by Kai Widdeson
I think back to that first time he had given me his undivided attention, back in the doorway just after that dreadful meeting, how his eyes had spent so long on my birthmark and his suspicion towards me. Now that I know the truth about the Akanian and these people’s expectations of me, had his distrust been fuelled by jealousy? Clearly, he had wanted the power, enjoyed the position of leadership, and the tattoos certainly show his willingness to be the saviour. Was that really all it was? All because I had come into his tribe as a stranger bearing the marks that he so desperately craved?
I put my ponderings out of my mind, there are far more pressing concerns to deal with before an ally’s previous opinions of me. I almost stumble into the sand as I realise that I now consider Faelyn an ally, I suppose we’re all in this together now but still, I never thought I would consider him a friendly face. Will I one day grow to recognise Orrian as my king? Will I find another family in the tribe? Perhaps these really are my people now, my loyalty towards Avlym bruises my heart at the thought.
In the distance Orrian has moved on to discussing escape tactics with Ryfon in hushed tones, some way away from the children. The twins have collapsed on the sand next to our stockpile from earlier, drenched in the sweat of their hard labour and drinking greedily from a pair of waterskins. I make my way towards the pair of them, ready to quench my thirst.
Behind me Faelyn cries out, the shout is carried by others. Orrian has broken off from conversation and stares beyond me, Horas points past my shoulder.
Silhouetted against the crimson sky, a line of shadows grows on the hilltops.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They loom down over us, a dark outline coating the surrounding hills and clifftops, covering all sides but the sea at our backs. Some of them rise above the others, shifting constantly on horseback as they hold long flags and banners that trail in the soft ocean breeze. The setting sun, still some way off from the ocean horizon but approaching quickly, reflects off hidden chest plates and drawn swords.
Halpians, it’s easy to mistake them for the apocalypse now, these shadows highlighted by the sunset’s crimson. They may as well be demons, a wave of shadows bringing with them the night as they hunt for their victims. Horns begin to sound in the distance, their call echoing around the valley and surrounding us from all sides.
The marching stops, only one group still moves. Several horses canter over to the edge almost directly above, causing loose rocks to fall and add to the heap below. We crane our necks as a parting appears among the soldiers and the horns finish their tune.
A lone man dismounts. He is dressed similarly to his peers, except where his companion’s armour is shifting layers of silver his own is laced decoratively with gold. The sun catches some crest on his breastplate but struggle as I may I can’t make out what it depicts through the blinding golden reflections.
The man takes his time removing his helm, knowing full well that he is in complete control of the situation. As he tucks the elaborately decorated headgear under one arm, I get my first look at the colony leader.
Deep hazel hair sticks plastered with sweat his forehead, his eyebrows are bushy and his features thin. With high cheekbones, and a fleshless chin, the lowered sun makes the man appear skeletal. Greying temples betray his age but there is no denying that the man must have been handsome once. He stands tall, and with a chest enlarged by armour he surveys the group of us below him. He raises his nose and looks down upon our camp, although I suspect that if we were face to face his expression would not be any different. Even from here the air of arrogance is detectable.
“Where is your king?” his unexpectedly soft voice carries on the salty breeze.
Orrian steps forwards to leave the safety of our ranks, a defiant solitary figure standing proudly to face an army. Ignoring the many eyes upon him, he reserves his attention for the golden outline above and for him alone.
“Ah yes, I see the resemblance,” says the man, his smile dripping with sadistic pleasure as Orrian visibly stiffens at his words. “What a fool you’ve been, boy.”
Orrian says nothing, his sword still hanging by his side. There’s no need for him to reply, the colony’s army haven’t hunted us down for a discussion and both sides know it. The man is simply delaying the inevitable, relishing his position of power before he gives the command to begin what they really came to do.
“Theodluin must have been your father, no? I remember cutting him down, it was right after he failed your mother,” the man grins wickedly. “Oh, forgive me. I haven’t even introduced myself,” the man continues with mock sudden realisation.
“I’m Prince Arron, son of King Breyden the Second. The one true king,” introduces the prince. At his words the soldiers surrounding him briefly cheer and thump fists against breastplates in loyalty. “And you are?”
Orrian keeps his silence, unwilling to exchange pleasantries with the man responsible for the death of his family and the destruction of his home.
“No matter,'' Prince Arron continues after several long seconds. “I know who you are, Orrian. A pretender, a fake. How can you call yourself king when you don’t even have a crown or throne to sit on?” the prince sneers.
As the silence resumes the prince gladly fills it once again with the sound of his own voice, “Still nothing? Very well. We’ve had eyes on you for a while, we need to set an example see? If everyone else starts thinking that they can refuse our generous offer then nobody’s going to know their place, and then where would we be?
“Now if it were up to me, I’d just put an end to all of you and that would be that. As it is however, for whatever reason my father would like to meet you himself. Now of course, I could come down there, kill your people, and take you back with us, but that could be a little too risky for my liking. What if you were killed by accident, wouldn’t that be a terrible shame?
So here I was, trying to decide just how many of your people needed to die before you handed yourself over, when none other than you yourself handed me the perfect opportunity on a platter,” Prince Arron pauses, revelling in our confusion.
I look up at the prince, I can’t make out the details of his face, but I can imagine the predatory glee that must be dancing behind his eyes all too clearly. The people surrounding me are muttering to each other, the same questions reverberating off all of us, apart from in battle as far as I know none of us have ever met this man before, so how could Orrian have possibly given him anything?
For the first time, the prince turns his back to us, beckoning to unseen men. Gradually we hush and wait with dread-filled anticipation. A large wooden cross is slowly carried forwards, on it an exceptionally large man hangs, stirring feebly.
Edwyn.
The sun tickles the edge of the distant ocean now but it’s still enough to cast light on the hunter’s injuries. His chin slumps towards his sternum, making a connected trail for the thick blood dribbling out of the corner of his swollen lips. His eyes are shadows, one notably more purple than the other, whites appear only briefly beneath tiredly flickering eyelids. Deep gashes cover his body, mostly scabbed over but still leaking in places. His arms are outstretched, bound tightly against the wood with his palms facing outwards, his legs are similarly fastened to the base.
Prince Arron gives us a moment to process Edwyn’s arrival before moving over towards the giant. He grabs a fistful of hair, yanking it back to slam his head into the top of the frame. He mutters something to his prisoner, presumably gloating, but once he’s turned away from us, there's no telling what he might be saying.
Finally, the prince turns his attention back to us, leaving Edwyn straining to keep his head lifted.
“As you can see, when we found our mutual friend here it made things so much simpler,” says Arron, addressing Orrian once again. “So, here’s how this is going to go. You are going to order your people to surrender and then personally come up so that we can have a better chat, or you’re all going to watch as I teach your fearsome friend here what happe
ns when you bow to a false king.”
The prince draws a long knife from behind him and presses the tip into the flesh just beneath Edwyn’s shoulder, twisting it once deep enough. Edwyn resits at first but even he cannot contain the screams that pierce our hearts. Next to me a young mother pulls her two children into her, shielding them from the torture. As for the rest of them, they all look on with fury and hatred, but none of them look away, determined warriors to the very end.
“What will it be boy? Are you ready to surrender yet?” teases Arron.
Orrian can’t give himself up, we all know that and surely the prince must as well. If he goes up there, then there’s nothing to stop his people from killing the rest of us anyway and taking him alone. Arron has not made the impression that his word should be trusted should he promise that the rest of us would come to no harm, not that such a promise has even been made.
The prince grins evilly, “Very well. Shall we continue?”
He really takes his time now, twisting the blade one last time before pulling it out to study it. He scans Edwyn surgically, as if to consider how he can draw out this man’s suffering for as long as possible. He steps in front of Edwyn’s torso with his back to us, pausing tauntingly to glance over one shoulder down at us.
He goes for an index finger this time, the brief reflection of the sun is a blur before the wet thud of steel sticking into wood follows. Edwyn really screams now, as his severed digit falls into the grass.
Orrian still stands alone with his back to the rest of us, his posture tense and motionless as a statue. I move to stand beside him, he should not be separated from the group. As I join his side, footsteps follow as the rest of his people move to support their king in solidarity.
The prince steps back once again, delighted when he sees our advancement.
“Well look at all of you,” he mocks, “Only you can end this Orrian. Tell your people to stand down and we can stop with this unpleasantness.”
“Don’t you dare,” Jaq growls quietly.
“I know,” says Orrian through gritted teeth, turning to face his trusted companion.
Prince Arron observes us entertained. His smile widens as Orrian turns back to face him with continued unwavering resolve in his eyes.
“Are you sure? We are going to have so much fun!” says Arron.
The prince moves back in front of the hunter. He holds the blade above his head, lying against Edwyn’s throat, before slowly dragging the tip down and out of sight, hidden from us by the prince’s body. A long bloody trail marks the knife’s journey. His arms stop, there’s no way of knowing but I would guess that the knife hovers over Edwyn’s gut. The prince’s elbows move inwards as he pushes the steel deeper.
Next to me a swift movement rustles my hair.
One of the soldiers charges their prince, tackling him to the ground.
A second later Orrian’s arrow disappears into Edwyn’s heart. His whole body recoils from the impact and a grunt escapes his lips. He slowly raises his head as fresh blood joins the existing stream. Proud eyes find those of the man he serves, a small smile as his last breaths escape him. The sun finally dips below the surface as the light leaves his eyes.
Edwyn, the man who had taken an arrow for me, a stranger whom he barely knew. He had protected us all that way to the mountain, scared off Rhys when we needed to escape, volunteered to go on such a dangerous mission just so that his people would be better protected. Gone. Is it possible to hurt so much for a man I knew so little about? The most I’d ever heard him talk was when trying to prepare Orrian for his fight and even then, he had never discussed himself. The tattooed monster, the one I can’t imagine ever falling in battle, finally slain.
My head whips round to find Orrian, his bow has already dropped to his side. There is no shock behind those eyes, pain without remorse, it was intentional. He knew what he was doing. He must have known Edwyn so much better than I, the warrior had been a lifeline to his old life, and yet he had done what needed doing. He had put his inevitable suffering to an end, and in his final moments I know the act had been rewarded with untainted gratitude.
Above, Prince Arron scrambles to his feet, kicking off his saviour and brushing himself down furiously. He stares disbelieving at his former prisoner, and then turns to face the man who had ruined his fun, all composed demeanour replaced with something animalistic.
“So be it,” he snarls.
The prince steps back from the edge, taking a moment to assess Edwyn’s body one last time before moving out of view.
In the distance another horn sounds, and the quake of hundreds of boots and hooves shake the ground beneath our feet.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The thunder approaches, distant trees waver as the incoming tide of soldiers tear past them. Orrian heads straight for the barricade whilst Horas grabs me roughly by the arm, together we lead the chase towards our pile of spears, joining Astera with arming the others.
I grab a spear one of the last remaining spears for myself as our weapons pile finally disappears into waiting hands. My throat tightens as I stare down at the weapon in my grip, the runes facing me. What have I become? Would I instil fear if any of Avlym saw me now? Would they even recognise me?
I watch as Ryfon scoops a child out from her mother’s arms. A few feet away from him, Tharrin argues with his younger brother. At their feet, the spy sits watching the brotherly conflict with detached curiosity. I can’t make out the pair of them over the chaos around us but finally Arys screams in frustration and takes off running after the medic. The rafts are already full, waiting to disembark at the first sign of defeat.
In the distance, bodiless voices change their pitch. Horses whinny and the dull thuds follow tumbling crashes. Men yell out in surprise, some of whom are abruptly cut short. I never had a chance to help any of the hunters with their traps, but they seem to be doing their job.
War cries echo around us, forcing me out of my own mind. I don’t have time for this, these people need me. I give myself two more seconds, forcing my breathing to steady. I won’t make it out of here if I fear my own weapon. Gripping the shaft, feelings of treachery clawing at my heart, I take off running.
I reach the barricade at the same time as the charge. In front, Faelyn stands with his blade ready, I am not surprised that he managed to get his hands on one of the precious swords. As I join the ranks, the first lines of the colony’s foot soldiers emerge from the treeline. We hold our line behind the sharpened stakes, pushing them back as they attempt to weave between our defences.
Somewhere off to my left a group of the soldiers disappear, a large pit of sand collapsing in on itself, I shudder to think what the hunters have left at the bottom to greet them. Time slows as new arrival’s eyes widen in surprise before their momentum carries them forward after their comrades.
Beside me Faelyn swings wildly over the defences, comfortably standing one side whilst his exceptionally long arm slashes over the other. He makes contact with one of the invaders, wedging the blade through the plates and into the man’s collarbone. The struck man cries out as Faelyn tears the blade free, leaving his victim to collapse into the sand, turning it red.
I lunge forwards, thrusting my spear tip into an oncoming helmet. My opponent stumbles backwards, momentarily dazed before he is spun like a top by the incoming charge, crashing to the ground before being trampled by others.
Faelyn brings down another, but he overswings, leaving his shoulder and sword arm unguarded. I smack the side of my spear against the flat of a blade as a soldier attempts to take the opportunity. A breathless thanks is voiced above me as Faelyn ensures that the man cannot try again.
I continue my dance. Lunge, thrust, retreat. I hold my section, knocking back each soldier that advances, but for everyone I defeat another two take their place. The armoured fallen slowly build up in the sand, adding another obstacle for the oncoming horde as they tumble over their comrades towards us. A few trip, unable to twist out of the way before they a
re impaled before us. Their mouths move soundlessly, pleading before one of the tribespeople puts an end to their suffering as soon as the moment presents itself.
I can’t bring myself to look at them, these strange men dying at my feet. For all the pain that their people have caused, as they lay there with their dying eyes finding mine, they become people. They are no longer soulless warriors, they may approach as faceless men who are just another part of the masses, but at our feet they die as people. My stomach churns and I retch onto the wooden spokes before me.
One of the tribesmen brushing shoulders with me curses, for a second to my self-involved shame I foolishly think that the words are directed towards me. I straighten to find a colony man smiling victoriously as he continues his way towards the barricade, the tribesman’s wooden spear lay half buried in the sand. No, not half buried, it has been cut clean in two.
We handed out the last of the spears moments before this anarchy began, the tribesman will be defenceless now. Shouts echo up and down our ranks, yells of panic informing me that others are having the same problem as the unfortunate man next to me. We are going to be overwhelmed, I know it, I can see from his worried looks that Faelyn like everyone else, is quickly coming to the same realisation. The tribe are losing their weapons, soon we may all be defenceless.
The first breach happens moments later, a lone soldier making his way through to our side. He is swiftly cut down but now that he has cleared the path it doesn’t take long before another resumes his position.
“INCOMING!” I hear Orrian shout in the distance. As if to illustrate his warning I hear a dull thud as something heavy falls into the cushioning sand behind me.
