by Alex Aguilar
Viktor tried to fight them off. It took three men to hold him down against the dirt, while the other six had their weapons aimed at the defenseless company. The nameless man held up Viktor’s graceful blade, examining its beauty one last time.
“Such a beautiful blade, chief,” he said spitefully. “It’ll be an honor to kill you with it.”
Viktor couldn’t bear to glare at him any longer. He turned his head the other way, his right cheek pressed against the dirt as he faced his company. He locked eyes with every single one of them, one by one. They were all frightened, he could tell. And then he turned to the only pair of eyes that didn’t share that look.
Hudson Blackwood stared right back, trying to concoct a plan through a stare.
It wasn’t entirely clear if the knight was glaring at him or begging for help.
Either way, the thief’s reaction was far too late…
The nameless man raised the blade over his head. “Give my regards to the gods,” he said, and then swung the blade down. And then the haunting sound of piercing flesh echoed all around.
The nameless man screamed all of a sudden… Every single person in Viktor’s company winced as the blade missed Viktor’s neck by just a few inches. The nameless man held up his arm, groaning with pain as his face hardened into a grimace.
An arrow was sticking out of it…
An arrow carved out of a willow’s branch with decorative feathers on the unsharpened end…
There was a brief silence, during which every person present shared the same perplexed look in their eyes.
For Hudson Blackwood, however, this was far too great an opportunity to ignore… He cracked his neck and smiled. And it took a mere second for him to disarm the distracted bandit closest to him.
“Hey! What are y-”
Hudson slit the bandit’s throat with one quick swing. And then he drew the hidden dagger in his boot and threw it at another bandit, striking him in the chest.
“Kill ‘em all!” the nameless man shouted.
But Viktor’s company joined Hudson and began to fight back.
There was a skirmish, and the bandits found themselves struggling. The Davenport brothers were quick, dodging attacks and countering with their own. Thaddeus Rexx hardly needed a weapon and used his fists. Cedric hid behind his horse. And Jossiah Biggs used his steel gauntlets to block the bandits’ blades as he threw himself on the grass and snatched his weapon back.
John Huxley had no idea where to begin. Bodies fell and stumbled around him and blood began to stain the grass. He crouched near his horse as he looked for a weapon, when suddenly a nearby voice shouted, “Hey! Farmer!”
Much to John’s surprise, it was Hudson that tossed him a blade; it was curved like a hook and heavier to wield but it didn’t, by any means, slow the farmer down. He fought bravely, lunging forward and rolling on the grass the way he often would when training in his barn.
The nameless man was pulling at the arrow on his arm, unsure of where it had come from, when he noticed Viktor Crowley approaching him menacingly. He swung at Viktor, but the knight ducked and tackled the man down to the dirt, the elegant blade slipping from his grasp.
In a matter of minutes, Viktor’s men had their weapons back, and there was not a single casualty among their company. Six of the raiders were now dead and the other three were on their knees, their hands held up in surrender.
The nameless man was lying back against the dirt and much to everyone’s surprise Viktor was on top of him, viciously landing punch after punch with as much strength as he could muster. He looked enraged, like a man on the edge of losing his mind, and Jossiah felt compelled to step towards him.
“That’s enough, old boy,” he said.
But Viktor did not stop. Something in the man had overcome him. All of the rage that had built up inside his chest was being released through his fists. Jossiah had to grab him by both arms to stop him from killing the man.
“Viktor!” he shouted. “That’s enough! He’s done!”
The golden knight had his blade back, and the urge to stab it into the nameless man’s neck was far too strong.
“Listen to your ape, chief,” the nameless man coughed over the dirt, spitting out blood and a chipped tooth.
Viktor simply stood there, panting, sweating, and shivering with wrath.
John Huxley unstrapped his blade from the back of the kneeling bandit with the cheek tattoos. He placed his hand on the soft bone of the hilt and unsheathed about an inch of it, as if to confirm it was still there, and then strapped it back to his belt. The bandit shot him a scowl and a flicker of the nose.
It was over… Viktor’s company had won…
Suddenly, however, a loud cry echoed in the distance followed by the startling sound of bones snapping.
And then a rapid wind chill began to blow from the west…
“S-Sir?” young Cedric said, rising out from behind his horse, his eyes gazing in the direction of the Woodlands. “W-What is that…?”
Viktor took a gander.
A man was running down the hill, screaming and shouting like a madman. He was dressed in rags and furs like the rest of the bandits, and he was distraught and out of breath as he shouted something along the lines of, “Run!”
The entire company gathered closely, their swords still drawn and their gazes aimed in the same direction. Behind the running man, something began to crawl down from the top of the hills, something inhuman… It was large and black and had eight legs attached to it.
John Huxley’s jaw dropped.
And then the creature was followed by four more just like it.
“To the horses!” Viktor shouted.
Within seconds, the company got back on their horses and galloped away. The setting sun to the west was blinding them, but when they rushed around the hill, John glanced back and could see the creatures over the pasture. Spiders the size of sheep were scattering towards the fallen bandits.
“Arachnians, boss!” one of them shouted as the nameless man stumbled to his feet drenched in his own blood. There were five spiders in total, the smallest about twice as large as his monkey.
“Shoot the chief!” the man said. “We’ll take care of the furry bastards.”
Then the nameless man and two of his remaining men grabbed their curved blades from the dirt and faced the spiders fearlessly, as if they were used to hunting them down.
The last bandit cracked his neck and aimed at Viktor Crowley with his bow. The knight was a good distance away by then, but his white stallion and red cape made for an easy target. The bandit pulled the string back tightly, his fingers still and firm without the slightest hint of a shiver.
And then an arrow struck him…
The bandit dropped his bow and his arrow shot aimlessly into the sky. He looked down, slowly and profoundly confused… His chest was leaking red, and an arrow was sticking out of it. When he pulled it out, he saw that it was hand-carved with a wooden tip rather than steel, just like the arrow that had struck the nameless man’s arm. And it had come from the east, from somewhere among the pine trees.
“S-Sir,” he tried to call for help, but his voice was weak and faint like a whisper. And the blood began to pour from his chest furiously. He glanced towards the east, and there he caught the figure hiding in the distance…
A woman, perhaps still a girl, was standing behind a pine tree with a bow in her shivering hands.
“S-Sir!” he called again, but his comrades were busy fighting off the spiders.
And so he chose to approach the girl himself, one final effort before he dropped to his death.
From a distance, the girl pressed her back against a pine tree and panted heavily, her sweaty hands struggling to keep her grip on her bow. Her blonde-haired pony waited nearby, hidden behind a hefty shrub. And she wanted to run to it and ride away, but she could hardly move from the agitation. She did not want to kill the bandit; she wanted merely to slow him down.
Except now the man was appro
aching her, slowly but surely.
She grabbed another arrow from her quiver and stretched the string of her beloved bow Spirit.
She counted to three but couldn’t find the strength to let go.
The bandit was coming closer…
She counted to three again. But still, her hand refused.
And so she set it down and breathed heavily and worriedly, taking the time to concentrate. When she looked back up, the bandit was slowing his pace down. He came to a halt just a few yards away as his chest continued to ooze red. And then his knees gave in… He fell frontward and his head slammed against the dirt.
He was dead.
And the girl nearly fainted from the shock. She had only ever killed rodents and wolves, and now her arrow had taken a human life. An unsettling warmth crawled up her throat suddenly and she found herself vomiting the eggs and water she ate for breakfast.
She breathed heavily, her bow still at hand.
Focus, she told herself. Now is not the time for this…
She placed her arrow gently back with the rest. If she was to catch up to her brother, she could not allow for any distractions. With one last glance for safety, she mounted her pony and began riding away.
Part of her wanted to turn around and ride back home. Her persistence, however, would not allow it. And she tapped her foot against the belly of the pony to make it gallop faster, as she followed closely behind her brother and the rest of the company.
The determination was as vivid in her eyes as it always was.
Robyn Huxley had come too far to turn back now.
She galloped into the darkness of the Woodlands, unaware of the horrors that would wait within…
* * *
A strange encounter took place that evening in the city of Roquefort. It was a night that changed the course of history, not only for young Princess Magdalena but for the entire kingdom of Vallenghard.
Roquefort was the farthest city in the south, and thus it was essential to the kingdom for trade and commerce with foreign nations. It was ruled by Lord Augustus Clark, whose eldest son was to inherit the throne by marrying her majesty. The engagement had been painted as a favor to King Rowan for his aid against the Aharian threat from overseas. But little was known about Lord Clark’s intentions.
His eldest son, the noble but pampered Sir Darryk Clark, was given very little say in the marriage arrangement. And the lord treated his people the very same way. When the Aharians began raiding the villages along the shores, Lord Clark had given the order for inexperienced peasants and young ones to fight in his fleet, all of whom had never agreed to fight in the first place.
And so, after years of deception, the tension in Roquefort was growing more noticeable by the day. Many, in fact, accused the lord of promising Sir Darryk to the princess as a way of ensuring King Rowan’s aid in the case of a revolt. And a revolt was certainly imminent.
Due to the recent struggles, the city had suffered an immense loss of life. And though King Rowan’s army and Lord Clark’s fleet prevailed, the city was left under great distress. And any matters in recent days, trivial as they may have seemed, became subject to speculation.
On this particular night, a raven was sent to Val Havyn with a letter addressed to the king.
It happened as follows…
The docks of the city were eerily empty and plagued with a sea of fog. A boisterous fish merchant approached a preoccupied harbourmaster, taking careful steps over the rickety wood along the harbor.
“That’s the last of it,” he said, removing his wool cap and wiping the sweat from his face.
“Noted,” replied the harbourmaster, a man of about sixty with a grey head of hair and quite a laudable beard. He then annotated his initials on a parchment next to the fish merchant’s name.
“What of the payment?”
“You’ll have to report to the port’s coinmaster for that,” the harbourmaster grinned.
“But the day’s gone. What if he ain’t there no more?” the fish merchant asked confusedly.
“Well… this is why we have inns, sir.”
The fish merchant scoffed and walked up the set of stone steps that would lead him to the high port where the city streets began, leaving behind his hefty ship tied to the dock. Somewhere up there in some rowdy tavern, his crew was two rounds of ale ahead of him, and he couldn’t help but scowl out of jealousy. On his way up the steps, he bumped elbows with a young man in his twenties who was stumbling down hesitantly towards his master.
The day had turned into evening and, much like every other night, a fire was lit at the crown of the highest tower in the city’s citadel. It was the largest and brightest light for miles around, so much so that even from afar sailors and pirates could easily spot the city of Roquefort in the darkest of nights. All they had to do was look for the ember of fire like an orange star in the black sky, shining down over the thousand tiny specks of light that illuminated the southern coast.
The young man running down to the lower docks was the harbourmaster’s apprentice.
He had on an oversized coat, a lantern in his hand, and a flustered expression on his face.
“Master Wellyngton!” he called. But the harbourmaster was revising his list to assure no missteps that would cost him more than he could bear.
“Master!” the young man called again. “A company is approaching, sir!”
“Tell them the port’s closed for the evening, lad. No shipments in or out ‘til first light,” harbourmaster Wellyngton said.
“I did, sir! They refused to accept it…”
“They did what?”
“They said th-”
At that very moment, the harbourmaster noticed a glow of light approaching them, illuminating the shaky docks with every step. There were two ways to reach the docks. The harbourmaster’s apprentice had taken the shortest route, the steps made of stone that ran along the seaport wall. The longer way was the path around the harbor, which had no steps, only a long inclined ramp made of wood.
A stranger with a bald scalp, a red beard, and black tattooed symbols on his cheek reached the end of the ramp and approached the harbourmaster and his apprentice. There were more men behind him, a whole troop of them, waiting at the ramp.
“Th-That’s them, sir,” the young man whispered.
“Shut your mouth, boy,” the harbourmaster hissed. “Let me do the talking…”
The two men tried their best to appear calm, but the stranger only seemed to get larger and scarier as he emerged from the fog. “Greetings, gents,” the stranger said, attempting to sound proper.
“Good evening, sir,” harbourmaster Wellyngton greeted him. “I’m afraid the port’s closed for the evening. We’ll have to make arrangements for y-”
It was then that Wellyngton noticed that the man and his companions were all heavily armed, and they dragged with them two rickety cagewagons covered entirely by a wrinkled brown cloth. They looked nothing like merchants. They looked weary and unapproachable and they bore many scars, the likes of which were not usual for common peasants.
“Ohh,” Wellyngton said nervously. “I-I see your company’s all here… Um… Did you not see the notice stating the port was currently off limits to civilians?”
“We ain’t civilians,” Hauzer said with a shrug. “We’ve direct orders to transport weapons to the Noorgard Islands. Only we’re in need of a ship.”
“The Noorgard Islands? Why, that seems rather unusual. Our kingdom has no treaty established with anyone from there.”
“Let’s just say we serve a lord that wishes to remain unnamed… After all, Roquefort honors a lord’s freedom to conduct trade without being questioned, does it not?”
Hauzer and the harbourmaster continued talking amongst one another.
From afar, however, a pair of brown eyes was watching them. His hand was the only hand small enough to squeeze through the hole on the edge of the cagewagon, and so young Thomlin tried his best to move the cloth just far enough with his th
in little fingers so as to remain hidden. All that he could manage was a slight slit, though he was close enough to catch a glimpse of the harbourmaster and his apprentice.
“What is happening?” Princess Magdalena whispered into his ear.
“They’re just talking,” Thomlin said. “They look doubtful.”
“Get your hand back in ‘ere, boy!” the old man with the grey widow’s peak hissed from the other end of the cage. “You’re going to get us all killed!”
“Shhh!” Magdalena glared at the old man.
Thomlin’s hand did not move. At the dock, the harbourmaster was unconvinced and his apprentice could only hide behind him, cowering under Hauzer’s looming façade.
“Yes, well, I’m afraid even if I had a captain at our disposal, w-”
“Didn’t say we needed a captain,” Hauzer interrupted. “Just need a ship.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have one of those either.”
“What about that one?”
The harbourmaster turned to look at the large fishing vessel tied to the dock.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but this isn’t quite the way we run things here in Roquefort, y’see.”
“Will this be enough?” Hauzer asked as he tossed the harbourmaster a brown satchel, heavy enough that it nearly fell from the old man’s grasp when he caught it. It was full of gold and jewels, enough to not only buy two ships but to recruit an entire crew for both of them.
Wellyngton’s eyes widened when he took a peek inside, as did his apprentice’s. “Oh dear,” he said, gazing hesitantly in every direction. “W-Well, um… Yes, I suppose we can make certain exceptions for nobles that prefer their business relations remain unknown.”
“Many thanks,” Hauzer made his best attempt at a smile.
From inside the cagewagon, Thomlin shifted his worried gaze towards the princess.
“He’s falling for it,” he said. Magdalena’s eyes were instantly wet. Though it had been days, it hadn’t occurred to her just how powerless she was until that moment. In just a matter of minutes, they were to sail away from Vallenghard. She would be somewhere distant, somewhere unknown, a place where no one would even know her name let alone recognize her face.
