The Final Days of Springborough

They stayed in the hut for what Thomas felt was way too long of a time. He had no idea when Dirt might wake up from the hit that Corson delivered to the back of Thomas’ captors head. How long was a man knocked unconscious before he began to stir, and after he began to stir, how long until he was aware of what happened? They had taken Dirt, lifted him up together, and placed him down in the chair where Thomas had previously sat, and they tied him up with some rope they had found because the rope that bound the Prince had been cut to shreds by Corson. With that, the captor became the captive, and King Daniel’s son and his appointed head of the guards braced themselves to go back out into the storm, and into the village filled with potential enemies.

“Where’s the knights that came with you?” Thomas asked.

“They are out along the woods border, keeping watch. We didn’t want too many of us roaming about the village in case we were spotted.”

“Did you always know the people of Fortis felt this way about the Lishens?” Thomas asked, surprised at the animosity he felt by the people toward his family, toward the Kingdom. His father maybe lied to him, assuring his son that they were loved by all, but at the moment it didn’t seem like they were. Not anymore, and especially not by the people of Fortis. If Corson had held back his people, were things worse than he had ever known?

“These are not the people of Fortis, your highness. These people are sick.”

“Sick?”

“The storm made them sick. Usually, when the sun goes behind the clouds, people get depressed. They feel gloomy and down on the world. Sunshine, for some reason, brings out smiles. You’ll see it when you go out more. On a sunny day, as long as it is not too hot, the people are happier; lighter. On rainy days, they feel trapped inside their homes, the world becomes dirtier, muddier, soaked. It brings people down.”

“You’re telling me the people of Fortis kidnapped and bound me because they feel depressed due to the storm?”

“No. Usually it takes longer than a couple hours of rain to let the weather affect you. These people seem like it has been raining for a month. But, that is what it seems. Nobody is outside. The people we have seen from the cover of the forest wear the look on their faces like they haven’t seen the sun in ages.”

“So, what is it?”

“We’ve been hearing voices in the wind.”

Me too, Thomas thought, but wanting to hear more.

“Voices?”

“Ominous voices, warning us of danger.”

“I’ve heard similar things. Right before I was taken.”

“There’s something bizarre going on, my Prince. Something I can’t explain.”

“Try. Please. Before we venture forth, out into this, please try to explain.”

“It’s almost as if the storm is evil. As if it carries with it evil spirits, and with that, it makes people angry- it speaks to their most primitive desires of conquering and gluttony. I feel the village succumbed to that, making them wish to take you hostage, maybe to make a profit off your misfortune of getting lost.”

“I did not get lost. I’m looking for Princess Kyrstin.”

“She is not here. We searched everywhere, we listened to conversations inside the other huts. They only talk of you, not of her. As far as we can figure, nobody in this village knows your sister is even in the area. If they did, they’d probably have put you with her.”

Thomas had felt without a doubt that his sister had befallen a similar fate as he had, being taken by one of the people here. To hear that wasn’t the case angered and saddened him as both he and Corson looked out into the stormy world. The rain collected in large puddle out on the road, the world seeming to not take in any more liquid. Pretty soon, Thomas felt, the main roadway of Fortis would be a river, and maybe this whole town of people, susceptible to dark feelings from dark clouds, would be washed away with it, and Thomas would never have to worry about Dirt, or Toothless, or Thin Man ever again. He knew he’d probably be seeing them in his dreams if they could escape.

“Well, you lead, Corson. Get us back to your men, and get us out of this village. I don’t want to be around when they realize I am missing. It’ll be night soon. Let us head back to the castle and regroup.”

Corson nodded, taking one last gander out of the hut’s door before wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle of his sword, and stepping out into the rain. Thomas chanced a look back at Dirt, at the blood that ran from the top of his head down his neck. The Prince wondered if the man who was covered in filth would venture to take a shower to wash the blood away or, if Thomas did return one day with an army to exact his revenge on his captors, would he be able to tell who Dirt was by the dried blood. He looked for another distinguishing mark he thought he might be able to identify the man from all the rat bite marks on his hand. Thomas was glad to see the rat had gotten away.

It was time to go.

The rain was the coldest rain Thomas had ever felt in his life. After a couple of steps in it, he wondered if he could suffer enough to get all the way back to the castle. It seemed to pierce his skin and instantly send his muscles into quivering and shaking, trying to get warm. He tried to stop his lower lip and chin from shivering, but he couldn’t. He wondered how Corson seemed to stand stoically in it, but he figured his teacher had gotten somewhat used to the drop in temperature venturing out to find him. Not that the storage hut was very warm, but it probably helped Corson as well.

Thomas followed him. Where Corson sloshed through mud puddles, Thomas tried to find the earth that wasn’t submerged yet, only to find his advancement somewhat impeded by constantly sinking down into it. It took him awhile, but he figured out Corson’s thought pattern. If you stepped in the puddles, your tracks were covered by the water that was already there. But, if you stepped where there wasn’t puddles, your tracks remained, and became foot sized puddles themselves. When the village realized they had escaped, they would just have to follow Thomas’ footprints to find them.

So, without being told, Thomas began to run in the puddles as well.

“Hey!” came the shout behind them, and Thomas turned to see Beard in the doorway of what was probably his hut. His wife and two kids behind him, all staring in the direction of the two escapees.

Corson didn’t hear the shout over the rain and wind, Thomas realized, when the leader didn’t stop and continued on with his gait. This left Thomas well behind and when the Prince looked in front of him, the rain almost blocked out the image of his guide. The young prince turned around again to look at Beard, to see what the man intended to do now that he saw that they were escaping. Nothing was going to stop them, this was certain, but what kind of exit they were to make depended on Beard’s next actions.

Just as Thomas had feared, Beard had begun to sprint from his doorway toward the boy. Still screaming “Hey!” as if the simple act of catching them escaping was going to stop them from doing so.

Thomas turned to see if Corson had heard the shouting yet, but instead of hearing Beard, Corson simply sensed that his follower was no longer behind him. He turned to see Thomas, about fifty strides away and when the two locked eyes, Thomas motioned over at Beard running toward them. Corson, eyebrows raised, brought the sword up to first position, and ran back toward the Prince. Thomas stood in the middle of the two men, one out to harm him, the other to protect him, like an audience member of an interactive play.

Everything seemed to slow down, each rain drop like a singular speck of liquid jumping into the puddles. Thomas could see the rain splatter off of Corson’s armor, could see the sharp edge of the sword cut through the water. He turned to see Beard’s cheeks puffing from the exertion of running in the mud; could see the rage in the stranger’s eyes. It appeared that Beard would reach him first, and Thomas looked past Beard, into his hut’s doorway, at his family, simply standing there, scowls on their faces, as if Thomas deserved whatever was about to happen to him.

At the last moment, right before Beard’s outstretched arms were able to wrap around the small boy, Thomas fell to the ground, sinking his body into the mud, becoming as small as he could muster. Splatter hit him in the face from Beard’s feet losing purchase on the ground and running past, but Thomas had planned it out perfectly, having the bigger man narrowly miss him. With his face downward, Thomas wasn’t able to see what happened next, but he felt Corson’s weight close by, running in the opposite direction, and he heard Beard’s wife’s scream. One more large amount of mass landed in the mud by Thomas, sending a large wave of brown water into the air.

He was afraid to look over. He knew exactly what his sword teacher had done just by the sound of anguish coming from Beard’s home.

Beard’s wife continued to scream, shouting gibberish, and more people were coming to their doorways. An arm came down under Thomas and lifted the young boy into the air.

“You did well, your highness,” Corson grunted. “Glad to see you were paying attention to this morning’s lesson of evading the attack.”

Was it only this morning? Thomas thought to himself.

“We must go before the whole village descends upon us.”

With that, Corson dragged his Prince to the woods where guards, poised to attack, waited to run away.