by V K Majzlik
Blinking in the bright morning light their dismal moods fell even further as they caught sight of their new mode of transport. The covered prison wagon was made from blackened wood and iron, so heavy it had to be pulled by eight strong carthorses. The heavy iron door the only way in or out. Narrow slits spaced along each side allowed in a minute amount of light. It truly was a prison cell on wheels.
Even Gaular did not bother resisting as they were bundled inside. All hope was forgotten and their spirits obliterated as they began the last part of the journey to Damankhur.
Chapter 27 – If Needs Must
Cradon’s body ached from his evening of sword fighting. He had discovered muscles that he never knew existed. Gomel merely laughed, giving him little sympathy, exclaiming Cradon was too young to experience such aches and pains.
They had started out early, despite the delay of coaxing Gomel back onto the back of Danfur. It was a beautiful morning, although cold, with glistening dew dusting the knee length grass. Wisely, they travelled parallel to one of the tracks from the well, hoping it would lead them to a village. They dared not ride down the lane in open view, fearing it would draw attention, the last thing they wanted.
With such a fresh, perfect morning they found it hard to hurry, content for once to absorb their surroundings at a leisurely pace. It took nearly three hours to reach a small town.
“Have you thought about how we are going to do this?” Cradon asked, helping the awkward gnome to slide off Danfur’s back.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it. But we need supplies!” Gomel flattened the grass with his boots and sat crossed legged, pulling out his pipe to aid his thinking. “There’s no other way, you will have to go by yourself. I will wait here with the animal.”
“You want me to go there by myself?” Cradon gulped as he paled.
“Precisely. I will be too obvious, whereas you will not. You can’t ride in bareback, as people will notice, so you are going to have to walk!” He took another long puff on his pipe, rubbing his bald head in a soothing manner.
Cradon mulled it over in silence. “I suppose you’re right,” he said at last. “What should I get? And how?”
“Well, let’s see.” Gomel pulled out the leather, drawstring purse he taken from one of the soldiers’ bodies and tipped out the contents. They counted fourteen gold pieces and three silver bits.
“That won’t buy very much at all!”
“We will have to prioritise. Blankets are definitely required with winter starting. At least some food – crackers, salted meat, things that will keep. Hunting will be sparse now.”
Cradon turned up his nose at the thought.
“Lad, I don’t like the thought either, but beggars can’t be choosers!” He paused to contemplate their situation again. “We will also need warmer clothes if possible. Just try to make this stretch as far as you can. I trust your judgement.” He handed Cradon the coins and sent him reluctantly on his way.
“I can’t believe he sent me on my own!” Cradon grumbled, stomping off. He looked back and saw Gomel waving him to continue onwards. “Trusts my judgement! What judgement? How am I supposed to know what’s best?”
Cradon continued to complain until he reached the edge of the hamlet. He stopped beside a small paddock where several men were attempting to break in a stunning, white horse. Intrigued, he watched as the animal reared and bucked as the men fruitlessly kept trying to mount it. Each hopeful rider was quickly thrown to the ground, hooves narrowly missing their heads as the mare stamped wildly. Remembering why he was there, Cradon forced himself to move on.
The town itself was picturesque, each house having a neatly thatched roof, small round windows, and white-washed walls. People were hurrying about, conducting their daily business and no one paid Cradon the any attention. There was a nerve-straining moment when two soldiers came strolling towards him, but they passed without even a glance. Gradually he started to relax, realising he looked like anyone going about his regular routine.
Following a growing hum of conversation, Cradon soon found himself in a central square filled with carts and stalls selling everything imaginable. Used to the kind of market frequented by the Empire the young man was amazed at the variety of goods openly available for sale. Merging into the bustling crowds Cradon moved from stall to stall searching for the best things at the cheapest prices.
Everything is so expensive. How am I going to make this money stretch? He had looked at nearly all the stalls, finding everything they would need, but he could afford very little of it.
First, he bought two woollen blankets, which came to five and two. Then he bought himself a buff-coloured cloak, not quite as thick as he would have liked but it would have to do. For Gomel, Cradon found a child’s cloak made of some rough grey wool, which he estimated would fit. Together these came to seven and three, leaving him very little spare change for anything else.
Growing flustered, he disappeared down a narrow alley between two buildings, to clear his head think what to do. We need these supplies. I have to get them somehow!
A burning, nervous guilt spread from the pit of his stomach as he realised he had no choice. Putting on his newly-acquired cloak and trying to ignore the itchiness of the rough fabric about his neck, he tied the blankets and Gomel’s cloak to his back and rejoined the crowds. To anyone else he appeared a normal browser.
The first stall was a tanner, selling a variety of saddlebags, belts, boots and clothing. Discretely, he checked over his shoulder, ensuring he was unwatched. While the vendor was busy bartering with another customer Cradon slid a saddlebag from the stall unobserved. His blood pulsating loudly in his ears and his heart in his throat he turned his back and became lost in the crowd again. It was easier that he had imagined.
Leaning against a building wall, Cradon stopped briefly to lift his boot heel and scraped some mud off with his fingers. Using this mud, in an attempt to disguise the newness, he smeared it across the saddlebag. Satisfied, he plucked up the confidence to sling the saddlebag over his shoulder and continue walking.
After several near misses the young clansman also managed to acquire some food, enough to keep them going for many days, stashing it in his new saddlebag.
Trying to control his feelings of nausea Cradon walked casually around the corner away from the market, and found a discrete place to check his stolen items. Is there anything else we could do with? Some more clothes would be useful. I think I have enough room.
His confidence growing, he strolled back into the market place to browse casually again, careful to avoid the stalls he had already visited. There were four different clothing vendors, all busy enough for him to linger unnoticed. After deciding which one to visit first he ambled over to it in an aimless fashion, trying not to draw attention to himself.
It was a good stall, filled with a variety of winter clothing, ideal for both himself and Gomel. As the owner was busy helping several demanding customers choose their fabrics he had the perfect opportunity to plunder two waistcoats and a pair of thick woollen breaches long enough for even his thin, gangly legs. Before the owner could notice anything missing, the young clansman casually sauntered away, heading for a second clothing stall. Again, he began by browsing, acting as if he were an innocent customer.
“Can I help you, young sir?” A man’s hand clapped on his shoulder. Cradon turned round, his stomach turning somersaults, expecting to be confronted by a guard. Much to his relief it was just the owner’s assistant, a tall young man in rough orange leggings and gaudy yellow jerkin.
“No, No! I’m fine thank you! Just looking!” he babbled, trying not sound flustered.
“Perhaps something for the winter nights out on the grasslands?” persisted the salesman, holding out two ugly brown woollen jumpers as a suggestion.
“No! They are very nice, but I am not really looking to buy today!” There was an awkward moment between them, but Cradon thanked him again and left as quickly as he could. He turned round to make su
re the salesman was not following him, and watched as the young man was speaking to the stall-holder, who seemed very interested and anxious about what he was being told. He patted the boy on the back, and beckoned to a nearby guard.
To stay any longer would have been foolishness, it was time to leave. Clearly his behaviour was beginning to raise suspicion.
“Hey, you, boy! Stop right where you are!” There came a gruffly loud shout from the other side of the market.
He turned, and saw a guard definitely pointing at him. Panic rising in his chest he noticed several other guards advancing. Seeing a possible exit, Cradon ducked down below the head height of the crowd and began pushing his way through, gruffly mumbling words of apology as he went. The guards could no longer see him, and scattered in all directions to search the market. Knowing he would easily stand out with his bright red hair, Cradon pulled up the hood on his new cloak and carried on running. He weaved through the few streets there were and eventually found himself on the main road out of town. Running as fast as he could, the Hundlinger headed down the road, the shouts of the guards still pursuing him.
As he ran passed the horse-training paddock he noticed the white mare now standing calmly, tied to the outer fence. Without thinking, knowing this could be his only escape, he climbed over the fence. The horse whinnied, but did not back away. Cradon was surprised, he had expected some kind of resistance from her. As he came closer, he had a strange feeling that he had seen her before.
Untying her reins he sprang up into the saddle, still clutching his loot. The mare did not buck or rear, but instead stood patiently, twitching her ears, as if he had ridden her countless times before. Cradon gave her a quick gentle kick, and she leaped forward, taking the fence in one quick bound. The guards were nearly upon him, but glancing behind they began to disappear into the distance as the mare began to stretch her legs in a full gallop. It could not have been a more perfect escape.
Cradon found Gomel easily, even though he and Danfur were hiding in the tall grass. He merely followed the thin plume of pipe smoke. Gomel was startled by Cradon’s sudden return, but more so by the fact he was riding a horse.
“Well, that money certainly went a long way!” jested Gomel as Cradon dismounted and handed him the full saddlebags.
Cradon smiled awkwardly, still shaking with adrenaline. “I took what I could!” he blushed, feeling the guilt of what he had done, dropping the saddlebag at Gomel’s feet. “I am fairly sure they will come looking for me though!”
Gomel did not need an explanation. It was obvious what the boy had done. “Don’t you mean, looking for the horse?”
Cradon nodded, patting the white mare on the neck as she stood patiently, snapping at the tall lush grass about her feet. “She’s definitely a prized horse!”
“O yes. She was trained by an elf!”
“What?” Cradon spun round in surprise.
“This is Sonda, Nymril’s horse! I assumed that was why you took her.” Gomel came forward to stroke the mare. She lowered her head and nuzzled him, recognising him immediately.
“No! But perhaps that’s why she was so good with me. I walked past her on the way in and there were men trying to mount her, but she was putting up a very good fight!”
“I’m not surprised. Elven horses only let those that they or their trainer trust ride them. She must have recognised you. Either way, she certainly will be useful, along with the rest of these things. You have done well, lad!” He slapped Cradon on the back.
Cradon was starting to feel drained as the adrenaline wore off and was forced to sit on the ground, his head swimming.
“We should leave immediately. Will you be all right to ride?” It was apparent that the boy’s energy had suddenly disappeared.
“I will be fine. You should ride Sonda. I am happy to ride bareback.” Cradon’s eyes were still tightly closed as he tried to steady his head. The drop in adrenaline had made him feel nauseous again. Unable to control himself any more, he vomited.
After washing out his mouth, Cradon staggered to his feet and began sorted the saddlebags and blankets. He hid the Spirit Star away, still wrapped up in its Elven cloth. As usual he had to help Gomel struggle up into the saddle. It always surprised him how heavy this little person was. Together, they then made their way, continuing in a south-easterly direction, taking great care to give the town a wide berth. Khar was still soaring high above as if she were keeping a close eye on them.
They did not stop to make camp until it was late in the night and darkness had long since fallen. Much to Cradon’s relief Gomel did not make him practice sword fighting, but instead allowed him to fall asleep on a full stomach of stolen food.
Chapter 28 – Damankhur
Damankhur was a three-day journey from Ath’Yarzon and for the entire time the prisoners were forced to remain chained in the prison wagon. They were fed only twice on the journey, and although the bread was stale and the meat nearly rancid, their ravenous bodies were able to stomach it.
Nymril, however, was unable to eat. It was as though the brace around her neck prevented her from swallowing, and with each passing day she faded a little more. The prisoners exchanged barely a word, their thoughts too heavily invested in the despair of their current predicament. The travelling was endlessly monotonous with nothing but the dull, whining trundle of the wheels to remind them of the outside world.
Govan had been joined by two more platoons, which the Rjukhan had sent to ensure the safe arrival of the Empire’s new captives. They were determined not to give this the opportunity to fail.
“I hate this journey!” Tavor moaned.
“Well, you have reason not to this time. For once they will be pleased to see you,” replied Govan. “You’ve done well, brother!” He slapped Tavor jovially on the back, nearly making him stumble on the rough ground.
“Not as well as I would have liked.” He was bitterly disappointed that they were returning without the Spirit Star; that would have been the most honourable gift he could have brought to the Rjukhan. Still, he knew that was not solely his fault and Govan seemed to believe he had done enough to redeem himself.
Nearly twenty years earlier, serving alongside Govan, he had made a fatal error and allowed a traitor of the Empire to escape. The man was a Brathunder, whom Tavor and his platoon had tracked down over months and captured, but he had under-estimated the man’s skills and while under escort the prisoner had escaped. The man disappeared and had not resurfaced since. The Empire had never forgiven Tavor. The Rjukhan seemed to believe he had allowed the escape, sympathising with his fellow clansman. Of course, this had not been the case.
They stripped him of all his honour and officer rank, and after beating him within inches of his life, cast him into the wilderness to die. If he miraculously survived he would remain a traitorous outcast of the Empire.
Govan excelled through the ranks, but despite this did not forget his old companion. Twenty years later when the opportunity arose, he tracked him down and offered him a way to redeem himself.
“You must be pleased to be back. You will be given your rank and honour and together we can continue the Rjukhan’s mission of ridding the Empire of all remaining Elves and followers!” There was a glint in Govan’s eyes. Killing came naturally and he enjoyed it.
Tavor, however, had spent the past twenty years dwelling on everything he had done. His solitude had awoken something inside of him, perhaps reminding his spirit where its clan’s roots truly lay. He watched the prison wagon trundling along in front and could not ignore the fate of the innocent boy imprisoned inside. “I am looking forward to it, brother!” he lied, faking a smile as he returned the hard slap on the shoulder.
The convoy had been crossing the plains of Davathon for a day and a half and now they were starting the last leg, the long ascent up the winding road onto the raised plateau of Davathon, upon which the vast fortress of Damankhur lay. It was an arduous trek, made worse by the dry air, which was filled with an acrid, red dust tha
t burnt the throat and lungs as one inhaled. It would be another day’s march before they entered the fortress.
By the time they reached the plateau darkness was starting to fall and they decided to make their final camp, the fortress of Damankhur clearly visible in the distance. Within the prison wagon the captives listened to the sound of laughter as the soldiers relaxed. The glow of the camp fire was a mere slit of light upon the rough wooden wall.
The journey resumed early the next morning as the sun was just starting to rise. It began to cast its pale winter light upon the plain, revealing its true barrenness and red, dusty hue. A single road ran straight towards the fortress. The only sign of life was the occasion splash of colour from the blood-red fire ferns and brown creepers with tiny scarlet flowers. The fortress grew in size as they approached, casting a long, oppressing shadow across the plain. It was a dreary, cold place, and the men were pleased to reach the shelter of the fortress at last.
Damankhur was an intricate maze of winding, dimly-lit corridors and spiralling staircases, some leading up to tall towers, others down to the labyrinth of underground tunnels and dungeons.
There were three courtyards, first the main entrance to fortress and the second the training and drill yard for the many troops stationed there. The third courtyard was the execution and punishment arena, which would often become an arena when prisoners were sentenced to death or the council was in need of entertainment.
Steel-faced, heavily-armed guards greeted the convoy. They led the prison wagon through into the third courtyard, which provided the closest access to the dungeons. Tavor and Govan were escorted up to the officers’ quarters, while the rest of the men gladly found their way to the barracks.