by Jon Kiln
Hendon yawned. “The forest is watching over us. See, there is an owl in the tree above us, and those eyes over near the tree belong to a fox.”
“Do you really talk with animals?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hendon. “Sometimes I think that I can hear what they’re thinking, sometimes I can’t. Barnaby is better at it than I am. He can have whole conversations just by looking in the eyes of an animal. He always says that goats are very intelligent, but I think foxes and owls are cleverer than goats.”
Ganry added a log of wood to the fire and propped himself up against one of the nearby trees. “Get some sleep, kid. I’ll keep the fox and the owl company for a while.”
Ganry stared out into the deep darkness of the surrounding forest. He almost found it amusing that the strange twists and turns of his life had brought him to this point, sitting in the middle of an unfamiliar forest, on the run from everyone, trying to keep a disparate group of travelers safe from harm. He was a long way away from the plains of Mirnee—not just geographically, but in every sense of the word. He wondered whether the Emperor Fontleroy, now known as Fontleroy the Mad, was still ruling. It had been a while since Ganry had had any news from Mirnee. There wasn’t really anything connecting him to that place now. He had left with nothing but his horse, Bluebell, and his sword, WindStorm.
WindStorm lay across his knees, secured safely in its scabbard. He always liked to keep it close. It gave him a sense of security, one of the few constants in his life since he had lost his wife and daughter. The truth was that he didn’t really know much about the origins of WindStorm. It had belonged to his father, a big man with a big imagination.
Ganry’s father had been a proud warrior and WindStorm had been his most prized possession. He had always told Ganry that WindStorm was forged in the fires of the Grimlock blade-smiths who lived in the Limestone Mountains, but Ganry had no way of knowing if this was true.
Ganry had idolized his father like a god. As a child, Ganry had helped polish his father’s armor, helping him to prepare for battle. Before leaving the house to head off to war, Ganry’s father would take his sword from his scabbard and hold it high above his head, shouting at the top of his voice:
“I am Davide de Rosenthorn! I wield the mighty WindStorm! I yield to no man!” He said that this is what he shouted as he attacked his enemies, as they fell beneath his sword. It was the battle cry that Ganry had also adopted, just as he had also adopted his father’s sword.
Ganry chuckled to himself as he silently mouthed the words. He knew that one day he would meet the man who would prove him wrong. When you live life as a mercenary, you knew that it was only a matter of time before your life ended violently. He knew that he would die one day, but he hoped that he would be able to survive a little longer, perhaps long enough to deliver Myriam to her grandmother at Castle Locke. It was a small thing, and it probably didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of the world, but he felt that if he could just do this one good deed then his life may have had some meaning, some purpose.
Ganry missed his father. He missed those days of long ago when his father was a god, when his father was invincible. His father hadn’t died a hero’s death. He hadn’t died on the battlefield with his sword held high. He had been poisoned, dying a wretched, painful death in his bed. Ganry blamed his step-mother but none of his uncles would believe him. So Ganry took hold of WindStorm and left the family home to join the armies of the Emperor Fontleroy. He looked at the sword that lay across his knees. A sword that had drawn a lot of blood, a sword that had taken many lives. A sword that was the only connection that he had to the father that he admired so much.
17
“So what do you think?” said Artas, staring down at the churning waters at the bottom of the waterfall. “There doesn’t seem to be any trail running along beside the river, it’s just cutting straight through the trees.”
“We should build a raft!” declared Hendon excitedly.
“A raft?” said Ganry in disbelief. “You want to float down the river?”
“Yes! That would be perfect! We could float down the river on a raft!”
“But what would we do with the horses?”
“They could swim behind the raft!”
“They can’t swim long distances, they get tired quickly.”
“Well, we could take lots of breaks as we go,” insisted Hendon.
“It would get us off the trail and make our tracks impossible to follow,” added Myriam.
“What if there are more waterfalls downstream?” protested Ganry. “A raft isn’t much good to us if it floats us over the edge of a giant waterfall.”
“We’ll be taking it slowly with the horses anyway,” suggested Artas. “So we can always have one of us scouting ahead.”
“And who’s going to build the raft?” Ganry was not convinced. “Do any of you know how to build a raft that will take the weight of all five of us?”
“Actually, I have a lot of experience with raft building,” interjected Barnaby quietly.
“Barnaby, you are full of surprises!” laughed Myriam. “Well, I think that settles it! If we stay on that forest trail, it is inevitable that Duke Harald’s men will catch us and either kill us instantly or drag us back in chains. Trying to raft our way through the forest on this river is by no means a perfect solution, but it at least gives us some hope of staying a step ahead of our pursuers. Don’t you agree, Ganry?”
“I guess you’re right,” he grumbled.
“Right,” said Myriam, taking charge. “Hendon and Barnaby, you see if you can find a safe path for us that will get us down to the bottom of the falls. We’ll gather up the horses and our gear and then we’ll be ready to make a start.”
It was a slow descent, carefully leading the horses down the steep bank that took them to the level of the river at the base of the falls. Barnaby quickly set to work and began constructing the raft, finding suitable logs and binding them expertly together with ropes and vines. In no time, the raft was ready to go.
“I have to admit Barnaby, that is a particularly solid looking raft,” admired Ganry.
“Well, let’s just take it fairly slowly to begin with,” cautioned Barnaby. “It’s quite a heavy load that we’re carrying and we’re not really sure how fast this river is flowing.”
“I’ll swim with the horses,” offered Hendon. “Just to get them settled at the start.”
“Okay, let’s load up and slowly push off,” said Ganry, not feeling as certain or confident as he was trying to sound. They used long poles to maneuver the raft away from the bank and out into the current of the river. The horses were tied to the back of the logs and Hendon led them into the water. He began swimming alongside them as they became used to this new method of transport.
Ganry peered at the slow moving current. “No snakes in this river, are there?”
“You’re obsessed with snakes!” laughed Artas. “I’m pretty sure that there are no snakes in this river.”
“Pretty sure?” Ganry raised an eyebrow. “It’s just that in the marshes of Llandaff, there were water snakes that were pretty vicious.”
“How big were the marsh snakes?” asked Myriam.
“The biggest that I ever saw was ten feet long, but there were stories of real monsters that could sink a small boat,” replied Ganry, looking carefully once more at the river water.
“Ten feet is big enough, thanks!” gasped Myriam.
“Are they poisonous?” Artas was curious.
“I don’t think so.” Ganry dragged his hand in the water to see if he could catch any movement underneath. “They’re constrictors, they wrap around your body until you can’t breathe anymore.”
“No wonder you didn’t go swimming in the marches,” shivered Myriam. “I’ve never heard of any snakes like that in the rivers of Palara, but then again I didn’t really know that this river existed, so I guess anything is possible.”
“If one of the horses suddenly goes missing, I’m g
etting off the raft,” said Ganry firmly.
The river flowed smoothly and the raft made good progress, floating along through the thick forest of trees that lined both banks.
“We’d better take a break soon!” said Hendon, pulling himself up on to the raft. “The horses are starting to tire.”
“Okay, there’s a sandbank on that next bend in the river, let’s aim for that.” Ganry took hold of one of their steering poles and began to guide the raft in the direction of the sandbank. The horses seemed relieved to have their hooves back on solid ground, but they sensed that it was only a momentary respite from the river, so quickly began to graze on the grasses that grew along the banks.
“You’re a genius, Hendon!” congratulated Myriam. “This raft is working out so well!”
“Well, Barnaby is the raft builder. That’s the real skill.” Hendon smiled modestly, clearly pleased with the praise from the Princess.
“You know, I’m losing all track of distance and direction,” said Artas, looking up into the sky. “It’s hard to see much beyond the canopy of the forest, and the way that the river twists and turns, I’m not even totally sure which direction we’re heading anymore.”
“So you’re saying that we could be just floating around in circles?” asked Ganry.
“Well, not exactly,” laughed Artas. “The river has to be flowing somewhere. I’m just not totally sure that it’s taking us where we want to go. Barnaby, any ideas?”
“The Cefinon Forest holds many secrets and surprises,” replied Barnaby sagely.
“We don’t really have many options,” acknowledged Ganry. “We’re just going to have to keep floating along and see where the river decides to take us.”
18
“Sir, I think you should come down to the stables with me now,” said Arexos, opening the door to the room that he was sharing with Henrickson, at the inn near the border crossing with Vandemland.
“What is it, Arexos?”
“The stable boy has a message from the Narcs.”
“The smugglers? Right, let’s go.” Henrickson followed Arexos down the stairs and out into the back yard of the inn.
“Psst!” hissed the stable boy, seeing them approach. “Go down the back, the end stall.”
Arexos led the way and Henrickson followed cautiously, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of the dagger that he had tucked into his belt. Waiting for them in the last stall was a shady looking man, a member of the gang of Narcs that smuggled anything of value into and out of Vandemland.
“So you want to get into Vandemland?” asked the Narc.
“Yes, is that possible?” Henrickson watched him carefully.
“Anything is possible. For a price.”
“How soon could you get us across the border?”
“Our next run is tomorrow night.”
“How do you get past the border crossing?”
“Now if I told you that, I would be giving away all of our secrets,” smirked the Narc. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ll be blindfolded. We’ll take the blindfolds off once you’re safely on the other side.”
“Blindfolded! Is that really necessary?” protested Henrickson.
“Like I said, we can’t give away all of our secrets,” repeated the Narc.
“What about getting back across the border? How would we contact you to arrange that?”
“My boss will give you a time and place where we’ll collect you for the return journey. If you miss that pick-up then you’re on your own. Any other questions?”
“No. I think that’s all I need to know for now.”
“Right, we’ll pick you up here tomorrow night at sundown. Make sure you have your money ready,” hissed the Narc as he disappeared into the night.
“I’m not convinced that this is a good idea,” said Henrickson to Arexos as they made their way back up the stairs to their room. “But I don’t think we’ve got too many other options at this stage.”
“Are you sure that we need to go into Vandemland, sir? Couldn’t you just go back to Duke Harald and explain that the border crossing was closed?”
“While that does sound fairly tempting, Arexos, I’m afraid that we don’t have that luxury. Duke Harald would see that as a failure and he really doesn’t tolerate failure.”
***
The next evening, just after sunset, Henrickson and Arexos were sitting in their room at the inn when they heard a long, low whistle from down in the yard.
“I’m guessing that’s our signal,” said Henrickson, and they gathered up their rucksacks and headed down to the stables.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” greeted the Narc that they had met with the previous night. “Money first, please.” Henrickson handed over the amount they had agreed on. With payment completed, Henrickson and Arexos were instructed to mount their horses, and then a black bag was placed over each of their heads.
From that point, their journey into Vandemland was a mystery to Henrickson. They seemed to be surrounded by men on horses as they were led along. There wasn’t a lot of talking, but he heard different accents that he couldn’t place. The bag over his head completely disoriented him and he lost track of how long they had been riding for, and he had no clue as to which direction they were riding in. Eventually, their horses came to a stop and he was roughly helped to dismount from his horse before the bag was removed from his head.
“Where are we?” Henrickson quickly looked around and tried to get his bearings.
“This is the slave market of eastern Vandemland,” sneered the Narc.
“But why have you brought us here?” asked Henrickson, confused.
“Because we have just sold you to the highest bidder, slave!” laughed the Narc, quickly securing Henrickson’s hands and feet with chains.
“You can’t do that! I am the captain of the palace guard!” protested Henrickson.
“Different country, different rules,” grinned the Narc. “The soldiers of the Kingdom of Palara have been a pain in our neck for too long. It’s about time we got some sort of compensation. I told your new owner that you thrive on hard work, but that if you give him any trouble then the only discipline that you understand is the whip. I think you’re going to like it here.”
“Wait, where’s Arexos? What have you done with my page?” shouted Henrickson.
“He’s not your page anymore, is he?” laughed the Narc. “We sold him as a body slave to one of the rich nobles. He’ll be feeding grapes to a fat old man before the sun comes up.”
Henrickson looked desperately around him. He could see immediately that there was no chance of escape. Not only was he bound by chains, but the Narcs were well armed and clearly pleased with the profit that they had made on the sale.
The slave market was a busy, bustling place, full of men of all shapes and sizes, exotic looking men of a type that he hadn’t seen before. He guessed that they came from somewhere across the Damatine Sea. A large, fierce looking man approached Henrickson and grabbed him by the chains that bound him, dragging him across to a flat-bed wagon on which a few other dejected looking men were sitting. They were also in chains. Once Henrickson was loaded onto the wagon, it lurched off down a rough track and Henrickson was helpless to do anything but curse his own foolishness for being so easily tricked into this disastrous situation.
19
“What do you mean she escaped!” roared Duke Harald, infuriated by the news that the messenger had brought to him. “She is a fifteen year old girl! How in the gods’ name did she manage to escape from a town where the gates were locked and the soldiers of Palara stood guard!” The messenger knew that this was probably a rhetorical question, so he knelt silently in front of the Duke, keeping still, while the Duke’s rage echoed around the room. “Where is Henrickson?” shouted Harald. There was no answer. There was no one else in the throne room apart from the quivering messenger who had his eyes averted and was concentrating on a chipped stone in the floor. Harald suddenly grabbed the messenger by th
e hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look him in the face. “I asked you a question!” spat Harald menacingly. “Where is Henrickson?”
“Sir, there’s been no word from him. Not since you sent him to Vandemland,” stuttered the messenger.
“Get out!” shouted Harald, spitting a mouthful of saliva into the face of the young messenger. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” The messenger hastily exited the room, relieved to have escaped with his head still attached to his shoulders.
Harald slumped dejectedly onto the throne. It was a beautiful piece of furniture. Solid, dependable. It had been the throne of the Kingdom of Palara for centuries, long before Duke Harald’s family had come to power. The throne was a relatively simple design, made from oak that had been felled from the Cefinon Forest. It was inlaid with gold and precious stones, creating the image of an eagle in the tall back rest, so when you sat on the throne, the majestic bird of prey hovered above you. Studying it, Duke Harald wondered why an eagle had been chosen as the symbol of the Kingdom of Palara. In all his years of hunting, he had had never seen an eagle in these lands.
In keeping with the throne itself, the rest of the room was not lavish but it had a sense of grandeur, a sense of occasion. There was a plain chair to the left of the throne. This is where the Queen would sit. The stone was of slate. It wasn’t an enormous room—just large enough for the King to receive important visitors, delegations from neighboring kingdoms, or trade partners. This is where official declarations are made and where commandments are issued. It is from this room that the Kingdom of Palara is governed.
The walls were decorated with tapestries—detailed pieces that told the history of the Kingdom and the history of Duke Harald’s family. Harald remembered studying these tapestries as a child. He and his brother had an old, eccentric tutor who had sought permission to bring them into the throne room so that they could learn their history. They were taught the journey, the circumstances, the events that had brought the Kingdom of Palara into existence, and the triumph that had been the ascension of Duke Harald’s family to the throne.
