by T L Drew
Goran ran as quickly as his broken body would allow to the slaves that surrounded him, bound by iron. He was fast to use the same key to unfasten their bindings as the sounds of confused and armed guards who drew closer and closer, taking wrong turns in the tunnels before backing up on themselves and choosing a new path. Free slaves ransacked the dead guard’s bodies, arming themselves with what they had upon their corpses. Two whips, a golden sword and two daggers were thrust into the hands of free slaves.
Ten, fifteen, then twenty slaves were free from their chains as the guards searched down each dark tunnel in search for the screaming they had heard resonating from the mouths of their own kind. Twenty-five, then thirty slaves were free as the white-eyed slavers, armed with golden whips and sharp scythes turned the last corner, where Goran stood freeing slave after slave from their chains. The guards came to a sudden halt as they gazed upon empty shackles and armed slaves.
Before Goran’s eyes were a dozen more Afterling guards with haunting white eyes and golden silk upon their large frames, but there were even more slaves free from their bindings and their rough chains, blunt pickaxes in hand. Goran handed the keys to a free slave and reached for his blade again. The Afterling advanced, and the slaves fought back.
Blood washed over the mines within seconds. Blunt pickaxes delved into guard’s heads and whips lashed wickedly against broken bodies. Goran swung his blade again and again, hacking and slicing and stabbing for his freedom. Guards fell and their weapons were stolen until all the Afterling soldiers in the mines had fallen into death. Many slaves had fell in the fight, but more had survived.
Goran broke into a run. A line of slaves were being rapidly freed by the free man with the keys, one by one, before fleeing from the dark, haunting mines. Goran gazed upon each slave’s face with desperation; he searched for Chauncey Rose. He wouldn’t leave without his friend. He searched for dark eyes and dark skin.
‘Chauncey!’ Goran was shouting wildly, his voice echoing through the dark mine. He wondered how long it would be before more Afterling would be upon them. They were stronger, faster and had more weapons than the southern men in chains, but the slaves outnumbered the Afterling.
Goran gazed each face with desperation as each slave was freed from their bindings, and his eyes landed upon the dark eyes and dark skin he searched for, the man’s dark hair shaved from his head. He wore dried blood like a second skin, having recently been lashed with the cruel leather. ‘Goran?’ Chauncey’s eyes narrowed at his prince with disbelief and bewilderment as the key to free each slave came closer to Chauncey’s bindings. ‘Is it truly you?’
‘It’s me, my friend.’ Goran smiled for the first time in months, grasping his blooded hand around the back of Chauncey’s head and pushed their foreheads together, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘We’re going home, Chauncey. We’re free men now.’
‘Thank the gods!’ Chauncey choked.
A thinning body rapidly ran up behind the Prince of Askavold with desperation. It was a face that Goran was swift to recognise. ‘If we make it by the Afterling and find a fucking boat, then yes, we’re going home, my friends!’ Cyr Larkin – Goran’s cellmate – said from behind Goran Grey, and the prince noticied Cyr’s bindings had been removed by the small metal key as the same key found its way to Chauncey’s chains.
‘There’s a rowing boat off of the shore, behind the southern tower.’ Chauncey assured as his chains fell from his body. ‘I could see it from my cell. Only the gods know whether it will float.’
‘Then it’s the only option we have – we cannot swim back to the mainland or make it to Thiesal to apprehend a ship.’ Goran swiftly agreed, turning on his battered heel and headed urgently for the entrance of the desolate mine, following waves of free slaves into the open air, Chauncey Rose and Cyr Larkin sticking closely to their prince. Goran’s eyes and body were alert for the first time in weeks; he grasped the golden blade tightly in his broken hands, his eyes narrowing in the darkness, searching for men in golden silks that wished to return him to his chains, or worse. I’m not going back in there, Goran thought as he found himself leaving the darkness of the mine and into the cold open air. I’ll die before I go back. He wanted to die, but the ring on his finger wouldn’t allow it, not yet, and taking it off wasn’t an option. He would fall, but when he did, he would take his brother to oblivion with him.
The prince broke into a run as the slaves dispersed upon leaving the mine and breaking into the cold, rainy early night. Darkness had not long fallen over Solitude. He felt Chauncey and Cyr sticking close to him as his eyes found the southern tower, and they ran towards the one place the other slaves wouldn’t dare to tread in their freedom. They made their way to Thiesal; the small city was the Afterling’s main dwelling, where they kept the majority of the ships, and the slaves made their way to the north end of the island in hopes of apprehending one. Goran doubted they’d get far, but he’d given them a fighting chance. A quick, clean death they would be given, instead of months of starvation and torture.
‘I never realized rain could feel this good!’ Cyr smiled in the wetness as it cascaded down on him as they ran through the forest and moved towards the southern tower. Chauncey almost danced in it.
Cyr slowed and turned in a full circle, letting the rain wash over him like a shower, soaking his wounds. ‘I’ll welcome the rain in Albon, when I make it home.’
‘We won’t make it home unless we quicken our pace.’ Goran spat with desperation, his emerald eyes upon the southern spiralling tower, climbing high into the dark rain clouds. He turned his course through the trees with the southern tower still in his sights. ‘We must go this way – we have to avoid the tower and the Afterling that remain inside.’
‘What about the men and women who are locked inside?’ Cyr asked worriedly from behind his prince.
‘There’s nothing we can do for them.’ Chauncey said surely as they continued to run through the rain. ‘We must flee ourselves whilst we have the chance.’
The prince hated to admit it, but he selfishly agreed.
Goran Grey grasped the wrists of his companions as they slowed their pace and he pulled roughly, dragging them around the base of the tower through the trees, avoiding being spotted by the slavers inside of the dark tower, where the smell of the burning bodies from the last stop coursed through them. The rain had put the fire out, but the smell still remained, haunting the bitter air.
‘This way.’ Goran urged, releasing his grasp upon them and darted south of the tower and towards the coastline once they were clear. They ran through the rain and the mud, their bare feet sinking into the wet, muddy ground, their hearts pounding wildly in their chests with fear and excitement, and for the first time since their arrival on Solitude Island, hope.
It was along the coastline that they saw the boat in the distance, lying upon the beach and turned upside down upon the cold sand. It was a small wooden boat, just like Chauncey had said he saw from his cell window in the southern tower. It was rough and battered by the ocean, frail and discoloured. Two oars lay by the side of the boat, splintered and rough, but intact. ‘Quickly, let’s go.’ Chauncey urged as they ran faster than they had done before, despite the pain that it caused their broken bodies. They ran with bare, muddy feet upon the sand, grasping the boat with cut hands and flipped it over, pushing it towards the chilly water. Goran never realised how good wet sand between his toes could feel, despite the pain of the soft sand seeping its way into his cuts and broken blisters.
The small rowing boat was void of holes or breakages, much to Goran’s relief. Cyr grasped the oars in his sliced palms and ran behind them with urgency. ‘I’ll cast us off of the shore.’ Goran said surely as the other two men climbed into the tiny boat with quiet grunts of pain. They were lighter than Goran was, despite months of starvation. The prince glanced up to the icy sea and in the darkness and saw nothing but the ocean. The ring on his finger calmed the rough tide, not that he knew how. The ring was still a mystery to him.
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br /> When Cyr and Chauncey had sat themselves in the boat, oars ready and touching the surface of the ocean, Goran placed his swollen hands upon the wood and pushed, sliding it off of the sand and into the water. ‘We’re going home!’ Chauncey shouted in delight as the boat floated upon the water and Cyr grasped a hold of the oars tightly, ready to row for the Askavold mainland. Chauncey clapped his hands together, cheering. The boat began to drift slowly into the sea.
The prince tried to quieten his excitable companions.
Goran’s feet touched the icy water. He began to walk out into it, towards the boat to climb aboard, feeling the coldness of it against his sore skin. The ocean pained his wounds. He took another step, then another, until the water was up to his knees, and then suddenly as he stared at the drifting boat, he felt a small palm grasp around his wrist and hold him in place. His eyes turned behind him. There was no one there, no one holding him. His ring began to burn on the base of his finger. The young man turned his head back towards the boat with bewilderment and took another step through the wintry, welcoming water towards the boat. The ring burned him hotter, his skin seething. He stopped again, feeling a force holding him back, a force that did not exist to his eye.
Chauncey shouted to Goran desperately from the drifting boat. ‘What are you doing? Come now, Goran!’
‘I’m coming!’ The Prince of Askavold shouted back to his friend as the ring grew hotter and hotter with each step he advanced on the small boat. The ring is frightened, he thought as he felt it pulling him back. He tried to fight against it, the invisible hold that grasped him, distorting the world around him. There was something wrong; he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, and the ring was urging him away from the waters. It pulled harder and harder with desperation, urging him back to the sand as the waves began to wash around his hips, white horses lightly crashing around his sore body. His body wrestled against the water.
‘Goran, come on!’ Cyr and Chauncey were shouting as the boat drifted further and further away from him.
‘Chauncey! Cyr! Come back, row back to shore!’ Goran shouted desperately. He watched as the boat became smaller in the distance. ‘Chauncey, jump off! Swim back to shore!’ He shouted as loud as he could muster, running towards the waves and felt them crashing over his chest. Goran could barely see them now, a faint silhouette hovering above the surface of the water. Cyr was rowing the boat now, disappearing faster and faster into the darkness towards the open ocean.
‘Come, it’s not too late!’ Chauncey shouted back, ignoring him, or not hearing over the roar of the ocean. ‘Swim to us! Hurry, Goran!’
Cyr continued to row with haste, all thoughts of home dominating. Cyr did not leave the boat, and neither did Chauncey.
‘Chauncey, swim back!’ Goran bellowed, although his words were not heard.
The ring pulled him back from the deeper waters as he tried to push himself towards the boat. Goran’s feet were taken out from underneath him, the waves crashing over his head, pulling him back towards the sand. He swallowed a mouthful of salty water. He felt his body being smacked onto the sands, and the water withdrew from him, washing around his ankles as he lay soaked on the wet sands. The prince gasped for air and coughed water from his lungs. The salty water burned his stab wound on his shoulder.
‘Goran!’ The Prince of Askavold heard Chauncey’s voice shouting desperately from afar, his eyes searching for his friend. Goran Grey forced his body to sit in the sand and look for Chauncey Rose and Cyr Larkin, but they were so small now, so far away, just a silhouette floating on top of the calming waters. The ring’s burn lessened as they rowed further and further away from him.
He watched with his heart pounding wildly in his chest as they were almost gone from sight. Goran came to a quiet, painful stand, taking a deep breath of bitter air, and watched as they drifted away from him, leaving him alone upon the sand. ‘Why do you not wish for me to go home?’ Goran asked under his breath, his eyes finding the ring on the base of his finger. He tightened his grip on the Afterling blade in his other hand. ‘I just want to go home…please, let me go home…’
A quiet sound in the distance shook Goran from his urgent pleas. Arrows flew, soaring through the sky from the large pine trees. Goran only saw them for a quick moment, shooting through the air in front his gaze from the trees, swift in the darkness. He heard the sounds of men that he hadn’t heard before, coming closer, but unable to see the prince as he stood hunched in the sands on the shore. They had their eyes on another target, drifting off to sea.
The arrow penetrated Chauncey’s skin, puncturing his neck. More arrows flew, piercing Cyr’s shoulder, his arm, his cheek. The oars fell from his grasp into the waves. The boat swayed as arrows hit their bodies, and Chauncey looked to Goran upon the shore, the arrow stuck inside of him. Although Goran could barely see them, he could see enough, and he wanted to shout to Chauncey, to cry for his friend to swim to him, but words could not pass his lips. Afterling emerged from the trees, bows and arrows in their grasp, eyes upon the small boat. The prince watched as time stopped, stunned. He felt himself unable to move, frozen in place as the waves crashed over his legs. ‘No, no, no...’ he uttered under his breath with watering eyes. Goran could only watch as his friend spat blood, grasping at the arrow imbedded in his neck, pain and disbelief on his battered face. Cyr fell to the floor of the boat as an arrow punctured his lung. He struggled to breathe. Chauncey chocked more blood.
More arrows soared through the bitter air, fire dancing upon them. They caught in the wood of the small boat, the flames catching, the boat sent up in a burst of bright fire and thick smoke. Goran looked at Chauncey’s pained face as the flames took his body, engulfing him, eating at his skin. Goran could still hear their screams as they burnt and bled upon the surface of the water.
Goran took a pained step backwards, moving closer and closer to the trees and away from the shore. His feet left the entirety of the ocean and found the sand. His body shook ferociously and he kept himself quiet as he saw the Afterling soldiers filtering towards the sands. He tightened his grip on the golden blade, and readied himself in case their sights fell upon him.
To Goran’s relief, the Afterling did not notice Goran Grey’s presence upon the dark shore as they continued to stare out to the ocean, watching the flames dancing upon the surface of the wintry ocean. They were not the only ones whose attention was caught by the flames; the fire attracted the attention of the creatures that dwelled within the open ocean. As Goran’s body quietly moved towards the edge of the forest, urging his body into the trees, he saw tentacles rise from the wintry water and search the burning boat for a taste of flesh. The tentacle’s ripped from the water and wrapped around the small boat, hiding the flames and his burning friend from Goran’s watering eyes. In an instant, the boat was pulled swiftly under the surface of the icy water, and Chauncey’s pain came to a dark end.
JORGEN
The ring was burning against Jorgen’s porcelain skin, but it was Nora Ostergaard and Erik Black who could not slip from his sombre sight; his hands had lingered in Nora’s fiery hair for too long that night she had returned to him, slipping through it like the waters of Solvstone, his fingers tied into her hair like orange bindings. He was worried that if he let go, she might disappear from his black gaze.
Their saviour – Archer Rose, a distant cousin of Margot and Chauncey Rose, and a soldier of the Night Cloaks of Balfold – was gifted with the protection of King Jorgen Black when they departed for the south for his rescue of the youngest Black child, the Prince of Balfold, a gift Archer Rose had always dreamed of receiving. Jorgen was adamant that Archer Rose of the Night Cloaks remained at Erik Black’s side during their extended time in the small settlement of Knight’s Denn – Jorgen wouldn’t let Erik or Nora out of his dark sight, as though he was hiding his prized possessions from grey eyes.
Although Jorgen still gravely suffered from the pain of his battle wounds, the western king’s days were plagued with requests, pleas an
d battle plans he was scarcely convinced by; Archer Rose never left the king’s side, not even for a moment, keeping Erik with the western king, pushed in a wheeled chair. As the sun started to set over the chaotic settlement of Knight’s Denn, the western king’s path led him on a cobblestone road which led to the outskirts of the dwelling, where a priest’s tent had been erected in between two snow-covered pine trees, the smell of winter surrounding his body as he staggered across the cobblestones. He watched ahead as Jakub Krea led him to the outskirts of Knight’s Denn, a dark silhouette moving in front of his ebony eyes. The western king followed the young Lord of the Emerald Isles through the dark tents with the protection of the Night Cloaks until they reached the one which belonged to the high priest of Solvstone, before the city had burned in the bloody battle. The symbols of the old gods were sewn into the black fabric. ‘Excuse me,’ Jakub’s cracking voice rose over the sounds of the sleeping forest. ‘High priest? I am sorry to disturb in this hour–’
‘–Who’s there?’ A dreary voice shouted from inside of the black fabric, gruff, sharp and sudden. Jakub Krea stepped in front of the motionless king in the crisp snow as the fabric parted like an open door, a tall, hunched figure sweeping from the tent and into the bitter, open night. He wore a black robe that touched the snow and held a lit candle in his bony hands, hot wax dripping slowly onto the white ice. The High Priest’s beard was as white as the Tronenpoint snow and touched the top of his protruding ribcage. His nose was hooked and twisted, his eyes narrow and flickering at each body that stood outside of his tent. ‘What do you want?’ The old man hissed through the darkness, his eyes tired and hollow. Jorgen could see on his face that he too had been wounded in battle – there was a large gash across his face, much like Jorgen’s healing wounds – and his hands were cut and bruised. Quickly, the old man’s eyes fell upon the western king, and his eyes widened, and his lips parted. ‘Your Grace,’ he uttered, his hands suddenly trembling with realisation. ‘My deepest regret for my rudeness, if I had known it was you–’
