The tree was his favorite because natural holes and folds in the bark let him hide his sword, dagger, bow and arrows. He removed his dagger from his belt and placed it safely inside the tree with his other things. He looked around, making sure no one saw. He wasn’t anywhere near the Cicade Forest, so he wasn’t worried about tree dwellers stealing his things. Those Archers couldn’t be trusted.
The dirt path he followed fed into the main road leading to the center of Grey Ashland, where King Nabal’s castle was located. His feet kicked up small plumes. The brown cloud and stones settled onto the top of his boots. Few travelers were on the path. He did his best to blend in, walking behind a group adorned in green and red cloaks, men who used large walking sticks and carried empty wicker baskets. They reminded him of his friend, Blodwyn.
Behind him came a wagon pulled by two horses spotted white and brown. Mykal, and those in front of him, stepped aside to let the wagon pass. The previous night’s storm must not have stretched this far West. Dust swirled over them in the aftermath. Mykal covered his mouth and nose, and coughed, fanning the air in front of his face with a few waves of his arm. He jumped back as the dirt settled. A large spider had tried to blend in with the ground and done a fine job of it, until it moved front legs and mandibles, as if also annoyed by the dust. The body of the arachnid was half the size of Mykal’s palm, the spread of its eight legs made it larger than his hand. Mykal held his breath. He could not think of a thing he feared more than spiders. He’d rather climb a tree than face a spider. He didn’t even have the courage to step on it. He gave the multi-eyed thing wide berth, and hurried to catch up to the group ahead, wanting to get as far away from the spider as quickly as possible.
A falcon soared overhead. Its presence made known by a screech and caw as it circled before making its way toward the sea, in search of rodents, or any fish it could pluck from the water.
Maybe after lunch he would escape for a quick swim in the Isthmian. It offered the only true relief from the heat. Moist armpits already dampened his fresh tunic. Rumors of monsters living in the sea didn’t frighten him. He never out swam out far, or gone too deep, though. He also fished the sea, another taboo. He caught bass or pike—which he cooked on an open flame, and ate with relish—but had yet to hook any monster.
The rock wall of the keep loomed just ahead. The Cicade Forest had once stretched this far south many, many years ago; long before he’d even been thought of, no doubt. Hundreds of tree stumps yet remained. Grandfather said no one removed the stumps because they served as a minor form of protection. Those attempting a siege had to contend with them as a first obstacle. There was no clear path to run at the castle walls. The only better, more defensible location might have been along a mountain face—where impenetrable was an understatement, such as the legendary castle of the Osiris Realm.
Two armed guards stood at either side of the barbican, about thirty yards in front of the lowered drawbridge and raised wrought iron gate, while several marched back and forth above on the wooden walkway between crenellations within the compound.
Only two of the eight bastions were visible from the main road. Far to the east a third could be made out. Multiple loophole breaks in the brick and rock faced in three directions, south, west and east. The other bastions also had loophole breaks, facing three directions accordingly, as well. It took over an hour, but he’d walked the wall many times, and had seen them all. The rock structure seemed to stretch on and on without end. When standing on the outside of the keep, the walls towered above him.
The moat prevented enemies from running ladders up the castle walls, and rumors ran rampant about a bottom-dwelling beast swimming in circles around the castle. The monster supposedly captured from the Isthmian and dumped into the moat. Mykal never saw signs of anything under the surface, not even bass or pike.
As the group neared the lowered bridge, Mykal hurried his steps to approach with the men in cloaks. The king’s guards made him apprehensive. If he weren’t already sweating from the morning heat, the sight of them with steel swords at their sides, dressed in helmets and chainmail, and holding large badge-shaped shields bearing the Grey Ashland crest would have started him perspiring.
His footfalls echoed off the wooden bridge, and he wrinkled his nose at the stench from below where the staleness of stagnant water wafted upward. Scum and purple thistles littered the placid surface. Water-spiders skimmed across the top dodging dragonflies set on morning meals. Mosquito swarms huddled in areas behind the flowered weeds creating a loud buzzing noise. If a monster lived below the ripple-less surface, any visible current would give such a creature’s whereabouts away. There was no such indication.
Entering under the spikes of the raised portcullis was uneventful, thankfully, and once inside, Mykal distanced himself from the cloaked men, and made his way toward the market square. The marketplace was active, bustling with merchants, traveling vendors, and peasants begging for handouts. The encircling aisles in the middle of the fortress, and surrounding the tower, was lined with umbrella-covered carts where fresh produce and slaughtered meats were sold. The other farmers, like Mykal and his grandfather, worked on small parcels of land all across the Grey Ashland Kingdom. Mykal and his grandfather rarely had surplus for sale. Not to mention that prime selections of meat, dairy, and produce were paid as tax to the king.
Mykal wove his way toward the center of the outer keep’s town. A crowd was already gathering around the stained wood of the gallows. It looked out of place as everything else was cut from stone. There were stairs leading to a raised platform, a rectangle made of beams standing at either end, with one across the top of the two pillars. From that top beam dangled four nooses.
Today, four men would hang for their crimes.
Mykal made the mistake of walking to the back side of the gallows. The men waiting to die were shackled together, one in front of the other, foot to foot, and hand to hand. Their clothing was tattered, torn, and their faces marred with jagged cuts and bruises.
There was no mistaking who they were. These were not men from Grey Ashland. Their green tunics and brown pants were natural camouflage for living among the treetops. These criminals were bandits from the Cicade Forest.
Chapter 3
Seven musicians lined stone steps along the southwest castle wall. A row of black horses galloped into the square. The horseshoes clapped on cobblestone, and the sound bounced off the high walls. The musicians raised trumpets; blaring horns signaled the beginning of the execution.
Mykal winced, wanting to look away. Instead he found himself craning his neck to catch sight of the king. Nabal was not a terrible ruler. He seemed to care about the people. It reminded Mykal of the earlier conversation with his grandfather. Nabal wanted respect and fear from his subjects. His methods seemed harsh at times, but not overly so. Rumors about dangerous thieves living in treetops throughout the Cicade Forest became common stories, tales told to frighten children at bedtime cautioning them to behave.
Dressed in a white tunic, and earth brown vest under his crimson royal cape, the king rode a powerful white stallion. Footmen rushed to help him from the saddle. The crown he wore had been crafted by a goldsmith who lived long ago, and had originally made the crown for King Grandeer, Nabal’s grandfather. It was then passed to King Stilson, and finally to Nabal. The circlet held four white diamonds, and imbedded within the triangular gold plate at the forehead sat a large square of cut, black diamond- a rare gem mined from the depths of Gorge Caves, beneath the Zenith Mountains to the north.
King Nabal, escorted by the knights of his personal guard, proudly climbed the steps to the top of the gallows platform. He waved to the people. The people called in return. His boots thudded distinctly on wood as he strode across the impromptu stage with thumbs hooked behind a wide, tooled leather belt of deep brown. His cape billowed mildly behind with each step taken until he stopped at the front edge of the platform, and raised an arm for a final salutation.
The crowd cheered
in reply.
Mykal saw a young woman clothed in deep blue velvet with a dark purple shawl wrapped about her shoulders and pinned to her throat by a large opal brooch. Under a thickly laced headband, her blond hair was pulled back, and braided.
Their eyes met. Mykal looked away. The king had no daughter, yet the striking young woman possessed the air of royalty. She was poised and dignified. Beautiful as well. He had no business holding her stare, but chanced another glance.
She looked at him still, her eyes wide.
He shook his head, lowered it, and allowed his eyes only the dirt around his feet. He’d offended her. The last thing he wanted or needed was trouble. He debated leaving the court. He could always lie to his grandfather, claiming the king never gave the names of those hung.
That wouldn’t work. His grandfather would know something was amiss.
The king spoke, breaking Mykal’s chain of thoughts.
“My people, we are gathered here this morning to see justice delivered.” Nabal stood with fists on his hips. His voice projected across the court as if he were a lion rumbling. The crowd was silent, staring up at their royal leader, waiting for his next words.
“The select knights of my army, my Watch, apprehended thieves attempting to scale our castle walls in the darkness of a moonless night.” He moved about on stage, his speech a part of the entire show. “For the creatures to have reached our very keep means they first had crossed into Grey Ashland borders, slinking past the guard patrols, and watch posts. How many of you slept unaware that animals were on your land? How many of you slept under the pretense of safety, unaware just how close to death you might have been?”
Mykal knew the people from the forest were more than woods’ people. His grandfather had alluded to the fact many were once knights, or had served the king in some way. However, the king had a valid point. He did not like the idea of these renegades sneaking into the kingdom. It was an unnerving thought.
King Nabal raised a fist into the air. “Countless times I warned the people of the Cicade Forest not to venture outside the safety of their haunted woods. I don’t fault them for coming to Grey Ashland. That, in and of itself, is no crime. The wrongness of their actions arises with the time of their arrival.
Why wait until the cover of night to approach our walls? Why attempt scaling the rock, when the front gate would be lowered in the morning?” He paused and looked over his people as if expecting an answer. No one spoke. The king gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
Mykal heard a rustling among those gathered, whispers, a shifting in the crowd, and then feet on the timber steps. He watched as the four criminals were led onto the platform. He stared at the slow sway of the empty nooses in the light breeze. Mykal raised a hand to his neck, thumb lightly stroked skin.
From the corner of his eye he saw the blond woman staring at him. She stood a few feet behind the king. It seemed like she wouldn’t, or couldn’t look away.
Next to Mykal, several ladies huddled close wearing dirt brown pleated dresses, stained white aprons, and all were already crying with arms around each other for support. Two looked like they wanted to rush the gallows and hug the criminals from the forest. Perhaps they knew the men sentenced?
The others in the crowd moved in tight around him, everyone fretful for the best view of the hanging. Shoulder to shoulder he stood among the other commoners, feeling self-conscious because he knew he was being watched, and claustrophobic because he could not move.
He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It was difficult to swallow. He should have brought water with him. How he’d forgotten a canteen was a mystery. The walk home under an afternoon sun would prove brutal. His grandfather told him he was always going too fast, and didn’t spend enough time thinking and preparing. Responsibility was oftentimes learned through mistakes.
“My people,” the king said, “these men were not coming to Grey Ashland to purchase meat, cheese, or ale from the marketplace. Not in the middle of our night. They were not coming to Grey Ashland to see friends or family. Their intent was far more sinister. We are thankful to have caught them before vicious acts were committed. We are thankful to have caught them before harm was done, before any thefts were carried out. While they were each given every chance, every opportunity, to explain their purpose for the late night visit, they have elected to give their names, but otherwise held their tongues, and remained silent about their true and sinister plans. Such silence is admission of guilt. My warnings were ignored. I have judged each one guilty. Their punishment, for what I declare a strike in cowardice against our peaceful kingdom, is death by hanging.”
A few gasps rose from the crowd, though it couldn’t have been a surprise.
Mykal kept his eyes on the king. He felt the weight of the woman’s attention. He knew she was still looking at him. It made small bumps rise on his skin. He wasn’t going to check, though. Nope. He refused to give reign to his curiosity seeking to avoid further embarrassment and potential trouble.
Two knights in chainmail under breastplates unshackled the four criminals, secured their hands behind their backs, and led them each to a noose. They placed loops over the Cicade men’s heads and pulled the knots tight to the back of their necks. Each of the intruders looked terrified, eyes wide, looking furiously left and right, desperate for impossible rescue. Chapped lips were barely visible beneath overgrown beards. The man on the far right urinated, the stain spreading down the front of his pants before pooling around his feet.
“Gary Slocum, Louis Styman, Haddly Wonderfraust, and Thomas Blacksmith, I find you guilty of malicious intent to raid and pillage the Grey Ashland Kingdom. For your crimes I sentence each of you to death by hanging. Because you elected to hold your tongues during questioning, I forbid any last words.” King Nabal nodded toward the executioner on the far right, beside the man who’d loosed his bladder.
In a black hood, with leather weapons belts crisscrossing his bare and muscular chest, the executioner gripped a lever, and pulled it toward him.
A trap door on the platform fell away. The four men dropped.
Women cried out at the horror of the sight, and continued crying perhaps from the loss of four lives.
The ropes snapped tight. The solid crossbeam barely moaned under the weight.
The men’s legs kicked. Eyes bulged from sockets. The first man, Gary Slocum, was lucky. His spinal cord snapped instantly. His lifeless form dangled in the air. The acrid odor of urine was joined with that of liquefied feces that streamed from released bowels. Shit dripped off the toe of his shoe. The other three fought dying, bucking and straining for air. Their battle lasted minutes. One by one their skin turned blue, their faces became engorged. Blood rolled like tears from eyes and ears. And then, one by one, lost the fight.
The spectators became silent, and remained long after the fourth man died. Everyone, that is, except the small group of gathered women. They bellowed, and two of them dropped to their knees. The others attempted helping them up, standing in front of them either blocking the women from a view of the bodies, or keeping them hidden from the King’s eyes.
Mykal noticed that the blond woman who was with the king was watching the women, and him, curiously, but when their eyes met he looked away.
The knight who pulled the lever drew his sword. Mykal expected the knight to sever the ropes and drop the bodies to the ground. Instead, the swords were driven into the right side of each hung man. The broadsword sawed through flesh and bone with a single thrust. Blood did not spray from the stabbings, it poured out of the wounds; fell between the boards and onto the dirt below the stage.
The bodies swayed like skinned cow on hooks at the butcher’s.
Mykal had completed his duty. He’d traveled to the court for the hanging as the king demanded, he’d learned the names of the men hung, as his grandfather wanted, and now, parched and uneasy due to the woman with blond hair’s regard, he turned to start home.
Peripherally, he saw her watching him sti
ll as he cut a path through the crowd. He walked quickly through the courtyard. His heart was a hammer inside his chest. He could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.
No, that wasn’t it.
He wasn’t sure how he knew, but his unease was not because something was wrong, it was because something was about to change. It was the only way he could describe it.
Something was about to change.
Chapter 4
Mykal’s grandfather rest in his chair on the front porch, his blanket still draped over his lap, his hands folded on top.
Mykal perched on the step in front. Silence filled the space between them for several moments.
“It’s going to rain,” his grandfather said.
“Was a pretty good storm over the sea last night. Thought for sure it would have made land. Don’t think it even reached the beach. The thunder and lightning kept me awake, so I watched the sky from my room. Wasn’t going to sleep, so figured, why not? It was an angry storm. One of the worst I’d seen in a while.” Mykal looked at the sky. “But not again today, I don’t think.”
“Another storm is coming.”
Mykal knew the old man’s leg was better at predicting weather than changes in pressure in the air, but sometimes he still opted to disagree. He stood up and clapped his hands on his thighs to pat the dust off his clothing. “There’s not one cloud. In fact, I’m going down to the sea to do some fishing. Catch us some dinner.”
“You be careful.” His grandfather nodded. “Oh, and Mykal, the names?”
Mykal sat back down. “They were men from the Cicade Forest.”
“Their names?” Grandfather said, his tone sharp.
Mykal closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured the king reciting the names. It refreshed his memory. “Gary Slocum, Louis Styman, Haddly Wonderfraust, and Thomas Blacksmith. Those were the men the king hung today. Their deaths were horrible. One died fast. The others refused to let go for as long as they could. I wasn’t sure they’d ever pass. It wasn’t anything I’d ever care to witness again. Grandfather?”
Severed Empire: Wizard's Rise Page 2
