by Cale Madison
“You come back. I don’t wanna have to come find you like last time.” she warned me, “And don’t ever just slip away without telling me anything. That’s not us, Caine. That’s not who we are. Swear to me.”
I apologized again, made a promise and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of herbs and expensive lotions. I sniffed again and asked her, “What is that smell?”
“Beeswax and ginger from the queen’s bedroom.” she answered, quickly, “Shouldn’t have left the door wide open. Also, some herbs and gelatin. Royalties sure know how to keep their hair healthy and young. I would never find stuff like this in Port Mercia.”
“You stole her body lotions?!”
“Hush now. Put your eyeballs back in your head before you cause a scene!” she snapped, checking the corridors around us, “She’s a queen. A rich one at that. I’m sure that she can afford more. While you’re gone on the road, I’ll be doing what I can here. I’ll talk with Darius’s children, see if they know anything more.”
“He’s already talked to them?”
“I can be very persuasive. Just trust me. Hey, Skalige! Watch over this boy, please. Don’t let him out of your sight. It’ll be your head if anything happens!” she shouted, receiving a reluctant nod from the baron.
We gathered toasted bread, apples, turkey meat and other assortments of food for the journey after I bid farewell to Aketa. I did not know how far this vineyard was from the palace, nor did I know if this lead would prove essential at all, but it had to be worth the chance. After stocking our nightly supplies, we walked to the palace stables where knighted guards gave us two stallions for the venture. Skalige was given a black mare, her body scarred and battle-worn while I was given the bruised and weaker white horse with one blind eye. Before we rode through the massive, palace gates, he jokingly said, “Fitting.”
“Shut it. Do we have enough food?”
“Enough to last a few days.” he replied and rapped his fingers on his horse’s saddlebag, then withdrew something wrapped in cloth, “Oh, and this is yours. Courtesy of our friend, Ivan. Seems he really likes you.”
He tossed me a sword in a dark, leather sheath. I examined the craftsmanship, the perfect lining of the blade and the silver reflection of my face in the sun. I could see my brown, unwashed hair and my blue eyes looking back in a dull stare. The grip felt comfortable in my hand, weightless and deadly. The leather straps were branded with the golden Tuskan insignia. After a few minutes, I noticed that the baron was staring at me intently. He then asked, “Finished, princess?”
I dug my heels into the mare’s ribs, ushering him across the stableyard. We ventured through a connecting feedlot, where young men and women were tending to the livestock and horses. Spades were buried into piles of steaming dung and tossed inside of wheelbarrows. Hay became impaled by pitchforks before being tossed into wagons while the mud-caked servants hummed their merry songs in unison. The red Tuskan banners flapped elegantly in the wind, as if waving to us as we passed beneath them.
Standing on an open veranda that overlooked the stableyard was Queen Isabelle and her eldest son, Athalos. She appeared to be sternly lecturing him, using wide hand gestures as she pointed towards the palace. I briefly caught Skalige’s attention, whispering, “Look up there. What do you think she’s scolding him about?”
As he turned his head, the baron failed to see a clump of brown soaring through the air before it collided against the side of his face. He halted his horse in its tracks to wipe away the dung and shout, “Fucking perfect...who's the dead man who tossed this?!”
The youngest prince, Dane, leapt from his hiding place behind an overturned cart and attempted to flee. He tripped over an overturned bucket, sprawling face-first on the hard ground. The commotion startled a nearby pig, who squealed as if it were being led to its slaughter. Skalige dismounted his mare and followed after the troublemaker, calling out, “Run little man, keep running! I’ll chase ‘ye all the way to the Isles, let you taste real man’s shit! Better stay awake tonight!”
Dozens of armored guards swarmed into the stableyard with pikes drawn to protect their prince. Queen Isabelle descended from the veranda’s staircase in a huff, lifting her ornate dress to keep it from dragging through the mud. She snatched Dane by his left ear and rasped, “Apologize to him!”
“The big man chased after me, he did! I’ve done nothin’ wrong!” he cried out, wincing in fear as he tugged at her dress, “He’s threatened to wallop me, mother! He’ll beat me into a pulp!”
“I’ll give you one last chance to apologize or it’s twenty lashings!”
Prince Dane swallowed his pride and looked up at the baron. His cheeks were blushed and red. He then cracked a smile and said, “You know you’ve got some shit on your lip, right there! Hah! You almost ate it!”
As he laughed hysterically, the queen dragged him to a nearby guard and ordered, “Take him to his father and explain what happened. I’ll not have my own children treating our guests this way! It’s twenty lashings for you, young man! Better start thinking of an apology, Dane.”
“Right away, Your Grace.” the guard replied before taking Dane by the wrist and leading him into the palace. The prince turned and stuck his tongue out at the baron, who in return, flicked a piece of dung in his direction. I whispered over his shoulder, “Did you really have to stoop to his level?”
“My father would’ve beat me into the ground if I did something like that. Adaline was right about them. Little snob had it comin’.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry for that,” the queen said as she approached us, rubbing her temples to relieve the stress, “Dane is a well behaved child. He’s just misunderstood.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s what I’d call it.” Skalige muttered under his breath.
“Where are you two heading, now?” she asked. Her green eyes flashed beneath her dark eyeliner, darting between the two of us. I could see the heartache lurking behind those eyes.
“Bardford.” I answered, bluntly, “Following a lead.”
“You’re thinking that Malachi’s there? In Bardford?”
“Can’t say for certain, now, but it’s a promising start. I’ll send word to the palace should anything happen.” I said, struggling to maintain balance on the horse beneath me as it quivered.
“Then I shall send an escort with you. These roads are quite dangerous if you don’t know the way. Ankas and giants roam the wilderness of Tuskan, not to mention the thieves and hanses of bandits in the area. Seven armed guardsmen should suffice. I’ll leave at once to speak with the commander.” she said before I raised my hand to halt her.
“No need, Your Grace. We’d prefer to travel without detection. If someone’s taken Malachi, we would rather find them before they find us.” I said. She looked down for a moment to think while twiddling her fingers.
“Understood. Sometimes it’s best to keep a small company. Save travels, the both of you. Find my son and bring him home. May Opheria guide your way.” the queen said with a vigorous bow. As we trotted through the stableyard, I could see Athalos sitting on the overhanging veranda with his legs crossed. He did not smile, nor bid us farewell as we passed beneath him.
“When we get back, I’m going to put cow shit in that boy’s dinner.” Skalige muttered under his breath, “See him smile with chunks of shit wedged between his teeth. Little rich bastard.”
“Let it go.” I replied, shaking my head, “Just let this one go, Skalige.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FOLLOWING THE THREAD
When we departed from the palace, the time was nearly late morning. The sun had barely reached its highest position before we reached the road’s fork. Skalige and I rode with determination, prepared to endure harsh climates but we were met with a cool, summer breeze and tolerable heat. Farmers waved their pitchforks to greet us as we rode by, women and maidens flaunted their bushels of wheat and passing errants bid us a safe passage. The only storm clouds were several miles north-west of us.
&nb
sp; I followed the path from the palace, spotting the two boulders that rested against the southern wall and imagined what direction Malachi would have taken. Rainfall had washed away any hope for footprints and there wouldn’t be a village for miles, so we were left with no leads apart from Krea. The passing merchants and traveling families continued to grin and wave to us as we crossed paths.
“It’s fuckin’ eerie, isn’t it?” Skalige blurted, “They keep smiling and waving. It’s almost as if they’re all hiding something. Nobody’s this friendly.”
“Not saying it’s you, Skalige, but it might just be you.” I replied, nudging my horse to move faster. The rolling hills of Tuskan’s beautiful countryside welcomed us with a loving embrace. We were heartedly greeted by laborers carrying bottles of wine and merrymaking bands as they passed by, strumming their lutes and banging heavy drums. One band of three bards crossed our path, already playing a song. They looked to be no older than twenty.
One of the minstrels began plucking the strings of his fiddle as he sang, “O’ how the pair rode north on their steeds with ‘naught but a grin, hair rustling in the breeze. One was big, kinda’ ugly with a half-charred mug and the other was the, eh, younger, better looking of the thugs. They were both heading south, bounty hunters on the path...both heading south, bounty hunters on the path…”
The baron effortlessly snatched his fiddle from his hands and smashed it over his knee cap. The strings made a comical twang sound as they burst from the wood’s bolts. The merry band became deathly silent as he tossed the splintered instrument into the high grass below. Their faces turned a shade of pale so white, one might’ve thought they were going to vomit.
“Piss off with your damned songs and soppy poems!” he shouted, angrily.
“Scoundrel! You big, dimwitted oaf, you! How dare you talk to us like this? Don’t you know who I am?! I’ll have you know that my father manages in the palace treasury! He’ll have your head for this!” the bard cried out, his eyes becoming watery with angry tears. He wiped them away, trying not to be noticed by his companions.
“I’d like to hear that song, someday, I truly would. Make sure you pronounce my name right, bard. It’s ‘Skal-eh-guh’, Baron of the Badlands whose broken your lute. Until I hear that song, you can all sod off. Go write a song about a dandelion or a, eh, butterfly or something.” said the baron, who threateningly motioned towards the knife on his belt, “Begone with you!”
As soon as the minstrels had shuffled off onto the road behind us, I turned to my friend and asked, “Have something against musicians? Nurmels and now bards? I’m sensing a disdain for harmless beings.”
“Men fight in wars. Women write poetry about their feelings. Did you see those boys’ clean faces? Their primped hair? Those sods had never held a sword in their lives so why should they prance about, singing and dancing? Celebrating nothing they’ve earned, themselves. Those same boys are the ones who sing about the cruelty of war when they avoided the draft themselves. Rightfully pisses me off, it does. His father can buy him a new one with his treasury money.” he answered and I partially understood his passion behind it. The baron was a man of conquest and victor of battles, not the likes of dallying around with nobles and poets.
He would not get along with Petri Calloghan. That was certain.
***
Ivan led Gavin into the palace dungeon, where they discovered five Tuskan guardsmen and three blindfolded men. The prisoners rattled their iron chains, knocking them against the stone floor. Their breastplates that lay in the cell’s corner showed the golden crest of Arrigon: a two headed stallion with a spear driving through their connecting throats. Gavin bent over to examine them and asked, “What happened out there? How many men did we lose?”
“Five, my Lord. They were ambushed by a hunting party moving through Orson’s Hollow. These three were captured outside of Dadelberg with a cart full of weapons and ammunition.” Ivan reported, leaning against the cold, mold-splotched wall behind him.
Gavin placed his hand over the middle prisoner’s forehead, running his ringed knuckles over his trembling cheek. He then leaned close and said, “Look at this one, here. You wear the Arrigon crest, but do you truly love your country? Would you give your life for your duchess?”
The prisoner spat blood on the floor and replied, “You don’t scare me. I don’t frighten at the bark of lap dogs. Fuck off.”
Gavin smiled and ripped away his blindfold, making sure that he could see his captor. The lord patted his open palm on the prisoner’s face and said, “I want you to see the man who’s going to change your life. I won’t kill you, at least not today. I am going to hurt you, make you wish you were dead. It all depends on how this little talk goes. Now, we know that you’ve got camps stationed in the Further. Tell us exactly where and what you’re planning.”
“I’m not helping you.” he said slowly, spitting out each word.
“I thought you’d say that. I admire your resilience. You know, for years, I’ve been waiting to send a message to your duchess. Written letters can be misinterpreted or lost along the way, but a raven in the night has never failed me. Now, it appears I’ve finally found my raven.” the Lord said, drawing close to the man’s face, “Grab his arms and hold him down.”
The prisoner lunged at Gavin, quickly becoming restrained to the wall with his shackles tightened. The Hand applauded his bravery and declared, “Raven’s are superior at delivering messages but you, my friend, are a wild catch. Thus, your wing shall be clipped so you can’t fly too far from the road. Break one of his arms.”
With the snap of his fingers, one of his guards straightened the prisoner’s left arm before the other brought a mallet down upon his elbow. The shattering crack of the bone echoed through the dungeon halls, followed by the Arrigonian’s cries of agony. Gavin whispered an order into one of his guard’s ears before turning back to speak to the prisoner, “Ravens are the largest of the songbird family. We can’t have ours singing to the wrong ears, can we? You’re a man of few words in here but out there, you may be a different man entirely. Open his mouth and hold him still.”
The Lord wrenched back the man’s face and brought a sharp knife to his mouth. Two of his guards held his thrashing head as Gavin began carving his tongue with quick precision. His shrill cries echoed through the dungeons, where hundreds of other prisoners were covering their eyes and ears. When the deed was done and a bloody pool was gathered on the floor, the Hand wiped his knife clean and whispered, “Now, the raven won’t sing to anyone.”
“How will he deliver the message? You’ve taken his tongue?” one of the guards asked.
“He is the message.”
The Arrigonian lowered his head as he wept, vomiting dark blood onto the dungeon floor. He knew that, regardless of the information he could spill, Gavin would break him into pieces before sending him back to his home. He stepped behind him, grasped his trembling shoulders with his bloody fingers and said, “Your country that you love so dearly would sell you out to save their skin...without hesitation. How does that feel? To protect those who wouldn’t do the same for you?”
The prisoner mumbled something that Gavin could not interpret.
“Oh, right. Nearly forgot.” he said with a cracked smile.
“What about the other two?” one of the guards asked.
The Hand thought for a moment and said, “Ravens never fly in flocks, but they won’t be much use to us dead. Take them to the lower cells. We’ll see what exactly they know. We need Arrigon to learn what happens when they breach our borders. The duchess won’t make a mistake like this again.”
“And what about him?”
“Who? The hero?” Gavin asked with a laugh before turning back towards the mumbling prisoner, “He doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk with us right now. Drag him behind your fastest horse with three escorts. When he’s reached Fortaare, cut him loose but make sure they see him. They won’t be able to ignore his message.”
Then, Gavin began cutting i
nto the Arrigonian’s bare chest with his knife, carving out the first letter: L. As each word began to take form, the prisoner wailed in pain, pleading for his captor to stop. Soon, the message became clear, deeply scrawled into the prisoner’s flesh:
L E A V E T U S K A N
“Are you insane? What would the king say if he knew about this?” Ivan barked at Gavin as he began ascending the dungeon’s winding staircase. The Hand halted in his tracks and turned towards the soldier, “Sometimes, insanity is a blessing to those who have to make the hard call. This is for the good of our people, sir...eh...I haven’t caught your name yet, have I?”
“Ivan von Kallenbach IV, sir.”
“Well, that’s a mouthful of a name, Ivan. I’ll tell you now that the king will never learn of what happened today. The soldier returns to Arrigon as a warning, so that the duchess will stop sending her men onto our soil. Should she declare war over one man, so be it, but it will be a swift victory for us. Their military strength relies on their knowledge of the Dread Mountains, while ours relies on nothing but our great numbers,” the Hand explained as he descended the stairwell, “and they wouldn’t dare attack our borders. Starting today, Tuskan begins its greatest battle in the past thirty years. If we claim Fortaare, we control the sea as well. Soon, their allies will bend the knee to us and the entire north will be flying Tuskan banners. Can’t you see that?”
The knight said nothing.
“Do you have children, Sir Ivan?”
He hesitantly answered, “Yes. Two boys.”
“Fantastic. How old are they?”
“Three and five years old.”
“And are they in Brunson?” Gavin asked, peering down at the knight with an intense stare, “Orson’s Hollow? Or are they in Dadelburg?”
