by Jon Kiln
“Sound the alarm!” came a cry from outside. “The prisoners are trying to escape! All hands to the pier!” Guards came running thick and fast. Despite their best efforts, Ganry and Artas were soon overwhelmed, and all four of the prisoners were secured in tightly bound ropes.
“Well, boys, we gave it a shot,” apologized Ganry.
“Silence!” shouted the guard standing over them.
“I was just telling my friends,” began Ganry, but he was cut short by a sharp blow across the face from the angry-looking guard, eagerly repaying Ganry for the blows he had suffered during the prisoner’s break-out attempt.
“You have no right to speak!” snarled the guard. “We should kill them now!” yelled the guard to one of the men who seemed to be in charge.
“Those are not our orders,” replied the man. “We are to keep them secure until we receive word from Clay as to their fate. In the meantime, they can remain tied in ropes so that there are no more escape attempts.”
“A boat approaches,” shouted a look-out. “From the Halawa direction.”
“Unusual for anyone to be out in the water at night. Is it Clay?”
“It flies the symbol of Clay’s house, but it’s not his boat,” reported the lookout, peering into the darkness of the night.
***
“You must stay hidden,” whispered Linz, helping Myriam to conceal herself in the bottom of the boat beneath several old cloaks. “Do not move until I come for you.” Linz expertly guided his boat into dock on one of the floating piers of the fishing outpost.
“Who goes there!” challenged the look-out.
“It is I, Linz of the house of Clay!” announced Linz with as much confidence as he could muster. The head of the guards quickly approached when he heard that it was Linz that had arrived.
“This is an unexpected but timely visit,” said the head of the guards respectfully. “Why do you cross the lake at night?”
“I am here to represent my uncle, the chief of this clan.”
“I had planned to sail to Halawa myself in the morning to see your uncle,” explained the head of the guards. “You see, the prisoners we are holding, they have just tried to escape, but we have managed to restrain them.”
“Have they been harmed?”
“No, we have them tied up securely now, but they have bruised and battered a few of my men,” said the head of the guards.
Linz jumped onto the dock, after attaching the boat securely. “Your men will heal,” Linz remarked with little compassion. “My uncle has sent me to collect the prisoners and take them to Halawa. I will take them with me tonight.”
“He has sent no men with you for protection?” the head guard asked in concern.
“The matter is too sensitive. No one must know of their presence here.”
“Then I will travel with you, to help you escort the prisoners to Halawa,” offered the head of the guards.
Linz was starting to get worried, and it showed. “That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly. “If they are tied securely, then I will simply lay them in the bottom of the boat and sail them directly to my uncle’s private mooring.”
The head of the guards looked uncertain at this arrangement, but Linz was his uncle’s heir, the chief of the Lake Men. It seemed unwise to argue.
“Right then. I’ll get my men to load the prisoners into your boat.”
“Give me their weapons too,” instructed Linz. “My uncle wants to inspect them.”
37
Ganry was feeling angry with himself—angry that their plan had failed, angry that they had been unable to escape, angry that they had found themselves in this position to begin with. He was seething that his death was going to be so miserable and ignoble, executed like a common criminal, bound from head to toe with thick rope.
“Get up now, scum,” snarled one of the guards, roughly yanking Ganry into a standing position.
“This is it,” thought Ganry to himself, seeing that Artas, Hendon, and Barnaby were also being lifted to their feet.
“How are we going to do this?” asked one guard to another.
“Drag them?”
“Too awkward, isn’t it?” countered the first. “Be easier if we carry them? One in each end?”
“Fair enough,” nodded the second guard. “Alright boys!” he shouted to the group of guards milling around uncertainly. “Two men to each prisoner, one at the head and one at the feet. Take it slowly and make sure that those ropes stay tight!”
“They’re going to feed us to the water dragons!” whispered Artas to Ganry, panic in his eyes. Ganry groaned inwardly, an even more pathetic way to die.
The soldiers clumsily hoisted the prisoners up and stumbled along the walkway. Ganry was expecting to hit the water at any moment.
“The boat is just at the end of this pier!” shouted one of the soldiers.
“Great, they’re going to take us out into the middle of the lake to make sure that we have no chance of surviving,” grumbled Ganry to himself, resigned to the fate of a watery death.
“Right, throw them in,” shouted the guard. “Make sure that they’re all nice and flat down on the bottom of the boat.”
“Ungh!” grunted Ganry, landing heavily as he was unceremoniously chucked onto the wooden craft. One by one, each of the prisoners were thrown on board, tumbling on top of each other, crunching and bruising as each of them landed heavily on the other. Eventually, Ganry could feel the boat pushing away from the pier, and begin to bob gently across the lake. Ganry closed his eyes and tried to be thankful for the few small pleasures that his life had brought him.
***
As soon as the boat was out of sight of the fishing outpost, Linz dropped the sail and brought it to almost a standstill, far out in the middle of the lake. He pulled a small dagger from his belt and began to cut the ties of the prisoners that had been thrown into the bottom of the boat.
Lying on top was Barnaby, and with a few quick slices of his blade, Linz began to pull the ropes from Barnaby’s ankles and wrists, helping the small elderly man unsteadily to his feet and across the boat to one of the small wooden benches that lined the side. Next was Hendon. Linz worked quickly to cut through the ropes, pulling Hendon up off the others beneath him. Next to be freed was Artas. Linz’s blade sliced cleanly through the ropes that firmly bound him. Once Artas was free, Linz turned his attention to Ganry.
“What the hell is going on!” muttered Ganry, surprised and confused at having the ropes cut from him at a moment when he had been expecting to meet his death in the cold dark waters of the deep lake.
“Quickly! You have to stand up, move out of the way!” urged Linz.
“Hmmph,” came a muffled moan from beneath Ganry.
“Princess, are you okay?” asked Linz with concern in his voice.
As Linz helped to lift Ganry up from the bottom of the boat, Myriam began to struggle out from beneath the cloaks that had been concealing her.
“You heavy oafs!” exclaimed Myriam angrily. “You nearly killed me! I thought I was going to suffocate with all of you lying on top of me like sacks of potatoes!”
“What were doing down there?” asked Ganry, flabbergasted at the turn of events. “Who is this? What’s going on?” He gestured towards Linz.
“Calm down, Ganry.” Myriam dusted herself off. “We’re rescuing you.”
“You’re rescuing us?” asked Ganry in disbelief. “We’re supposed to be protecting you!”
“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it!” laughed Myriam. “Besides, you’re being very rude. None of you have thanked Linz here for his incredible bravery in helping you to escape from certain death.”
“My apologies,” said Ganry, turning to Linz. “Thank you. But I’m afraid I’m still not sure who you are?”
“Linz is the heir to the clan of the Lake Men,” explained Myriam. “His uncle, the chief of the clan, had decided that we would be a perfect match to be married, an idea that neither of us was particularly
thrilled about, so I persuaded Linz to help me rescue you.” Linz seemed embarrassed with all of the attention and the praise being heaped on him.
Ganry addressed Myriam. “So what’s the plan now then, Princess? Now that you’ve rescued us so bravely?”
“Um, I hadn’t really got that far to be honest,” admitted Myriam.
“You will have to sail this boat across the lake until you come to the Temple Stream.” Linz pointed into the distance. “That’s the only stream that flows out of the lake. It will take you to the north. It is the only way that you will be able to reach a trail that will take you to the outside world.”
“You’re coming with us, aren’t you?” asked Artas hopefully, intrigued by the young lake boy.
Linz shook his head regretfully. “No, I have to return to my people.”
“Won’t your uncle be angry with you?” Myriam was concerned for the safety of her new-found friend.
“I will tell them that you overpowered me,” said Linz, thinking quickly. “Perhaps if you cut me or beat me, it will look more believable. Then I will swim back to Halawa from here.”
“You can’t swim from here!” insisted Myriam. “It’s too far! And what about the water dragons? It’s not safe for you, Linz.”
“I am a strong swimmer. Don’t worry. The water dragons generally hunt near the shore, it would be rare for them to be looking for prey in deep water. I will be safe. I need to look like I have been attacked though. Can one of you hit me hit me in the face?”
None of them were eager to hit someone who had just moments ago rescued them from likely death.
“Come on, punch me!”
“Fine, I’ll do it,” said Artas, stepping forward. Linz braced himself for the impact of the blow.
“Ow!” grunted Linz, as Artas slapped the back of his hand across Linz’s cheek.
Ganry shook his head. “No, you’ll need to do it harder than that, Artas. That’s barely made his cheek blush. You’re going to need to draw blood. Do you want me to do it?”
“No, I can do it,” insisted Artas. He drew his arm back and brought the back of his hand fiercely against Linz’s face.
“Aagh!” howled Linz, feeling the pain of the blow.
“Again!” instructed Ganry. “Try and bruise the eye.” Artas forcefully slapped Linz again. “And once more,” insisted Ganry, “this time try and cut the lip.” Artas hit Linz across the face again, the power of the blow knocked Linz to the floor of the boat.
“This seems an awful way to be thanking you for rescuing us,” protested Myriam, helping Linz back to his feet.
“It’s what needs to be done. Now cut me.”
“What?” asked Artas. “What do you mean cut you?”
“Use your knife, slash me across the chest. Just enough to damage my tunic and cut my skin, draw some blood. It will look more realistic.”
“If you’re sure,” Artas said uncertainly, collecting his knife from the bundle of weapons that Linz had liberated from the fishing outpost. He weighed the knife carefully in his hand, and then delicately used the blade to cut several slashes in the tunic that Linz was wearing.
“Cut me,” reiterated Linz, pulling apart his tunic and exposing his smooth, hairless chest. Artas placed the sharp edge of his dagger’s blade against Linz’s skin and dragged it slowly across his chest, drawing a line of bright crimson blood as the blade sliced over where the young boy’s heart would be.
“Very good, you look sufficiently beaten up now,” grinned Ganry. “Like a gang of mountain thieves have taken everything you own.”
“Thank you,” said Myriam, gently kissing Linz on the cheek. Linz winced with pain as her lips brushed his bruised face.
“I have no way to thank you,” said Artas gravely.
“I’ll remember you by the scars on my skin,” smiled Linz, placing his hand on Artas’s shoulder, before slipping over the side of the boat and into the dark water below.
Myriam watched Linz swimming quietly away into the distance.
38
“Please sir, I cannot sign this, it is unconstitutional,” begged Judge Strogen, the Chief Judge of the Kingdom of Palara.
“Sign it!” screamed Duke Harald, incensed with fury.
“But you cannot be King while there lives a rightful heir with a stronger claim than you,” said the judge feebly.
“I know that, you fool, but this will at least bring me one step closer. Sign it!” Harald slammed the wooden table with his fist.
They were in the throne room of Castle Villeroy. Harald was sitting at a plain wooden table, within touching distance of the throne that he coveted so fiercely.
“If you kill the King…” began the judge.
“The question is not if,” interrupted Harald. “Sign that bit of paper and my fool of a brother will meet his death at sunrise! I will rule the Kingdom as Regent until we have been able to find that witch of girl Myriam, and bring her back to Villeroy in chains.”
“In all good conscience, sir,” protested the judge, “it would go against everything that I have sought to uphold. It would go against all the ancient laws of this land. It would leave me with no integrity and I would be bringing the office of Chief Judge into disrepute. I cannot sign that death warrant.”
“Then I shall find a new Chief Judge who will!” hissed Harald, quickly drawing his short dagger and slitting the throat of the elderly man who cowered before him.
Harald wiped the blood from the blade of his dagger on the black robes of the dead man who lay at his feet. He calmly walked around the table and resumed his seat, turning towards him the parchment on which was written the death warrant of his brother. Harald picked up the elaborate quill, carefully dipped it in the small pot of ink that stood nearby, and slowly and deliberately signed the name of Chief Judge Strogen.
39
King Ludwig squinted into the morning sun as it rose to the east of the castle. It had been a long time since he had been outside in the fresh morning air, away from the dungeon in which his brother had imprisoned him. Somehow, he cherished this sunrise even more, knowing that it would be the last that he would see.
The muted rhythm of the single drummer began to beat, the death march always played before an execution. The courtyard that they were in was known as the Judge’s Courtyard because it was reserved for punishments and executions overseen by the judges of the Kingdom of Palara. King Ludwig could feel his wife, Alissia, shivering beside him. He reached out and took her hand, their fingers entwining as he tried to offer some small comfort to her, on the last day that they would spend together. They were surrounded by soldiers, but somehow it felt as if they were alone in the world, together, watching the sun slowly rise in the east.
Duke Harald entered the courtyard from a wooden door with two sentries posted on either side. It was the door that led directly to the throne room. Harald sat himself down on the wooden chair from which King Ludwig would normally observe proceedings such as these. The Duke’s gaze was steely, ice-cold, his face displayed no emotion. The King was surprised not to see Judge Strogen, the Chief Judge. A death warrant of this magnitude would require his signature and his authority. King Ludwig looked across the courtyard to where the blood-stained block of wood stood. A shiver ran down his spine.
Normally, the Chief Judge would read out the death warrant and confirm the sentence, but today the only sound was the steady drum.
Zaim, Duke Harald’s arms-bearer, motioned to the guards. They took hold of King Ludwig’s arms and walked him into the middle of the courtyard towards the executioner’s block. The executioner in his black hood stood beside the wooden block, patiently resting his large axe on the stones beneath his feet. The King knelt down on the cold stones, and placed his neck in the purpose-built groove that was carved in the wooden block.
A druid stepped forward from beside Duke Harald and chanted a short invocation. The soldiers stood to one side and the executioner moved into position, slowly lifting his iron axe and then bringing it swiftly
down, the blade slicing cleanly through King Ludwig’s neck, ending his reign as the ruler of the Kingdom of Palara.
Queen Alissia gasped in horror as the axe blade fell and ended the life of her husband. She closed her eyes so that she didn’t have to watch the executioner pick up her husband’s lifeless head, his body dragged unceremoniously away. She heard the splash of water as the executioner tipped a bucket of hot water over the wooden block, washing away the blood that had been spilled.
Queen Alissia opened her eyes as she felt the soldiers roughly grab her by the arms, walking her towards the center of the courtyard. The druid stepped forward once more and said a brief invocation before the death sentence was imposed on the Queen. The drum continued to beat steadily and slowly. Queen Alissia knelt down, feeling the cold hard stones of the courtyard beneath her. She felt numb, tired, beyond fear, as if these final moments of her life were part of some terrifying dream, a dream from which she couldn’t awake.
The Queen placed her neck down on to the wooden block, feeling the warm wetness of the water with which it had just been cleaned. She closed her eyes, trying to block out everything that was happening around her, everything that had happened, everything that was about to happen. She did not see the executioner slowly raising his heavy iron axe. She did not hear its blade falling quickly towards her. She did not feel the pain as her life was violently ended.
“It is done,” said Duke Harald, standing up from his wooden chair and beginning to walk from the courtyard.
“What should we do with the bodies?” asked Zaim. “Will there be a funeral for your brother and his wife?”
“A funeral?” repeated Harald, contemplating the idea. “No. No funeral. They are traitors to the Kingdom of Palara. Mount their heads on spikes and display them at the castle gate. Let their deaths be a warning to all other traitors that may be sympathizers of my brother or his wretched daughter. There will be no mercy for traitors. There will be no honor for traitors. There will be no funerals for traitors.” Harald turned and left the courtyard, returning to the throne room.
