by Alex Aguilar
“Why’d we hire the human filth anyway?”
“Look at ‘em. Bunch o’ scrawny bastards.”
“I said lower yer fuckin’ voices…”
Captain Malekai Pahrvus approached the herd of soldiers on horse. He was calm and determined and though he wasn’t smiling, it was obvious that he was enjoying the power that fate had placed in his hands.
“Attention, gentlemen,” he said. “The royal city of Val Havyn is just ahead of those hills… I want every able-bodied man to prepare to march. The rest of you will stay here and look after the horses and prisoners.”
There was a sudden tension among the crowd, in particular among the trio of orcs that stood near the front. They began whispering and shooting glares at Malekai.
“What did ye just say…?” asked the largest of the 3 orcs, with a glare so menacing that Malekai had to choose his words carefully.
“This here’s Gravenstone, lad. We cannot risk th-”
“My name’s not ‘lad’,” the orc interrupted. “It’s Okvar… the Destroyer.”
Malekai hesitated. He glanced at his company of red mercenaries, all of whom were prepared to fight for him should things get out of hand. He knew that the Brotherhood was serving him and not Baronkroft. And if he wanted to keep it that way, he would have to show no sign of weakness.
“Pardon me, Okvar,” he cleared his throat and returned the glower right back at the orc. “But it seems I didn’t make myself clear… We need every able-bodied man to march with us to the royal city.”
Malekai took a moment to eye the orc up and down.
“Tell me… are you a man?” he asked him daringly.
Okvar clenched his teeth with rage and gripped his axe, preparing to dismount his horse.
At that moment, however, a deep voice broke the tension. “Easy now, brothers…”
Lord Baronkroft was on foot, walking so confidently that he had no need for a horse to be intimidating. “I believe what our new friend, Captain Malekai, is trying to say… is that folks here are a bit… shall we say, reserved. They don’t take well to outsiders. One look at the color of your skin and they’ll be rushing to fetch the guards.”
Okvar was not happy, but he kept quiet all the same and let go of his axe.
“Are we ready?” Baronkroft asked the captain of the Brotherhood.
“Say the word, sir,” Malekai grinned. “And we march.”
“Excellent… Let’s not waste another moment, then…”
The troops began to make way for the hills, about a hundred of them, all of them human. The rest had no choice but to stay put and await their commander’s safe return… All of them except for one stubborn orc with a thirst for a good fight.
Okvar turned to one of his two comrades, making sure to keep his head down and not be overheard. “Make yerself useful,” he said. “And go find me a good helmet…”
* * *
John Huxley had grown accustomed to waking up in the same dusty room, his back resting against the same lumpy bedspread for nearly twenty years. On this particular day, however, he was awakened by a tugging on his wrist and the tapping of his head against the wood of a moving carriage. He found himself sitting next to the wanted thief Hudson Blackwood, who held the reins in his hands as they traveled at full speed through the busy streets of Val Havyn.
Needless to say, the farmer was wide awake within seconds.
“Are you out of your damn mind?!” John shouted over the sound of horse hooves and screaming citizens diving to avoid the moving carriage.
“Make yourself useful, mate! Distract the blokes!” Hudson shouted back.
“Distract who?!”
“Behind us!”
John turned back, only to see a force of about six or seven guards speeding after them. He felt the sudden urge to hop out onto the cobblestone roads until he realized his wrist was still cuffed to the thief’s.
“Stop the cart!” he demanded.
“Not happening,” the thief didn’t even turn to look at him; his eyes were fixed on the road and more importantly on the approaching bridge under which vagabonds slept at night and merchants set up shop during the day.
“Stop the cart now!”
“Keep shouting, mate. It’s working,” the thief said, referring to the frightened horses pulling them faster ahead. For a moment, John shuddered at the sight of a distracted child munching on an ear of corn in the middle of the road. Luckily, a woman with the reflexes of a wildcat pulled the child away just in time before the horses trampled over him.
“This is it, mate,” Hudson Blackwood said, taking a peek behind them. “As soon as we cross that bridge, we jump!”
“Are you mad?! I’m not going anywhere with you!” John protested.
“I’m afraid you’ve got no choice.”
“The guards are after you, not me!”
“Are they now? Because if I were a guard, all I’d see is a wanted thief and his companion rushing to make an exit.”
“You’re insane,” John said in disbelief.
At that moment, however, an arrow struck the wood of the carriage. Had the backrest not been there, it would have hit John in the back. His eyes widened. The thief said nothing; his point had been made.
The carriage reached the bridge. Hudson dropped the reins, rose to his feet and yanked at the chain, pulling a staggered John Huxley along with him. They stood on the wood along the edge of the carriage, before the thief locked eyes with the farmer and gave him a nod.
“Now!”
And so they jumped, landing on the cloth above a fruit stand where a one-legged man sat smoking a pipe of tobacco. They rolled off the cloth, Hudson landing on his feet with an agility that could only be gained with years of thievery. John, in contrast, slammed into the floor on his side. He groaned in pain.
“This way, mate!” the thief said, but then his wrist jerked him backwards.
John, stubborn as he was, planted his feet firmly on the ground, his eyes showing no sign of jesting. “As I said before,” he said, adrenaline pumping heatedly in his veins. “I can’t let you go.”
All around them, worried eyes stared and chatty lips murmured.
The thief sighed and rolled his eyes once more and with the swiftness of a fox he drew his blade again. Despite his sneering demeanor, his wide eyes and sharply curved eyebrows made for quite the intimidating stare when the moment called for it.
“You either do as I say or I’ll chop your bloody hand off, mate. Your move.”
John Huxley reached for his rusty blade, but panicked when he felt nothing but the leather of his belt. Nearby, a woman shouted for the guards. The thief wasted not another second and swung his sword again. John stepped back, dodging every incoming attack. The chain that kept them together was just long enough for a cushion of space between them. John was pushed further and further back until he felt his ankle thump against the wood of the fruit stand, where the one-legged man had fallen asleep with the lit pipe still on his lips.
Hudson panicked and poked his weapon forward.
John moved, the blade missing his chest by a fraction of a second. But the movement caused him to lose his balance and his back pressed against the fruit. Then he looked up… There, he saw the black silhouette of his blade on the cloth above, outlined by the light of the sun. It may have been the adrenaline that gave him the speed but before he knew it, John had grabbed the thief’s arm and swung it upward.
Hudson’s rapier poked a hole through the cloth, and when he pulled back he broadened the tear and John’s sword slid through the gap. John caught it and unsheathed it just in time.
A crowd began to gather around them, as the farmer and the thief clashed swords again and again. But both of them were equally as tenacious and though the thief had the advantage of speed, the farmer’s skill in defense was keeping him alive.
An arrow sped by, missing the thief by just a hair and piercing through an oversized melon on the fruit stand. Both John and Hudson paused in their tracks, th
eir blades still touching, and realized there was a formation of guards lined up on the road with bows in hand and arrows held back at the ready.
“Oh shit,” the thief said.
John had a slight moment of panic. He turned to the thief and mirrored his every move.
Together, they stepped onto the wood and hopped over the fruit stand, just in time for the sea of arrows to miss them. The fruit’s nectar splattered over the road with every arrow that struck.
“This way, mate!” the thief pulled the chain.
They crawled towards an empty alleyway nearby and began running.
* * *
“Mum!” Robyn Huxley said, rushing agitatedly through the cottage’s front door. “Mister Beckwit is out front asking for you! It’s about John!”
Adelina was by the wooden fence a mere 5 seconds later, greeting the old man, only this time she didn’t carry her usual affable smile. The first thing she noticed was the concern in Mister Beckwit’s eyes, and then she felt her stomach turn at the sight of the black cloud of smoke in the distance.
“What happened?!” she asked.
“You need to get over there. Now!” said Beckwit, “Seems your son’s a bit of an imbecile.”
“Did something happen to him?!” Robyn asked worriedly, wiping the black curls away from her sweaty brow.
“Robyn, get back inside!” Adelina said, but young Robyn remained within proximity so as to purposely overhear.
“Larz and Henrik just got in. They said the wanted thief Hudson Blackwood’s been spotted in the city… Last they saw, our dear John was… well, he was running after him…”
“He what!?”
“Mum, I must go with you!” Robyn argued.
“Robyn!” Adelina shouted. Robyn cringed for a moment. “Stop arguing with me, girl, and do as I say! Ready a horse. I’m going into the city. Alone!”
* * *
This is it, John Huxley thought. There’s no coming back from this…
Every muscle in his body fought the urge to continue. Every breath had felt like his last. Never in his life had he been persecuted by the royal guard. Never had he had to dodge so many arrows or climb so many rooves.
Hudson Blackwood was a wanted man and John had made the stupid mistake of cuffing himself to him, without considering the very real possibility that he would tangle himself into the thief’s mess. It was scary enough to have to flee for your own life and have your heart nearly implode from the thrill. What was perhaps scarier for John, however, was the realization that he was slightly enjoying it.
The two men stopped to catch their breath at an empty alley behind an inn. John was sitting with his back against the wall while Hudson was on one knee, rinsing his wrist with a jug of water that he had snatched from a drunken man, while the drunken man was busy trying to haggle his way out of an unpaid debt. As the thief poured the water, he tried desperately to slide his hand out of the steel cuff. His aggression was only causing his skin to irritate and there were traces of blood smearing out of a cluster of scabs that were possibly already there before that day; the thief had so many hidden wounds, it was hard to tell.
“You won’t break out of that unless you purposely shatter your own wrist bone,” John said.
Hudson grunted and shot him a menacing glare. “If I were you I’d keep my mouth shut, mate,” he said. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be out of this bloody city by now.”
“I’m sorry,” John said. “But I couldn’t let you escape. It’s against my principles.”
“Principles?” Hudson snickered. “Pardon me. Didn’t realize you were both a farmer and a moron.”
“Piss off…”
“The man that owns that tavern is a pontificating, malignant arsehole that beats his ward. So tell me, how does that settle into your principles?”
John raised a brow suddenly. “How can you tell he beats him?”
“How can you not, mate?”
John stammered. The thief’s words were sending a knot to his throat. “W-Well… I don’t believe a man being an arsehole gives you the necessary judgment to burn down his tavern.”
“I know it doesn’t. That was for stealing my coin purse.” Hudson pulled out a lockpick, no bigger than his little finger, and began working at the lock on the cuff. John took a moment to examine the thief. The portrait of him on the city streets was accurate to an extent; they hadn’t quite gotten his eyes right.
The portrait made him out to look intimidating and ruthless.
In person, Hudson’s eyes were those of a conflicted man. A man that had seen his share of troubles in his life and made every wrong decision. Not that he didn’t learn from those decisions, he certainly did. He learned that humankind was wretched and cruel and he found little reason to be any different in return.
Suddenly, there was a loud clink and the cuff snapped open. Hudson let out a soft chuckle and threw the cuff at John, who was both staggered and conflicted about his next move. The thief rinsed his wrists once again, sighing cleverly with relief.
“I’ll let you off with a warning this time, mate,” he said. “You’re not exactly worth my precious time and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of exhilarating farming duties to get to anyhow.” He removed his black hat and shook what little dust had gathered since the last time he had cleaned it, which, in this particular instance, was merely an hour ago.
“But I will say this,” the thief continued. “There’s a fine difference between being brave and being reckless, mate… Do us all a favor and learn it, will you?”
John rose to his feet, chain and cuff in hand and subtle hesitation in his eyes. Hudson turned towards the main road, but his feet came suddenly to a halt. The alleyway was suddenly blocked by a barricade of spears and about a dozen men in heavy armor. Another dozen approached them from the other end of the alley, surrounding them both.
“Oh dear…” Hudson said with a hint of concern.
The guards closed in on them, their weapons ready to strike if the thief tried anything.
“Listen, gentlemen,” Hudson cleared his throat. “If this is about that cottage window back there… He broke it.” He aimed at John with his thumb.
Behind the guards, on the main road, another man in armor leapt off his white stallion. The guards made room for him, bowing their heads with respect as the man walked past them. He was tall and blonde, and somewhere in his late forties. The design on his armor made it clear that he was of higher authority. John recognized the knight immediately upon seeing the golden emblem of the eagle on his back.
“Well now,” Sir Viktor Crowley said. “If it isn’t the infamous thief Hudson Blackwood.”
“In the flesh, old mate,” Hudson said, taking a bow and then eyeing the golden knight from head to toe. “And who are you, the king’s jester?”
Sir Jossiah Biggs, who stood nearby, unsheathed his sword and growled at the thief’s mocking remark, before Sir Viktor stopped him with a mere hand signal.
John’s hands were in the air as were the thief’s. The guards had stepped closer with their spears up, hardly giving the two any space to move.
“And you are?” Sir Viktor asked, looking in John’s direction.
The farmer froze and his throat went dry instantly. He’d felt slightly uneasy standing just yards away from the golden knight two mornings prior. But now that Viktor was just three feet away, the unease was nearly unbearable.
“Um… John Huxley, sir… John Huxley of Elbon.”
“Mister Huxley,” Sir Viktor greeted him with a handshake, and then glanced at Hudson with a spiteful glare. “I believe we owe you our gratitude… You’ve aided us in the capture of a very dangerous man…”
Hudson kept his eyes locked on Sir Viktor Crowley. Had the circumstances been a bit different, he would have considered fighting off the knight in combat; after all, they both were quite gifted with a blade. He knew, however, that Crowley wouldn’t hesitate to order his beheading. And so the thief had no exception but to yield.
Now
, rumors in Val Havyn had the tendency of spreading like wildfire, and this particular instance was no exception. Crowds of peasants were staring from a distance, attentive and alert. Within minutes, John Huxley’s name had been spoken more times than King Rowan’s had when it came out that the king had passed out nude on the shores of Lotus Creek behind his palace.
“Remove the cuffs from Mister Huxley,” Viktor motioned to his men. “And see to it that he gets his reward and a warm meal for his service. As for Mister Blackwood… lock him in the dungeons until the king returns. Do try and keep him in one piece.”
Hudson was suddenly struck by a sharp blow to the back that brought him down to his knees. Two guards began punching and kicking him, while another grabbed and cuffed his hands. The thief had his face pressed against the cobblestones and though he tried to hide it, there was a very real pain and anguish in his eyes. For a moment John resisted the urge to turn back and help the man to his feet. But it was too late. The thief had been caught.
A sweaty guard who looked rather unfit for his profession greeted John and removed the cuff from his wrist. “This way, sir,” he said.
When they reached the main road, every pair of eyes was on John Huxley. Peasants were aiming their fingers at him, whispering gossip at one another, spreading the word about the brave farmer who drew his blade at the infamous thief Hudson Blackwood. Among them was a curious boy holding a basket of baked goods.
“Thomlin!” John said eagerly.
“Sir!” the boy smiled and stepped forward.
“Is he with you?” the guard asked.
The farmer nodded and, out of fear, he lied.
“Um, yes… Yes, actually. He’s my squire.”
The guard raised a brow and glanced back and forth at the two of them. He wasn’t convinced, but seeing as the crowd of peasants was starting to brow in abundance, he shrugged and said, “Very well…”
And so it happened that, on that 13th day of spring, the farmer and the boy were escorted to Val Havyn’s royal palace, unaware of the bloodshed that would take place there that afternoon.
