by Payne, Jenna
“Ten days?” laughed Arken, “Only if you don’t stop to sleep or eat! Where’s the package?”
“It’s here…” confirmed Davidon. A small figure stepped out from behind Davidon, his face covered by the hood of his robe. It was a handsome young man, aged around twenty.
“A man? You want me to deliver a man?” demanded Arken incredulously.
“Not a mere man,” corrected Davidon. “A prince. This is Prince Kirian, the only child of King Ludus.”
“Listen,” shrugged Arken. “I don’t know what’s going on up at Castle Vacheron, but I am not signing up to be a babysitter, you’re going to have to find some other sucker to help you out with this. I’m a soldier, not a courier.”
“Please sir…” said Prince Kirian, stepping forward and removing the cloak of his hood to reveal his face. “I am in terrible danger–I have nowhere else to turn. Please help me get to safety at Castle Drakon. If you don’t help me my uncle will have me killed.”
Suddenly there was the sound of horses and loud shouting from outside the inn.
“You have company!” declared the innkeeper excitedly, peering out through the window.
“Prince Kirian–you must leave now!” insisted Davidon. “Go! I will hold them as long as I can!”
“Out the back!” urged the innkeeper. “Follow the creek–not the road!”
Davidon thrust a bag of gold towards Arken. Reluctantly Arken took the gold, knowing that he was suddenly buying into a fight that wasn’t his own. Arken grabbed the prince and led the way out the back towards the stables. He quickly threw his saddle onto his horse, leapt up, and then pulled the prince up to sit behind him.
Arken directed his horse to walk through the water of the creek into the cover of the surrounding woods. Looking back, they heard the sounds of fighting and saw that flames had begun to envelop the inn, the old wooden building quickly catching alight.
“Oh my god… Davidon!” gasped Prince Kirian. Arken pushed his horse onwards, deeper into the Amber Forest, away from the burning inn, away from Castle Vacheron.
*****
Arken hadn’t always been a soldier of fortune, a mercenary. He had once been a proud knight–a captain in the army of the Emperor of the Quartz Plains.
Arken had ridden at the head of a disciplined legion. They were men of honor, men of courage. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. A different time, when he was a different man.
It was only ten years ago that Arken’s world was torn apart. The Emperor became ill; some say that he went mad or was possessed. He no longer trusted those that were closest to him, those that had served him the longest. The Emperor had decreed that Arken was a traitor, and was to be arrested and executed. Arken escaped, but only just. He had been on the run ever since–a fugitive without a home, a soldier of fortune without an army, a knight without a king, a warrior whose only code of honor was self-preservation.
As they rode through the Amber Forest, away from Castle Vacheron, Arken and the prince made slow progress. They didn’t speak, partly to avoid making any unnecessary noise, and partly because Arken was annoyed with himself for having gotten unwittingly caught up in whatever mess was unfolding in the Garnet Valley.
Eventually the creek that they had been following crossed under a road. Arken decided to chance their luck on the road for a while, heading in the direction of Castle Drakon.
“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Kirian quietly.
“Not exactly,” admitted Arken. “But Castle Drakon lies due west from Castle Vacheron, so we are heading in that general direction. Now tell me: why is Castle Drakon a safe haven for you? Who’s waiting for you there?”
“My mother’s family holds Castle Drakon,” he explained. “They will protect me.”
“What makes you think that you can trust me?” asked Arken, curious as to how he had ended up in charge of this precious parcel–a prince who no doubt had a healthy bounty on his head.
“I don’t trust you,” replied Kirian firmly. “But right now I don’t have any other choice.”
As they rounded a bend in the road, they came upon an armed road block.
“Halt! Who goes there!” challenged one of the soldiers. Arken quickly assessed the situation–six men, five with blades drawn and one with an arrow aimed at Arken’s horse. Arken pulled a knife from his boot and threw it at the archer–hitting him in the eye, forcing him to release the arrow which sailed harmlessly over their heads. Arken spurred his horse on and rode directly at the soldiers, using one of his short blades to slash at their faces as he pushed past. They remained at a canter until they had put several miles between them and the soldiers.
“Will we be safe now?” asked Kirian quietly.
“We are a long way from safe…” cautioned Arken. “Those soldiers will call for reinforcements and will be after us in no time. Plus, there’s no knowing what lies ahead. We have a couple more hours of daylight left and then we’ll need to find somewhere to spend the night.”
Arken turned his horse off the road and returned to the forest trails where they were less likely to encounter soldiers or other travelers. They followed the creek, pushing deeper into the forest, always heading to the west.
The creek that they were following eventually led them to an old mill with an inn next to it, set back from the road. Arken went inside to check whether they had any rooms available. Kirian sat patiently on the horse, who had dropped his head to graze on the lush grass that was growing nearby. The forest was quiet, Kirian could hear the wheel of the mill turning slowly as the water rushed through it, turning slowly, creaking, and groaning.
“I’ve got us a room,” confirmed Arken as he emerged from the inn. “I said that you are my son, travelling home to our farm in the west. Try and keep yourself hidden as much as possible, and don’t talk to anyone.”
Arken led his horse around the back of the inn to the stables and made sure that he had food and water for the night before he escorted the prince upstairs to the small room that they would be sharing.
“Thank you,” said Kirian quietly as he sat on one of the two narrow beds.
“For what?” asked Arken. The moonlight lit tears that glistened on the cheeks of the young boy.
“For helping me. For protecting me…” he replied softly.
“Just doing my job…” nodded Arken gruffly, embarrassed by the vulnerability and fragility of the prince.
Arken opened the window of their room and breathed deeply as he looked out over the forest. The air was still; the forest was quiet.
The calm before the storm, thought Arken grimly.
The last ten years on the road had left Arken feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. He had seen things that he would not have believed possible; the cruelty of men, the evil that can be caused by greed. Arken had done a lot of things that he was not proud of, things that disturbed his dreams and kept him awake at night.
He laid his weapons out on his bed. He cleaned the short blade that he had used to fight off the soldiers at the road block, wiping the blood off. He would have to replace the throwing knife that he had used on the archer. He was disappointed about that, as it was one of his favorites; light and easy to carry, but deadly accurate in the hands of an experienced fighter like Arken.
His most treasured weapon was his long sword, forged in the fires of the tribe who lived in the Limestone Mountains, the best swordsmiths in the known world. Arken picked his sword up and gently ran his finger down the length of the blade, admiring the craftsmanship, the strength and the power of the sword, the one constant in his life.
“I have a weapon too…” volunteered Kirian quietly, breaking into Arken’s reverie. “It’s just a knife really I guess, my mother gave it to me…” He unsheathed the knife that had been hidden in his cloak and presented it to Arken.
“It is beautiful,” said Arken admiringly, as he took it cautiously from him. He turned it over and studied it.
It was an elaborately decorated knife. Preciou
s stones and gems decorated the handle, but the blade itself shone almost white as it caught the evening light that filled their room. “Your mother gave it to you? Who made this blade?”
“I’m not sure who made it,” shrugged Kirian. “My mother never told me. She said it had been in her family for generations. It came with this ring…”
He held out his hand to display the ring that he was wearing. Arken examined the ring and noted that it was a perfect match for the knife–decorated in the same gems, shining with the same bright light. “My mother called this a ring of power.”
“Keep these safe,” cautioned Arken. “Don’t show anyone that you have these. Only reveal the blade if your life depends on it.”
Arken packed his weapons away and stored most of them under his bed for the night, tucking a simple knife into his belt as a precautionary measure.
“We’d better go downstairs and get some food before the kitchen closes,” said Arken, leading the way. “Keep your cloak on, try and remain hidden…”
*****
Arken and the prince took a seat at one of the small tables in the bar. The innkeeper came over and took their orders. Venison stew was the only food available. Arden ordered ale for them both. The only other patrons in the bar were three woodsmen who seemed to be determined to drink as many tankards of ale as possible.
With a plate of food in front of him, Arken was reminded how hungry he was. He ate with gusto, eagerly devouring the large chunks of meat in their thick gravy, wiping his plate clean with the fresh bread. It had been a long day of hard riding.
“You’d better tell me what happened at Castle Vacheron,” said Arken, eventually breaking the heavy silence that hung between them. “What happened to your family? Why is your uncle so keen to stop you from escaping?”
“My father has held the throne of Garnet Valley for the last twenty years, since he was twenty-five-years-old. He has one brother–my uncle, Prince Silas. Uncle Silas has never married–his focus has always been on our kingdom’s army, our defense. It’s been a relatively peaceful period for us, a time of prosperity. My father has never really discussed affairs of state with me, but from what I could pick up from the gossip around the court, things seemed to begin to sour between them last summer. Uncle Silas wanted to mount a campaign, to expand our Kingdom and to overpower our weaker neighbors, but my father refused.”
“So he decided to take the throne for himself?” asked Arken.
“It seems so,” confirmed Kirian.
“How did you manage to escape?” asked Arken.
“Davidon, my tutor, had become increasingly worried about the tension between my father and Uncle Silas,” he explained. “For the last few weeks, one of my pages has slept in my bed, and I have slept in one of the spare rooms in Davidon’s chambers. On the night of the coup, Uncle Silas had my parents arrested. I had just enough time to escape before they realized that the boy in my bed was not me.”
“How old are you?” asked Arken, impressed by the young boy’s resilience.
“I’m twenty,” he replied. “If my father is killed I will be able to claim the throne when I turn twenty-one.”
“I see,” nodded Arken. “No wonder Prince Silas wants you out of the way. As long as you’re alive you are a threat to his claim to the throne of Garnet Valley.”
“That’s why I have to get Castle Drakon,” whispered Kirian. “My grandfather, the father of my mother, is the ruler of the valley. They are my only chance for protection.”
As Arken and Kirian were eating, a young man entered the bar. He carried a longbow and was dressed like a nobleman. Arken immediately rested his hand on the hilt of his knife, uneasy at the assumption that the agents from Castle Vacheron had already tracked them down.
The young nobleman took a seat at the bar and ordered some ale. He seemed nervous, inexperienced, as though he didn’t belong in an inn like this.
“You seem a long way from home little man,” observed one of the woodsmen loudly.
“Just passing through,” replied the nobleman politely, pulling out a money pouch to pay for his drink.
“Do you have any spare coin for some honest local woodsmen?” asked one of the men, getting up from the table and leaning against the bar next to him. “The least you could do is buy us a drink!”
“Not today, sorry gentlemen,” he replied, trying to sound firm but looking increasingly nervous.
“Oh we’re not gentlemen,” snarled another of the woodsmen, moving behind the nobleman. “My friend here asked you to buy us a drink… if you’re going to be rude about it then we will have to show you exactly just who is in charge in these woods!”
“You should help him,” whispered Kirian to Arken, as they observed the confrontation unfolding.
“Why?” replied Arken, “It’s not our fight. Anyway, he could be one of Prince Silas’s men out looking for you. It’s best not to draw attention to ourselves.”
“You work for me,” he reminded Arken. “I order you to help him.”
“Give us your money!” shouted one of the woodsmen, grabbing the young nobleman around the neck and tipping him off his stool, sending him crashing to the floor. The three woodsmen immediately began kicking the young man, stomping on him as he rolled around on the floor at their feet.
“Enough!” shouted Arken, standing from his table and drawing the attention of the woodsmen.
“Mind your own business!” snarled one of the woodsmen. “Or we’ll have you next–and your boy!”
Arken drew his knife and stepped quickly forward, slashing at the faces of the first, then the second, and then the third woodsmen, drawing howls of pain and anger from the three men. Arken then cut each of their throats with his sharp blade–their lifeless bodies dropping to the floor in pools of blood.
“What am I going to do with these bodies?” protested the innkeeper, eventually emerging from his hiding place behind the bar.
“They’re thieves,” spat Arken. “Throw their bodies into the woods and let the beasts of the forest take care of them.”
“You didn’t have to kill them!” hissed Kirian, scolding Arken as he helped the battered nobleman to his feet.
“Men like that only respond to one thing,” growled Arken. “Violence must be met with violence.”
*****
“Prince Kirian?” asked the nobleman weakly, as Kirian tried to wipe some of the blood away from his face.
“Yes…” nodded the prince. “Do I know you?”
“What are you doing?” snarled Arken. “I told you that you must never reveal your identity! Now we’re going to have to kill this one as well!”
“Do not kill this man,” ordered Kirian firmly. “Get some water for him.”
Arken reluctantly fetched a pitcher of water and helped Kirian guide the injured nobleman to their table.
“I’m Tabor,” said the man. “My father is Lord Ayre.”
“Lord Ayre? He is one of my father’s closest allies!” exclaimed Kirian. “I remember you Tabor, but I haven’t seen you in years! You’ve changed so much! What are you doing here?”
“You’ve changed also, Prince Kirian,” smiled Tabor, pleased to have been remembered. “When I came of age I was sent to train with the army. When I heard about the trouble at Castle Vacheron I knew that I had to return to ensure that my parents were safe. Unfortunately, it seems as if I was too late.”
“What news of Lord Ayre?” asked Kirian. “I only just managed to escape, I have no idea what has happened to those who were loyal to my father.”
“Prince Silas has had my parents arrested…” sighed Tabor. “I tried to get into the castle but I have been declared a traitor and a death warrant has been issued for me.”
“Where will you go?” asked Kirian.
“I’m not sure,” replied Tabor. “I just need to find somewhere safe until I can work out how to rescue my family.”
“Come with us!” suggested Kirian brightly, “We’re headed for Castle Drakon.”
“Prince Kirian!” growled Arken. “No, this is a very bad idea. He cannot ride with us!”
“Nonsense,” dismissed Kirian. “Tabor and I used to play together when we were children, his family have always been amongst our most loyal supporters. He will travel with us and that is final.”
“Well, we can’t stay here tonight…” grumbled Arken, “It’s too dangerous. We’ll have to get moving immediately.”
“Tabor needs time to recover,” protested Kirian. “Surely it’s more dangerous for us to travel at night. Why don’t we stay here until morning and leave at sunrise?”
“No. We leave now…” insisted Arken. “Innkeeper!” shouted Arken, bringing the innkeeper running, “Those woodsmen won’t be needing their horses–I’ll take one. You can keep anything else of value that they’ve left behind. The innkeeper nodded agreeably and Arken stormed out of the bar with Kirian and Tabor following in his wake.
Having quickly gathered their belongings, the three were soon the road. The fading light worried Arken. He knew that he had to try and find somewhere else for them to spend the night.
“Do you know the Amber Forest well, Arken?” asked Tabor, peering into the deepening shadows that lay beyond the trail that they followed.
“No, this is not my country,” replied Arken. “But the road is not safe for us. We just need to keep heading west, towards Castle Drakon.”
They rode on in silence for a while, picking their way along the forest trail that followed alongside the creek. “Are you any good with that longbow, kid?” asked Arken.
“I’m lethal…” grinned Tabor.
“I’m not talking about hitting a target at archery practice,” growled Arken. “I’m talking about in an actual fight, a battle, have you ever seen combat?”
“Clearly not as much as you Arken,” smiled Tabor. “But I have served my time in the field. I’m not afraid to let my bow do the talking.”
The winding trail that they were following soon brought them within sight of a small wooden cabin, almost hidden by the trees.
