The King's Tribe

by Kai Widdeson

  Resigning to the fact that I’ll have to wait before I can unleash my flurry of questions upon Damion, I finally move away from the bars to greet the young king. Horas is already by Orrian’s side and asking the questions on everyone’s mind.

  “Are you ok? Where did they take you? What happened?” Horas asks without pausing for breath.

  Orrian grunts as he slowly lowers himself to sit leaning against the wall, the sound of cracking knees reverberating around the stone. He winces as the movement breaks new scabs and more blood oozes from several crimson ravines in his chest.

  “They took me to King Breyden, he’s demanding that I give up my birthright and kneel to his crown,” spits Orrian.

  Around us the tribespeople mutter angrily, joining the furious banging against the bars from our eavesdroppers in nearby cells. Tharrin and Astera’s bodiless shouts of complaint join the others from the cell next to us.

  “They want me to accept the offer that my father refused. They’ll leave us to ourselves so long as we start providing for them. There’s more, they demand we pay extra for the trouble we’ve caused them. They will also take our children as and when they please so that they may work here under their rule,” Orrian’s head sags in defeat. “If I don’t agree to their terms before the next full moon, they’re going to start executing us until I agree or am the last one left. In which case my head will be put on a spike above the ramparts as a warning.”

  The protests have been stifled into a deafening silence. Horas and the other tribespeople in the room look down at their king, comprehension of their situation suddenly dawning. From their creased brows and lowered jaws, they seem to be genuinely surprised by the news, as if they were expecting different from the colony. Perhaps they were awaiting their certain execution, not expecting the option to forfeit their pride in return for their physical freedom.

  The air solidifies in my throat as the final term of Orrian’s offer dawns on me. The ground tilts beneath my feet and I slam a wavering palm against the stone slab to halt the motion. I turn to my mother, who’s now colourless face stares back at me with moist eyes. She looks like she’s just come to the same conclusion, appearing as sickly as I feel, but I need to hear it from her.

  “Did you know?” I ask, forcing the leaden words out of me as if winded. She distantly shakes her head; a sprinkle of relief is added to the mountain of horror inside of me.

  All those children taken from Avlym, the hushed names, the broken families, all a part of the deal with the colony. The children were all warned not to go venturing into the forest, we were all told the stories of those that had gone missing. Damion and so many others had been taken, we all thought it had been by spirits or demons but no, yet again it all led back to the colony. They had allowed us to believe in our monsters and our superstitions while it was actually them who took our people from us, stole them away so that they may serve our oppressors behind these high walls. So many children from so many villages, are they all here now, waiting at the feet of King Breyden?

  Turmoil rages inside me and, considering Orrian has been returned to us without immediately agreeing to the offer, it must rage inside him as well. I have no clue which way the young king will sway, after all this time with these people I don’t know if they’re capable of abandoning their pride like this. The colony’s offer would ruin them and everything they stand for.

  The decision is Orrian’s, but I know his father’s choice must weigh heavily on his mind. Will he and King Theodluin be united in their defiance even if it means their end? Or will he be forced to part with his father’s stance, for the same reason that we chose not to fight from inside our mountain refuge, so that his people may survive. Should he choose to agree to the terms, would some of the tribespeople lose their respect for their inexperienced and defeated king? I know he’s proud, but I also know he keeps a more level head than a lot of his peers.

  Would I be able to sacrifice everything I stood for in his position? I hope I would, I’m fairly sure I would lose it all to keep on living. But still. It would mean letting the colony win, continuing under their rule that has tormented us for so long. The memories of those lost children swim before my eyes, blurred faces taken from us before I had properly gotten to know them. That process would continue, I would have to watch knowingly as mothers and fathers were continued to be separated from their daughters and their sons.

  That would not be all, whilst everyone would continue to draw breath it would be while on the brink of starvation. A situation that we were all too familiar with in Avlym. We will never have the opportunity to prosper and thrive, always restricted in case we begin to grow to a stage where we may rival the colony’s army.

  Despite all this, I know the value of life and from here we are in no position to bargain. I certainly wouldn’t call it mercy but perhaps we should be thankful that the colony would prefer to have us enrich them instead of just executing us and being done with it. I’m sure that Arthur and everyone would agree with my thoughts, but of course, our people aren’t nearly as proud or stubborn as the tribe. If we had been, then Avlym would have been reduced to cinders long ago.

  “I have to do it,” Orrian says breaking the settled silence. Predictably, a chorus of mixed reactions follows.

  “Are you sure?” Horas asks, for once questioning his king. I get the feeling that he asks not out of disagreement however, but merely to appreciate the weight of such a momentous decision. I can almost feel everyone around us holding their breath, listening intently as their king decides their fate.

  “We are all that’s left. If we die, what good is our pride. We will be forgotten, and the colony will continue onwards without so much as a second glance,” says Orrian, his voice growing stronger and more certain with each passing word. “It is not dishonourable to choose life, I know my father would have understood. And it doesn’t matter what words I say or who we kneel too, our loyalties will never change.”

  Horas and many of the others nod in agreement. Whilst they all accept their king’s points with a grimace as if tasting something foul, they thankfully outnumber the few who protest. Unfortunately, it is the protestors who make the most noise.

  “No!”

  “We can’t!”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Traitor!”

  The dungeon is filled with aggression as the complaints are met with those in support of Orrian.

  “We’ll lose everything!”

  “At least we won’t be dead!”

  “Better dead than bowing to them!”

  “Think of the children!”

  “We might not have them even if we agree!”

  “SILENCE!” Orrian’s voice booms loudest of all. “My decision is final, I will not let our tribe vanish down here, there’s no other choice.”

  Orrian stands, taking his time to move over to the bars. I spring to my feet.

  “WARD-” he begins before my hand clamps shut over his mouth.

  Orrian turns furiously, ripping away my hand, but calms when he realises it’s me and not one of his opposers.

  “What?” Orrian grits his teeth. I know it was a risky move stop him in front of his people, especially when he needs their unwavering loyalty now more than ever.

  “There might be another way,” I rush, keeping my voice low.

  Orrian gives me a searching look, up ahead comes the familiar sounds of a certain bolt sliding out of place. There’s uncertainty behind those eyes but also hope, eager for any alternative to the colony’s choices. He nods at me once and then moves over to quickly whisper something in an old man’s ear. Up ahead, the warden starts croaking at everyone to be quiet and demanding to know all the noise is about. The man next to Orrian lies down and starts groaning, clutching at his stomach. Seconds later the warden comes into view.

  “What?” Warden Halden snaps.

  “Please, he needs water,” Orrian begs, his pleading tone not betraying the falsity of the man’s discomfort. “Something’s wrong, he
needs help.”

  “IS THAT IT?!” the warden smacks the bars with a short baton furiously. “If he dies, he dies! Don’t you dare make me come down here again or I’ll help him along!”

  The warden bats the cell bars once more for good measure before shuffling away grumbling, his head disappearing again below his shoulders.

  I wait for several agonising minutes after hearing the gate slam shut again before I quietly enlighten Orrian.

  “The boy with the broom, the one doing all the cleaning. I know him, he’s from Avlym,” I say.

  “You think he might be able to help get us out of here,” Orrian finishes for me. “Do you really think he’d help us?”

  I notice the silence, everyone is keen to hear this new plan.

  “I don’t know. No one has seen him in years, and he was never particularly nice even before then,” I admit. “I know he recognised me earlier, and you said Breyden was giving you a few days, right? So, if we can’t get him to agree then we just go back to the original deal.”

  Orrian spends a moment mulling this over, “Even if he could get us out of here, you saw how many guards there were out there, how would we even get out?”

  “We go at night,” the answer already on the tip of my tongue, “once up the stairs there’s only one small courtyard between us and the gate. They’ll spot us, but we can be lost among the houses in minutes. From there we can lay low until we can figure a way out of the main gates,” the plan develops as it flies off my tongue, taking shape into tangible hope.

  “What if the gates are closed, or your friend doesn’t help us and tells the warden?” Horas asks, his voice is curious not malicious, hoping that I have the answer to that too.

  “Then we’ll be back in the same place we are now,” I answer.

  “They might take away the offer, they might just kill us,” Horas points out.

  “Yes, they might, but I think they’ll want to keep as many of us alive as they can. It helps them more if we bow to them, otherwise they’d have just killed us already,” I say, hoping that I’m right should our attempt fail.

  “I’m not risking passing Breyden’s deadline so if we can’t persuade him soon then I’m taking the offer.” decides Orrian, looking at all tribespeople within sight to ensure that no one argues. “Ok. Let’s try it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You’re nearly there, just a little bit further,” my mother informs Orrian as he strains against the bars of the cell.

  Orrian has wedged himself in the corner of the room between the stone sides and the iron rods. His face is pressed between the metal as his arm strains through the gap, reaching across the side of the stone wall between our cell and the adjacent one housing Astera and Tharrin.

  A grimy and flaking leg bone extends his reach, separated from one of the many unfortunate bodies discarded in one of the back corners of our prison. A part of me wonders if whoever’s leg is currently being swung by the young king would be proud that they were having one last opportunity to thwart the people that had imprisoned them.

  Orrian lunges and swings again, but from the lack of impact I know he missed his mark. He aims for the torch between our two cells, attempting to recreate a similar mess to the one that had last called for Damion to tend to it. We could think of no other way to attract the boy’s attention, the only other times he’s visited us has been at the side of the warden. Of course, we are going to need him alone if we hope to stand any chance of him helping us.

  “It’s no use,” Orrian sighs, “I can’t reach it.”

  I sit back with my head resting in my hands, Orrian was the tallest of us and if he couldn’t reach it then none of us would be able to.

  “Let me try,” my mother calls from across the walkway.

  “How?” asks Orrian.

  “I’ve got a clear shot from here, I might be able to knock it off. Pass it over,” says my mother.

  My mother’s cell opposite must have been recently cleaned before we all arrived. Considerably less straw litters the floor and no remnants of past prisoners share the space with her group.

  Orrian squats on the tips of his toes, putting the bone on the floor. After checking that she’s ready, he flings the piece across the paved walkway. It bounces worryingly against the lines between the slabs but ends up skidding into my mother’s outstretched hands.

  She rises and steadies herself, all eyes on her as she takes aim. Her elbow raises to be in line with her chest as the foul remnant nearly brushes her ear. For a second the whole tunnel’s silence seems to be repelled only by the rapid thumps of anticipation-fuelled hearts. The bone arcs high as it is released from its grip. It flips through the air before disappearing out of sight to our side.

  Impact. The air is filled with soft cracks as old wood splinters against her throw. Something hard ricochets off the ground.

  I move to press my cheek against our door near the far wall. Straining to see if the torch has been relieved of its position. Unfortunately, it’s base is still within the metal holder, although the top of the torch has caved in and I watch as a couple of embers rain below.

  Orrian has already slid onto his bare chest, uncaring of the concoction of dirt, filth, straw, and who knows what else, rubbing against his skin. He scrabbles for the fallen bone, releasing a triumphant thanks to the gods as he re-emerges with the makeshift projectile in his grip.

  My mother has to attempt the throw twice more before she manages to complete her objective. The first throw, slightly off to the left, thankfully comes to a stop within Tharrin’s reach who manages to return it with some difficulty. The third attempt is more successful, bone snapping against rock as the ignited torch is separated from its lower half.

  Black soot explodes onto the path, a night sky for the many brief shooting stars that follow before burning away. Fragments of charred wood scatter at our feet whilst the last flames die out.

  Tribespeople and other prisoners alike roar triumphantly at my mother’s strike. She smiles sheepishly as her deserved praise is cheered throughout the hall. Rhythmic victory is slammed against the iron bars.

  It is a small win, but a win nevertheless. For the first time since being led down here, we are actually doing something about it. We are no longer merely waiting idly by in the muck and wreckage. Finally, we have hope, a plan against our oppressors. I try to keep my head level, attempting to retain the miniscule position of our accomplishment in perspective, but still I join in the celebrations. I enter the others in the fight as we battle away the accumulated despair of the last few days.

  Only a matter of minutes pass before metal grates somewhere above and the warden enters through the tunnel at the far end of the cells. Everyone has immediately drowned their chatter. I only now realise how long ago it has been since we last ate, I have almost made peace with the animal growling in my stomach and clawing at my throat. I silently thank whatever gods may be that he didn’t come down here just a few moments ago. No doubt, had he caught my mother’s attempts at damaging the torch, he would have certainly punished us all, targeting her specifically.

  The scraping of boots on pavestone stops abruptly. Halden complains with several choice expletives as I presume he is made aware of the mess before him. Luckily, Orrian had the sense to retrieve the bone one last time, chucking it back into the corner of our cell. Had the warden found it among the ashes he would have undoubtedly questioned the lot of us.

  Halden goes about his business as usual, supplying each cell with its usual meagre supply of stale bread and whatever other old scraps that have been deemed worthy of throwing out. He gingerly skirts the blackened floor when reaching our end and we all mask the new-found adrenaline in our veins as he slides our portion of gruel and leftovers towards us.

  Shortly after he leaves, footsteps begin to emerge once again. Orrian had told the others to be quiet and subtle but still the murmurs pick up in excitement as our new arrival approaches. Sure enough, a hooded figure makes his way towards the debris on the floor
.

  Now that I know to expect him, I instantly recognise Avlym’s lost son despite his face being almost entirely covered. He is equipped with a broom and a small crate which appears to hold a replacement torch and means to light it.

  “Damion,” I hiss, we have all agreed that I should be the one do try and get through to him.

  He ignores me, sweeping around the outer edges to compact the problem at his feet.

  “Damion,” I repeat, slightly harsher.

  “Don’t talk to me,” says Damion, His tone is much deeper than I remember, not that it should be a surprise, gone is the high-pitched shrill cackle that used to torment me. His words are husky, dropping out in places as his voice fails him. They make me wonder when he last spoke, is he ever required to communicate with others or is he just expected to maintain his silence in his work?

  “Damion. Listen, please,” I say desperately. I lower myself and try to force him into making eye contact.

  Damion turns away, bringing his back towards me. Around us, the prisoners begin cursing him.

  “Stop,” Damion says quietly, softer than before. I know he speaks to me alone as even I can barely hear him over the other’s gripes. He sounds almost like he’s pleading, begging not to be dragged back into a past life dictated by more wholesome loyalties.

  “You can help us, we can help each other-” I start, ignoring his objections.

  As soon as I open my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake, I’ve pushed him too hard. Before I finish my sentence, his shoes are slipping on the dusty floor as he scrabbles away from our cells. He hastily retrieves the small crate in his free hand, dragging his broom through the mess behind him in the other. He leaves his unfinished task behind him.

  Several long lines of charcoal are carried by his broom’s bristles as he hurries back towards the exit, I futilely try to call after him, but I am lost in the furious shouts of the other inmates. Orrian moves to stand next to me, arms crossed as together we stare outwards from our cell.

  “Do you really think you’ll be able to bring him around in time?” he asks, doubt lacing his words.