes from the floor.
“Stop that for now,” he told her. “There’s something else I need you to do.”
The scullery maid stopped her work and followed Alexander as he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the palace, accustomed to performing special duties for the previous Regent on occasion. Larson was waiting for the Regent at the top of the stairs.
“Ah, Larson, deal with this would you,” Alexander said, motioning towards the girl.
As the scullery maid reached the top step, Larson pushed her backwards, her arms flailing for a handhold as she fell. Unfortunately for her, she found none.
At the sound of her head cracking against the marble floor at the base of the stairs, Alexander turned around to look at the consequences.
“Well done, Captain of the Guard,” Alexander said, raising his eyebrows as he gave the young guard his promotion. “Have her made ready, will you? We need to get this started soon.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Samuel replied, running down the stairs to the bruised and broken, but not yet deceased, body of the woman. He picked her up and carried her to the dungeons to put her with the rest of the future victims.
Alexander called after him, reminding the guard that he should ensure that she could stand. He needn't have worried, though, as the young guard knew his job all too well.
Alexander was happy again. Everything was going his way and that was the way he liked it. Even the sounds from the crowd below no longer seemed to bother him as much and, with a smile spread wide across his face, he decided that he might as well take a drink before starting the day’s entertainment.
XV
Around an hour later, Alexander stepped out onto the palace balcony and gladly accepted the attention of the adoring public below him. There were people lining the town meeting area and the streets beyond for as far as he could see, men, women, and some children, holding aloft a variety of guns, knives, swords, and farming tools as they cheered his presence.
A gallows had been hastily constructed during the previous day, but only the palace guard most loyal to Alexander were allowed anywhere near it. The rest of the guard and most of the town’s militia were involved with holding the crowd back, preventing them from storming the palace and taking their own revenge. Alexander felt it fitting to say a few words before the executions began.
“People, friends,” he began once the crowd had come to order. “It warms my heart to see you here today, to punish those responsible for the murder of our beloved Regent, and to finally put right all that is wrong. This day will be forever marked in history as the start of a great new chapter for our city, a world where we are no longer held back by our oppressive southern enemies.”
The crowds cheered and the long line of guards and militia braced themselves as the palace gates were opened and Alexander’s own personal guard brought out the seven prisoners. Their clothes were torn and tattered, covered in blood from their beatings, but even from a distance, it was impossible to deny the finery and intricacy of their construction. The crowd had seen many similar garments in the last two days, mostly sold from the Road Trains that the common man was unable to afford.
The prisoners’ hands were bound and their feet held together by a short length of rope, stopping them from attempting an escape, but with the crowd as intent on blood as they were, it was unlikely any fleeing prisoner would get very far. Finally, their faces were covered with cloth sacks to prevent anyone from discovering their true identities.
They struggled as they were escorted up the three short steps to the gallows, but each movement of resistance was met with brutal force from the guards, striking them with heavy wooden clubs, much to the pleasure of the watching crowd. Each blow from the guards was met with another cheer, until the prisoners slowly accepted their fates and allowed the noose to be placed around their necks.
The guards stepped back from the platforms as the executioner at the lever looked up towards Alexander in a theatrical motion, commanding the on looking crowd to follow his gaze.
With another theatrical gesture, Alexander cast his hand down in one sweeping motion as the executioner pulled hard on the lever, dropping the platform. In the days that followed, those at the front of the crowd would boast that they had heard each neck snap individually as the prisoners dropped. To make matters worse, there would be crowds of people just waiting for them to describe the sounds just one more time, laughing about it as they shared a drink on their way to the Southern Baronies.
Alexander gave his usual stunning performance, turning the people around to hearing only what he had to tell them, believing only what he told them to believe. Within minutes, he had given them so many promises of blood and vengeance for all of their ills, and explained to their satisfaction every intricate detail as to why everything that was wrong with their lives could in some way be attributed to the people of the Southern Baronies.
By the time the first of the remaining four Road Trains started to cross the bridge on its long journey south, each person who had heard the Regent speak was ready and willing to kill a thousand southerners. Alexander had promised them that they would be given the chance, and they could laugh and spit in the face of every individual that they killed.
As the civilians moved out with armies, thousands of people moving as one, Alexander stood and watched the beginnings of a new world.
His.
Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight Page 4