The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  The count appeared mollified by the apology and sat down. “Very well, here are the plans and an advance on your pay,” he slid a metal scroll case across the desk along with a pouch full of coins.

  “The materials you need have been acquired. There is enough money to hire the necessary workers. Please review the plans to be certain whatever else is needed can be acquired before construction begins.”

  Carym’s momentary contemplation of the odd look in Cannath’s eye slipped away as he beheld the scroll case. What would his fellow villagers think of him as they watched the feet of their family members dangling in the breeze beneath a gallows he and Zach had built? Arnathian rule was becoming far more intolerant and failure to assimilate into Arnathian custom and tradition would likely prove fatal.

  “Your Lordship, please forgive me. I believe that our talents are not quite what you are looking for. Perhaps I could recommend the services of another?”

  “Perhaps I was mistaken about your loyalty?” the lord replied quietly, a glint in his eyes. “A faithful believer would feel honored to have been chosen to do this god’s work, and yet I sense that you do not. Do you gentlemen worship Qra’z?” he paused after asking this question, and then continued without allowing the men to answer. “If I choose another carpenter to build these gallows for me, you may rest assured you will be the first to hang in them. One does not take lightly the business of our church,” his tone was stern yet lacking in emotion.

  “No, my lord!” stumbled Zach, “we did not mean-”

  “Good, it is settled then. You will report tomorrow with your assessment of the plans and whatever you feel you must acquire. Enjoy the Games.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A Friendly Game.

  Decisions.

  Carym and Zach intended to spend the rest of the day relaxing, deciding what to do. They returned to the Silver Star Inn a short while later and stabled their horses. Oddly, the inn was nearly empty. Zach went to the outside ordering window and called the barkeep, “A cold mug of ale, Raffo.”

  “Right away, Zach,” replied the barkeep in his thick brogue. “Cider for you, Carym?”

  “Yep.”

  Carym looked around and saw that the town seemed unusually quiet as well. In fact, there were but five other patrons seated inside and out. The Silver Star Inn was a very old business and it was located in a very old building on Inn Street. Most of the businesses on Inn Street were located in large buildings, each having many storefronts. The Silver Star was said to be the oldest in the city, dating back to the Golden Age of the Cklathish High Thaynes who ruled much of what is now the eastern part of Arnathia, nearly a millennium ago.

  Carym took a deep breath and tried to let go of the worries of the day’s events. He leaned on the lacquered bar of ancient black oak, and studied the odd trinkets old Raffo had skillfully placed under the glossy surface of the bar. His favorite was the old four-point cross badge that belonged to Raffo’s great, great, great, great uncle, or grandfather, or whatever the story warranted that particular day. Whoever had worn it was someone of great importance, and he knew enough of his history to know that this badge was the symbol of the authority of a Cklathish thayne given to a worthy person to carry out the thayne’s justice.

  Some said those old badges were imbued with magical powers, offering added protection to the wearer. Such things were often confiscated by the Imperial authorities as heretical or demonic devices. The empire was becoming far too intolerant these days. Crafty Old Raffo wasn’t concerned however; Imperials rarely visited his inn long enough to notice. And, even if they had, the display section was set in a swivel of sorts; with one quick flip, the innkeeper could have his favorite display items out of sight.

  Raffo returned a few moments later with two glass mugs filled with drink. “Here you go, gentlemen. That will be one crown, please.”

  “I didn’t realize you were taking Imperial coin now. What gives?” asked Zach, retrieving a coin from the advance money they had received earlier. “Next thing you know, you’ll have us humming Glory to Qra’z and Arnathia!”

  “No choice. General Craxis issued an order; there will be no more use of Hybrandese Emerald Currency. On penalty of death, no less! May Zuhr help us,” he said scandalously as he wiped the counter with a rag.

  “Will the Royal Hybrand Bank accept the old emerald coins for conversion?” Zach asked nervously.

  “Not any longer, I’m afraid. And now it’s called the Imperial Arnathian Bank of Hybrand! That’s what comes of spending too much time in the country! No matter, news will catch up to you country folk sooner or later,” he chuckled. “Why aren’t you lads at the Cklathball game? I sure hope we thrash those Arnathians!”

  “Crackin’ Imperial Games!” Zach swore. “Have a care what you wish for, man.”

  Raffo nodded with a grimace, the Arnathians were sore losers. Everyone knew what the Arnathians had done to the traditional Cklathish Games. Before Arnathian occupation, the games had been a spirited affair celebrating physical prowess, athletic skill, and Cklathish culture. Merchants would travel from all over to sell their wares, competitors from neighboring Cklathish and non-Cklathish lands alike trained all year long to be eligible for some of the events. The traditional sporting events included foot races, mountain climbing, archery, horse races, bull fighting, log tossing, hammer throwing, and Cklathball. The finest food, drink, and wares from around the Cklathish lands could be had in abundance. It had been a truly wondrous occasion.

  After the occupation began, the Games were abolished by order of the territorial governor and had remained so until five years ago, when pressure from both the Cklathish natives and the Arnathian settlers was mounting to reinstate the games. In a fashion typical of how General Craxis responded to pressure from anyone - including other Arnathians - he reinstated the games but added his own twist. Craxis only allowed one traditional Cklathish event in the line-up, Cklathball. The rest of the events became gruesome duplications of the Arnathian Glory Matches celebrated around the empire. Even the honorable events like the mountain foot race were bastardized by the Arnathians and turned into a race where the loser, usually Cklathish, was ambushed by an enemy team of competitors and killed. This was how Craxis accomplished his goal of reducing demand for the games.

  “At least Cklathball is the first event,” Zach said as he gulped down the last of his ale. “If any of those damned Arnathians try to make me join the Games, there will be bloodshed!”

  He slammed his mug down on the table and stalked out of the inn. Carym followed more slowly, warily casting glances at the few other patrons as they made their way to the stable.

  Cklathball was an intensely popular pastime with the Cklathish people. When Craxis ordered the games reinstated with his own twisted Arnathian vision, Lord Cannath convinced him to allow the Cklathball matches to remain unchanged. It was Lord Cannath’s hope that by retaining the time-honored tradition of Cklathball in the Games, it might soften the impact of the other corrupted events; but this was not to be. The Hybrandese largely viewed Lord Cannath in the same light as his great-uncle, Prince Hydase. The fact that he was half-Arnathian and had been raised in Arnathia did little to endear him to his people.

  At least, there was Cklathball.

  Cklathball was a physically grueling, strategy-oriented game played on a field fifty yards wide and one hundred yards long. The field can be any surface at all; in winter it can even be played on ice. The field usually contains several obstacles such as rock walls, or mounds of dirt that are used by the defending team to prevent scores. At each end of the field is a six-foot hollow stone pillar called the goalpost. The object is for the team commander to move the team, through the use of strategy and force, down the field and place the ball into the opponent’s goalpost while the defending team does anything it can to prevent this.

  Carym and Zach jogged the short distance to the amphitheatre designed by the Arnathians just outside the city limits of Hybrand City. A set of stone bleacher
s built cleverly into a hillside overlooking the field served as the seating arrangements for the Arnathian fans. There were no bleachers on the Cklathish side of the field and the local fans had to stand at ground level to watch the game. It wasn’t lost on the Hybrandese that the Arnathians designed the field with the intention of raising themselves above the common Hybrandese rabble. Luckily, the pair found a good viewing point from the sideline and watched the game which had apparently been in progress for some time.

  “Hey, isn’t that Rych?”

  Zach squinted for a moment and surveyed the field. Each team had its men in a line facing each other. Behind one line stood a man with a painted leather cap, the “Commander” of his team. “Yes, that’s him.”

  Rych stood behind the members of his team, the Militiamen, who were wearing uniforms of Cklathish green with leather caps on their heads and leather vests. The Militiamen formed a protective line in front of Rych, squaring off against their adversaries, the Imperial Conquerors. With the crest of Hybrand prominently displayed on his leather cap, Rych glanced up and down the line of Imperials, who wore black uniforms bearing the emblem of the Arnathian Crown painted in silver. Each man carried a small wooden buckler style shield and a leather-wrapped wooden cudgel.

  “When did they promote him to Commander?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Zach seemed more interested in observing the fans on the Arnathian side of the field. Carym saw the ill-disguised scorn in his friend’s eyes as he surveyed the opposing bleachers and knew little good would come of it. Everyone knew the Arnathians cared little for any sport where there wasn’t a certain amount of violence. In fact, it was very likely that the only reason Craxis allowed the Cklathball matches to continue was that it was a violent sport; though most injuries were rarely life-threatening. But Carym decided he wasn’t going to let his curmudgeonly friend ruin the fun and he focused on the game. The score was tied at 25 and the point cap was set at 35 points; meaning that the first team to reach 35 points wins the game.

  Carym, along with a large number of his countrymen, shouted encouragement for the Cklathish. He truly loved Cklathball and had played it in the streets with his childhood friends, some of whom were on the field now. Rych shouted a command and his men, called “troopers,” surged forward beating back the opposing team’s troopers. Rych shouted another command as two of his scouts, the men to whom he would throw his ball, broke through the line of opposing troopers, and raced down the side boundaries of the field towards the goalpost. Imperial scouts, whose job was to beat down the Cklathish scouts, trailed close behind them trying to knock the Cklathish scouts off their feet with their clubs and small shields.

  Rych took a solid blow to his upper thigh as he hurled the ball into the air, then fell to the ground in pain. Carym watched as the black and red ball sailed expertly over the heads of the Imperial scouts and into the hands of his own man, Warreth. The two trailing Imperials promptly slammed Warreth in the back with their padded bucklers and knocked him to the ground ten feet from the goal ring. The play was over and both teams faced off again, now only ten feet from the goal. Rych needed help getting to his feet and walked with a limp behind his own line of men. Despite the terrible pain he must be feeling in his leg, he was still in control. Thanks to that successful catch, his team now had another chance to score before they must give control of the ball back to the Imperials.

  Rych looked around the stadium. On his right side sat Imperial Army troops, nobles, Arnathian settlers, and other fans of the Imperial Conquerors, while on his left side stood the people of Hybrand. With a shouted command, his troopers surged forward again, pushing the Conquerors’ own troopers backwards and into the goal ring. Rych climbed onto the back of one of his own teammates and was propelled over the mass of heaving and shoving men. With a desperate lunge to avoid half a dozen swinging cudgels, Rych tumbled safely into the goal ring with the ball tucked under his arm. The judge awarded the Cklathish team ten points bringing them to the predetermined point cap of thirty-five points, and victory. The Hybrandese crowd roared at the masterful victory of their Militiamen and rushed out onto the field to congratulate their players.

  Carym was caught up in the moment and went out on the field to heartily congratulate his friends. Zach was wearing a huge grin, no doubt reveling in the shameful blow dealt to the Arnathians by his countrymen. But, the outcome of this game did not change the outcome of their dilemma.

  “Come on Carym!” he shouted over the noise. “We should head back into town work on our ‘problem!’”

  Carym very quickly found his old friend Rych and offered his congratulations before Zach finally pulled him away from the field and towards the road.

  Carym and Zach followed the celebrating townsfolk back into town where groups of people separated from the crowd and made their way into the various pubs of Hybrand City; Carym and Zach returned to the Silver Star Inn. Choosing a seat just inside the door where they could watch the crowd moving down the street.

  After the elation at their team’s success had worn off, the magnitude of their quandary became apparent. Carym suddenly felt very weary and he couldn’t help but wonder if General Craxis would be planning something decidedly bad with which to congratulate the Cklathish team. He felt as though he had just marched a hundred miles with a heavy weight on his chest. Warily, he watched the crowds moving to and fro on the street outside the inn, expecting Imperial soldiers to charge in and arrest him at any moment. Foolishness, he thought to himself. We haven’t done anything wrong...yet.

  “What are we going to do, Carym? We can’t build a gallows that will be used to hang our own people! I have a good mind to take our money and get out of town,” said Zach as though he had been reading Carym’s very thoughts. “This is madness! Where did they get the idea that we are ‘loyalists?’ I can’t stand the Arnathians; I didn’t choose to join the bloody Fleet, but sure did learn how to scout and fight. And I intend to use those skills to get away from this place!” Zach had a distant look in his eyes.

  The stress of the day’s activities wore on Carym and he decided to risk a shot of whiskey, breaking his vow of sobriety. “We should go north, and join our kin in Brythyn.”

  Carym was afraid his friend’s mouth would get them both in trouble. The Arnathians had not been kind to those who expressed dissenting thoughts. He wondered if there were some Arnathian sympathizers in the crowd nearby, ready and willing to turn them in. Willam Cheval and his sister Rashel were seated a few tables away deeper inside the inn, engrossed in deep conversation. Several members of the Cklathball team were carrying on inside the pub, drinking heavily and singing bawdy songs.

  Seated outside were a few members of the City Council and the mayor, Argus the Strong; folks still called him that. It was said Argus was so strong that he once killed a man by jabbing him in the chest with one meaty finger. Carym nodded in respect to the older man who nodded back. Carym saw something there, in that glance and wondered if word had gotten out about their Arnathian contract already. A pair of Imperial guards stood idly conversing a few buildings away, but it was the Arnathian at the next table he was truly concerned about. The man was dressed in the clothing of a commoner, yet he the haughty air of a nobleman or someone else of importance.

  “You had better watch your tongue Zach, there are guards on patrol over there,” he pointed to the street corner where two guardsmen stood. When he had Zach’s attention he glanced meaningfully at the man sitting nearby. Years of adventuring had honed Carym’s senses, something wasn’t right and he hoped his friend had picked up on it.

  “I don’t care anymore, Carym!” Zach seemed oblivious to his friend’s silent warning. “I don’t think I can take living in a place where our countrymen become slaves, or they are tortured and murdered because they don’t believe in that Arnathian pig of a god!” he whispered fiercely.

  Carym noticed the stranger stiffening at Zach’s blasphemous remark, and hoped mightily that perhaps the man was suffering from
gas.

  “Did you know they have begun to torture non-believers for entertainment in Arnathia Capital?”

  The unusual man at the next table leaned ever so slightly in their direction, as though trying to hear them better.

  “I have had it! We cannot stay here,” Zach had partially risen from his seat.

  Carym was worried but tried to keep his face expressionless, he didn’t want the stranger to know he was on to him. Carym knew Zach was right, however. He knew that they could no longer stay in Hybrand; Carym desperately wanted to get away from the Arnathians and away from the memories that haunted him. If they fulfilled their dishonorable contract, their countrymen would likely lynch them. If they turned the job down the Arnathians would lynch them. Despair’s icy hand wrenched his heart; he felt as though his chest was in a vice.

  “Zach,” he warned. “I’ll bet Brother Roderious had someone follow us to make sure we don’t skip town with our advance,” said Carym, nodding slightly toward the stranger, and hoping that Zach would catch the hint. Meanwhile, the two Imperial guards continued their surveillance of the street-goers from their corner, resplendent and intimidating in their brightly polished armor. Their black skin and strong features marked them as the members of the fierce warrior tribes from the province of Western Vola. Carym was relieved the burly men had, for the moment, taken no notice of them.

  Zach took a sudden interest in the bottom of his mug and muttered to Carym, “You are probably right. I don’t trust that toothy smile of his. Likely they know already about the resistance movement, and they know that I have been involved with it for some time.”

  A dark look passed over Carym’s face, he wasn’t fond of the resistance movement and he hadn’t known his close friend was deeply involved with it until recently. Although this group, calling themselves the Spiders, claimed to have only Hybrand’s freedom as its goal, there were rumors about the dark nature of group’s leaders. It was said that most of the outlaw gang were assassins and thieves.