Stammering and thinking about the vow he’d just made, he said, “The moon pack beckons.”
“I guess my kids can eat the food you packed away for your escape, now that you’ll be staying.”
“How do you know about…?”
Cledwyn smirked. “You are not as sneaky as you believe.”
Phel nodded mutely. Phel could not leave after that vow. Drane had spared his life; Drane had trained him to fight with the Moonz blades. Drane had honored him by bestowing a sword on him in public. Drane will find a man and a warrior when he comes back to this village, Phel thought.
The day turned into a week. The week turned into two. The warrior band had not returned.
“Phel, be a dear piggie and fetch the meal from the scullery.” Felina barked at him from the board he was not allowed to join. “Tuck your sword away before you prick yourself.”
Hassling Phel was a favorite activity for the waiting warriors. Jillian and the other warriors demanded Phel still perform his menial tasks, but he did not let their abuse take away his sense of dignity. He was a man with a purpose. He had a sword. He caressed its reassuring handle. He wore the sword everywhere; he wore it now as he dragged the wooden table planks across the courtyard to their place by a red tent. The rain held off, but lightning streaked across the sky in jagged bolts of golden power.
“Creator’s gonna piss on me.” Phel glanced up at the sky and cursed the swirling gray clouds and their ominous warnings of imminent spring rain. He did not look forward to setting up all the tables and tents for the trading of goods that would take place when Drane and his large band of soldiers returned from their raids with Lord Meldz. Setting up the thick boards and stout legs required four persons, and he was only one. The tables were for sorting the plunder and findings, which Drane would tax and his band would sell to the villagers and wandering merchants. Phel organized, tabulated, and categorized all the spoils as part of his duties.
The dirt and stones under his feet vibrated. Phel dropped the table in surprise and yelped as it scraped his leg and a four-inch splinter pierced into his skin. “Shit, cow motha,” he barked in annoyance. The steel from his sword banged hard on his knee.
“Put your sword down and maybe you’d perform your tasks better Sonzie boy. Stop pretending to be a servant and a soldier,” a woman’s voice railed on him as he turned. Jillian waved ominously to indicate that the tables should be finished before it rained.
“Uhom. Yes.” He stammered, wondering why she was even speaking to him when she normally ignored him.
“The outpost guards will need food. Bring it to them when you finish.” Her face told him not to make the men wait very long.
“Jillian, Drane gave me a sword and a mission here too. If we are attacked, I will help.”
She noted his meekness in disgust. “Drane can’t change who you are: a broken soldier of the enemy.”
Getting fed up, Phel decided to try a new approach. “Go tell one of the peasants to bring the soldiers’ food, Jillian. I am working here.” Bending, he picked up the wooden beam again, his back toward her.
He heard the curved saber ring as it was loosened from its backstrap. He didn’t turn. “Stab me with my sword.” Phel tossed it down behind him and gripped the fallen table. He heaved on the red wood and began to drag it.
An underfoot tremor was the only indication that she was advancing. He turned rapidly.
“Pick up your weapon and fight. I will not be mocked by a slave.”
“Wait, Jillian. Listen!”
She did not listen. She kicked his sword at him. Phel ducked to avoid a backhand. He tripped over the table, avoiding her next swing. “Clumsy fool. Drane always had a soft spot for fools.”
Phel felt the stones tremble, different this time, as he lay on the ground. It distracted him. He looked around for its source. And then he saw them. From behind a barn three blocks away, majestic knights on shining steeds pounded their way onto the street and toward the manor. Phel stood and shoved Jillian toward the manor. “Run and barricade the house,” he screamed. The banners above the ten trampling steeds displayed the insignia of none other than the Sonz Northern Guard.
He screamed. “We’re invaded.” Phel picked up his sword and began to run in the opposite direction, to the town warning bell.
To her credit, Jillian did not hesitate. She knew the secrets of the Moonz in the commander’s quarters needed to be protected. Maps, plans, and troop movements could not fall into the hands of the invaders. “To me, warriors!” she screamed as she leaped up the front steps.
Gripping the knotted rope handle, Phel rang the iron bell to signal the other defenders. He saw another troop of Sonz’s knights, golden insignias and silver plates glimmering, emerge from around the manor. “Jillian, on your flank!”
“Curse the son!” This new group of knights must have slipped past the guard tower on foot. She turned and thrust forward in a desperate attempt to regain the high ground of the porch. The invaders engaged the two Moonz guards and Jillian.
Phel watched in dread as the knights on the horses split as they reached the town center. Some galloped toward the barns, and Phel knew they would burn the supply houses. The rest rode toward the housing cottages. Women and children screamed as the warriors chased them down and randomly killed those in their way.
“C’mon!” Phel shouted as he rang the bell. Three Moonz warriors returned on horseback from the guard towers and intercepted the Sonz knights lighting torches near the barns. A fierce battle ensued. Horses whinnied. Blood sprayed. Steel clashed. Fire spat. Phel stopped ringing the bell.
Think, idiot. Three Moonz warriors lay dead; a stallion and four injured Sonz knights squirmed on the ground. Raucous screams from the horses and humans filled the air. The supply barn was on fire. Smoke rose to the sky. Jillian and Felina, having killed three knights to regain the porch, used javelins to fend off eight knights, but two other knights climbed the back side of the porch to flank them.
Desperation filled Phel. He let go of the bell and did the only thing he could think of to sound off the attack. He ran. Jillian screamed at him to come back and fight. But he ran. The Sonz warriors ignored him, occupied by the female warriors who were tossing javelins at their heads.
He ran past the porch to a nearby shed and found a pile of war supplies. He dove into the mound of mismatched gear, looking through it frantically. “Here you are!” He had found it, the horn from his Sonz gear.
“If there is a Creator…” He let out three loud, long blows. And then he paused before blowing a distinct serious of signals of varying length. He peeked around the corner of the manor to watch the main party of knights retreat in an orderly fashion. The Sonz warriors thought that their commander had ordered an end to the attack. They had left all but Jillian, Felina, and one companion alive. Felina spat blood and then blacked out. She had an angry red gash on her scalp. The other Moonz warriors and several villagers were dead, blood pooling around broken bodies.
Phel raced out from behind the stone headquarters with the horn still in his hand. “They’re leaving!” he shouted in relief. But then he realized his mistake: two of the armored men were still loading a broken companion onto their horses. They heard him shout and saw the horn and understood what had transpired. They drew long double-edged swords and dropped their visors. These men were experienced and hardened warriors. Phel screamed and attacked, but a quick sidestep and a backslash sent him bouncing across the ground. He stood in time to see the other Moonz warrior get slashed across his face. The man fell instantly. Jillian retreated into the house with the two Sonz knights after her.
“She is the leader,” the steel visor yelled. “For the Trawlands!”
Phel stumbled into the manor after them, his leg and stomach bleeding profusely. Jillian fought, but they pushed her back against the table of maps. One knight looked down at the maps and laughed in delight. “Gris, here is what we came for!”
Jillian screamed at them and threw a handful of
maps into the fire. “Go to hell with you!”
The two men divided and attacked her from both sides. Entering the room, Phel ran at them with his sword held in front of him like a spear. The four battled. The invaders were too strong; Phel and Jillian were beaten to their knees. The heavily armored knights overpowered the defenders. One knight reached for the remaining maps, and the other kept Phel and Jillian at bay by swinging his long sword at them. “Try and stop us, Moonz dogs,” Gris taunted them.
“Gris, I have the maps,” the other knight said. “Let’s take their leader back for interrogation. Sir Aslar will want to question her.”
“The butcher of Waver Town,” Gris drawled. They attacked in unison and overpowered the already-beaten Phel and Jillian. They dragged her out. Phel tried to fight them, but one warrior kicked his injured stomach and stunned him with a helmet butt. Phel staggered back and tripped into another room. The knights made good their escape with their captive.
Partially regaining his composure, Phel staggered into the courtyard searching for a horse to give pursuit. A tweedy peasant mare allowed the dazed knight to mount it. He needed to catch them before they met up with the larger force. He knew the area around the village well and took a path that he hoped would intercept his old army mates.
“Faster, dammit!” he panted to the horse. He stopped near a small cliff overlooking the forest path. The muddy, trampled path below had a fallen tree across it. He all but fell off the horse. “Gris and company will have to lead their horses around that log on foot,” he told the horse as he slapped its flank with his calloused hand.
As anticipated, the men and their prisoner came around the bend. At the sight of the massive trunk, they dismounted. One led the horses, and the other dragged the bound Jillian after them. Phel leaped onto the fallen tree and threw a javelin with all his might. It missed the first man but sank with a deep thud into the second horse. The horse reared and kicked, luckily breaking Gris’s leg. Gris toppled. Metal clanked.
Phel ran toward the other warrior, who stood and pulled his sword out. Phel jumped in front of the knight. “Let her go!” He shifted into a stance from his Sonz training camp.
The other knight noticed the familiar fighting form and saw the Sonz tattoo on Phel’s forearm. “So, you’re a traitor to our kingdom.” Phel swung his sword in response. “Or are you a spy?” Growling, the knight did not flinch. He intercepted the attack and struck back. They traded heavy blows, making clanking music in the depths of the Ngela Haunted Forest. Steel flashed in the dimming light. Rain began to fall; the drops came fast and heavy.
“Dog.” The golden helmet laughed. Phel was knocked on the ground, and his sword clattered out of his hand. The knight kicked him on his back and raised his sword.
“Forgive me, Jillian.” Phel grunted, as the weight of the attacker’s foot and his failure pinned him down.
In the confusion, Jillian stumbled despite her bonds into the warrior and tripped him. Rising, the swordless Phel leaped on top of the fallen man, tugging his helmet off, and struck. The fallen man’s eyes became cloudy, and he blacked out as the steel clunked on his skull. Phel looked at the man’s face and gasped.
“Charler!” Guilt punched Phel in the gut. He explained to Jillian, “He is one of the captains responsible for guarding Princess Elana.”
Jillian mumbled through the gag. She was impossible to understand.
“What is he doing up in Waver Town?” Phel asked as he cut Jillian’s ties.
“Not the time for regret.” Jillian gasped, tearing the gag from her lips.
Phel would never forget his desire to be one of Princess Elana’s champions. He stood, covered in dripping mud and blood, over Charler, whom he had betrayed. Twice the traitor.
“The past is the past. Put it to rest, Phel.” He smiled that she used his name because it was a first. Jillian tossed him a fallen blade.
“Kill him.”
“We can leave them.”
“No, we can’t.” The logical side of him knew she was right. The loyal side of him shriveled back in fear and regret.
“Charler, why?” He had to decide. Guilt, shame, and adrenaline fought within him. He knew he was too deep now. Her eyebrows rose in a question. Closing his eyes, Phel brought the point of the blade down in a killing thrust. His fingers tremored with emotion, almost releasing the blade.
The two walked over to Gris. Gris was muttering, dazed. His broken leg was pinned under a dirty white horse. Jillian looked at Phel, and he saw respect in her eyes as she dispassionately slit Gris’s throat. Traitor or not, it was finished, and the two fled back to the village.
Chapter 20
Amateur Hour Management
Quarter 1, Day 9
Straight, precise walls beckoned the room’s occupants to remember the exactness of science. The inspiring Nnectonian logo held a prominent position etched in LED and marble on the ceiling, its deep blue letters swirling and pulsing like the comforting lights of law enforcement personnel around a criminal scene. David had all but forgotten about the Gayle drama from two days before, as the responsibility of proving himself at the office weighed down upon him in a cleansing manner. The emotional drama, waiting to return, faded like waves receding rapidly from a sandy beach before once more pulsing upward and inward.
He had woken up early and observed the twenty Lave Labs subjects before the rest of his managers arrived.
In an attempt to stymie the panic attack about to seize him, he told himself dutifully, “Focus on one thing at a time.” His brand stimulated with a rewarding pulse of pleasure that twisted around his spine, and his heart skipped a beat. He smiled as his eyes traced the brand symbols that twisted around his left side. The brand pleasure encouraged his devotion and choked the heart strain from the previous days to an appropriate level so that he could think clearly.
Shiny, crystal-clear glass desks with projection screens and window walls with brainstorming marker smears, charts, and scribbles, characterized the overly sterile and pristine Lave Labs. Day two, hour two of Project MFPIR 0.0, Mission Family Product Integration Revision 0.0 began. David sat and sat and stared and stared. He glared at the captive occupants in the containment homes below and beyond the glass window in front of his lab.
“What shall we do with you little shits?” he asked himself, stressing over the enormousness of his task.
Each containment home was equipped with all the basics for human survival. A food and drink kit were in the far-right corner; this included hot flavored water, food gel sacks, and an assortment of intermediary gluten-based nourishments. A comfort box was placed at the end of each bed; this included clothing, games for the younger slaves, drawing materials, and miscellaneous blankets. There was an attached human waste disposal unit, a six-foot-by-six-foot box constructed of murky gray translucent material; only shadows could be seen through this bathroom wall. A red strobe and whistling siren would sound in the bathroom if an occupant used the room for more than five minutes. The slave home unit was designed with neutral themes and muted colors.
He asked himself, for the thousandth time, the big question of the quarter: “How do I make mother Nnect proud?” His mind had wrapped around the idea that this project would be the cornerstone of his future. The sensation of destiny would not go away. He thought, What a wholesome rush it is to climb the corporate ladder. He didn’t even release he was snarling as he glared at the slaves.
His inquisitive blue eyes roamed from one to the next, all the way around the circle, staring at them from the outside in. His task. His responsibility. His subjects. His property. Each slave was fascinating in its own individual manner.
Cell Brac contained a young, skinny, redheaded female with white freckles who cried constantly from a curled-up position in her bed at the far corner of her home.
Cell Logan had the previously observed little brown-haired boy, who was still playing with the digital markers, laughing in random moments of delight; the subject seemed momentarily distracted from it
s plight.
Cell Granny had an old grandma serenely sitting in a chair with closed eyes, waiting patiently. She had a peaceful, accepting smile on her wrinkled face. David was not the only person who thought her calmness was odd; he had noted unnerved glances from other scientists.
Cell Muscles had a massive, athletically built middle-aged man with wide shoulders and a small head who occupied his time by doing a routine of body presses; he looked angry, a vein about to burst on his neck.
The faces and activities varied and went on and on, ending always with his fascination with Cell Mop, Gimp, and Arc, the three test subjects about David’s own age. These subjects, two young men and the young woman he’d seen on the first day, beckoned his interest because of their obvious defiance of their captivity. These human beings seemed very much alive and unbeaten. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His hand absentmindedly pulled back and ran through his lengthy hair, his fingers finding and removing the tangled knots that they caught on. It had been a couple weeks since a proper trim.
Subject Arc maintained a gritty, determined look on her face, like a beautiful but savage lioness that refused to be tamed. She had long white hair that draped down her slender back all the way to her hips, youthful features, and mysterious eyes. Her strong cheekbones, olive skin, and clear green eyes reminded David of one of the carved statues that he had fantasized about when he was a child in the Thrive Upbringing Division history seminar. Something about Arc’s defiant spirit made David wonder what was internally different about these new products compared with the human-doings he worked with every day. David noticed that; he gagged a curse in disgust: “Human beings, urg.”
Arc often spoke softly to herself. He gestured at a Lave Labs assistant and demanded, “Who is it speaking to?”
“Not sure, Mister Manager.” The note-taking-assistant for the day, Jim-4000 pointed at a computer portal with a set of earbuds. “The subject has been chatting away to someone that none of us can see.”
A Tale Of Doings Page 24