by Alex Aguilar
III
Captives
John Huxley and the peasant boy named Thomlin sat in an elegant courtyard, surrounded by beautiful lush gardens with paths made of flat stone. The flowers were everywhere, a stunning assortment of blue and white amid patches of green. There were outdoor corridors all around the courtyard, with tall stone columns wrapped graciously in leafy vines, which also crawled along some of the lower walls surrounding the gardens. There were 4 fountains, one in every corner, and a sandstone statue of a young King Rowan at the very center of it all.
John and Thomlin felt the warm breeze of the afternoon hit their faces and they were struck with the sweet scent of honey and roses rather than the stench of the fertilizer John had grown so accustomed to. The chairs they were sitting in were patted with the softest cotton they had ever felt. For the two of them, such material was rare and would, if at all, be used for wardrobe worn only on special occasions such as a village feast in Elbon or Val Havyn’s autumn festival. In the King’s castle, however, such material was used for chairs, curtains and even table covers; the thought of it made the both of them feel considerably out of place.
A pair of servants walked out of the palace with trays in hand and approached them. They set the trays down on the garden table and unveiled a banquet that could have fed four people in either of their households. Twice.
Roasted duck with steamed vegetables and an entire plate of syrupy, assorted fruit. Another servant approached and poured wine into two tankards made of copper.
“My thanks,” John said, as the servants took a bow and walked away.
The farmer and the boy looked at one another, without moving a single muscle. It wasn’t until they heard the wooden door close behind the servants that they both threw themselves into the food, as if eating for the first time in a week.
“I owe you so much, sir,” Thomlin said, his eyes closed, savoring the tangy spice of the roasted bird wing on his plate.
“You owe me nothing. Just eat.”
They chuckled loudly together, their mouths full of the finest food they’d ever tasted. Never had they been surrounded by such lavishness, and though they felt a touch of discomfort, it wasn’t enough to prevent them from gulping it all down. Coming from a family of farmers, John seldom had the luxury of eating a full meal with more than a simple main course and water to ease it down. Suffice it to say, he would certainly not miss an opportunity like this.
Suddenly, the loud sound of a door being thrown open against the brick wall caused John to switch focus to an approaching guard. He was approximately John’s height, but at least twenty years older. He had short fuzzy brown hair, a patchy beard, and a grimace that looked like it was permanent. His expression showed disapproval and his eyes a false sense of authority.
As he reached the table, John realized the guard’s armor was far more elegant than most guards. The king’s emblem on the man’s chest armor made it clear that he was not simply any guard, but a knight of the king’s court.
The knight drew out and tossed a black leather sack at them. John was just able to catch it after setting down his fork. Based on the weight and the sound it made as it hit his hands, he realized the sack was filled with gold.
“I believe this is rightfully yours,” the knight said with a tone that could have been friendlier. “You’re both to return to wherever you came from after you’ve finished your meal.”
“Yes, sir,” John said. He tried his best to sit up straight the way a man of class would sit.
“I heard that you single-handedly brought down the thief Hudson Blackwood,” the knight said unexpectedly. Somehow, his tone gave John the impression that the knight did not want to be there and much less speak to a man of such lower authority. Yet it was the knight who chose to remain standing, towering over the table as if speaking down to a rival rather than an ally.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say single-handedly,” John said, unsure of how to respond.
“Yes, I wouldn’t say that either,” the knight replied. “And yet it’s all everyone in the city’s talking about; the farmer from Elbon that refused to allow a wanted thief to escape… Figured I had to meet you in person.”
John and Thomlin made eye contact once more. The sensation in John’s chest was a mix of discomfort and thrill. After all, it wasn’t exactly fame that the young farmer wanted.
Recognition, perhaps…
Since before he could remember, John Huxley had always been scared of his own triviality. To die without having made the slightest difference in the world was something along the lines of his greatest fear. To die without having accomplished anything. He wanted to be remembered, if only by a few, as someone who knew his purpose.
Perhaps that’s what John wanted. Purpose.
He simply lacked the guidance with which to find it.
“I wasn’t aware, sir,” John said nervously, clearing his throat with the last of the wine.
“Well… Enjoy it while it lasts, Mister Hoxxy,” the knight said.
“It’s, um… It’s Huxley…”
“Yes, I’m sure it is… It’s a shame no one will remember after a week, anyhow.”
And with that, the knight walked away holding his head up high as if it was him who had single-handedly fought a skilled criminal. His words had stung John, but they weren’t enough to bring the farmer’s joy down. Thomlin smiled at him.
“If you’re the one who captured him,” the knight turned around before stepping into the palace. “Then who’s the boy?”
John and Thomlin looked at one another, trying to devise a lie through a stare.
“I’m Thomlin, sir. I’m his f-”
“Nephew,” John blurted out.
Sir Biggs looked back and forth at the two… At John’s fair complexion, blonde hair, and blue eyes contrasting against Thomlin’s chestnut-colored hair and dark brown skin.
“Peasants,” the knight muttered with disdain as he slammed the palace door behind him.
The silence was only brief. John couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath.
“A man with that form and bearing can only be Sir Jossiah Biggs,” the boy said.
“I’ve seen him,” John nodded. “He was there yesterday when they nearly hanged that witch, wasn’t he?” John felt a sense of relief at the fact that the man’s demeanor was about the same with everyone else and not simply him.
“Sure was,” Thomlin said. “Something tells me if Sir Viktor Crowley hadn’t been there, he would have allowed the hanging.”
“Hmm… D’you know why he was ever knighted in the first place?”
“Honestly?” Thomlin shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
* * *
The day was warm enough outside, but the dungeons below the grounds of the king’s palace were cold and filthy. The walls and floors were made of grey bricks and stones, molded and placed together with such craftsmanship that it was hard to believe the palace had been built by humans.
Of course, it wasn’t built by humans. It was built by a workforce of elves and orcs. But it had been many centuries since, and it was quite easy for a king to lie about such matters.
On one particular chamber in the dungeon, there was a long corridor with individual cells on each side and steel doors on both ends of the corridor that worked as a passageway between the guard barracks and the palace gardens. This was where prisoners were kept who were awaiting the king’s verdict, before they were moved to the main dungeons, a place where not many would ever come out of.
Inside an exceptionally small cell, a young woman sat on the stone floor, finding the bug-infested cloth-matted bedspread too unpleasant to sleep in. She leaned back against the wall and though her eyes were closed, she had not slept in days; at least not for longer than a few minutes at a time. Her hands were wrapped in decaying ogreskin, held together by chains.
It was said that long before the Great War, during a time when witches lived among the rest of the populace in every city, they wou
ld use ogres as their servants. In order to spare any accidents, the witches had cursed these grey giants, making them entirely immune to magic. And so they remained that way over the centuries, generation after generation. The curse was so powerful, however, that even after death the ogres’ skin was immune to a witch’s magic and, when exposed to it, a witch was incapable of conjuring the most minimal spell.
Syrena, the young witch of Morganna, was no exception.
No one in Val Havyn had seen her do anything that came close to magic, and yet they were more than eager to hang her in broad daylight at the first accusation. Suffice it to say she was angry, and though part of her wanted to be rid of the ogreskin and enact her revenge against every civilian of Val Havyn, a greater part of her wanted simply to be free and as far from the kingdom as she could manage to run.
For 3 decades she’d been alive, and already she’d seen enough to rid her of any hope for a simple life; one that didn’t involve struggling to stay alive, at the very least, was all she really wanted. Yet she hadn’t known many people that didn’t want to capture her, kill her, or have her way with her merely for a touch of the exotic. And anyone living such a cruel reality would grow to despise humankind just the same.
After hours of peace and silence, Syrena was forced back to her senses when she heard the steel door open and the sounds of footsteps walking down the corridor, approaching her cell. She knew the guard was a mute, for it was the same guard that had thrown her in her cell when she was first brought there. The voice she heard had to have been coming from whatever prisoner was being dragged in.
“Y’know, for a man of your size and weight you’ve got quite a soft grip, mate,” she heard the prisoner speak, with a tone that wasn’t cordial but not exactly stern either.
This was followed by the guard’s abrasive grunt and the prisoner’s voice responding with, “Ahh, There it is! Now I feel like a proper crook.”
They stopped at the cell next to Syrena’s, though she wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of either man. She heard the doors opening, followed by the clinking of metal and the rattling of chains. The guard had removed the prisoner’s cuffs… and this sent a rush of anger into the young witch’s chest.
“One last question, mate,” the prisoner said. “When will lunch be served?”
The large, hairy guard grunted angrily and slammed his fist against the steel bars of the cell. A punch like that could break a man’s knuckles, but the guard did not wince a bit.
Hudson Blackwood smirked.
“Easy there, handsome. Wouldn’t wanna crack your pretty little bones.”
The witch was silent. Sitting in that position wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she feared if she moved a single muscle, the chains in her wrists would rattle and give her away. She waited for the sound of the chamber door slamming to sit up straight, hiding within the sounds of the echoing hall.
Almost by impulse, the thief began to look and dig around his cell like a hound in search of a scent. He flipped the bedspread over and kept his eyes peeled for anything sharp that might help him unlock the cell door. He was a man that, in his life, had found himself in many cages and dungeons and ultimately came to the realization that there was always a flaw. Grand or small, the man was an expert in using that flaw to aid him in his escape. He looked all around, touching and knocking gently on the walls.
But he felt nothing. No airflow or opening. Just perfectly smooth stone.
He grunted, like an animal in a cage, unaware that a startled presence was eavesdropping through the wall. The unexpected sound of his growl caused Syrena to become curious about the man. There was only so much she could tell from a few words and a grunt; she sensed he was on the younger side, not exactly seasoned, but not naïve either. After all, a man who would speak to a king’s guard the way he did was either a lunatic or knew exactly what he was doing.
Then, something caught the thief’s eye. There was one flaw after all, but one that he wasn’t sure would be of much help to him; an opening between the brickstones on the wall of his cell, connecting to the next, at about his knee’s height. He chose to ignore it for a moment as he paced and gathered his thoughts.
Meanwhile, the witch’s curiosity overcame her and she peeked through that very opening. Her heart was beating fast and she tried to breathe gently, anything to help remain undetected. She saw a man dressed entirely in black. Not a villager or a peasant, but an outsider, like herself. His smooth black hair fell to his shoulders and his scruffy face had a few imperfect scars, which despite his young age gave him a hardened look; the look of a man that has had to fight to survive on more than one occasion in his life.
The thief suddenly lifted his head up, narrowing his eyes as if he’d heard something in the distance. Syrena stopped breathing and moved slowly away from the opening. But it was too late.
“Who might you be?” he asked abruptly, his deep voice echoing in the silence of the dungeon.
She said nothing, hoping he would doubt his ears. Little did she know she was underestimating the aptitude of a skilled thief. When she decided to peek through the small gap in the bricks again, she found herself looking at the man’s knees. He began to kneel, as if to take a peek himself, and she backed away with a soft whimper, pressing her head and back against the wall.
“Ahh. Keeping me guessing, eh?” he said, less threateningly than she had expected. “That’s alright, frankly I don’t care who you are. But do me a favor, mate, and look around your cell. See anything sharp? A rock, a twig, anything?”
She hesitated to answer. But her eyes moved almost unwillingly, inspecting every corner of her cell.
“Nothing,” she said, and the man proceeded to sigh with frustration.
“That would have been too easy,” he said.
She heard his back sliding against the wall as he sat and leaned back. Had there been no brick between them, their backs would have been touching. They remained silent for a moment, both of them lost in thought. The witch was unused to any reaction from a man that wasn’t an attempt to hurt or kill her. She found herself with an odd feeling in her chest, and within that, the inability to speak a single word.
But the thief, much like her, was a solitary soul.
He sat there silently, contemplating on the many times he had escaped a prison cell. But this was Val Havyn, the capital of Vallenghard, and Hudson Blackwood was in no ordinary dungeon. This was the king’s castle. Certainly, he had been foolish enough to think it was anything but inescapable. But the thief always did enjoy a challenge.
A question lingered in the back of his mind, however, and he was far too distracted and curious to let it go unanswered. “Why are you in chains?” he asked.
Syrena hesitated again, a bit embarrassed that her attempt at subtlety was no match for the thief’s attentiveness. “How did y-?”
“I’m a cunning thief with an exceptional ear,” he interrupted, as if to speed the conversation along. “Your turn. Why are you in chains?”
She looked down at her wrists, bound tightly by the metal cuffs pressing against the reeking ogreskin. Her hesitation faded. Perhaps it was the protection of the brick wall. Perhaps it was the somewhat affable tone in the thief’s voice. She did not know why, exactly, but she answered him with as much honesty as he had answered her.
“I’m a witch…”
He didn’t respond at first, which made Syrena uneasy.
But an idea, or perhaps the seed of one, planted itself in the thief’s mind upon hearing her speak those words, and the feeling in his chest was far too familiar. It was almost like a pattern, the thief thought. First, there was the feeling of hopelessness and denial. Then came the necessary thought process of putting together a perfect plan. And finally, there was the part he favored best. The part where the seed of said perfect plan was planted and everything happened to fall into place in his mind.
He found himself smirking as he leaned his head back against the wall.
“A witch, eh?” he said. “How very i
nteresting.”
* * *
Princess Magdalena of Val Havyn was just as tenacious as her father. She was a young woman of 19 with fair skin, blonde hair, and a mind that was as promising as should be expected from a future queen.
“I don’t care what father says! I have the right to choose!” she said, pacing angrily and rapidly away from her handmaiden.
“Please, m’lady… the king asked that you appear presentable for Sir Darryk. He paid for the finest tailor in the city to make this for you.”
The princess stormed through the elegant and vibrant palace corridors, unsure of where exactly she meant to go. The library, the garden, anywhere she didn’t feel confined. Brie, the princess’s personal handmaiden, was following her majesty, holding an elegant red gown specially crafted for the princess’s figure and complexion.
“I am the princess of Vallenghard! I can choose who I will or will not look presentable for.”
She was beginning to lose her patience again, and though Brie was simply following the orders of her king, young princess Magdalena had half a mind to ask a guard to escort the handmaiden to the kitchen with the rest of the servants.
“Your father’s company will arrive at dusk, m’lady. We haven’t got much time to prepare.”
“Good!” Magdalena said, coming to a halt and facing her handmaiden directly. “Then come dusk, I can personally tell Sir Darryk that I am simply not interested in this marriage arrangement.”
“Your father only wants what is best for the kingdom,” Brie replied, unable to look her princess in the eye and instead looking down at her feet; her worn out slippers looked tattered and sad compared to the princess’s elegantly ornamented shoes.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the princess. “That is indeed all he cares about. Never mind what is best for his own daughter.” She turned and headed for the nearest door. She opened it and, as if it was her first time walking through the palace, she was thrown aback a bit as she felt the sudden breeze of the nearing dusk. She found herself in the palace courtyard, surrounded by the lusciously colorful garden, when she suddenly noticed a young man dressed in farmer’s clothes and a boy villager sitting at the table in the center of the garden.
