Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  “Casualties?” Alexander asked.

  “Of course,” Samuel replied. “The six guards you posted with the prisoners, but only one of your men.”

  “Was he expendable?” Alexander asked dismissively.

  “Yes, sir,” Samuel informed him. “Plenty more where he came from. If he’s stupid enough to run into a barrage of bullets, he doesn’t deserve to be a member of your personal guard.”

  Alexander smiled, thinking to himself that the guard was a man after his own heart. He finally looked up from his desk. “How are our special guests coping with their sudden incarceration?” he asked, referring to the six guards that he had had bound and beaten to replace the Road Trains members at the execution.

  “They were . . . objectionable to begin with, sir, but we managed to keep them quiet.”

  “And who knows about this?”

  “Only those most loyal to you, sir,” Samuel insisted. “It wouldn’t do for your subjects to get the . . . the wrong impression of you at a time like this.”

  “True, true,” Alexander said as he returned to his work and the guard hesitated beside the door. “Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied, and with that, Alexander was once again left alone.

  Alexander left his office at a little after ten o’clock. His plans were still incomplete, but the noise from the still growing crowd outside of the palace was becoming intolerable. He had decided to get the executions over with earlier rather than later.

  Strolling casually through the lush palace corridors, he spied the final piece of his deception, a young-looking scullery maid scrubbing one of staircases leading to the upper levels of the palace.

  “You there, girl,” he said as he approached. She stood and curtseyed, bidding the Regent a good day, but not taking her eyes from the floor.

  “Stop that for now,” he told her. “There’s something else I need you to do.”

  The scullery maid stopped her work and followed Alexander as he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the palace, accustomed to performing special duties for the previous Regent on occasion. Larson was waiting for the Regent at the top of the stairs.

  “Ah, Larson, deal with this would you,” Alexander said, motioning towards the girl.

  As the scullery maid reached the top step, Larson pushed her backwards, her arms flailing for a handhold as she fell. Unfortunately for her, she found none.

  At the sound of her head cracking against the marble floor at the base of the stairs, Alexander turned around to look at the consequences.

  “Well done, Captain of the Guard,” Alexander said, raising his eyebrows as he gave the young guard his promotion. “Have her made ready, will you? We need to get this started soon.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Samuel replied, running down the stairs to the bruised and broken, but not yet deceased, body of the woman. He picked her up and carried her to the dungeons to put her with the rest of the future victims.

  Alexander called after him, reminding the guard that he should ensure that she could stand. He needn't have worried, though, as the young guard knew his job all too well.

  Alexander was happy again. Everything was going his way and that was the way he liked it. Even the sounds from the crowd below no longer seemed to bother him as much and, with a smile spread wide across his face, he decided that he might as well take a drink before starting the day’s entertainment.

  XV

  Around an hour later, Alexander stepped out onto the palace balcony and gladly accepted the attention of the adoring public below him. There were people lining the town meeting area and the streets beyond for as far as he could see, men, women, and some children, holding aloft a variety of guns, knives, swords, and farming tools as they cheered his presence.

  A gallows had been hastily constructed during the previous day, but only the palace guard most loyal to Alexander were allowed anywhere near it. The rest of the guard and most of the town’s militia were involved with holding the crowd back, preventing them from storming the palace and taking their own revenge. Alexander felt it fitting to say a few words before the executions began.

  “People, friends,” he began once the crowd had come to order. “It warms my heart to see you here today, to punish those responsible for the murder of our beloved Regent, and to finally put right all that is wrong. This day will be forever marked in history as the start of a great new chapter for our city, a world where we are no longer held back by our oppressive southern enemies.”

  The crowds cheered and the long line of guards and militia braced themselves as the palace gates were opened and Alexander’s own personal guard brought out the seven prisoners. Their clothes were torn and tattered, covered in blood from their beatings, but even from a distance, it was impossible to deny the finery and intricacy of their construction. The crowd had seen many similar garments in the last two days, mostly sold from the Road Trains that the common man was unable to afford.

  The prisoners’ hands were bound and their feet held together by a short length of rope, stopping them from attempting an escape, but with the crowd as intent on blood as they were, it was unlikely any fleeing prisoner would get very far. Finally, their faces were covered with cloth sacks to prevent anyone from discovering their true identities.

  They struggled as they were escorted up the three short steps to the gallows, but each movement of resistance was met with brutal force from the guards, striking them with heavy wooden clubs, much to the pleasure of the watching crowd. Each blow from the guards was met with another cheer, until the prisoners slowly accepted their fates and allowed the noose to be placed around their necks.

  The guards stepped back from the platforms as the executioner at the lever looked up towards Alexander in a theatrical motion, commanding the on looking crowd to follow his gaze.

  With another theatrical gesture, Alexander cast his hand down in one sweeping motion as the executioner pulled hard on the lever, dropping the platform. In the days that followed, those at the front of the crowd would boast that they had heard each neck snap individually as the prisoners dropped. To make matters worse, there would be crowds of people just waiting for them to describe the sounds just one more time, laughing about it as they shared a drink on their way to the Southern Baronies.

  Alexander gave his usual stunning performance, turning the people around to hearing only what he had to tell them, believing only what he told them to believe. Within minutes, he had given them so many promises of blood and vengeance for all of their ills, and explained to their satisfaction every intricate detail as to why everything that was wrong with their lives could in some way be attributed to the people of the Southern Baronies.

  By the time the first of the remaining four Road Trains started to cross the bridge on its long journey south, each person who had heard the Regent speak was ready and willing to kill a thousand southerners. Alexander had promised them that they would be given the chance, and they could laugh and spit in the face of every individual that they killed.

  As the civilians moved out with armies, thousands of people moving as one, Alexander stood and watched the beginnings of a new world.

  His.

  Chapter 5

  I

  By midday, the small group of survivors had reached the mainland and were making their way slowly south west across the rich and fertile farmland. Joe had taken Ben from Carl’s shoulder, giving him a chance to rest, while Catrina, almost comatose in her blank and unresponsive state, was carried tenderly by her brother as they continued on their journey.

  It was on Peter’s advice that they travelled southwest, away from the Great Road, but still in the general direction of the Southern Baronies. They were intending to turn south again later, when the risk of being discovered was no greater than the risk of the invading armies reaching the Southern Baronies before them.

  As they neared the first farmhouse, dry mouths and rumbling stomachs reminded most of them that they had not eaten for almost two
days. It had only been sheer terror and periodic surges of adrenaline that had allowed them to continue this far.

  As the rest of them secluded themselves within the high grasses that made up the morata crop, Peter buttoned up his militia jacket and, trying to make himself look presentable, approached the farmhouse to attempt to secure them some supplies. A large, greying elderly woman opened the door on his third knock.

  “Good day to you, ma’am,” Peter said, overemphasising his accent to convince the lady that he was a local. If news of the impending war and the escape of the prisoners had already spread this far, suspicion could be their undoing.

  “What do you want, now?” she asked, snapping at him.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he began, but the woman only turned away from him, returning into the house. Taking a moment to look back and make sure that everything looked all right, he followed her in.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to intrude,” he shouted after her as he followed her through the shabby stone structure to the kitchen, “but I have some pressing business. I ask only that you could spare me some food and water for my men?”

  “You already took all we could spare,” she informed him. “You promised us enough to live on.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Peter replied.

  “It's only been three weeks since your men took most of our harvest, taking our wagon too. If you take what we have left, my husband and I shan’t survive.”

  She directed his attention to the old man snoring loudly by the fire, an equally haggard-looking skeet asleep at his feet.

  “Please, start from the beginning,” Peter asked. “Who took your food?”

  “The soldiers,” she said, looking at him as though the answer was obvious. As she continued to speak, she returned to stirring the large pot of food that she was preparing on the stove. The smell was making Peter’s mouth water.

  “Three weeks ago now,” she continued. “Told us that all of our produce and cattle was now the property of the Regent, to supply the soldiers during the war. It was the first we’d heard of it, but, you know, Jack and I don’t get into town much anymore.”

  The skeet nuzzled at its master’s feet, much to the annoyance of its master, who kicked it away, his sleeping voice telling it to “feck off” as he did so. The skeet shuffled sleepily across the floor and collapsed nearer to the fire.

  “And this was three weeks ago, was it?” Peter asked as he watched the small interaction between man and beast. Three weeks before, the Regent, his Regent, was very much alive, and as far as Peter knew, no one was even thinking about war. It seemed that the plot was far more widespread than he had first thought.

  “Yes, my two sons went with them,” the old lady said. “They were going to teach those southerners a lesson, they said, show them who’s boss. Jack and I agreed to let them go, but you see, without my boys here to harvest the morata, we’ll need all that we’ve got left to keep us going until they get back.”

  “I see, Mrs. . . .?” Peter asked.

  “Joan, please,” she replied as she collected two plates from the wooden shelving to the right of the back door.

  “Joan,” he continued, “I’m here on a separate business entirely. My officers and I, well, we’re, chasing some particularly dangerous criminals. They escaped, and we’re tracking them to bring them to justice. If you could just spare some water, bread, perhaps a little cheese, just to keep us going until we bring these dangerous men in.”

  Joan seemed to ponder this for a while as she served up the meal that she had prepared, a mixture of unidentifiable meat and vegetables, which she ladled out onto the plates. “How many people with you?” she asked eventually.

  “Six,” he lied. Around six was the usual number; any more may have made her suspicious.

  After a lot of consideration, she bundled three freshly baked loaves and a small amount of cheese into a sack, which she begrudgingly handed to him. “There’s a bucket beside the pump outside,” she told him. “We use it for the pigs, but I can offer you no more.”

  “You are very kind, Joan. I can’t thank you enough,” Peter said, accepting the sack and looking down towards the meal that she had prepared.

  “Well, as you can see it's meal time,” she said, implying that it was time for him to leave. Peter took the hint. Bidding her a good day, he turned and left by the front door, smiling to himself as he heard the mumblings of “feck off, woman, can’t you see I’m sleeping” from behind him.

  The food was distributed equally among the travellers, though Catrina refused anything and Ben was still unable to eat. Even though Ben’s and Catrina’s states were due to different causes, their appearances were frighteningly similar, expressionless and unresponsive. The only difference was that while Ben’s eyes remained firmly closed, Catrina’s were held wide open, staring at a fixed point somewhere ahead of her, tortured and tormented. While sips of water could be given to Ben while he was propped up, Catrina held her mouth firmly closed, refusing all help from any source. Matthew sat with her, comforting her as best he could.

  Peter returned to refill the bucket, carefully avoiding any of the windows in the farmhouse, not wishing to be observed. He doubted that he could explain his presence a second time, but as far as he could tell, he wasn't spotted.

  After everyone felt as rested as they could, considering the circumstances, they continued on their way. They slowly turned south as the day went on, trying to run parallel to the Great Road, but far enough away from it to avoid detection. As night fell, they secluded themselves in a barn on the edge of a wheat field and bunked down in the hay to sleep. For most of them, sleep came slowly.

  Overruling Carl’s insistence, Matthew took first watch, focussing upon the incessant drumming of rain on the roof of the barn that began a little before midnight. Though it was warmer than when he had travelled north on the Road Trains, it was still far from comfortable, and Matthew found himself nesting in a mound of hay as he clutched the half empty machine gun in his cold hands in front of him. It was far too dangerous to start a fire within the barn, but shelter from the rain was more important than heat. Given the ferocity with which water pounded the roof, he wondered if maybe the rainy season had started early that year.

  II

  Tell me about the laboratory.

  About the laboratory.

  The laboratory.

  For only the second time since the escape from the dungeons, Ben showed some signs of life, stirring in his sleep as the images came to him.

  Tell me about the laboratory.

  About the laboratory.

  The laboratory.

  Beneath Ben’s eyelids, his eyes darted left and then right, rapidly alternating from one side to the other as the distorted images played through his mind. He pulled his weakened arms tight against his chest as he curled into a foetal position, making himself as small as possible to protect himself from the mental assault.

  The laboratory.

  That’s right, Mr Knight. I want to know everything about it. Firstly, I want you to tell me where it is.

  “Garstang, near Garstang, in the mountains,” Ben said, his voice slow and slurred, as though he had to think about the formation of each word in turn.

  “And that is?” Alexander asked, turning his attention towards the guard supporting Ben’s head.

  “In the Wastelands,” Ben repeated

  “Where in the Wastelands, Mr Knight?” Alexander asked. “Where do I need to go?”

  “The Wastelands, before the train, the snow...”

  “We're getting nowhere,” Alexander grunted, looking at Samuel and shaking his head. He turned his attention back to Ben, though with Ben’s eyes focussing somewhere in the distance, absolute eye contact was impossible. Alexander wanted the secret of the electricity so badly that it was starting to hurt. “Could you show us the exact location on a map, Mr Knight?” he asked.

  “Garstang, in the mountains,” Ben said, his voice slightly more slurred than the
last time he spoke.

  “Who built the laboratory?” Alexander prompted. “Was it someone in the Baronies?”

  “No. Excelsior. It was Excelsior,” Ben informed him.

  Alexander looked confused. “And they are?” he asked worryingly. His first thought was that there was a new faction within the Southern Baronies, or possibly someone in the Wastelands gathering resources together in an attempt to civilise the area. His worst fear was that the barely known civilisations of the east were moving against them.

  “Excelsior Technologies,” Ben continued. “Ezekiel Mustaine. Klaus. Gravity.”

  Ben said nothing more. Neither of them had the slightest idea as to who or what he was talking about, but technologies meant something to Alexander, something he wanted all to himself.

  Grabbing Ben by the neck of his stained T-shirt, Alexander pulled him forwards and spoke directly into his face. Ben only drooled and gave no indication that he was even listening.

  “Just tell me who you really are and how you ended up here!” he hissed.

  Ben didn’t reply, but the drool on his chin turned into a steady trickle of vomit that ran down the inside of Alexander’s hand. He pushed Ben back against the chair in disgust and hurriedly wiped his hand.

  Ben mumbled, “Benjamin Adrian Knight,” but Alexander paid him no more attention. He was still attempting to get his hand clean.

  “We could mount an assault, sir,” the second soldier suggested. “Take the laboratory by force.” Alexander was in no mood to tolerate stupidity.

  Throwing his arms into the air, he shouted, “We don’t know where it is, what kind of forces they have. We still don’t know who they are. You’ll be suggesting I postpone the war with the Southern Baronies next and send the armies into the mountains, losing any credibility I have with those stupid peasants.”

  The soldier looked down towards his feet.