Endessa nodded, looked away and pushed her horse into a canter. She was gone in moments, the staccato clatter of hooves drifting into the distance and then into silence.
His arms and legs tingled and Vyder felt a tickle in his throat. He coughed, cleared his throat and picked up his saddle. Walking to Storm, he saddled the horse and stepped up into the saddle. He felt alone without Endessa. She’d been with him since Gorgoroth had joined him.
“Dare I say it, but I miss her.”
He patted Storm’s neck.
I don’t.
“Don’t lie, Gorgoroth, I know you’ll miss her too.”
Vyder pushed the horse on. “Time to be moving, my lad. There’s a prince who needs saving.”
* * *
Henry sat in the Huronian cell like an abandoned dog. The cold stone seeped into his bones. He drew his legs up and rested his head against his knees. Long, dirty, matted hair draped around his face. He heard the rhythmic thump of boots growing louder.
What do those bastards want?
He looked up, ignored the pain in his neck and counted the scratches he’d made in one of the stones making the wall that entombed him in the tiny prison cell.
I’m not due to eat until tomorrow.
Henry rested his forehead against his knees once more, the sharp pain in his neck disappearing at once.
So what the bloody hell do they want?
A keychain rattled and the sound of metal sliding upon metal seemed deafening as a key was pushed into the lock of the door holding him prisoner. A loud click followed, then a groan of hinges and light flooded the cramped space. He squinted against the assault.
“Get up, we’re going on a little journey.”
Henry ignored the voice, squeezed shut his eyes and hoped whoever beckoned him would depart. But it was a frivolous hope and he knew it.
“Oi!” he grunted as a booted foot kicked him in the ribs. “I said get the fuck up! Now!”
Henry raised his head, fury soaking his body as he looked up through slitted eyes at the man who’d kicked him. The bright light caused his eyes to leak and ache. Other than the silhouettes of two men standing before him, he was unable to focus on their faces.
“I aint gonna ask you again, boy!”
Ignoring the pain issuing from his joints, Henry pushed himself to his feet to tower over the pair of guards. He’d lost weight since being taken prisoner all those long months ago.
Months? It could have been years now. Who’d know? There’s been many days I’ve forgotten or couldn’t be bothered to mark the stone.
He guessed he was less than half the weight he’d been before capture.
“Get out here, runt!”
The silhouetted man on the right pointed at the narrow stone hallway behind him.
Runt? There was a time I’d have cut you in half with one blow.
He stepped forward, fixing his eyes upon the man on the right and noticed the guard take a tiny step back.
And you know it, don’t you?
Henry refrained from smiling. He stepped out of his cell and the light thrown by torches lining the hallway in both directions became even brighter. He squeezed shut his eyes and rubbed them, ignoring the tears sliding down his cheeks.
“Give me your hands, boy!”
He felt a firm grip latch onto a wrist and dragged his hand away from his face. Within moments, both hands were behind his back and clapped in metal cuffs that bit into the skin. But he ignored the pain and remained silent.
He stumbled forward as someone shoved him from behind.
“Get your arse moving!”
He walked along the hallway, his legs beginning to burn with strain. This was the furthest he’d walked since being taken prisoner and the muscles of his legs began to mutiny. But onward he walked. He clamped his teeth together and disengaged his mind from the pain.
“Where are we going?” he asked through clenched teeth.
A hand grabbed his long hair and he felt his head dragged backward.
“Did I ask you a fucking question?” a voice yelled inches from his ear. “No I didn’t, runt, so keep your dirt hole shut! When I want you to speak, you’ll fucking know.”
The hand released his hair and pushed his head away.
“Oh you’ll know alright, boy.”
“Enjoying this, aren’t you Steef?” the second guard asked.
“Shut up numb nuts! No names, thick skull!”
Steef, eh? If I ever escape, Steef, you and I are going to have ourselves a serious disagreement.
“Sorry, Steef.”
“Fuck you’re dumb.”
Henry attempted to ignore the blistering agony emanating through his legs, but failed. He stumbled as he lost his footing and fell onto a knee.
“Get up, dog!”
Rough hands grabbed him under his arms and hauled him back to a standing positon.
“Now get on your way.”
Another shove in the back.
He advanced once again, reducing his stride length so he was almost shuffling. It helped alleviate the strain on his leg muscles.
“What’s wrong with you? Hurry up!”
“He hasn’t walked for a long time, Stee –”
“No bloody names! How many times do I have to tell you?” Steef’s voice blasted around the hallway, making Henry’s ears ring.
The corridor ended and Henry stood before a closed, locked door which led out of the dungeon and up towards freedom.
Finally, after all this time, I’m to be executed.
Steef brushed past him, unhooked the countless keys from his belt and thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open.
“On you go.”
He grasped a firm grip of Henry’s shoulder and pushed him forward towards the stairs.
As he moved forward, he looked directly into the guard’s face, noted the shoulder length brown hair, streaked with the silver of age, the dark eyes, bags bulging from the skin beneath them and the stubble adorning his pudgy face. Steef’s eyes widened for a moment, then the man regained control of himself and the worried glint disappeared.
I have your measure, weakling.
He pushed past the guard and took the first step.
If walking hurt, this is going to be sheer hell.
Then the second.
But it has to be done.
The third.
Death will be a welcome freedom from this prison.
He stopped on the fourth step, his legs on the verge of surrender.
“Hurry up, runt!”
The familiar shove in the back sent him off balance and Henry crashed face first to the stone stairs, pain lancing his nose. The acrid metallic taste of blood oozed beyond his lips and began to fill his mouth. He spat the blood out and felt hands drag him back to his feet.
“His majesty wants him uninjured! You might have just signed our death warrants!”
“A little touch up won’t hurt him. Nice of you not to use my fucking name for once in your stinking life.”
Uninjured?
“Up you go, dog, we ain’t got all day neither, so best you get a hop along.”
Henry worked an already loose tooth free with his tongue and spat it out. “Best I get a move on then.”
He took the steps as fast as he was able, ignoring the pain in his legs, gulping in great gasps of air as he rapidly became short of breath, sweat beading upon his forehead before dripping clear, or splashing into his eyes. He blinked against the stinging.
“Alright, alright, stop and take a breath. It’s no good to us if you turn up dead.”
Henry heaved in the air, focusing on the stairs yet to be defeated and ignored his legs screaming their protest.
Another several efforts similar in fashion and they’d reached the top of the stairs where another door, closed and locked, barred their way. After Steef unlocked and opened it, he pushed Henry
on through. With countless rest stops, they made their way down long hallways, up another two flights of stairs before they came out of a steel gate leading out onto a cobbled street.
Exhaustion racked Henry’s body and if it were not for the firm hand, which dragged him backward, the horse and wagon would have run him down.
“Look where you’re goin’ next time dolt!” the driver roared as the wagon rumbled past them.
Henry didn’t even have the energy to look up. He stood, watching the ground near his feet, hair hanging limp either side of his face as he slowly began regaining his breath, all the while ignoring the burning from his legs.
“Ready?”
Before Henry could reply, he felt a prod in his back. “Of course you’re ready, get on with it your majesty!” Steef mocked.
The guards laughed.
“Don’t look like royalty does he?”
“Wendurlund royalty don’t count, weak as piss those bastards. Isn’t that right your grace?”
He felt the familiar shove in his back and stumbled, but was able to regain his balance. Their laughter intensified. “Been walking long, sire?”
He was pushed from behind once more and the toe of one of his shoes caught in a small crevice of the cobbled street. He fell to his knees, pain lancing through his legs. He clenched his teeth together and refrained from crying out.
That’d give them even more pleasure.
“You’re so clumsy, can’t even walk in a straight line without falling over. Get up!”
Hands pulled him back to his feet and drove him forward again where he nearly lost his footing for a second time. He felt warm liquid leaking from his knees, travelled down his shins tickling the skin of his ankles as the rivulets soaked into his decrepit shoes.
Another few wagons thundered past in both directions, but Henry was careful to keep his eyes down cast. He saw people trot past on horseback, occasionally greeting the guards. One of them spat at Henry, but the globule missed him and splattered upon the street nearby.
A much larger wagon rumbled alongside them and slowed.
“Where you taking this abomination?” the driver called down.
“To the western gate and outside, sir,” Steef replied.
Old Steef sounds nervous. I wonder who this man is?
“They’re formed up already and ready to march, so get your arses in gear!”
“Aye sir, going as fast as we can,” the less intelligent of the pair spoke.
“Shut up, idiot!” Steef’s voice was barely audible.
“It aint nearly fast enough boy, now get your prisoner moving, your king is waiting on you. If you don’t want to lose your fucking heads before noon than I suggest you heed my advice.”
“Yes sir, of course.”
Henry watched in his peripheral vision as the driver flicked the rumps of the two horses drawing the wagon and clicked his tongue to encourage them. The wagon rumbled past, and when it was well in front of him, only then did Henry look up. The wagon was huge, stacked to overflowing with bales of hay covered in massive oiled sheets of canvas.
Supplies for the cavalry. The Huronian Army is about to march. Are they at war with us again?
“You heard him, dog.” A hand shoved him from behind. “Get a move on, I aint dying today because of you, you piece of shit.”
They made their way along the streets, keeping to the side as much as possible to allow supply wagons ferrying supplies to the army to roll past, or empty ones rattling back in the other direction, where no doubt, they’d then be loaded in a similar fashion. Henry clenched his teeth against the agony and thought of his father, King George, instead.
An army will march and ultimately win any battle by logistical prowess as much as martial skill. Always remember that, boy. His father’s voice spoke into his mind from some long lost memory. Starving soldiers and unfed horses do not win battles. They die in them.
As hard as his father had been on him growing up, he missed the man. He reflected on the day he’d told his father he’d started training as an officer in The King’s Own.
You’re not a bloody soldier! You’re my son, the prince and heir to my throne. The days of the warrior kings of old are gone!
Henry glared up through his matted hair hanging limp around his face and noticed the western gate approaching. “Not if I can help it!” he muttered. The same words he’d spoken in reply to his father that day all those years ago.
He felt a jab in his back. “You say something, dog?”
Henry ignored the jeers of the guards standing at the western gate. He didn’t acknowledge their mocking chants, the globs of phlegm, which caught and dripped in strands from his hair, or slid down the skin of his neck. Anger was his friend, hatred his comfort, fury his driving force. Before he knew it, they were out of the gate and headed towards an open field upon which stood the incredible might of the Huronian Army. Tens of thousands of soldiers and thousands of cavalry. In the centre, King Fillip sat upon a black warhorse surrounded by his personal guard who’d formed a tight square around him. Henry’s eyes swept the small square of elite cavalry warriors entrusted with guarding their king.
You might be better than average, but you aren’t any match for The King’s Own. You’ll learn that when you meet them upon the field of battle.
He spat bloody phlegm upon the ground and kept his thoughts to himself. A faint shout echoed out across the plain and Henry looked up through his filthy locks to hear King Fillip shouting some mockery towards him of which he could not make out. His personal guard began laughing and jeering as Henry approached. Curious as to what was happening, the members of the rest of the Huronian Army took some time to realise whom their monarch mocked. Then they started to join in. Only a few pockets of soldiers to begin with and then the noise grew in volume as others lent their voices to the taunting. The air itself seemed as if it would soon be torn asunder as the ruckus increased into a wall of thunder created by human voices.
“Aren’t we popular, dog?” Steef slammed a fist into Henry’s spine almost knocking him to the ground. “See that wagon near the King’s Guard?”
Henry tried not to wince against the noise, but it was near impossible. His ears had been used to the silence of the dungeon for so long that the clamour seemed to pierce his skull. He spotted the wagon of which Steef spoke and saw it was a prison cart.
“That’s where we’re headed.” The guard chuckled. “Well, that’s where you’re headed.”
As they tramped across the open field, he ignored the shouts of abuse, refused to flinch when they past close to a formation of infantry, many of who broke formation to spit at the Wendurlund prince. But, the phlegm hit the guards as often as they splattered upon Henry. Steef and his off-sider began shouting and attempted to stave off the soldiers. For the most part, they were successful. Two soldiers, more rowdy than the others pushed Steef to the ground and then advanced on Henry. He could see the murder glistening in their eyes. They were clubbed from behind by their non-commissioned officers and dragged back into formation, where their unconscious bodies were dumped upon the ground.
“Fucking maggots!” Steef roared.
Henry allowed a slight smile to crease his mouth as he heard the guard grunt as he climbed back to his feet. He dared not turn around to see for himself, though.
“You alright?” Steef asked.
“I think they broke my nose, Steef.”
“You’ll be okay, just a bit of blood. Your nose looks fine.”
“I’ll see the flesh flogged clear of their spine.”
As he walked, Henry saw in his peripheral vision the two soldiers still lying motionless in the near distance.
If they awaken at all.
He began to desensitise to the dull roar of the Huronian Army. He felt less intimidated, especially after the guards who escorted him had suffered injury at the hands of their own comrades. Although he was careful to keep his head dipped to stare at the ground a few m
etres in front of him. Looking too confident or cocky would not end well for him. King Fillip was a ruthless, cruel and spontaneous king who’d been known to order someone’s death purely because he disliked their features. If he allowed his confidence to show, the enemy king might well take it as a sign of disregard to his authority.
He’d order me beheaded on the spot. Keep a level head, Henry.
They reached the prison wagon and he climbed up the several rudimentary stairs and onto the level tray. The thick wooden gate slammed closed behind him and locked. The prison cart was open for all to see in, but it allowed him to observe his surroundings as well. The bars lining the perimetre of the prison wagon were the height of a man, built close to together and were thick as a man’s wrist.
The Huronian Army continued its taunting, individual words lost amongst the storm of noise so that the shouts of abuse seemed to take on its own, indistinguishable voice. He turned to the door so recently locked and scrambled towards it. Holding onto the bars he pushed his face through the bars. He was barely able to squeeze his head through the gap, but he managed.
“Steef!” he shouted.
Fresh waves of anger began to warm him and he snarled as the guard turned back towards him, an amused look on his face.
“What do you want, your majesty?” he allowed a slight, mocking bow.
Amongst the roars of the army, pockets of laughter peeled out across the plain.
“I’m going to escape from here, and soon.” He glared at Steef, allowing the hatred to take over. “And when I do, I’m going to find you. And I’m going to fucking kill you.” Henry’s eyes adjusted to stare at Steef’s offsider standing just behind. “And you’ll watch me kill him. Then I’ll take your life too.”
Henry grinned, white-hot fury spreading throughout his being. Then he began to laugh.
The amused expression on Steef’s face disappeared to be replaced with fear. He tried to mask it, but the eyes didn’t lie.
“You’ll never find me, sire!” Steef bowed again, but his voice was higher-pitched and his movements more wooden than before.
The second guard’s face lost all its colour.
“I’m trained as a member of The King’s Own,” he felt his eyes widen as he spoke. “I know how to track a prey, and I know how to kill. We’re the finest soldiers to ever walk the earth, you think you can hide from me?” He stood, so that he towered far above the two guards standing on the ground beneath him. “You think you can hide from me? I will kill you!” he roared.
Fallen Empire Page 20
