Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

King Caldor sat against the back wall of the prison wagon, gripping one of the rusty bars of the cage to stop himself sliding across the straw strewn floor. The vehicle sped through the forest, lurching through potholes. In a previous life it was used to ship animals to the outer territories, and a heavy stench hung in the air despite the constant wind whistling through the bars. Weak shafts of light chopped the floor into long golden strips, speckled with drifting motes of dust. Two other prisoners were in the cage, destined for the Crystal Citadel, the seat of the Council of Twelve, where each would face trial and judgement for their crimes. Beside him, knees pulled up to his chest, sat Erol Marand, a young soldier from Hatriila’s third legion. He was small of stature, affectionately mocked by his peers, though he had a reputation for a fierce sense of duty and loyalty to the King, resulting in a charge of conspiracy and his current situation. He had spoken little during the journey, a bare handful of words over the hours, and sat silent with his head low.

The second prisoner had not spoken at all. She sat opposite the King, peering through the bars at the passing landscape, one silver ringed hand holding on for support, the other in the folds of her cloak. Her face was hidden in the shadows of a hood, though occasionally the sunlight caught her jaw line and her olive skin shone.

The King closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. For now he could only wait. Even if he escaped the wagon, he was unarmed and outnumbered. The journey to the Citadel would take days, time enough for a better opportunity to arise, and word of Hatriila’s fall must surely have reached his allies. It was unlikely the slim force guarding the convoy could hold off a strong attack; he could only hope help was on its way.

He was surprised at how small the convoy was. At its head ran four beasts, bulky but swift, charging along the muddy roads, drawing a small wagon on which perched two bowmen. Behind came the King’s wagon, closely tailed by a third carrying more bowmen, look-outs against possible attack. Armoured riders flanked the procession. Initially they steered their horses close to the bars, taunting their prisoners, but seeing their efforts ignored, even when they spat through the bars, they withdrew and resigned themselves to a dull journey.

Avarat must realise how easily the small procession could be overpowered, yet he had chosen to keep their numbers low. What game was he playing? Perhaps he was preoccupied with finding the boy. Since the Queen had revealed the gate to Earth it was likely he was focusing his attention on bringing their son back to Antigol. The King had last seen his wife leaving the throne room, before they threw him into the dungeons, but he knew she was safe. Avarat would never harm her. The King shivered, remembering the strange power which had killed Commander Vale. Despair gripped his heart, but he steeled himself. There was still hope. Maven had sworn to protect his son. He prayed the Warlock reached the boy before Avarat’s forces.

The convoy rocked, shaking the King from his thoughts. They travelled with haste, north from Hatriila, heading to the port of Gravval. He opened his eyes and stared out into the dim clouds, where a solitary bird circled.

“This makes a nice change. There wasn’t much sunlight in your dungeon.” The woman peered through the bars, face blank, though her words were playful. Erol stiffened, glancing at the King, who raised his hand gently. The woman looked round, only the smile on her lips visible, “You don’t recognise me do you?”

“I see many people in hoods,” said the King. She laughed and drew back the cloth. Grollian the King suspected. She had the same dark skin and sharp features of the race, and the sleek, dark hair for which they were known, though hers was cropped short and jutted from her scalp in spikes. Mostly what gave it away were her eyes, a fierce green women of Groll shared.

“Any better?” she said. The King did not recognise her but Erol leaned over to him,

“A Grollian murderer,” he said, watching the woman carefully, “She killed a man.” Her smile fell away and her gaze bore into the soldier.

“Murder cannot be pardoned,” the King said. She snorted and turned her attention to the passing scenery,

“I was attacked,” she said, “It was self-defence.” Erol managed a short, disbelieving laugh,

“You cut off his head!” The woman shrugged,

“Stopped him didn’t it?” The King couldn’t recall her crime, though law breakers were few in Hatriila and most were judged by the city’s council. Why was she being singled out for transport to the Citadel?

“What interest does the council have in a common murderer?” the King asked. The woman’s eyes narrowed,

“That is my business, Sire.” She spat out the last word like a bad taste in her mouth and he decided to leave the subject for the time being.

They travelled in silence for a while, the trees beyond the bars growing denser, and soon reached the outer borders of the forests of Junn. They caught the storm and though no rain fell the sky was dangerously dark. The trees thickened further, cutting off what scant sunlight there was, until they were lost in shadows and the riders beyond the bars were silhouettes in the gloom.

There was a thin whistling sound.

To the right of the wagon a rider cried out, flung back in his saddle, and fell from his horse with an arrow through his head. Another whistled through the air and a second rider fell. Up ahead an order was bellowed and the wagon lurched, picking up speed. The King gripped the bars and fell flat to the floor, searching the darkness outside. Arrows rained on the fleeing convoy and through the blur of passing trees men on horseback charged, aiming and firing. An arrow zipped through the bars and buried itself in the wooden floor. The woman pressed herself against the front wall,

“Well, this is fun!” she said. The wagon rocked furiously, the beasts wailing and pounding along the forest track. Their escort had vanished from sight and the King jumped back from the bars. A tumbling body crashed to the ground, disappearing from sight.

“Was that the driver?” the woman shouted over the noise. The King nodded. “Great! So now we’re being shot at in a locked runaway cage with open sides. What next?”

As if in answer, the wagon left the road, dragged into the forest by the terrified beasts. Erol lost his grip of the bars and was thrown across the cage, crashing into the wall with a thump, before sliding to the floor. He lay still, though his body jumped and slid. The King grabbed him, still clutching the bars with one hand, and drew him into his body, holding him fast.

Suddenly a flaming arrow whistled through the bars and the straw covered floor burst ablaze with a heavy whumph! The King and his Grollian companion moved quickly, kicking flaming clumps through the bars. They stamped out the smaller fires, but no sooner had they extinguished one than another took its place. Black smoke thickened around them. Suddenly the wagon tipped and rolled, throwing them from the ceiling to the floor and back, surrounded by flying fire until, at last, they came to a stop.

The King struggled to his feet, grunting at a sharp pain in his shoulder, and shook his head to shake off his dizziness. Most of the flaming straw had piled against a wall and he kicked aside the rest, kneeling to examine Erol; unconscious but breathing at least. The woman stood up, brushing straw from her clothes.

“Are you alright?” said the King.

“I’ve had better trips,” she said, “Is he alive?” The King nodded.

“Doesn’t look like we’re going to reach the Citadel after all,” she said, peering through the bars into the darkness, “Do you think we’ve been rescued or captured?”

“We’ll soon find out,” the King said. The wagon lay on its side, bars open to the sky, and they could hear voices approaching. The King searched along the walls, hoping the crash had broken open an escape, but animal transports were sturdy vehicles and he found no breach. He took the woman’s arm,

“Friend or foe, they have come for me,” he said, “Stay quiet, until we know their intent.” She pulled her arm away but said nothing, turning her attention back to the bars overhead. In the darkness, shadowy figures appeared. They examined the lock on the cage’s door and talked for a while, their words too low to be heard. Suddenly one of the figures struck out with a sword. Sparks showered through the bars. A second and third strike followed making the metal ring and finally the lock exploded into pieces. With a rusty squeal the door was thrown open. A man’s face appeared, grinning, and he held out a hand,

“Out you come, my King!”

The man’s hand was peppered with gaudy rings; and his tone did not suggest loyalty to the King. It was doubtful the strangers were soldiers, more likely bandits. Checking Erol was completely out of sight, the King pushed back the woman, giving her a stern glance, and held up his arms. Immediately he was hauled into the dark.

It took three men to lift him free of the wagon and lower him to the ground. They turned back for the woman, but she was already pulling herself through the gap and shoved away a hand which tried to help her.

“Anything that touches me, I keep,” she said. The man laughed but drew back his hand, allowing her to drop to the forest floor where the King stood facing a line of armed men.

“Your efforts will be rewarded,” the King said. The leader, judging from his armour, held up a large leather pouch,

“Lord Avarat has paid us well enough Sire,” he said. The King watched him carefully. Mercenaries then, paid by Avarat to ensure the convoy never reached the Crystal Citadel. He should have guessed. The citizens of Hatriila would never accept Avarat as ruler while the King lived. Avarat’s mercenaries were here to kill him. But mercenaries could be bought.

“Whatever he paid, I will double,” he said. The leader nodded, smiling at the idea,

“But where would we spend it? Avarat commands the four realms. His spies would find us should we betray him, what use is a fortune if you haven’t a head.” He drew his sword, “I’m afraid it would be better for everyone if you were deposed.”

“I’m unarmed,” the King said. The leader gave him a cruel smile,

“Yes, I prefer it that way.” He struck out, without warning, his blade driving for the King’s heart.

It missed.

The woman moved like lightning. One second she was beside the King, then suddenly behind the bandit’s leader, twisting his head sharply and dropping him to the floor. Snatching up his sword, she turned to the remaining men. They looked almost comical, eyes wide in shock, but quickly came to their senses when she threw herself into them, blade flashing.

The King stumbled back against the wagon, watching in amazement. Their blades sliced through the air where the woman had been and she vaulted over them, using her speed to send them flying.

One broke away from the main group, sword raised, and raced at the King with a bellow. Behind him the others were already falling to the ground and the woman looked up angrily, too far away to help. The soldier swung his sword and the King dodged, lashing out. He was slow, still dazed from the crash, and his fist missed its target, catching his attacker a glancing blow across the cheek, making him stumble, but not stopping his attack. The soldier struck again and unarmoured the King was defenseless against it. Suddenly the woman was in its path. The blade cut through her sleeve, sending up a shower of blood. She grunted, but kicked out, dropping the soldier to the ground and gripping his head in both hands. After a nasty crack he lay still.

She fell to the ground, breathing hard and looked at her shoulder. Blood ran down her arm and she groaned in frustration. The King rushed across to her, kneeling to look at the wound, and tore away some of her sleeve, using the material to bind the cut. She was lucky. It was deep but would heal in time.

“Who are you?” he asked, pulling the bandage tight. The woman grimaced.

“My name is Jiila Forez.” The King finished the bandaging and stood,

“Thank you. That was… impressive.” Jiila shrugged and moaned at the pain,

“Well,” she said, “When you don’t have your own private army, you have to defend yourself.” The King smiled. He looked up to the sky and placed two fingers in his mouth, giving a long shrill whistle. From the clouds a dot appeared, growing bigger until it became a small bird. It landed on the wagon edge and chirped.

“Find Maven,” the King said, “Take him this.” He lifted his hand, on which were many golden rings, and twisted at one of them until the dark purple gemstone broke free. He held it up and the bird swooped to snatch it from his fingers. Seconds later it disappeared into the clouds.

Jiila pulled at her bandage,

“If Avarat wants you dead, there’ll be more soldiers,” she said, “and worse.” The King nodded. Avarat would soon learn his plan had failed and the open roads would be crawling with bandits eager for the King’s head.

“The village of Geermund lies to the west of here, maybe a day’s travel. Should you survive the journey, it is your best chance,” he said. Jiila considered the idea,

“What about you? Where will you go?”

“My son has returned. He will find me.”

“I thought your son died.” The King dropped his gaze and shook his head, ashamed to admit the truth. The whole of Antigol thought his son died years ago. They even held a day of mourning in the Capital.

“He was in danger, we sent him away. We had no choice.”

“Why come back now, after all this time.”

“It is prophesised,” the King said.

“The prophecy? Oh tell me you’re joking.” The King sighed,

“The Majia guides our lives, it doesn’t matter what I believe. The prophecy has led us from the time of the Parting. It foretells certainties we cannot avoid.” Jiila looked at the overturned cart and the bandits lying in the dirt.

“Was this part of your prophecy?” she said.

“Imprisoned, befriended, King’s life extended, Seek counsel to bear the power of four,” the King said. Jiila looked doubtful,

“It really says that?” The King nodded,

“My son is in danger. No-one has ever held the four and survived, but if there is a way, I must find it. My only hope is to speak to someone who witnessed the forging of the four. Someone as old as the Parting itself.”

“Pah!” Jiila said, “No such person exists! They would be centuries old by now. I’m guessing the ground has them.”

“No, there is one. She was a friend, once. Her name is Matrekku. If anyone can help me, it is her.”

“Do you even know where she is?”

“She was last seen in Judgar. I will start my search there.”

“Judgar! You’ll never reach Judgar on your own. A King has too soft hands for that kind of hardship.”

A groan broke from the wagon. Erol had woken up.

“I won’t be alone,” the King said.