by Alex Aguilar
Malekai grimaced, but he took the coinpurse anyway and tied it to his belt.
The Butcher sat on his steed, the unconscious princess and boy in front of him. “My lord?”
“Retreat at once,” Baronkroft said. “I will join you soon enough.”
They obeyed him, and soon the only two souls present by the creek were the lord and the farmer, whose weak state was keeping him from moving much.
“Who… are you?” John asked weakly.
The way Lord Baronkroft curved his neck was almost inhuman.
He looked more like a walking corpse possessed by someone; or perhaps, something. The expression on his face was blank and his profoundly disturbing eyes were wide and unblinking, as if he was seeing something the farmer could not see.
“It makes no difference who I am… but what I am,” he said. “I am what your kingdom fears… what your king fears… For far too long this world has been cursed. For far too long it’s been plagued by the filth of mankind…”
Baronkroft then used a single finger to raise John’s chin upwards, forcing him to look into those dead eyes of his.
“Remember this face, boy… For it is the last face your little peasant eyes will ever see,” he said, his lips curving into a grin again. “I am Lord Yohan Baronkroft… And soon the world will know my name.” The lord’s ominously slow demeanor made it hard to imagine him in combat. Even so, his appearance was haunting and his voice had a way of sounding calm yet earsplitting all at once.
Dusk had come, and the last light shone upon his dreadful face. And it was then that John noticed something peculiar. The redness in the lord’s eyes began to fade and his face began to regain some of its humanity. And the lord blinked and blinked again, as if waking from a deep sleep.
“It’s a shame,” he said, his eyes gazing suddenly the horizon. “To lose something so precious… I’ll be sure to provide her majesty with the upmost comfort on her final days.”
Something grew suddenly in John’s chest. Part of it may have been anger. Part may have been fear. All that he knew was that he wasn’t dead just yet. And the least bit of force could make all the difference. Baronkroft curved his neck and looked down at the frail farmer again. The expression on his face was different this time; it was as if he hadn’t seen or met the young farmer before that moment, only recognized him. And as he came out of this daze, he seemed almost unsure of his next approach.
“You’ve fought bravely, young lad,” he said, his voice with a slightly augmented tone this time. “But you do not have the bearings of a knight. Tell me… what kind of man sacrifices his own life for another, without getting paid to do so? What do they call you?”
But John’s mind was elsewhere, looking desperately for a way out.
“John,” he responded, simply to buy himself more time. “John Huxley of Elbon…”
“Ah… Just as I thought,” Baronkroft said grimly. “No one… No one but a boy in a world of men.”
Then, something strange happened. The fear left John’s chest entirely. The anxiety no longer had any control of him. If he was to die, he wanted to at least be in control of his own death.
“M’lord!” someone shouted in the distance.
Baronkroft turned and saw the last of his men fighting off the king’s guards at the gates. And it was in that slight moment of distraction that John found his window of opportunity. With his eyes closed, the farmer spread his arms and threw himself backwards. He rolled on the muddy grass and fell into the river.
Stunned and thrown aback, Lord Baronkroft leapt to his feet and stepped forward, but the river’s current was faster than he anticipated and John had already been carried away several yards. And so, with a groan, the lord leapt on his horse. He looked angry, like a boy who had his first blade taken away from him. “Filthy street-rat,” he muttered, and then rode away in the opposite direction.
Down the hill, John tried to grab on to something; a rock, a patch of dirt, a tree root… But the river’s current was far too strong and he had no choice but to embrace it.
If the first fall doesn’t kill you, the princess had said, the second one undoubtedly will.
Great, John thought to himself.
All he had to do, then, was be sure to survive the first fall.
* * *
“So… what brings a witch to Val Havyn?” Hudson Blackwood asked as he drew imaginary patterns on the brick floor with his finger.
“You mean who brought me here. I wouldn’t come here on my own if you paid me to,” Syrena said. “The Davenport brothers of Falkbury, they called themselves.”
“Never heard of them,” Hudson said. “Just a pair of sons of whos, I presume.”
“Really? They sure made themselves out to be high and mighty.”
“Yes. Typical thing for a son of who to do. Believe me, I’ve met plenty.”
The witch found herself smirking at the thief’s finesse. They had been sitting for hours in the same position, and her legs were aching severely. But something about being in close proximity to another human being kept her from moving away from that position.
“And you?” she asked him through the small gap. Syrena’s voice was soft and shaky and had a slight Halghardian root, as if she had lived in a vow of silence for years and her tongue had grown unaccustomed to formulating words. In fact, she had grown so used to the inner voice in her mind that she had, in some form, forgotten what her actual voice was like. But the accent was there; it was apparent in the way she pronounced her O’s and rolled her R’s.
“What about me?” asked the thief.
“How did the renowned Hudson Blackwood end up locked up in a dungeon?”
“I’m a thief, darling. I’ve gotten used to being locked up in dungeons,” he answered. “I like to think of it as free room and board while I decide where the wind might take me next.”
They sat silently for a moment. She tugged at the ogreskin in her wrists for the thousandth time, as if it would be looser than it was when she checked 5 minutes prior. Suddenly, the door to the dungeon opened and the large, mute guard ran down the long corridor towards the door on the other end.
“Why the hurry, handsome?” the thief asked.
As the guard sped by, he growled and punched the steel bars again.
“May I have my hat back when you get a chance, mate?” Hudson shouted, but the guard was gone by then. It left both the thief and the witch pensive. It wasn’t the sweating and panting of the guard that startled them, at least not as much as the bloody axe in his hand.
Syrena closed her eyes, resting them, choosing to ignore what she had just seen.
For the first time in days, she felt she just might be able to get some sleep. The thief’s company was not exactly warm, but it was company that was keeping her from losing the last of her sanity, and that was all that she needed. The thought of not having to stand alone against an entire city of witch-hating peasants was calming her, if only for the time being.
“Something very bad is happening out there,” Hudson muttered.
“Good,” said Syrena. “Better out there than down here.”
* * *
When he fell down the first waterfall, the rocks had missed him by an inch. But the impact of the fall was enough to render him unconscious. The creek dragged his unconscious body about a half-mile south before the dirt took him. The water had washed the excess of blood in his wounds, but each one remained exposed to the cold wind.
John Huxley struggled to open his eyes as the river water splashed on the right side of his face as it was pressed against the earth. He was alive, though he wasn’t sure for how much longer. As he sat up and regained his consciousness bit by bit, he found himself alone, surrounded by green trees and sharp rocks. The river could have taken him halfway to Roquefort, for all he knew.
The only thing he was certain of is that he was alive.
He noticed the blood oozing down the side of his head and wondered which of the rocks had been responsible for it. He a
lso noticed he had lost his old rusty blade somewhere in the water. Or perhaps he had dropped it before he fell into the river, at some point before…
Then it struck him suddenly…
Princess Magdalena… And Thomlin…
The last thing he remembered was their unconscious bodies being carried away by the Butcher and that ghost-like man with the haunting eyes. He tried to remember the man’s name, but his memory was failing him. He pressed both hands against his temples.
Not now, he told himself. One step at a time.
He gazed around, unsure where to begin his journey back to Val Havyn, or if it was even safe to do so. He couldn’t follow the river north; the climb would be impossible with his injuries. He cleaned his face and wiped the dirt from himself before rising to his feet, when something caught his eye.
The waterfall was near. Its height gave him the impression that it was the first, not the second.
He approached it. The wound on his leg made him walk with a limp.
Up ahead he could see, through the falls, an opening in the earth, dark and hollow. A cave… The river’s flow made its way inside…
A passageway out of the castle perhaps, John thought to himself. If so, that could have been useful earlier.
His mind was hazy and his body ached, much like it did after a hard day of labor.
He knew the sewers of Val Havyn were connected to a net of caves that ultimately all led to Lotus Creek. But he had no particular knowledge of what caves led where, or if any were safe to walk through.
He stepped through the curtain of water and found himself staring into a dark abyss as he stood at the cave’s mouth. John felt a breeze coming from it. The cave led somewhere, and if it were consistent, it would take him north.
Perhaps it was his condition, but the farmer did not object. Over the span of just one day, he had survived a fight with a wanted thief, a battle in the palace courtyard, and another fight against hired swords in which the odds were dishonestly against him.
What else could possibly happen, he thought to himself.
And then he stepped into the cave.
* * *
Merchants’ Square in Val Havyn was always replete with peasants, travelers, and civilians of every class. On that particular evening, however, the square was unusually loud and teeming, as the crowds gathered to welcome back their beloved King Rowan. Adelina Huxley had barely managed to squeeze through the crowds before an angry guard with fowl breath yelled at her to step away from the palace gates.
Something was wrong, she could tell. The guard looked about as anxious as a soldier before battle.
“My son is inside!” she said, but it made no difference.
The guard and his companion had their shields and spears up, blocking the gates. And Adelina’s nerves only peaked when she stood to the side and heard the guards snickering about whether the boy was even still alive. She felt helpless, to such a degree only a mother could feel. She’d heard the news about John, about how he had succeeded in capturing the wanted thief Hudson Blackwood.
She’d heard John was taken to the palace, along with a peasant boy.
But that glimmer of hope only lasted for the better half of an hour. News of the attack on the king’s palace had spread to every block of the city by nightfall and when it reached Adelina’s ears, she shivered. She got to Merchants’ Square as fast as her feet would allow it and found that the palace was surrounded by guards at every six feet.
“Heard about your boy,” said a rough voice behind her, startling her. It was Mister Jasper Nottley, spitting out a chunk of old chewing tobacco on the road.
“What did you hear?”
“Rode all around the city chained to that murderin’ thief Blackwood,” said Nottley.
“Where is he?” she asked him, not hesitating for a second.
“Don’t know. I ain’t his nursemaid. All I know is he walked in there to claim his reward and never walked out.”
Mister Nottley’s last remark sent a chill up Adelina’s spine.
“Any news of the attack?” she asked.
“Word ‘round here’s the Rogue Brotherhood invaded the palace. No one saw a thing. One moment they were inside the palace and the next they were gone. Vanished. Didn’t raid a single shop in the city, just the palace.”
There was a pause, as Adelina took the news with as much buoyancy as she could muster. But the man’s unsympathetic tone only burdened her further.
“Why are you here?” she asked him.
“Blackwood burned what was left of my property,” the man said with a scowl. “The king will arrive any moment now. I’m here to claim payment for the damages that filth cost me.”
“Raiders just invaded the king’s home… You think he’ll have time to worry about your tavern?”
Mister Nottley ignored her and spit once more.
Adelina scoffed and paid him no more mind. She kept her gaze on the palace gates. The guards were still laughing and snickering among themselves, and it causing a feeling of dread in the woman’s heart. She knew her son well. And though she knew he was a brave young man, much like his father before him, she could not deny John’s imprudence.
For a moment, she felt a rush of anger…
Too many times she’d warned him… Too many times she’d told him to put his old blade down…
Too many times she’d asked him to look the other way and yet the lad seemed only to look for a good threat. Had he given it a second thought before confronting the wanted thief alone, he would not have been taken to the palace. He wouldn’t have been roped into the whole damn mess. He would have been at home safe and unharmed.
But the lad has no interest in ‘safe’, she thought to herself. It’s simply not enough for him. It never will be. And he can’t help what’s in his blood…
“Missus Huxley?” a soft voice called. A bundle of auburn red hair glistened under the light of the lanterns as Evellyn Amberhill pressed through the crowds. Adelina embraced her the way a mother would embrace her own daughter.
“Oh, my dear,” Adelina cried. “It’s so good to see you…”
“Any word of John?” the blacksmith asked.
“Not yet…”
Then there was the sudden sound of trumpets in the distance.
“Well,” Mister Nottley said. “Our king has arrived.”
The loud horns were almost inaudible as Adelina became distracted… A familiar figure walked out of the palace doors, heading towards the gates. The knight’s silver armor, lined with gold, had loosened and the golden shape of the eagle on his back and front was hardly discernible under the smears of dirt and blood.
The man himself was as grandiose as he had always been. His golden wheat hair was untidy from battle and there was sweat on his face, surely, but not a single trace of his own blood was on him. When he reached the gates, the guards greeted him with respect and made way for him. Adelina and Evellyn were both within earshot and could hear the man’s voice, almost as majestic alone as the man himself.
“Orders, sir?” the guard with the reeking breath asked.
“Stand by,” Sir Viktor Crowley said. “The trespassers have retreated.”
“Shall we send word to the princess that King Rowan has arrived, sir?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Sir Viktor said, sighing deeply as if still regaining his strength. The guards looked at one another, both in uncertainty and concern. Adelina listened closely for any word of her boy. But the look on the golden knight’s face spoke of greater worries.
“She’s been taken,” Viktor said, a look of terror on his face as he realized the true severity of the situation. “The princess has been taken…”
* * *
A sharp hissing sound resonated throughout the Blue Hills of Vallenghard.
A steel axe was being thoroughly sharpened with a whetstone, and the hands that held said stone were callused and rough and olive green in color. With every brush against the steel, there came a mild gru
nt, as if the orc was doing it as a means to relieve a hidden inner strain.
For those that hadn’t seen enough of the Rogue Brotherhood, he was quite a menacing sight. It wasn’t often that one saw an orc riding in a company of humans, and it certainly showed. He tended to be distant and withdrawn, spending more time with his axe than he did with his fellow human mercenaries.
The Beast, they called him. And he hardly ever spoke unless it was under his breath.
His trousers were made of red leather and matched his company’s uniform, but his arms and chest were often exposed. His thick forearms were strapped with a pair of brown gauntlets, onto which he slid a set of daggers for easy access, two on each gauntlet. The afternoon was crisp and light, and so he allowed for the cool breeze to aerate the red scar across his chest.
The scar consisted of three lines, running diagonally from the tip of his left shoulder across his chest and ending at his lower right abdomen. No one knew how he had gotten that scar, only that it had to have been something large. Something vicious and hungry.
From afar curious eyes were watching him, examining him.
The Beast knew it, but he chose to ignore it.
As the only orc member of the Brotherhood, he was the only one from his company who had stayed behind in the hills, surrounded by strangers from overseas, many of whom looked like him. It felt odd to him, to see orcs and elves marching so leisurely amongst men. The Brotherhood hardly left the Woodlands and when they did they never took him, for orcs had no business in human realms. Even talking about such a contentious thing could cost you your life.
“What do ye make of the bloke?” asked a nearby voice, a nasally one with a snort after every sentence.
“Hard to say,” replied a deeper, gruffer voice. “He don’t seem to fit in with the lot.”
“He’s in a troop of human scum, ‘course he don’t fit in.”
“That’s his choice.”
“What if we talk to ‘im?”
“Piss off. You talk to ‘im.”
“He looks strong. Might make a good guard dog. Y’think Okvar will like ‘im?”