Relieved his friends were safe, at least for the moment, he faced his attackers. He was outnumbered by at least ten to one, but he was fortunate none had bows, or were unwilling to use them. They had nets, though; it looked like they wanted to capture rather than kill him. They would pay for the privilege in both time and blood while William blocked the only clear path into the forest.
A bandit charged him, spear in hand. William pivoted and raised his sword to block. The spear-man turned away as two others attacked from the other side. He slashed at them, breaking one attacker’s spear and slashing the other’s shoulder. Both retreated to their spots in the semicircle, blood streaming down the injured man’s arm. Another bandit attacked and retreated, followed by two more attacking from the other side. Again William parried them away, leaving one bleeding from the face. The pattern continued, but the bandits remained silent. They must have done this before; they were better trained than they were armed. If their aim was to tire him, they were succeeding; they would overwhelm him soon, but not until his friends had a chance to get far away. His only goal was to buy them time to escape and reach home. His own survival was secondary.
One bandit gestured to another. Two men stepped forward, a net strung between them. They charged, flanking William to entangle him. He faked a jump over the net, saw them raise it to match his jump, then slipped underneath, slashing at the net to try to damage it. Two more men attacked from behind before he regained his balance. One grabbed his sword arm and received a deep gash on his hand for his efforts; the other yanked at William’s shield, and tore it away.
Again came the net. This time he couldn’t avoid it. He kept his feet, but they circled him. He tried to wriggle free, and was jumped by men from behind. He wrenched his sword arm free, stabbing and slicing at anything he could reach. It was mere desperation now. Someone grabbed his wrist and twisted; he dropped the sword as a bolt of pain shot through his arm. His vision cleared in time to see a giant of a man swinging a club at his head. The impact on his forehead made a sickening thud, and he dropped to the ground, eyes unfocused. Through the ringing in his ears he heard a voice say, “Tie him up. Bring him to the Keeper. You four…go after the others. The Boss won’t be happy if they get away.”
His last thought before passing out was his hope that Maya and the others had gotten away.
The history of Esper differs from that of Earth in that no war has ever been fought on this planet. Aside from minor skirmishes between outlaws and Guards, or rivals for natural resources, armed conflict has been avoided on Esper.
The fact that all populated land is incorporated into a single political unit has meant that disagreements tend to be resolved through negotiated settlement or royal dictate. The claim to the throne itself is handled by the Council of Dukes, but some authors have questioned what might occur if several claimants appealed at the same time.
Planet of Hope: A History of Esperanza
William awoke on a dirt floor in a small shack, his hands bound together behind a pole. Sitting up caused him considerable pain. Even breathing hurt. He had bruised ribs for sure, probably broken ones too.
He welcomed the pain; it sharpened his senses. He stayed silent, surveying his surroundings before the inevitable encounter. The shack was made of a strange tube-shaped wood he had never seen before. The walls consisted of smaller branches lashed together, while thicker tubes formed the corner posts and roof beams. The post he was tied to was several inches thick, and supported the little building’s roof. Despite his predicament William was intrigued; such a wood might be handy for building houses quickly and cheaply. He would have to learn where it came from.
But later. Right now he needed to learn as much as possible about this place and plan an escape. The far side of the hut was cluttered, but it was too dark to discern what the pile was made of. He promised himself he would steal a glance whenever the chance presented itself.
His captors must have had faith in their knots, because the hut’s only door was unlocked; in fact, it was ajar, and swung easily in the breeze. William checked the bonds on his wrists, and found their faith was justified. Giving up for the moment on escaping, he leaned over to get a better view through the door opening.
It was still daytime. Either that or the sun had set and risen; he could not be sure, but he wasn’t hungry, which meant he’d been unconscious for a few hours at most.
A small, busy crowd of people scurried about outside, all dressed in the same ragged style he had seen before. Most were men, but a few women passed by as well, though with the narrow view it might have been the same woman each time. He leaned further to get a better view, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he did so. His face was so low he could smell the dirt floor, but he got no better view for his efforts. He tried to pull himself up without screaming in agony, sucking in air to stop from shouting—and breathed in a noseful of dirt. He sneezed before he could stop himself. The sneeze strained his ribs, and he yelped in pain before clenching his mouth shut. Outside, the crowd turned his way. They parted, and a new figure approached the hut.
It was a different sort of man who strode toward him, one far better dressed and armed than the others. The deference the others showed him made it clear he was their leader, or at least someone important. Unlike the poor clothing and the rough leather armor of his underlings, he wore soft leather pants and a black cloak embroidered in silver and red. His cloak flowed behind him as he walked, as did his sandy brown hair. Whoever he was, he was tall, lean, attractive, wealthy, and confident, and everything else William had ever wanted to be.
The door opened and sunlight poured in, nearly blinding William. The man strode in, giving William a piercing, icy stare. He paced slowly around the central post, his boots thudding in the packed dirt. As the room darkened again, William made out the dusty blue eyes of his adversary staring at him. His circuit around William completed, the man sat on a stool he grabbed from the storage pile that William had forgotten to peek at.
“You,” he said, pointing his finger at William, “have caused me problems.” He spoke with a soft Ibyca accent, probably southern. “Not only did you injure some of my men, but I understand your friends have eluded capture. At least so far.”
William’s heart pounded with excitement when he heard the others had gotten away, but he kept silent. He fixed his gaze on the man’s smirk, which was obscured by a well-trimmed goatee.
“So, what shall I do now?” the man asked. “Your friends will no doubt inform the authorities of our presence here. That is, if they evade my trackers. If they do, then my choices seem clear: remain here and hold you hostage against attack by the Earl’s men, or leave and find another place to camp. If we must leave, then you become a liability, and I would do well to simply dispose of you. You appear to be educated. Tell me…if you stood in my boots, which would you choose? Ransom or execution?” The man stared at William, daring him to answer.
“Who are you?” asked William with all the contempt he could muster.
The man laughed at William’s insolence. “My apologies. Protocol first. I am Kaleb Antony of Faywater Port, although from my accent you may have guessed that I was educated overseas. I am the leader of this little…group here.”
“William Whitehall, Marshland Crossing, born, raised, and educated. Librarian.”
Antony raised his eyebrows. “Librarian? What on Esper is a Librarian doing this far from town?”
Should he answer? Hiding the truth served no purpose. Better to be forthright and gain the man’s trust, so that lying later might be more fruitful. “We were investigating the poisoning of the river.”
“Hmm. Yes, several of my people have been getting sick. We had to search elsewhere for water. Did you find what you were looking for?”
Again, he wondered how much of the truth to tell him. He could not divulge the dragons’ existence to these bandits of all people. But an outright lie might be detected. “We did,” he said.
“What did you find?” asked Antony.
“A rock-slide from one of the mountains—the one on the north side. The poison came from there.”
Antony paced around William again. William was sure it was a tactic to unsettle him, but knowing this didn’t prevent it from working. “Were you able to clean up this rock-slide?” asked Antony.
“No, it was too big. But the poison had nearly dissipated by the time we left. It should disappear within a month or so.” This was the most deceitful he had been so far. He suspected the time would come soon when he must tell a blatant lie; he hoped he could pull it off.
Antony reached into the storage pile again. “And why does a Librarian need this?” he asked, holding the shield Melissa had given him.
Just his shield? Where was his new sword? Did Antony believe he had carried a shield but no weapon? “We didn’t know who or what we might run into,” he said, avoiding any mention of the sword. “Being armored was better than not. As it was we were attacked three times…once by your people, and twice by wolves.”
“And you expect me to believe a Librarian is capable of using this?”
William sighed. “My father was a Guard.”
“He taught you?”
“No, he died before he could. But I was taught by…someone else. I had hoped to be chosen for the Guard myself.”
Antony’s eyes widened. “And yet you became a Librarian. Weren’t you disappointed?”
“Yes,” said William. “But I’ve grown to enjoy my duties.”
“Such as trekking all over Azuria searching for sources of poison?”
William couldn’t help but laugh. “Among other things.”
Antony returned to his seat. “I wasn’t here to witness it, but I’m told you fought well before being captured. My men were under orders to capture you alive, otherwise you would be dead now, despite your skill. Wouldn’t you prefer an opportunity to live your dream, wielding a spear and shield instead of pen and paper?”
William’s face burned. “I won’t shame my father’s memory by becoming a common thief,” he said through clenched teeth.
“No, I wouldn’t imagine so,” said Antony, rising again. As he opened the door to leave he turned back. “But ask yourself this: am I really just a common thief?” And with that he closed the door behind him.
Antony’s parting question struck a nerve. If they weren’t bandits, then what were they? Antony was too well dressed and armed to be a thief himself, but he still might be commanding others to steal for him. William recalled the bandit activity report he wrote for Duke Vincent. That’s what Cairns called it: bandit activity. Maybe that was just an unchallenged premise. William had considered himself clever for finding a likely point of origin for the outlaws. For all his cleverness he had stumbled into the middle of their encampment anyway.
But now that the question was asked, he had to ponder it: were they really bandits? He had no evidence either way, so he did what he should have done from before: analyze the situation and search for inconsistencies. So what did he know for certain? First, he had seen at least two dozen men besides Antony, probably more. Second, this encampment was stable enough to warrant building a permanent structure, namely the one he was in, which contained a stockpile of items evidently worth keeping. Lastly, if he’d guessed their whereabouts correctly, there were no major towns within several days’ march. Marshland was a week or so away, and the southern coast of Azuria more than twice that.
Question: why would bandits camp here? Answer: they wouldn’t. So if they weren’t bandits, who or what were they? Antony made it obvious he didn’t intend to be caught. Being caught implied wrongdoing—a cold chill spread through him. He knew what they were.
Rebels. These people intended to defy the King’s authority and take power for themselves. It was the only explanation, and it angered him enough to hyperventilate despite the pain in his ribs. Without thinking he tugged on his bindings, but they held fast, digging into his wrists. The pole was buried deep and didn’t budge.
He forced himself to relax before he injured himself further. He slowed his breathing and looked for something constructive to do. His only hope of escape was to dig around the pole to loosen it, but he couldn’t move his hands enough. He sighed, realizing he was helpless, at least for now. A few rays from the sinking sun slipped through the cracks in the wall; night would fall soon, and he had to try to sleep. Hopefully an idea would come to him by morning.
The door opened again. William thought Antony had returned to talk again, but instead he saw the round, friendly face of a middle-aged man. “Boss says it’s time for you to eat,” he said. “My name’s Finn; some call me the Keeper.”
“Keeper?” asked William.
“Yup. I keep the new folks like you until they decide to join us. The Boss says I can trust you, but I gotta ask anyway: if I untie your hands so you can eat, d’ya promise not to run? I should warn you, them that tried got themselves killed.”
“I promise,” said William, happy to have his hands loosened for a few moments. “Can I walk around? I want to stretch my legs.”
“Sure. I’ll be standing by the door, though, so you won’t be going nowhere anyhow.” Finn’s smile seemed genuine, but William was sure he meant business. He resolved not to try escaping, at least not while this man was watching. The meal was meager and tasteless. What sort of rodent or bird it was he dared not ask, but he could not bring himself to finish it.
“Water,” said Finn, offering a cup. “Not too much, mind, as you’ll be tied up all night and you don’t want to be wettin’ yourself.” William heeded the advice and took only a few sips, using the rest to clean his hands and face as best as he could. “If you gotta go, go in the corner.” Finn pointed toward the corner nearest the pile. William didn’t relish the idea of smelling his own urine all night, but he decided to use the opportunity to inspect the objects hidden in the dark. His suspicions were confirmed. Among other items, he saw axes, spears, clubs and all manner of crude weapons and shields. Some looked as though they had been made with materials on hand; others more likely stolen from richer men. He contemplated snatching a weapon and fighting his way to freedom, but he rejected the idea right away. He couldn’t fight anyone in his condition, let alone someone as burly as Finn. William was sure he was being tested, and that meant Finn was confident of the result of any duel. No, it was best to use the time to look around.
As he relieved himself, a stray beam of light from the doorway fell on a shield hanging on the wall, illuminating the pure white symbol painted on it.
It was a fist. He was staring directly at the shield his father had carried until his last day. Whoever killed him was probably here in this camp. With great effort, William removed all emotion from his face as he returned to Finn to have his hands tied.
“May I ask a question?” asked William as Finn opened the door to leave.
“Sure,” said Finn with a shrug. “No harm in a question.”
“What makes you sure I’ll join?”
He shrugged again. “Everybody does. The Boss has a way about him. Besides, when his ways don’t work, there’s always mine.” He left without explaining his last remark, which left William guessing the worst. They weren’t counting on the fact that William knew they had murdered his father. The Keeper’s words lingered in the darkness. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was this could not end well for him. His only hope was to survive as long as possible and prevent Antony and the others from leaving. The delay might give Maya and the others a chance to reach Marshland and raise the alarm. The Earl might not want to send his men to save William alone, but he couldn’t allow a band of criminals to camp seven days from town. Not while he answered to Duke Vincent.
He spent a fitful night dozing and waking. A sentry paced just outside the door, which alone would have hindered sleep. But having his hands tied behind him with only a pole to lean against was no way to rest. His ribs ached and no position brought relief. But none of that mattered compared with the mental torture in William’s we
ary mind. In fitful dreams, rebels attacked his father over and over; other times he himself was the target. Every fight ended in capture or death, only to have the vision start over again.
He was woken in the morning by a scrawny redhead no older than himself. “Boss wants to see you,” said the young man in a surly voice. As he untied the bonds, William noticed a shadow near the door. Another pointless test. If he ran now, he would get nowhere anyway; his legs were cramping after such a lousy sleep.
The shadow belonged to Finn, just as he suspected. “Good night’s sleep?” asked Finn, his friendly smirk reminding William of Jack. He decided he had nothing to lose by bantering back.
“Actually, I was about to complain to the inn keeper. Care to join me?”
Finn laughed and clapped a strong hand on William’s shoulder. “King’s trousers, lad, it’ll be good to have you on our side.” William did not return the smile. They crossed an open square of hard-packed dirt. Several tents of dubious quality surrounded it, along with open hammocks and a few fire pits. The camp was spacious but concealed, and looked as though it had existed for a long time. Antony would not be enthusiastic about moving.
They approached the camp’s only other permanent structure, a long, low building built from the same tubular wood as the prison shack. Two doors graced the long side; they entered the nearer one. Inside, Antony sat behind a rough-hewn makeshift desk.
“Have you figured it out yet, Whitehall?” Antony leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Are we bandits or not?”
William was stopped at the desk facing Antony. Finn and the younger man stood behind him, blocking any potential escape. He looked Antony in the eye, hoping his fear didn’t show. “You are rebels,” he said in a clear voice.
“You were right, Finn,” said Antony. “He’s a clever one. Now, Whitehall, let’s try a harder question. What is our plan?”
William had puzzled over it, and no satisfactory answer had come to mind. “Well, you plan to seize Marshland Crossing, obviously, but I can’t imagine why.”
The Defender of Rebel Falls: A Medieval Science Fiction Adventure (The William Whitehall Adventures Book 1) Page 23