Mercenary

by Jon Kiln

  23

  “The river seems to be slowing down.” Hendon was keenly observing the current as their raft floated along, trailing the four horses who gamely swum along behind them.

  “You’re right,” nodded Barnaby.

  “We’re coming in to that bend up ahead,” pointed out Artas. “It could be a place to stop and let the horses rest.”

  “I can’t see any sign of a sand-bank though,” countered Ganry. “It’s almost as if those trees are growing out of the water.”

  “Let’s sit tight for a bit longer,” suggested Myriam. “There might be a sandbank around the corner that we can pull into.”

  The five travelers clung to their sturdy raft as it followed the flow of the river around the bend. As they slowly swung around, they found themselves confronted by a flotilla of small fishing boats and a forest of spears pointed in their direction.

  “It looks like they were expecting us,” observed Ganry wryly.

  The fishermen quickly secured ropes to the raft and began to drag it along behind them. As they moved forward, the party-of-five began to understand why the river had been slowing down. They had entered a massive lake concealed completely within the forest.

  “Lake men,” said Barnaby with growing concern.

  “What does that mean?” growled Ganry impatiently. “Who are these lake men?”

  “I’ve heard of them before, but never knew how to find them. They have very little contact with the outside world.”

  “They don’t seem very friendly.” Artas looked warily around.

  “They’re probably just scared.”

  “So am I,” shivered Myriam.

  The fishermen towed the raft into their settlement. To Ganry's eyes it was a strange, ramshackle collection of wooden houses built on stilts over the water. Once the raft was secured against one of the walkways, the five passengers were instructed to disembark.

  “The horses?” Ganry gestured towards the four horses that had been towed along behind the raft. Several of the fishermen quickly worked to untie the horses and led them along to a lower walkway where they could be pulled out of the water.

  “Who are you?” demanded a tall, imposing man who emerged from one of the houses. He had an air of importance. The other lake men clearly deferred to him. Ganry assumed him to be the tribe’s leader.

  “We are holiday-makers, heading west.”

  “No one travels on this river,” replied the lake man. “No one travels on a raft like yours. We have been following you since you entered our territory. You are lucky that the water dragons didn’t eat you.”

  “Water dragons?” They sound worse than snakes, thought Ganry.

  “I asked who you are!” shouted the lake man. “Answer me now or I will have you all killed!”

  “I am Princess Myriam from Castle Villeroy, the heir to the Kingdom of Palara,” said Myriam respectfully, stepping forward to try and defuse the situation. The lake man studied her carefully.

  “The Kingdom of Palara means nothing to us here,” said the lake man darkly. “We are beyond your control.”

  “I acknowledge your independence,” replied Myriam.

  “Why would a Princess of Palara be floating along the hidden river on a raft?”

  “We are in danger. My family has been taken prisoner. We need to get to the west to safety.”

  “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean, going the wrong way?” demanded Ganry.

  “I am not here to answer your questions,” spat the lake man, clearly unimpressed by Ganry’s tone. “You are my prisoners. No one enters the lake without my permission and you do not have my permission! Lock them up!” He gestured to his men to take Ganry and the others away. “Leave the girl with me.”

  “No!” shouted Ganry, struggling against the men that had him firmly tied with rope.

  Myriam shivered with fear as the lake man led her back inside his wooden hut. She saw that it was small and damp. There was little sign of comfort or warmth. She could hear the water of the lake washing beneath the floor of the hut. She had to admit she was scared of what his intentions might be.

  “You have no need to fear me,” said the lake man, sensing Myriam's apprehension. “Please, take a seat. Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Myriam nodded as she sat on a cushion on the wooden floor. “You can see that you have created a problem for us. This is one of our main fishing villages. The secrecy of this lake is the only thing that has kept us strong and independent all of these years, and then suddenly you appear - the heir to the throne of Palara.”

  “We don't want any trouble.” Myriam felt calmer now that the man was displaying some form of civility. Her natural curiosity kicked in. “You have other villages? How many of you are there?”

  “There are several thousand of us. Our main settlement is on the other side of the lake, hidden within the trees.”

  “And you are their leader?”

  “I am Clay, the chief of the lake men.” He smiled broadly, revealing a full set of yellowed teeth.

  “Sir, please…” began Myriam, thinking about her own quest. “My companions and I need your help. We are in great danger. We must get to Castle Locke.”

  “The home of Duchess D’Anjue?”

  “She is my grandmother. Do you know her?”

  “I owe no allegiance to Castle Locke, but then again I owe no allegiance to Castle Villeroy,” replied Clay. “My ancestors fought hard to survive the great floods. When the tribes descended from the Basalt Mountains, my ancestors struggled to retain their territory, and to protect the forest. Since that time our continued existence has depended on secrecy, and on being hidden. Every fiber in my being screams at me to kill you and your companions immediately. Your very presence here is a threat to everything that we have fought so hard to build.”

  Myriam involuntarily jerked back from the menace in his eyes. “Please sir! Please spare us!” begged Myriam. “I promise that we won’t betray you!”

  “Well,” pondered Clay, looking her up and down with a half-smile and licking his thin lips. “I may have a proposition for you…”

  24

  “My brother is a traitor to the Kingdom of Palara and is to be executed!” declared Duke Harald, slamming his fist down on the table, causing the old judge to jump in alarm. They met in the throne room but Duke Harald did not sit on the throne. He knew to sit there would not be proper until he had been duly declared King of the realm. The old man sitting across from him was Judge Strogen, the Chief Judge of Palara. It was Judge Strogen that needed to sign the order that would confirm Duke Harald as the rightful claimant to the throne; the order that was needed before Duke Harald could be crowned as the rightful King of Palara.

  “Will there be a trial of your brother’s crimes?” asked the judge tentatively, nervously smoothing his robes as he did his best to avoid Harald’s steely gaze.

  “There is no need for a trial,” dismissed Harald. “The evidence is irrefutable.”

  “And when will the execution take place?” asked the judge.

  “Within seven days,” replied the Harald bluntly.

  “And the family of King Ludwig? What will be their fate?”

  “Queen Alissia will also be executed. She is complicit in her husband’s guilt,” spat Harald.

  “So that will leave Princess Myriam as the heir to the throne?”

  “No… it will not!” growled Duke Harald fiercely. “Myriam will be executed also. The guilt of her father stains the whole family.”

  “My understanding was that you do not currently have Myriam in custody?” asked Judge Strogen, feeling the anger emanating from the Duke across the table.

  “That is irrelevant!” shouted Harald, becoming increasingly tired of the old man’s questioning. “An arrest warrant has been issued for Myriam. As soon as she has been apprehended then she will be brought back here to Castle Villeroy and executed along with her family.”

  “I see.” Judge Strogen pondered this for a momen
t. “Then I am afraid that I cannot sign the order until her death has been confirmed. While Myriam lives she remains the rightful heir to the throne of Palara.”

  “Outrageous! What if she was confirmed as missing. She may very well be dead. No one has seen or heard from her for some days now. How could a young child survive, wandering the countryside alone? Could we not declare that she is missing and presumed dead, therefore no longer considered heir to the throne?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed the judge amiably. “There is certainly some precedent for that, and our laws are quite clear on how a situation like this should be handled. The period of absence that must be observed is set at seven years. You would be appointed as Regent of the Kingdom, but Myriam must be missing for at least seven years before you could be crowned as King.”

  “Damn these foolish laws!” cursed Harald, the large vein in his neck throbbing fiercely and his face turning a worryingly red color.

  “I’m sorry sir, I can’t see any way around this difficult situation,” said the judge holding out the palms of his hands.

  “What if I had you killed?” Duke Harald had a steely glint in his eye. “What if I had you killed and all of your fellow judges? What if I rewrote the laws of this kingdom? What if I declared myself King? Placed the crown on my own head and ruled this country like a man? Like my forefathers? Like the Great Chief Terrick did when he united the tribes and formed this great nation!”

  “I humbly urge you to respect our laws and traditions sir,” insisted the judge. “It is our laws and traditions that have kept our country safe and secure throughout the years that have passed since the Great Flood.”

  “Get out!” shouted Harald. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Harald stood up suddenly and tipped over the table at which they were sitting, sending the jug of wine and goblets spinning across the floor, causing the old judge to fall backwards off his chair. The judge hurriedly picked himself up and scurried out of the throne room, thankful to have escaped with his head still attached to his shoulders. He had always heard that Duke Harald had a terrible temper, but he had never seen it in action before.

  As the door slammed shut behind the departing judge, Harald threw himself sullenly into the wooden throne, the throne that he coveted, the throne that would soon belong to him. He just had to be patient. It was just a matter of time. He was concerned that he hadn’t yet heard from Henrickson, his captain of the guard. Perhaps it had been foolish to send him off to Vandemland, but it had seemed a relatively simple mission.

  Impatience was one of Harald’s faults. Always rushing on to the next big idea instead of seeing through the challenges that had to be faced. He hadn’t expected that seizing the throne would be so difficult. He had the support of the army, and he had the support of the nobles. It infuriated him that he was being outwitted by a girl.

  Now, his ambitions were being blocked by a frail old judge in black, silk robes. Harald was torn, his heart told him to defy convention, to defy laws and rules and everything that stood in his way. But his head told him that he had to try and bide his time, that unless he was crowned King according to the laws and customs of the land then everything that he had worked so hard for could quickly unravel. He needed to be patient. He needed to let time run its course. Unfortunately patience and time were two things that he did not have a lot of.

  25

  “You’re mad!” hissed Ragnald. “You’ll never make it!”

  “I have to try!” whispered Henrickson. “Come with me!” Ragnald shook his head, unwilling to risk his life on the slim hope of escaping from the soldiers that guarded the mines of Vandemland.

  Henrickson had waited until nightfall. As the sun began to set, the guards finally called an end to the working day and led the slaves, shackled by chains around their ankles, back to their sleeping quarters. The sleeping quarters were rows of canvas tents set back from the top of the mine. Six slaves to each tent. Conditions were crowded, dirty, there were fleas, and an inescapable stench that seemed to permeate everything. Henrickson had spent the first few days of his captivity trying to find a weak point in the mine’s security, trying to figure out how he could possibly escape from this hell-hole and return to Palara.

  Henrickson felt that the slaves were too closely observed during the day for there to be any chance of avoiding detection, but at night when they were all chained together in their tents there might be some hope of sneaking past the guards.

  The first thing that he had to do was to get the chain off from around his ankle. It was a thick, rusted, iron chain, fixed to him by a manacle. He’d concealed a sharp piece of rock in his clothing while working down in the mine. As soon as they had been marched into their tent he used the rock to begin working away at the manacle, banging the rock against the rusted joint, and using brute force to try and free himself from the chains that bound him. Several times his blows missed the iron manacle and the rock painfully struck his leg, blood flowing from the wound.

  “Do it quietly,” whispered Ragnald. “You will bring the guards here and they will kill us all!”

  “Shut up coward,” spat Henrickson. “Your fate is no concern of mine.” Eventually the hinge on the manacle broke beneath the pressure of the rock and the chains fell from Henrickson’s ankle. His next challenge was to somehow move away from the tented camp where the slaves spent each night. The tents were arranged in long rows, with guards patrolling up and down in between each row.

  Henrickson tried to peer out through the flap in the tent. The visibility was poor but he could just make out a guard walking down towards them. Henrickson pulled his head back inside and waited until the guard passed. Once the coast was clear he quickly slid out of the tent and crouched down behind it. There was a guard patrolling in front of him and a guard patrolling behind. He needed to evade their detection and make it to the perimeter of the camp. The boundary was also patrolled, but under cover of darkness Henrickson felt that he had a chance of escape.

  He crawled low on his belly, pausing in the shadows as the guards came close, moving only when the coast was clear, slowly but surely making his way to the perimeter. When he reached the end of the edge of the camp he stood up and began to move slowly towards the fence line where the guards patrolled.

  It was a cloudy night, the stars were barely visible, and Henrickson had to almost feel his way across the dry rocky ground. He paused. He could see one patrol to his left and one patrol to his right. If he moved quickly he had a clear path directly in front. Henrickson moved cautiously forward, one foot in front of the other, ears pricked for any sign of movement from the watching patrols. Henrickson’s heart was racing, his adrenalin pumping as his hopes began to rise of a successful escape. He hadn’t made any sort of plan for where he would go or how he would attempt to make the journey back to Palara. His mind was solely focused on escaping from the captivity of the mine first. Slowly, cautiously, one foot in front of the other.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a dull metal click and Henrickson’s body was flooded with searing biting pain. He couldn’t hold back the scream that roared involuntarily from his lungs. He looked down and saw the metal teeth of the trap biting into his leg, the blood flooding from the gaping wound as the steel jaws firmly held his leg within its grasp. He tried to wrestle the jagged teeth of the trap open, desperately trying to free himself, but the next thing he felt was a thud to the back of his head, knocking him unconscious.

  It was morning when Henrickson was woken by the bucket of cold water thrown on his face. He groaned, the pain in his leg was unbearable. Before he knew what was happening he was dragged out into the middle of the camp where all the slaves were being assembled before beginning their day of work. Henrickson was thrown down into the dust, in agonizing pain from the wound in his leg, the searing sun making it almost impossible to see.

  “Let this be a lesson to you all!” shouted the guard that was standing over Henrickson’s crumpled body. “No one escapes from the mines of Vandemland! No one! You are all slave
s here and you will die here, as slaves!”

  Chains were wrapped around Henrickson’s ankles and wrists and he was stretched out painfully. The guard pulled a long blade out from the scabbard on his belt and held it aloft so that the assembled slaves could appreciate the punishment that was about the be meted out. The blade flashed brilliantly in the rays of the sun as it made its first cut across Henrickson’s abdomen, slicing his body open. He was barely conscious, beyond registering any more pain, beyond feeling anything as the second cut of the knife sliced down his body length-ways, the blood gathering in a pool around him.

  “Bring forth the slaves who shared this vermin’s tent last night!” roared the guard, wiping Henrickson’s blood from his dagger. Ragnald and the other four men were pushed roughly forward. “Kneel!” instructed the guard. The five slaves knelt in a line, facing the broken body of the dying Henrickson. One by one, the guard stood behind each of the kneeling slaves, grabbing hold of the hair on their head and pulling them back so that their neck was exposed. He then sliced his sharp blade across each of their throats, swiftly ending their lives, and their captivity. Ragnald was the last in line. He knew what was coming, and he almost looked forward to it. Finally able to put an end to this torture, this wretched existence. Finally, freedom.

  26

  “Once we have passed through the fort then we will need to leave the main road as soon as we can,” instructed Zander as his small company of men passed through the border crossing from the Berghein Valley into the Kingdom of Palara. The border was not tightly controlled. Two flags from the ruling houses marked each side. The flag of Castle Locke was a white horse on a green background, and on the opposing side the flag of the Kingdom of Palara was a golden eagle soaring over water.