by Alex Aguilar
What little hope she had before was now shattering before her eyes. She wanted to scream for help, but she knew that it would only result in the deaths of the harbourmaster and his apprentice, and possibly some of the prisoners… They were helpless, and she knew it.
She felt the tears crawling on the edge of her eyelids but she wiped them off before anyone noticed.
Thomlin, on the other hand, had tears crawling down his flushed brown cheeks. He was on the verge of sobbing when suddenly a swift pull sent him crashing against the wall of the cagewagon. He released a slight yelp, though it didn’t appear to catch the attention of neither Wellyngton nor his apprentice.
The boy’s chest was pounding. Someone from the outside had grabbed on tightly to his wrist and refused to let go. “D’you want to keep that hand, boy?!” a voice whispered angrily at him from the outside. “Or should I give you something to remember me by?”
It was quite dark, but Thomlin caught a glimpse of those frightening red eyes and that dark blue skin under a brown hood. Magdalena, startled and alarmed, grabbed Thomlin by the waist and began pulling back.
Jyor felt the boy’s hand nearly slip from his grasp, and so he tightened his fist. And then the hissing sound of a dagger echoed throughout the docks, so loud that the harbourmaster’s apprentice took notice. Thomlin couldn’t help but yelp, and the princess had to press a nervous hand over his mouth as she kept pulling him inward.
Jyor gave one last fierce pull, and Thomlin could have sworn that his hand was done for.
Except it wasn’t… Just before Thomlin’s fingers went through the gap, an unexpected foot from inside the cage landed a heavy kick. Thomlin felt some of the blow, and the skin of his knuckles was scraped. But Jyor felt the real damage, as two of his fingers bent entirely the wrong way.
Thomlin fell into Magdalena’s lap, and they both glanced at the silver-haired woman named Valleria, who was holding onto the wall of the cage as she pulled her foot back. Outside, Jyor shrieked loudly in pain as he pressed his wounded hand against his chest, his two broken fingers bent all the way back, creating an arch that wasn’t meant to be there.
Magdalena and Valleria kept their gaze fixed on each other for a brief moment. The silver-haired woman gave the princess a nod, as if telling her they were on the same side without the need for words. The princess returned the nod, her watery eyes more thankful than any words could convey.
By then, harbourmaster Wellyngton and his apprentice couldn’t help but notice the commotion. The hooded figure of Jyor was on his knees, holding on to his hand as he shivered and groaned.
“Is something the matter with your friend?” Wellyngton asked.
“Ahh,” Hauzer shrugged convincingly. “Bloke must’ve cut himself. Kahrran steel, we have in there. That’ll do it.”
“Ohh right,” Wellyngton said with a forced chuckle, as if he knew what Kahrran steel felt like. “Well I do hope he’s all right.”
“He’ll be fine,” Hauzer said. “We’ll be boarding now. With your permission, of course.”
“Oh yes, yes, on you go,” Wellyngton said, his eyes still preoccupied examining the gold in the satchel, only this time his uneasiness overcame him. He couldn’t help but pry.
Hauzer gave the men a signal, and they began boarding the fishing vessel, the only ship that was left in the docks that night. But before he could walk away, the harbourmaster’s voice beckoned him back.
“You’re from Halghard, yes?”
Hauzer froze where he stood. He turned slowly and unwillingly, his annoyance causing him to wonder whether it would be safe to simply kill the harbourmaster and his apprentice rather than risk him prying further. “Aye,” was all he said, as the rest of the men began to pull the cagewagon full of slaves onto the boarding ramp.
“Your accent’s a bit torn,” said Wellyngton. “Been spending some time overseas, friend?”
Hauzer’s glare changed. Something in him became suspicious of the old man, as if he had suddenly recognized him. “How’d you figure that?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wellyngton replied. “Just presuming.”
“Then don’t presume,” Hauzer said, tossing the old man an extra silver coin.
With that, Hauzer turned and followed his men into the ship.
Wellyngton and his apprentice remained in place, disturbed and thrown aback. They walked off towards the set of stairs, allowing for the men to take a ship that wasn’t the harbourmaster’s to sell in the first place.
“What in gods’ names…?” the apprentice whispered worriedly.
“Don’t say a word, just continue walking,” Wellyngton replied.
“Shall I send word to Lord Clark?” the apprentice asked.
“To hells with Lord Clark,” Wellyngton said. “Fetch us a raven… We’re sending word straight to the king.”
* * *
They galloped for the better part of an hour, heading southwest along the border of the Woodlands until they came across an opening between a wave of mysterious looking willow trees.
After nearly losing Viktor Crowley, the company had been blinded by the thrill of the fight.
And they were more concerned with fleeing than they were about what lurked within the Woodlands. They followed their knight commander along the path, until the darkness seemed to swallow them whole…
They became immersed into a whole other world… Every inch of their surroundings was crawling with plant life, and the wind was far colder and wetter than the outside. As the company moved deeper inside, the trees seemed to stretch higher and higher, eventually shielding them entirely from the night sky. The place was eerie and dark and hauntingly beautiful… Flowers they’d never seen before bloomed beneath their feet, wild life lurked through the branches high above, and the humid breeze seemed to almost glow under the moonlight.
The path curved again and again, and eventually Viktor Crowley could not figure out which direction was west. As the darkness consumed them, he came to an abrupt halt; the path disappeared into the fog, and he no longer had any idea where they were. He turned and took a moment to count heads, and sighed with relief when his count was the same as it had been that morning.
“Is anyone hurt?” he asked.
“Does an ankle cramp count as hurt?” asked Hudson Blackwood. Syrena trotted closer to him; it was clear that, though her horse was tied to the saddle of a soldier’s horse, she preferred the company of the thief and would often try to stay close to him.
Sir Jossiah Biggs’s armor had loosened and he struggled to hold on to the reins of his horse as he wiped the sweat from his brows. For a knight, the man was rather unfit; his brute strength in combat was his only advantage. He shot Hudson and Syrena an untrusting glare as he suddenly drew his blade.
The thief and the witch froze and glanced at one another.
“Your weapon,” Jossiah said sternly. “Drop it…”
The thief sighed. “If we get attacked again you will need me, mate.”
But Jossiah did not give in; his blade remained high and firm. “Did I stutter, thief!?” he growled. “You’re no different than the witch here. You’re a prisoner! And you’ve no need for a weapon.”
“Do I not?” Hudson asked with great disdain. “So never mind the fact that we would all be dead if I hadn’t been armed, eh?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jossiah’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not the only one that can use a sword.”
The thief shot Viktor a glance, and the golden knight gave a deep sigh and found himself siding with him, much to Jossiah’s surprise.
“Put your sword down, old boy,” Viktor said, still catching his breath.
Jossiah raised a brow. “What?”
“He could’ve fled,” Viktor said with a nod. “But he didn’t… And the bloody idiot’s right. If we get attacked again, I’d very much prefer he was armed.”
Hudson gave Jossiah a wink, but the former knight did not find it the least bit amusing judging by his scowling reaction
. “Truce, mate,” he said, more to spite him.
Meanwhile the rest of the company gazed all around, their bodies shivering from the fright.
Cedric, naïve as he was, had grown pale and his eyes were wide and alert; his lip trembled, but that was rather common of the boy. Had it not been for the thrill of it all, he may have vomited.
John Huxley held himself together as best he could. He found that nearly losing his new silver blade, the most elegant he’s ever owned, had felt worse than the actual fighting did. Upon gazing at his surroundings and the eerily scenic path they stood on, he became overwhelmed to the point where he felt mildly lightheaded.
He approached Viktor, but his eyes were fixed on the dirt path ahead, obscured by the fog.
Perhaps if the sun were still shining, the path would seem almost beautiful.
Under the moon’s light, however, it was ominous enough to give him shivers.
The sound of the sweeping wind was haunting and somber, and there were distant sounds above them that John hoped were just birds. His whole life, the young farmer had heard stories of the vast array of life in the Woodlands and the dangers that lurked within. Yet at that moment, there seemed not to be a sign of life anywhere, at least none that their anxious eyes could see, only sounds.
“We’ve made it,” John mumbled, mesmerized by the strange beauty of it all.
Viktor had no reply. His eyes glanced all around, at the potential paths, at the trees above, at his flustered company… Everyone looked startled except for Hudson and Syrena. The witch, in fact, seemed almost at peace, looking all around at the place she called home and taking slow breaths as she found herself more comfortable than she had been in the last week.
“What now?” Jossiah asked Viktor.
“We must find a place somewhere to make camp,” Viktor replied.
“Those bastards might still be after us. Shouldn’t we keep riding?” Jossiah said as he glanced back towards the path from which they came.
“Not anymore. Not while we’re in here,” Viktor said, with a tension in his shoulders that was quite obvious. “Dusk has come… And we’re no longer in Vallenghard, old friend.”
* * *
The northern regions of the Woodlands were a mystery, even to folk who dwelled within them. Some spoke of a fabled city hidden within the forest, a city of ancient ruins known as Bauqora, ruled by a mythical elf queen who had roamed the land for centuries.
The Rogue Brotherhood, thirsty for power as they were, had sought this city out for decades but they never found a single trace of it. And traveling further into the mountains of Belmoor was not an option, for it was home to the minotauros. They were ruthless beasts that walked upright, had heads like bulls, and bodies covered in a black pelt. And they fought like a pack, aggressively and ruthlessly coordinated.
And so, unwilling to venture into the minotauros’ lands, the infamous mercenary guild took to the southern regions of the Woodlands. There, they wreaked havoc until an outside force hired them. And such had been the case when they were sought out by Lord Baronkroft to sneak into the royal city of Val Havyn and kidnap her majesty from the palace grounds.
But now they were back in the Woodlands, back in the land they called home.
When the sun fell, the stench coming from the Brotherhood’s camp became thicker and far more pungent. Ale and pipes of red spindle were being passed around the men, each of them slowly losing what little sense they had left for the night. Only about a hundred men were there; half of them had arrived that morning from Val Havyn and the rest were still on their way back, including the newly appointed captain. And so the mischief within the camp was growing as monotony began to overtake them all.
Three raiders sat around one of the many fires, laughing and conversing among one another. Their eyes would constantly move towards a solitary tent, a few yards away from the rest, where a fireless pit of black ashes was still radiating warm fumes of smoke.
“There I was, sittin’ in the Stumblin’ Hare tavern in Grymsbi,” one of the men said after inhaling from a lit pipe full of red spindle and passing it to his comrade. “And then out o’ nowhere, a damn greenskin walks in… I thought I had shit in me eyes, I tell ye. And then they serve the bastard. I thought I was losin’ me mind, I even spit out me ale!”
“Ahh,” the second man groaned. “Halghard’s fallin’ apart… First they start a war among themselves for a fuckin’ throne. Then they start pardonin’ freaks so’s to grow their armies. What’s next? They’ll choose a woman to lead ‘em?”
“That’ll be the day,” the third man said just before coughing out red smoke from his lungs.
“Give me that, ye dumb twat,” the second man snatched the pipe from the coughing man’s hands. “Virgin lungs, this one has, I tell ye.”
The first man, green-eyed and shaggy-haired, became fixated on the solitary tent near their fire pit. “Speakin’ of greenskins,” he said, rising to his feet and realizing he was far more intoxicated than he figured. “Y’think the Beast is off huntin’ somewhere?”
“What’s it to ye?” asked the second man.
“I lost me blade back in Val Havyn… I always fancied the Beast’s axe.”
“Careful now, the bloke will kill ye if he finds out.”
“Not if he ain’t there,” the shaggy-haired man took slow drunken steps towards the tent. And his two comrades whispered hesitantly behind him.
“Get back ‘ere, you stupid fool!”
“Leave ‘im. It’s his arse.”
The man walked around the black pit of ashes, squinting his bloodshot eyes yet unable to make out anything in the darkness of the tent. He then noticed, right next to an old rucksack, the Beast’s sharp axe buried in the dirt with the handle sticking outward.
The man smiled and reached for it.
But it was buried deeper than he anticipated, and it took another strong thrust before loosening it. He held the axe up, admired its sharpness and beauty despite its old age.
“There! Now get back ‘ere!” one of his comrades, the more concerned one, whispered.
The drunken man turned and smiled at them, holding the axe up. “Told youse it was a beauty.”
But the man’s smile didn’t last very long; his comrades grew alarmed and frightened all of a sudden, and his smile quickly turned into a concerned grimace. He turned, only to see a large figure walking towards him from within the trees… a figure with three massive scars on his exposed green chest.
Frightened out of his drunken mind, the man held the axe out in defense.
“S-Stand back, Beast!” he stuttered. “I-I’ve got your axe!”
The orc came to a halt, not having realized the man was holding his weapon. Often, he would look the other way from the stupidity of his brothers-in-arms. But the orc had never been fond of people putting their hands on his things…
“S-Stand back, I say… Stand back! F-Filthy greenskin!”
The Beast froze… He could smell the ale in the man’s breath and therefore had been willing to let the matter go. But there was one word that the orc could not stand… and the stupid man had just said it. And it was then that he opened his lips… And the sharp fangs rising from his lower teeth moved up and down as he spoke, and his voice was rough and beastlike…
“One swing,” the Beast said, and his words petrified the frail man. The orc was known to be distant and hostile, and only about a third of his mercenary brothers had ever heard him speak. And his voice was as chilling as they had expected it to be.
“I give ye one swing,” he said. “I won’t even try to stop ye…”
The man hesitated, his face drenched in sweat and his breathing fast-paced and light. Suddenly the effects of the ale and red spindle had diminished, replaced by a blurred sense of caution.
“Go on then, lad!” his comrade shouted behind him. “He’s just a greenskin!”
There was laughter among them, but the Beast paid it no mind. His yellow eyes were fixed on the man’s filthy hands, h
olding his axe.
“P-Please…” the man said fretfully, realizing the grave mistake he had committed. “I-I’m sorry…”
“One swing,” the Beast repeated. “And ye best not miss, lad… I killed a bear once, y’know… Crushed his head with nothin’ but me hands. Now imagine what I’m gonna do to you…”
The man trembled even more, struggling to hold his grip on the heavy axe.
It was then, however, that a loud sound broke the commotion.
A horn echoed all around as a company of about seventy men approached, all bearing the same red leathers as those in the camp. It was being led by a familiar figure atop a black horse…
Captain Malekai Pahrvus looked elated and proud, his chin up high, his red captain’s coat fitting just right. His company followed behind, dragging along a cart full of riches stolen from King Rowan’s palace. Unlike the previous captain, Malekai didn’t wear the captain’s hat. His dreadlocks were too long and well decorated with beads and trinkets to be hidden away and tucked under a hat.
Riding in front of him was his second-in-command, quite inebriated, shouting aimlessly about. “Evenin’, gents!” he said. “Lovely night, ain’t it?”
Many of the mercenaries that had been left behind at the camp became suddenly flustered and alarmed. Those that had been intoxicated tried their best to appear proper in front of their newly appointed captain. And then they would relax at the sight of his fool of a right-hand man, a drunken raider of average skill known as Borrys.
One of the red raiders, who went by the name of Naru, was quite shocked to see such a man be appointed Captain’s second-in-command. “Borrys Belvaine, you old hog,” he said with a friendly chuckle and a head nod.
“Still alive, you baldin’ bastard?” Borrys replied in a similar tone. “Give my regards to your poor sweet mum.”
There was laughing and chattering among the men as they all welcomed their captain.
The Beast, however, was not at all amused… His eyes were locked on the drunken man in front of him, still gripping his beloved axe… The man’s breathing had eased, seeing as the Beast was less likely to kill him in the presence of the captain.