by J. S. Crews
Slowly, the returning scout ambled his horse down onto the flattened path to approach them after seeing the column come to a halt. "Report," commanded Lieutenant Teagan as the rider drew near enough to converse without raised voices. Technically, Sir Eadred had taken over ultimate authority, but the Lieutenant was still the officer directly junior to him in the chain of command and he felt it prudent to assert himself.
"Found the abandoned mill the old Sir talked of, Lieutenant. It’s in a little hollow jus’ o’er that ridge. I didn’t ride no closer’n that, ‘cause ya said t’bring back word."
Without hesitation, Teagan started to turn to the Sergeant, but then he remembered his was no longer the final word here. Turning to the Knight sitting in his saddle to his left, he instead inquired, "Sir, would ya like me t’give the order?"
Sir Eadred simply nodded. Teagan then turned in his saddle and commanded, "Sergeant Hammid, pass the word down the line: every man t’arms!"
Chapter Fourteen
“The Common Man”
He could hear the poor soul sobbing.
Even from the far end of the shared trench that was their prison, Ansel could see those great beefy hands were mangled and the swelling had begun. The blood seemed to cover him halfway up his forearms as he hid his big round face in those hands; there was no telling how much of it belonged to him and how much had come from the corpse several feet away. All had fallen into a shocked quiet, a sullenness broken only by the lament of the guilty.
He seemed a simple sort, if one could say such after sharing only a few whispered words. What was certain was that, whoever he was, he had never killed a man before today. As soon as the waking prisoners had noticed the body, it hadn’t taken long to puzzle out which of them bore the marks of having administered the fatal beating. What surprised Ansel was that, even after everything, it had been heartbreaking to watch that horrible realization dawn on the face of one so innocent. Tears and frantic apologies were followed by the continual sobbing that now permeated their place deep inside the ruined barn.
Even the sellswords had grown quiet, and the body still lay where it had fallen so disturbingly at eye-level for those in the trench. The only other sound in that moment was coming from further away, beyond the hung screens that separated the area where these men were encamped from the front part of the old barn. Ansel could hear only snippets of what was being said up there, but the conversation was not a pleasant one.
"... shoulda stopped it ‘afore it got outta hand... shouldn’t ‘ve let ‘im kill ‘im...."
That was the sellsword leader speaking. He seemed content for others to handle the day-to-day goings on, but this trouble had caused him to show his face for only the second time Ansel could be sure of since the night they had broken Big Glebb’s will through murder and force-feeding, leaving him a shell that barely even spoke now. It was possible he had been around other times, but it was difficult to keep things straight in the mental haze that was Ansel’s life. Day after troubled day passed with their feedings coming at random times, until finally it was impossible now to know even how long they had been here.
"Let ‘im?! Did ya see the size o’ that...?! ... kill one o’ us...!"
Both seemed to just jabber over each other’s words after that, before finally the leader’s voice cut in like a knife. "... some coin from that chest yonder ‘n’ go up t’that inn up the road... hire us a few more swords. Take two men. Don’t git drunk!" The next came as the underling apparently sought to question the reasoning behind the order as the leader hissed something to the effect of "... won’t be happy... sees ya let one of ‘em die... don’t wanna be short on blades... savages... decide t’make trouble about our contract...! Now go!"
They’re worried about workin’ with the Wodi, so they’re not stupid, thought Ansel, an’ we are ‘sposed t’be kept alive.
He had suspected as much but had to admit there had been moments of terrifying doubt. Being taken prisoner naturally raised questions he had been hard-pressed to answer: none of these men were worth any kind of ransom from a wealthy benefactor, himself included. Taking that option off the table left very few sensible reasons for such a crime, which was why he had initially assumed they were to be sold into slavery. That made sense, at least. Every man present was baseborn as well as a laborer of some kind—good slave stock. Doubt had wiggled its way into his attempts to cope with that destiny, however, when they were not being fed. That had thrown all logic to the wind temporarily, but now he understood it was because the bastards wanted them to be ravenous with hunger before finally giving them the broth.
He did not know—and was sure he never would—what they were putting in the broth, but he knew that it was insidious in its workings. Consuming it made them more compliant. He had seen how those under its influence were not truly conscious but rather simply awake—it was as if everything that made them who they were was turned off, yet the body could still move about and follow orders. The idea of being manipulated into doing things unremembered was troubling in and of itself, but at least it seemed to foster, at worst, a docile suggestibility. At what point and how violence had been introduced was just something else he would likely never know, and part of him was actually glad of that. Suffice it to say, however, making large men pliable to suggestion and then adding violence made for a volatile mixture. The true treachery of the broth, however, was that after a while even an unwilling man felt a need for it.
The prisoner killed as an example to the others—however long ago that had been—was all the sadder for it having been unnecessary. The broth itself was the collar that would ultimately control them. That show of power had simply ensured they kept drinking it long enough for the concoction to work its own dark magic, binding itself to each of their souls. There would be no more displays of rebellion; they were fed each day now, and going too long without a taste brought on actual physical pain. It became a thing of simple survival to drink your portion, and Ansel could not remember the last time he had dreamed of anything but the broth and the monsters that came in the night.
The thing about Ansel Wood, though, was that he was stubborn. Even on the edge of giving in, and with seemingly nothing holding his roots in the ground, he simply could not bring himself to fully submit. Most of the prisoners had done just that as the days and nights continued to pass, and he couldn’t blame them; in truth, he thought they might be better off in their acceptance than he, yet still he could not take that final step towards capitulation that is invisible everywhere except deep within a man’s own soul.
But he also was not a fool. Well, he must at least be somewhat of a fool, else why would he have gotten himself involved in this mess? He definitely was not too stupid to learn lessons, however, and the singularly unpleasant one about being force-fed steaming hot liquid through a tube was difficult to forget. That alone precluded refusing the stuff, and it was also obvious that attempts at insurrection were just as likely to fail and get people killed. That left few options, but a tiny glimmer of resolve is sufficient to keep from going over the edge. If he could not refuse the nefarious concoction altogether, he would simply go back to surreptitiously spilling almost as much as actually went into his body.
The first few times his nerves were wracked, worrying his deception would be discovered, but the brokenness of the others ensured there was little interest in watching each man actually drink his bowl dry. Feeding times more closely resembled what you would expect at a dog kennel than a human meal, and the sadness of that did not take away from Ansel’s thankfulness that it allowed his subversive behavior to go unnoticed by everyone except the singer. No words on the subject ever passed between them, yet the latter quietly began to mimic his behavior.
More time passed.
Suddenly Ansel realized something was stirring. He could not quite focus. Focusing was difficult nowadays. All he could say for certain was something about the seemingly endless existence they were living was different now. The number of their gaolers had swollen.
Ansel could remember seeing new faces now and again and bedrolls laid out where he was sure there had been none previously, so they had obviously brought on additional men, but it had never been so loud before. That was when his mind registered the hornet’s nest of activity taking place.
He found himself bewildered, struggling to grab onto the presence of mind that eluded him lately and figure out what he was seeing. Everywhere there was commotion: bedrolls being secured; men packing up and stowing weapons. It took only a few heartbeats for his instincts as a soldier to kick in and make everything more clear. Another heartbeat saw him waking Allet and Leffron and anyone else he could physically reach. "They’re breakin’ camp!"
Some came instantly alert, while others did so more begrudgingly, but all that mattered was the message was making its way down the length of the trench from man-to-man. Already Ansel could tell the difference in demeanor between he and Leffron, both of whom never consumed their whole portion at meal times, compared to the others. Both were worse for wear, as expected, but even a fool would be able to tell neither was as entranced as the rest.
Leaning as close to the singer as possible, he whispered, "Try t’act all fog-head’d like these others, but be ready." He nodded his response and they held each other’s gaze momentarily. Both had agreed that if escape seemed possible, they would seize the opportunity come what may. Better a clean death than what these bastards ‘ave ‘n store fer us, Ansel told himself.
Suddenly, bowmen were pressuring them to back away from the makeshift bars that covered their prison. This had occurred each time they were removed from the trench, yet something was different; rather than carefully removing certain iron nails and other pieces, so the apparatus could be quickly put back in place later, this time the whole thing was completely ripped away from the support logs running parallel to the trench. Men winced and groaned at the shower of broken branches and nails, but Ansel’s heart beat faster in his chest. Whatever was happening, they weren’t coming back to the barn.
No sooner was he out of the trench and on his feet, though, than some commotion up ahead occurred and he heard angry voices. There were confused glimpses of motion that happened so quickly he was unable to register what he was seeing, before a sudden sharp pain and a blinding flash sent the dirt floor racing up to meet his face.
* * * * *
When he came back to himself, he could still taste the dirt in his mouth. He had no idea how much time had passed or where he was, other than being piled in the back of a wagon with the other prisoners all around in a mass of ill-used flesh. All he knew for certain was his head hurt, and the memory of a sudden sharp blow made him reach involuntarily to make sure his skull wasn’t split like a hunk of firewood.
"Careful," he heard whispered suddenly. Leffron continued, "They whacked us all wit’ cudgels. Not sure if they figured us out ‘r what."
"Could be," said Ansel, wincing over the bump that had already risen on the side of his head. "Don’t think so, though. Seemed like somethin’ ‘appened further ahead o’ us in line. Someone probably jus’ overreacted." He had seen that before. Some men possessed the knack for knowing how to handle being in control of others, while some did not and would be prone to react poorly to the slightest situation. "How long?"
In response, the singer just shrugged. Of course, that was the way of it. All of them would have had their wits knocked out temporarily, so it was a silly question. Still, we wished he knew the answer. The wagon seemed to be settled into a sedate pace, so some idea of how long they had been traveling could help Ansel gauge a rough idea of how far they had gone. Since none of them really understood what was ultimately in store, trying to piece together such things was a way of at least retaining some control and a modicum of sanity.
Just then he remembered Allet, and a sick panic rose in his chest. Habitually sodden with wine in his old life, the fool had experienced little trouble acclimating to this new addiction and was typically among the last to regain his full faculties—such as they were. Ansel, ever a family man, had kept his brother-by-law close throughout their ordeal, even as he remained at a loss when thinking about the future. Just now, though, he had no idea where Allet was.
Breathing deeply to stem the mounting hysteria, he reminded himself he must keep playing his part in this mummer’s production. Becoming overly agitated would only make it more likely their deception would fail. With that in mind, he began trying to locate Allet in the mass of flesh that existed in the back of the wagon without causing too much of a tussle and drawing the attention of the guards he could hear nearby. Mercifully, the singer noticed and whispered, "Don’t worry. He’s jus’ there. That’s ‘is foot stickin’ out yonder."
The two shared a brief smile in thanks and, with nothing else needing to be said, settled down to wait amidst the stench of men piled upon one another like cordwood. He thought of trying to sleep to pass the time. Who knew when they would sleep again, especially if they did manage, by some miracle, to escape? All such thoughts were quickly discarded, though; it was one thing to be knocked out cold, but quite another to find enough comfort atop a pile of other men —with a throbbing head, no less—to fall asleep.
Ansel could not manage it and decided instead to familiarize himself with their surroundings and situation. Of all the things he had learned as a soldier, that had probably been the easiest lesson for him to internalize, since a state of ready watchfulness was second nature to a woodsman as much as it was to any fighting man. It had also saved his life more than once, and so he sent up a quick prayer to the goddess. He would leave it to her wisdom to decide how much of that gratitude should go to his father and grandfather, who had taught him the ways of her woods, or to his old military commanders for strengthening his instincts.
Lying there, he need only listen closely to know the wagon was old and in a state of ill-repair. It seemed efforts were being taken to trek quietly, moving slowly and over uneven ground. Obviously, they were not on the main road where they would more likely be seen. This meant that passing unobserved was more important to their captors than speed. When the canvas tarpaulin strung over them in the back of the wagon lifted in the night breeze, he could see that even the horses wore muzzles. Yet, curiously, no one had thought to do anything to mitigate the rattling and screeching of the wagon’s loose boards and unoiled parts. Some farmer would wake in the morning to find himself a victim of thievery, no doubt; the noise was something they had not expected when stealing it and had no time to worry over, which meant speed might be secondary to guile but was not without importance.
Men were walking all about, keeping pace with the wagon. Another clue that secrecy was a concern was that every one of them Ansel could see, bathed in the swarthy light of the shuttered lanterns, was buried in a deep cloak or otherwise had his head and face covered, despite the clement weather. And there was something else about them that seemed strange—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—perhaps in the way they were walking, but he could not be sure what it was.
He would not be left to wonder for long.
Suddenly, he heard an animal cry out, but this was no normal denizen of the forest. Though found all over, these wild things rarely congregated in dark, whispery woods: it was a two-legged beast, a person that he had heard attempting an amateur approximation of an animal cry that he immediately recognized as false. It had obviously been a signal, because the wagon and those keeping pace with its movement stopped.
A different, though similar, sound originating from somewhere much closer startled Ansel as it was called out in reply, prompting the first one to repeat itself in turn. This was obviously all pre-arranged, because as soon as the sounds died on the wind everyone was suddenly very busy, although still being as quiet as possible. Instead of the typical conversations or even work sounds expected from so large a group, everything remained eerily subdued.
Within moments, the stale air he had been forced to endure was being lifted quickly away with the abrupt removal of the t
arpaulin covering the bed of the wagon. Surprised by the sudden wash of cool spring-time night air and moonlight, Ansel momentarily forgot himself and began to turn openly toward the silver moon to drink in the light of Uarvoos—the gift of his goddess. Quickly, though, he remembered the need to maintain the façade and adjusted himself, hoping he had gone unnoticed. Lying there, awaiting the wordless tug on his rope restraints that would be his signal to move, he filled is lungs to the point where he feared they might burst and noticed a slight hint of fish smell on the breeze.
Near a river mayhaps?, he thought to himself. A river could be a good thing if there arose an opportunity for escape. Of course, he could not know exactly where they were, but certainly they had not traveled very far and Ansel knew this part of the kingdom to be good country with swift streams and rivers: swift enough to carry a man away many miles into the night, if he be brave or desperate enough to jump in. How he would accomplish that while dragging along his broth-addled kinsman and keep both of them from drowning was another concern entirely.
Soon came the expected tug and the need to quickly extricate himself from the wagon without revealing his alert mental state. That sort of thing had proven more difficult than expected. There had been a couple of times he had feared being discovered, but thus far he had survived; and that is the thought that was running through his head when his heart nearly stopped beating.
While shuffling along with the other prisoners, Ansel had mistimed his step and bumped into the man leading him. It was barely a nudge, really. He had gotten distracted and failed to come to a complete stop where the sellsword intended, causing their shoulders to bump together lightly. It was the type of thing that happened nigh a hundred times every Market Day without even a hint of notice, yet just now it was as if the cold hand of death was wrapping its fingers around his throat.
He remembered to keep his head down the way they always did when being lead about, though he was mentally cursing himself for a fool. He had become inattentive as he was lost in thought, and the truth was that such thoughtlessness could cost him his life. Each second stretched into agony, until finally the welcomed feeling of being shoved bodily into position told him the danger had passed. It wasn’t until then he recalled that those on the broth shuffled wherever they were lead like mules on a leash, and so the bump after a sudden stop had gone completely unnoticed.
