An Emperor's Fury: Most Favored

by Paul Heisel

  "Get moving Taawn!" screamed Kragan as he spurred the black steed ahead. The hooves of the horse came dreadfully close to crushing Kark.

  "Kragan, let me speak with Jakks or Puran," pleaded Taawn as he rattled his chains. "They can't do this! It's not right and you know it!"

  Kragan flipped down his visor, the haunting sound of his laughter echoing out of his helmet. "Old fool," said the muffled voice. "They have already sentenced you to death. It is only a matter of time, and there is no turning back now."

  "Please don't do this! You know our brothers, the Accord of the Hand, will come for vengeance. They will not stop, ever. Their armies will burn Borgard to the ground if you don't surrender! I beg you, do not do this! For your own sake, not just mine!"

  Kragan slowly flipped up the visor, revealing his bearded face. He smiled cruelly. "Let them come! Let them come in droves, I care not! If they come they will feel the bite of our steel!" The Knight Captain snapped down the visor, galloped ahead, and disappeared beyond Taawn's sight.

  Taawn dipped his head. He could accept his death with dignity - it was his manner, and he knew his fellow brothers and sisters would do the same. There were so many tasks for him to fulfill for the good of Borgard. There were so many poor and diseased people that needed the Accord of the Spirit's help. Why had he failed? And there was no comfort in knowing the Accord of the Hand would come to this city. He didn't want to be responsible for more deaths. He was certain thousands upon thousands would perish in the conflict, and more innocents than could be counted would go to their mass graves as well. None of this would matter to his warlike brethren - the Kingdom of Borgard would soon be in ruin, destined to become part of the Accord of the Hand's lands. Taawn looked up at the looming castle, a grayish monolith, and he wondered how long he had to live. With sturdy hands, he helped Kark continue forward, and when they had all passed through the stout and protective gates, they heard ominous sounds in the courtyard.

  Hammers and saws. Carpenters were furiously building.

  They were marched past the new gallows and shown their fate, then taken along the cobblestone path toward the side entrance to the dungeons. The Castle Borgard was an impressive sight this close; massive stone blocks weighing several tons each were the base and cornerstones. Polished black granite flecked with pink feldspar extended just above the first levels and each panel was ornately carved in relief. Marble was intermixed throughout the construction to give it a patchwork look. Several tall towers touched the sky and kept watch of the city and the surrounding hills. Smoke from fires trailed into the sky. Behind the castle were impassable craggy mountains, a fixed protector of the Borgard realm. Servants bustled about the courtyard performing their appointed tasks, never lifting an eye toward the condemned members of the Accord of the Spirit. The masked jailers took control of the prisoners and began incarcerating them. Taawn was the last brought inside. He heard the wails and moans of the prisoners, familiar sounds. Many times he had visited the unfortunate in the dungeons, comforting them as best he could and helping them to put aside their fears. The dungeon's crumbling stone walls swallowed Taawn, as did the darkness. Around him were small cells with iron bars, some contained as many as five filthy men. The smell down here was horrid and rats scurried everywhere, unafraid of human presence. Taawn passed by a cell where the guards were removing two dead prisoners. Their bodies were emaciated and their skin was ashen. The masked guards piled them on a rickety wooden cart and wheeled the dead and their pungent smell away. The guards stripped him of his robes, leaving only his underclothes to modestly cover him. The chains were put back on his hands, presumably, until they reached his destination. At least they were off his ankles, though he dare not run. If the Borgard soldiers were considered cruel, the dungeon guards were reprehensible in every sense of the word.

  Though he had been here many times before attending to the prisoners, he had always entered with the knowledge that he could leave. Taawn was certain he would not leave here alive, or if he did, it would only be so he could be executed on the newly constructed gallows. As he walked, he heard several prisoners call out his name, asking for his blessings. He tried to move toward their cells to comfort them, but the guards warned him with strikes from their clubs and would not let him stray from the appointed path. Farther they walked into the near darkness. They traversed several levels and came to the place called The Hole. This was the deepest part of the dungeon, where the worst criminals were kept. Taawn had come to know The Hole well - many here needed his help - and he had come here on occasion to comfort the vilest of the mentally sick criminals. Beyond The Hole, he wasn't sure exactly where in the castle, was a hidden prison with only one prisoner. The reason he knew about it was because there was a secret tunnel that connected it to the cellar of his monastery. He didn't know why the tunnel was there, and only by accident had he discovered the concealed door underneath the cellar's dirt. Few knew about the tunnel and the secret passage, and no one knew about the occupant of the prison. He had diaries documenting all of this in the monastery, which he hoped would be discovered. Now he regretted not telling anyone of his discovery or giving a record of it to another person for safekeeping. Of course he had sent reports mentioning it to the Accord of the Hand, but no comment or response had returned.

  Along the sides his followers were crammed into small cells. He saw many monks, friends, and his heart stopped when he did not see any of the women of his order. He knew what the Borgard soldiers would do to them. They would be brutalized, have unspeakable things done to them, and suffer unthinkable atrocities. When the soldiers finished with them, what remained would be cast into the dungeon's rape pits, and death would be their only comfort. As he was taken to his cell, his Spirit monks looked at him. They were scared; not many had hope in their eyes. Taawn looked each of them, connecting with them. They would find a way out of this situation. Someone would see reason and stop this from happening.

  He spoke, his voice clear and unfettered, "Be strong, be a good person until then end, and help each other if you can. Even shackled we can…"

  A club hit Taawn on the shoulder, stinging and stunning him. The clubs were leather constructs filled with sand and could be lethal if swung with sufficient force at the right area of the body. Fortunate for him, the blow missed his head. The masked guard yanked him toward the last cell, and after the shoulder pain waned a screaming reality came through. This was the last cell of The Hole, the place where the worst of the worst resided. The dreadfulness struck him at once when he realized where he was and where they were going to put him. Many times he had come to The Hole to counsel prisoners, to speak with them and soothe their hopeless future with blessings and words of encouragement. He had taken confessions and heard pleas of innocence; he had heard stories of incarceration and listened to words of regret, penitence, and sorrow. In front of him was not a contrite prisoner who was sorry for his crimes. Long ago Taawn had talked to the monster in this cell, a foul subhuman with no name, a piece of filth called The Worm.

  The discussion they had was explicit, detailed, and horrifying. Even for a man like Taawn, who had limitless depths of forgiveness, The Worm deserved none. The Worm defiled men, women, and children alike. The lurid description of his deeds, particularly the children, haunted Taawn to this day. The thought of it was too much to endure, and Taawn was resolved not to let transpire whatever the prison guards had in mind. He would rather die.

  A club smacked Taawn as he was turning to get away. The solid blow made him see stars and he lost his balance. He felt rough, calloused hands support him, then he heard the cell door unlock. No matter how he tried, his feet wouldn't move and he couldn't get past the sturdy guards. Failing his arms and screaming didn't help. The clubs hit him repeatedly, beating him into submission. They dragged him into the cell and left him in a heap. The cell around him was as filthy as the panting man stepping out of the shadows. The Worm was broad and lean from his long years in prison, but he was not weak. The long limbs were dirty, hi
s unkempt hair long and stringy. His round face had that crooked deviant smile. Taawn scooted toward the cell door, reaching for it as it slammed shut and was locked by the guard. He could hear The Worm's rasped breathing.

  "A tasty gift," he sighed, then made clicking noises with his tongue.

  Taawn struggled to his feet, trying to move away from The Worm. It was a small cell and there was nowhere for him to go. This seemed to excite The Worm even more. Fighting was not unfamiliar to Taawn, however, it just wasn't practiced on a daily basis like the Accord of the Hand monks. Being physically fit was important to the Spirit monks, and fighting moves were part of their routine, so Taawn tried to use them here and he failed. The Worm swooped in, kneed the defenseless Taawn in the gut, and threw him against the cell bars. Taawn recovered in time to feel a blow to his head, more stars, then he crumpled. He was being dragged across the ground toward the corner. He thrashed again, hoping an elbow would land in a sensitive spot. The Worm hit him again with a well-placed blow. Taawn felt like he was slipping away. The cold of the stone wall jolted him and he felt his body pushed upwards by strong hands, then the chains on his hand became taut. His feet barely touched the ground. He thrashed more, trying to get the chain off the metal peg above. Jumping was the only way…

  A punch to the back of his head robbed him of his strength and he went limp from the blow.

  "Don't kill him," stated the guard from the bars.

  "What? Are you going to kill me if I kill him? Bah! I do what I want! I'm not afraid of death!"

  "If he lives, you will get special privileges. Perhaps more cell mates like this. Make sure he lives."

  Taawn, heard the guards walk away, then The Worm's heavy breathing filled his ears. The odor was dreadful. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  "It's just me and you," The Worm whispered.

  Taawn struggled again and there was another blow, stunning. He felt hands all over his body, stroking him. The Worm was trembling with excitement. Taawn was too weak to fight back or resist. He did, though, have the energy to scream.

  Chapter 3 - Scouts

  Darkness wasn't so much a comfort, but a necessity for him to use his magic effectively. Feln crept through the murky shadows, remaining unseen to the restless soldiers searching for him. The tension in the air was thick and heavy, oppressive as the evening's summer humidity. The Borgard soldiers were at the primary street junctions gathering strength in numbers. The light armored men were distributing torches to the lesser equipped militia and shouting orders. Find stragglers. Detain them. Search the alleys for anyone out and about. The few people who were brave enough to look out from their homes and businesses slammed their doors and windows shut. Feln stayed where he was and hid in the gloom. Four members of the militia moved in the direction of his hiding place, searching as ordered. Feln, calmly adjusting his commoner clothes, pressed against the building's wall and became motionless. The uneven edges of the warped cedar dug into his back. In his mind, he pictured himself merging with the wood planks. Bringing forth his chi, magic, Feln willed himself to disappear.

  He vanished.

  The militia came towards him, moving in a predictable search pattern. They were zigzagging across the alley, poking the torch in the darkness to explore areas where someone could hide. Trudging along and giving away their position and intent, the militia may have well just shouted to Feln that they were coming. Feln kept still as they neared and he reached deep within, concealing himself thoroughly. In his mind, he became transparent, a ghost. The magic swirled, encasing him in a shield of nonexistence. He pressed harder against the wood siding, but he could no longer feel the boards digging into his back. Intense magic was that way, dulling to the senses. The militia came closer, three had nicked longswords brandished and one was holding the bright torch. Feln could see that they were regular militia - simple peacekeepers - not the battle-hardened warriors the Accord of the Hand would face when the armies arrived. Moments later, he knew he could dispatch all four of them easily. Patiently, Feln waited for them to pass. There was no need to fight.

  He was one of two scouts sent into the city to gather information on their enemy, the Borgards, as diplomacy had failed. They couldn't rectify the atrocities against the Accord of the Spirit committed by the Borgard regime through peaceful means, thus the invasion was impending. By now their main force was traveling along the Thull River toward the city, conquering towns, villages, and farms in its path. Soon this capital city would be under siege and dipped into what they thought would be a long and bloody war. Feln didn't relish the thought of the number of troops to be lost on both sides, nor did he enjoy being back in Borgard - the place he had fled ten years ago. It made him think of Taawn and the monastery, escaping from Kragan, and his father's death. He was no longer that boy.

  The militia lingered, the men talking and poking at the discarded garbage in the alley with their worn blades. The soldier with the torch insisted he had seen a dark figure crossing the street. The three others chided him, yet they remained in the alley, searching the obvious hiding places. One soldier was close enough that Feln could smell the ale on his breath and the stink coming from beneath his bulky leather armor. This man was pungent. Feln reorganized his plan, steadied himself, trusted his instincts, and remained motionless. He was confident his magic would conceal him. He was part of the wall, an iron nail holding up one of the wood planks. The militia finally gave up their search, sheathing their blades as they departed the alley and took to the street. Feln removed himself from the wall, slipped through the darkness, and was moving toward the outer walls once again.

  #

  He was out of the city and safely beyond the guarded walls, his task complete. Looking back, he gazed at his boyhood home one last time. It seemed like so long ago. Home. Borgard had been his home for the first ten years of his life. Now he had returned, not as a curious visitor, but as a conqueror. His attention switched to that of slipping past the outermost defenses, remembering that contraptions and archers lined the walls - they could strike from a distance. Ballistae, catapults, and machines to dump boiling oil on attackers were spaced evenly along the stout walls. This information would form part of his report as well. The Borgards, rulers of this kingdom, had prepared for war quicker than he thought possible. It made Feln curious. It was as if Borgard knew they were coming, despite the Accord of the Hand's secrecy. How could they know their forces had marched? Were there Borgard spies within the Accord of the Hand monasteries? Was it a lucky guess? Or had the Borgards intended this path all along?

  Outside of the city, the air was fresher. Crickets chirped and the swift flowing Thull River churned. He traveled a short distance and came upon a long bridge that crossed the waterway. There were two gatehouses on each side of the bridge. The gatehouse on this side was ablaze with light and the occupants cast flickering shadows as they moved about. The far gatehouse was dark, but Feln knew there would be soldiers within. Hardy grasses grew here, trampled into muddy tracks where many travelers had come and gone. Few of the roads in the Kingdom of Borgard were paved. The larger cities sported good roads, but everything else was dirt. The smaller cities, farms, and hamlets had to slog through the mud during the winters and the spring. It was no wonder trade was difficult in Borgard compared to other kingdoms.

  The trees in this area had been harvested long ago, leaving gray stumps behind, a ghost forest. Across the river was a wide, open plain, making an approaching army vulnerable, there was no cover except for the farmhouses and shanties. Farther down river was a thick forest and rutted roads that followed the meandering Thull. On the opposite side of the river there were smaller villages, towns, and farms. Looking back, he could see the outer walls of the city were still near. An assault would be challenging, but not impossible. The Accord of the Hand's army, though, would find it difficult to bring their forces into the city without suffering huge losses. The army would have to take the first wall a short time after they took the bridge, otherwise they would be trapped in
a small space and barraged by rocks and arrows. The Borgard army would cut them down, just like the trees that once grew in this area. The rough cliffs and hills to either side of the city made entry from there impossible. Behind were massive peaks, another obstacle so an army could not approach from there. The city of Borgard was nestled comfortably in a great position to defend against attackers. Feln recalled the history taught to him many years ago; Borgard had repelled every force that had attempted to conquer it. The kingdom, although small, had survived centuries of attacks. They were tough, resilient, and spirited fighters with numerous cousins and feudal lords to come to their aid if need be. He was sure all of them had been called to defend the crown. Feln took a deep breath. The Borgards had yet to experience the Accord of the Hand. The rule of the Borgards was about to end, a line of kings soon to be extinguished or in the least, controlled. The Accord of the Hand would conquer Borgard just as they had conquered others. The kingdom would fall no matter how strong the defenses. Though this was his original home, the place he grew up, he didn't feel sorry for them. They deserved this because of what they had done. Their brothers and sisters, the Accord of the Spirit monks, had been eradicated. Only the empty shell of the monastery remained. All of the monks were dead, executed by Jakks Borgard for reasons unknown.