The King's Tribe

by Kai Widdeson

  A few of us manage to break free and join Orrian’s side near the exit. Horas reaches us, he drapes a wounded man over one shoulder just as Orrian decides that we need to leave now if we hope to stand any chance at escaping. A quick head count tells me that only nine of us have made it this far, eight if you are counting the able-bodied. The wounded man is bleeding heavily from his leg but is just about standing. As much as he will slow us down, I know we can’t leave him down here, we would be condemning him if we did. If we run into more trouble, and we more than likely will, it’s going to be a real struggle to battle through them.

  Our last looks around the dungeon mirror each other. Orrian, leaving his people down here, Horas separating from his twin, and myself, vowing I’ll return for my mother.

  “Come on!” Damion shouts, putting an end to our silent farewells as he itches on the tips of his toes, ready to be rid of this place.

  We turn and run together, brushing shoulders against each other in our eagerness as we sprint down the narrow tunnel and towards freedom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We reach the top of the spiral staircase panting. Luckily, there are no reinforcements readying themselves in the courtyard to support Becker and his group below. As we ascended the stone steps the battle cries have quietened dramatically, but the noise is not yet reduced to a point where they shouldn’t attract any more attention.

  The air begins to freshen around us, I hadn’t realised how used to the stale and dusty atmosphere below we had become. A slight breeze makes its way across the steps and distant sounds of actual life begin to reach our ears. The wind brings shivers down my body, like Orrian I am still topless from giving up my layers to the children in the cart.

  Our timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Nightfall has come and so, as planned, we should have the cover of darkness. Becker, clearly not expecting anyone to make it this far, has also foolishly left the outer gate open, giving us a free exit into the courtyard. With the keys lost somewhere among the bodies back down below, it would have taken far too long to try and retrieve them and make our way back here.

  We crouch in the shadows, Orrian perches on the highest step, just out of sight for any passing on ground level. Meanwhile, I help support the injured man being hoisted by Horas. We must manoeuvre awkwardly as I am a couple of steps above but eventually, we manage to hold him securely as he clings aggressively to consciousness.

  Orrian curses under his breath, “The gate is blocked. There’s a whole wooden wall covering it up.”

  “What?” I ask startled, leaning the injured man against the curved wall so that I can have a look. Sure enough, the regular mesh of twisted metal has been dropped down, but behind it, where I would expect to see the lights of the city, is plank after plank of solid wood. It doesn’t make sense, they hadn’t known about our plan and surely they couldn’t construct a barrier like that every night.

  “Wait,” Orrian whispers.

  We watch as a pair of guards cross the small courtyard in front of us, passing so close that I ready myself to spring out if we need to. They continue towards the gatehouse, disappearing into a door embedded in the side of the thick wall.

  I remember the river I saw pressed up against the walls as we came in, a plan coming to mind but not a good one.

  “We need to follow them,” I tell Orrian.

  “What?” he asks shocked, “We don’t know how many of them are in there!”

  “Come on, we don’t have time. Just follow,” I say, daring to command a king. I slip round him so that I lead the group.

  “Ready?” I ask the tiny group behind me, the question so soft that I doubt those at the back can even hear it. Several heads nod back in reply.

  Without wasting another passing second, I gently pull the gate open, flinching as its groans bounce around the walls. Sticking my head out first to check that none of the guards have noticed the disturbance, I step out into the moonlight.

  I keep my head low as I sprint across the exposed yard, the coldness now really biting at my exposed chest. Despite the bitter chill and the growing numbness in my toes, I am for the first time grateful to have lost possession of my shoes. The soles of my feet lightly slap against the floor as I head back into the safety of the shadows on the opposite side from the dungeon entrance. We are now directly below the first colossal wall between us and the real outside. I stand just around the corner from the door in the wall, no sounds reach us from the inside. The others all line up behind me. I readjust my grip and bend my knees as I prepare to open this entrance to the unknown.

  A firm hand on my shoulder. Orrian moves me back a step, as he takes the lead and I allow myself a moment of relief. Inside these walls could be countless guards waiting for us to hand-deliver ourselves to them, whilst it needs to be done, I am certainly not comfortable with leading the charge. I attempt to resume my old position of sharing the weight with Horas but he wards me off, indicating that I need to stay close to his king. Only a few of us have managed to attain weapons and so the young chef ushers a couple of them to the front, leaving one armed woman behind to protect the rear.

  After a brief look of confirmation, I reach around the corner to lift the handle for Orrian. Sword in each hand, he steps through the threshold and out of sight. I steel my nerves as I move, Orrian may need my support immediately and it would be unthinkably selfish to take a moment for myself. I follow through the doorway, the rest of the group tailing behind me.

  The inside of the wall is surprisingly spacious, numerous barrels and discarded bits of furniture have been stored away to one side. Damion’s arm reaches around my side as the remainder of our group, excluding the injured man, retrieves colony swords from a stockpile. An archway leads further around the wall and next to it a set of wooden steps lead upwards, it is near the latter that Orrian crouches. He places his foot on the first step, both swords drawn and in front of him. I hurry after him, keeping to the edges of the steps as I try to avoid any creaking.

  Thumps jolt the wooden planks above us, approaching quickly. A figure rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, abruptly stopping as his eyes widen in our direction.

  The guard is young, his helmet is tucked uselessly under one arm. He hasn’t even managed to draw his blade from its sheath. He has a clean and babyish round face, his open mouth creating an overhang for several chins. His hair has been styled and his skin looks as though it’s never been touched with hard labour. Although it sweats now. We must look like barbarians to him, topless, filthy, tattooed, bloody and armed. I alone must be a worrying sight with Damion’s blood still smeared across my face, no wonder we have rendered him a statue.

  I notice all this in a heartbeat, for that is how long it takes for Orrian to bound up the remaining steps and bring his sword hilt down viciously on the young soldier’s head. The light vanishes from his eyes instantly and he crumples against the wall.

  There are shouts of surprise above and Orrian sprints above our heads and out of sight. I take the steps in pairs as several collisions shake the wooden platform. Metal clashes and wooden snaps fill the confined space, a rapid series of whistles sing as swords whip through the air. The cries of shock are stifled before I even reach the top, turning the corner to find Orrian standing alone and catching his breath.

  A man writhes at his feet, two more lay further away succumbing to more fatal injuries. Crimson still drips steadily from both of the king’s blades as he leaves the man to his suffering. Orrian’s toned muscles ripple beneath a splattering of blood, very little of it is his own. He wipes the flat of the blades before crossing the floor away from us and towards another set of steps. These ones lead further outwards instead of into the ceiling directly above, a cobblestone wall encases them from either side.

  I lead the pack as I gingerly step through the wreckage after Orrian. The wounded man in the centre of the room claws at my leg as I pass. We have been through too much at the hands of his people to get here, it is therefore without pity that I stare
back into his pained eyes. Orrian has cut him deep and in several places, a large pool of blood already grows around him, seeping into the cracks in the floorboards. He should manage to get help before he dies from blood loss, and he should certainly be thankful that Orrian chose to make none of his strikes more lethal.

  I coordinate lifting Horas’ patient over the worst of the debris before leaving the soldier to face his mortality. Orrian has already stealthily climbed the steps but from the continued silence this new room must be unoccupied.

  The wooden steps lead to another staircase, this one circular and fashioned from wrought metal. I can see Orrian’s shadow passing above as his feet smoothly tap overhead. As I reach the top of these new steps, I emerge into a large enclosed room. Orrian is standing next to a pair of huge spoked wheels with chain wrapped around their spokes. A pair of heavy oak doors are closed on either side of the room, the two remaining opposite walls both host a line of several narrow slits.

  Through the slits at my back I find that we are now at eye-level with the roof of the grand hall of the courtyard. Light glistens from inside not unlike that first night we arrived. Above it, small lights wind their way up the numerous towers rising above even us. I wonder how they build so high, back in Avlym we have a couple of mills and two-story houses, but they are notoriously unstable and nothing like this.

  Below, by the bottom of the hall’s windows, I can just make out the steps leading downwards with their iron gate, pulled-to so as to give the illusion of being shut. As I watch, a squad of soldiers cross the courtyard to descend the steps. I hope that the survivors have had the sense to get back in their cells, perhaps if they have then their punishment might be lessened. Hopefully, with my mother securely shut behind a locked door, they’ll leave her, Astera, Tharrin, and the others alone. Although there is no telling how they’ll be treated once it is discovered that their king has managed to escape.

  Out of the other wall, the lights of the city dance and flickering in the night. A long street leads out from in front of us and ends in a long towering shadow similar to our own. The almost full moon reflects in a rippling feature at the end of the street, it is so far away that it is merely a shimmering dot, it must be the fountain at the entrance.

  We are directly above the inner limit’s gate, I realise. So where is the bridge that granted us entrance so long ago? I have to head over to Orrian, still by the chained wheels, before it all clicks into place.

  “Do they-?” I whisper. I know we need to keep moving but curiosity has temporarily gotten the better of me.

  “I think so,” Orrian replies, unable to keep the impressed awe out of his voice.

  No. Surely not. How is that even possible? These chains, surely they can’t be the same ones connected to the bridge that we crossed, because that would mean...oh. They’ve raised the entire bridge, pulled the whole thing off the ground to serve as an extra gate between us and the outside world. The feat is incredible, I wonder at the sheer audacity it must have taken to even attempt such a build.

  “What are you waiting for?” Horas snaps pointedly at the pair of us, pulling us out of our daze as we marvel at the ingenuity before us.

  The pair of us run over to the door where the others wait, from what I remember from ground level we must be in line with the top of the wall now, meaning it shouldn’t matter which of the doors we go through. As it is, Horas waits by the one nearest the stairs. Orrian readies himself opposite the doorway as I repeat my position to the side, grabbing the handle. He nods, and I swing the door inwards, using it to pull myself round as soon as Orrian passes.

  Two guards turn to us, they wear the same expressions as the ones downstairs, but they are considerably faster at drawing their swords. They stand side by side, identical to Orrian and myself. The other armed prisoners stand at the ready behind us.

  Orrian leaps forwards as one of the guards shouts over to a neighbouring wall where several of his companions stand watch. Orrian holds one blade in a defensive position whilst the other arcs high to bring down upon his opponent. I charge beside him, he may have two swords but with both soldiers before him, he’s still going to leave himself exposed.

  “On your left!” I shout, making sure the tribal warrior next to me doesn’t accidentally cut me down.

  I go on the offensive as I target the closest soldier, forcing him backwards despite his armour. We dance atop the wall, trading strikes as I desperately try to defend myself. Despite our travels, the sword still feels clumsy in my hand, by no means an extension of my arm like it is when in Orrian’s grip.

  We have rotated so that we are perpendicular with the ramparts, me with the city at my back, and my opponent with the castle at theirs. Next to us Orrian is having some uncharacteristic difficulty with beating his opponent until an armed man I don’t know manages to get a lucky shot in the soldier’s side. The guard goes down crying out for help. In the corners of my eyes I catch shadows flickering out from behind the distant stone as more soldiers run down their own walls in our direction.

  The remaining guard turns at his comrade’s pleas. Seeing an opportunity, I smack his blade aside, driving my shoulder hard into his chest. Orrian hasn’t wasted a moment on his previous victim and immediately joins me throwing his momentum forwards. Together we force the last man backwards, with one final shove he falls backwards and out of sight over the wall’s edge.

  He screams as he falls, I cannot help but look over the edge after him. The tin man is crumpled on the ground far below, hidden in the shadow of the wall. His helmet has come off and his limbs are spread, twisted at awkward and unnatural angles. I’m relieved that I can only see his vague outline, no doubt it’s a more unpleasant sight from close.

  “Hey!” cries a distant shout. The reinforcements from the next wall over have arrived. They hurry towards us from the nearest guard tower, still far away but approaching fast.

  “What now?” he asks. I grab him by the shoulder and head over to the others, pointedly looking down at the moat.

  “Yeah I thought that might be it,” he says grimly, “come on we need to do it quick then.”

  Orrian swings one leg over the wall, clinging to one of the wooden poles jutting upwards. I remember seeing them when we entered, unable to identify the objects at their ends. I can make them out all too clearly now. Each one hosts a different head, some decapitated victim turned into a decorative warning to others. The poles disappear beneath the jaw and remerge as spikes out of the tops of their skulls which are in various stages of decomposition.

  I shudder. Had we stayed in the dungeon and Orrian not been able to give up his pride, this is the fate that had been promised to him. The scene is replaced with another as my mind pictures Orrian’s head up there. His alert, bold eyes now lifeless and left to stare out upon his enemy’s territory until they rot away. That of course may still be his fate, may be all of ours, if we don’t get out of this place.

  Orrian tests the weight of the spike, removing his other leg from the safety of the wall once confident. He hangs by just his arms now. Around me the others are doing the same, some hesitant at first but we only have to look down the wall for incentive.

  “Dale,” shouts Horas, gesturing to the man over his shoulder. “help me with him.”

  “Will he make it?” I ask as the man’s unconscious eyes flutter feebly.

  “He’ll have to. If we leave him up here, they’ll just kill him,” replies Horas. I know he’s right, grudgingly I run over to hold him as Horas moves into position on his own spike.

  “Ok, pass him here,” instructs Horas. Surprised but doing as he asks, I just about manage to heave the man over the wall and into the young chef’s arms. Horas wraps his legs around him, supporting both of their weight. The wooden shaft bends in complaint but holds true. Horas’ arms shake with the effort, but they don’t lose their grip.

  The soldiers are nearly upon us, I don’t even have time to worry about the height and ridiculousness of what I’m doing before I throw mysel
f over the side and cling to the nearest free pole.

  So many things could go wrong with this, we don’t even know if the water is deep enough to catch us. Or what about if we can’t get up the sides and among the houses before they manage to lower the bridge? These worries only now introduce themselves to me as we hang over the abyss, along with my sudden realisation that I am not particularly comfortable with such heights. My fear of such altitudes has previously been kept at bay by the limits of the tallest tree I could scale. I would do anything to swap the wooden pole above me for a simple branch from which I can almost brush my toes on the grass.

  I can hear the scrapings off their boots now, their heavy breaths carried by the wind. The soldiers are only maybe five seconds away from being upon us.

  Four.

  The first of them yells at us to stop, as if we may suddenly agree and give ourselves over to him.

  Three.

  I look past my feet at the inky depths below, praying that the trench is deep enough.

  Two.

  “JUMP!” Orrian shouts.

  One.

  I let go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The soldiers disappear above us and, based off the pit opening inside of me, so does my stomach. I am yet to draw breath before we have fallen level with the A-framed rooftops, ground level approaching at an alarming pace. Despite the speed, we fall for far longer than I could have expected as I ready for an impact that never seems to come.

  My brain is working at double-speed, slowing my descent as I fall towards my likely death. I suppose I should be grateful for being gifted with this one final opportunity to appreciate the world. A pale, glowing, disfigured face looks on calmly from amongst the stars and either the wind or blood rushes through my ears, I can no longer tell which. I recognise that the cobblestone wall stands worryingly close to my back, threatening to grate my skin to pieces at any second. Below, a rat scuttles across the street, taking shelter within its hole at the rotting base of a closed nearby shop. The shadow of a young lady crosses an open window, raising a small dark package to rock gently in her arms.