The Stolen Kingdom

Lind was a farming town, surrounded by woods on three sides and fed by the waters of nearby Lake Tenneck. It was a tiny town, just outside the larger town of Price, where most of the day’s trading was done. The houses were small but comfortable, mostly made of stone and clay, topped by straw that shielded the sun in summer and the snow in winter, with blistery wooden doors made from the nearby birches the only entrance.

  It had been a hard winter, and the summer had looked just as promising. With little rain, most of the crops had failed, and it seemed like a terrible year for breeding with what little potent grass there was. Still, the people of Lind had struggled on, making due as they always had, gathering in the town pub just as always, milking the cows, tending the crops, and generally keeping their spirits up. The children, clad in rough rags and solid cloth, some with their shirts off to bask in the summer sun, which to them was a great comfort from their tawny togs, still took to the family chores and learned in the family tradition; the daughters churning butter, the sons tending to the animals. And so life had continued in this tiny town, though kingdoms crumbled and Mother Nature frowned; though Father Time played constantly upon them, testing their patience with his cruel tricks of deprivation; even in times of stark poverty and starvation, they endured.

  Finally, their endurance paid off. As the rain began to fall, and the summer crops to liven, so did the town. The grass had begun to grow, the animals to breed, and again there were signs of vitality. Soleny, with his pickles, was again able to traverse the streets, while women with pears and apples bartered their goods and men sold fowl in the square. So as bad times had come, bad times were leaving, and to them good riddance.

  But now there came another plague – worse than the drought with its hand of black death, this hand struck with a golden glove, much harder and more direct. See the streets clearing now of all but those of low morals. See the children inside, afraid by their beds. See the mothers, the fathers, the grandparents, all huddled together, hidden inside, chocking their closets with whatever small valuables they have, as they tend to their babies, whispering, “Don’t cry, Johnny dear, don’t cry,” praying that there comes no knock at the door, though they know it will indeed come. Some peek from the windows, their eyes flinching back and forth with each passing figure, the sound of horses’ hoofs occasionally running by.

  Rahavi had followed the Dark Duke’s instructions explicitly: more than eighty men, a brute each one, had been tapped to extort this small, squalid town. Each was armed with their weapon of choice, though most preferred the fist to the sword. Their squad leader, Helman, was there to see that all was carried through, though he himself spent most of the time relaxing in the corner of the local pub. Most of the brutes had made their way there, taking drinks as they wished from a timid bartender, who they paid not a dime in retribution, but many a pelt in brutality. Their laughter could be heard for quite a distance down the street, keeping the already derelict people aware of their lingering presence.

  Inside, a fat giant of a man named Belkins stood with a mug in his hand, surrounded in part by other brutish drunkards as he spoke.

  “So then,” the animated fat man continued, “then ’e says t’me, ‘Oh, no – wait! Please! Ya can’t take that!’ So I says, ‘Don’t worry – it’ll be put t’good use!’ Then I rapped’m ova the ’ead with it!”

  The men burst out in a fit of laughter as Belkins gulped down his frosty brew. Empty. He turned to the pub owner, who lay face down on the floor outside, beside the window they had thrown him from.

  “Say, Jenkins,” he yelled, “mind if I get a refill?”

  Again the men keeled in laughter, as Belkins stepped over to the bar.

  “Just one more t’last,” he said, pouring himself another. He gulped it down quickly and let out a refreshed, “Aah.”

  “Come on, Fumar,” he said, motioning to a smaller brute off to his side, “time t’get back t’work.”

  Fumar finished his drink and arose, wiping his lip with his sleeve.

  “Pity it is,” he said, approaching the larger man. “One more wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  “In a bit,” said Belkins. “First let’s finish the rounds.”

  “Can I do the next one?” Fumar asked, referring gaily to the brutes’ next victim.

  “I suppose,” Belkins said. “But let’s get it done before nightfall.”

  The two said their good-byes and made their way out the front of the pub. The summer sun was just beginning to set and the streets were almost completely desolate, save for a monk or a scavenging creature here and there.

  “Eight more houses t’do,” said Belkins, “then we can furnish more drink.”

  “Any more resisters, you think?” Fumar asked. “Any more we might have to give ‘a good talking’ to?”

  “You know there will be,” Belkins laughed. “I’ll make certain of it. Ot! What’s this?” he called. “Who is this that wanders down my street?”

  A monk, cloaked in brown, with a small rope around his waist, was making his way down the lane to the monastery. His head was turned down and could not be seen, his eyes fearful of what they might perceive. The two approached him with smiles of utter depravity.

  “What you doin’ walkin’ here?” Belkins asked, taking the man by the elbow.

  The monk pointed his finger off into the distance. “I…I…I was just…” he stuttered.

  “Just what?” Belkins demanded.

  “Just…Just…”

  “Just as I thought!” Belkins scoffed. He spun the man round and kicked him hard in the rear, sending the poor fellow crashing into a nearby barrel.

  The two brutes burst out in laughter, patting each other on the back.

  “Ot! What’s this?” cried Belkins, walking up ahead of Fumar, who watched behind in great merriment. “Another daring monk, is it?”

  The second wore a cloak just like the first, and walked in much the same manner.

  “Well, what’ve we got ’ere?” said Belkins, approaching with Fumar at his side. “What’a you doin’ walkin’ here?”

  The monk gave no answer, and Belkins took him by the shoulders.

  “I said,” demanded the giant, angrily, “what’a you doin’ here?”

  The monk brought his hand to his head and brushed back his hood, revealing a face much younger than Belkins had expected, with strong, bold blue eyes that spelt out fear even to a brute.

  “Why, I’m killing giants,” Taylor James replied.

  A dagger pressed hard into Belkins’s belly, and a moment later he was no more. Fumar grabbed for the ball and chain at his back, but before he could strike, Taylor had recovered his dagger from the falling Belkins, and flung it with pin-point accuracy, cracking hard into Fumar’s chest and piercing him through the heart.

  …………………………………………..

  Inside the pub, the laughter and the brew were both still going strong. Three squad members danced on the bar, while another two took to the tables. A chorus of “Ole Bailey Bontage” had been struck up, with plates and mugs being tossed to make up for the lack of instruments, a half a dozen brutes banging with their fists, another half dozen watching joyously.

  “Ole Bailey Bontage,” they cried through drunken yelps,

  “He married a rich ole hen.

  “Realized she was thorny,

  “Threw her out, n’ then…

  “She turned into a witch n’ she came right back again!

  “Ole Bailey Bontage! Ole Bailey Bontage!”

 

  “Wait there. Wait there,” muttered a slobbery, bearded man from the corner. “You hear that?”

  “What?” cried another, foam appearing on his mustache as he gulped down one more beer.

  “A sound,” said the first. “Sounded like a bang or somethun.”

  “A bang? What bang?”

  “A bang,” said the man. “Didn’t you hear it, Pearson? I heard it.”

  “Right, Moley,” Pearson declared. “You’re drunk.” br />
  But just then the noise came yet again, like the pounding of a rock upon the door. The brutes looked round at each other, in confusion at first. Then Pearson began to laugh.

  “Must be Dabber,” he said, looking toward the squad leader. “Probably foolin’ again.”

  Again the bang came. The squad leader leaned up from his stool.

  “Check it out,” he said.

  Pearson, placing his mug on a nearby table, reluctantly arose.

  “What could it be?” he joked, stepping to the door “- the army of Lind come to seek vengeance?”

  The others laughed, and as Pearson opened the door, he laughed too, crying, “Who goes there?” in mock irritation. “Who knocks on my – Uf!”

  His body flew back into the parlor as another body crashed down on top of it. Quickly Pearson thrust the body off and reached for his sword, only to realize that it was the dead figure of Belkins.

  “What the devil!”

  “That’s Belkins!” Moley cried.

  For a moment the rest stared down at the body in awe. Rising with a ball and chain, one man cried out, “Let’s get those murderin’ slubs!”

  “Ar!” cried eight, ten, twelve more, joining in.

  They raced for the door, with Pearson at the head, charging for the outside. The sunlight greeted them with a strand of arrows, and those that could rushed back into the pub over the dead bodies of the others. Lit pieces of hay and wood came flying through the windows, and the roof began to cave from heat. Brutes ran for the outside, but there they found only more arrows and death. A moment later, the brutish bodies were prostrate and burning.

  …………………………………………..

  Farv received word of the incident at Lind by messenger, direct from King Harris. His orders were to double the size of his cavalry, which already numbered over 2,000, and stomp out Taylor James and his men. “Bring me his head,” the Dark Duke had ordered. “And fast.”

  He rolled up the scroll and handed it back to the messenger.

  “Tell His Highness that the message has been received, is understood, and will be executed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man placed the scroll under his belt and took off on his horse.

  Farv addressed one of his lieutenants: “Prepare the men. We march to Lind in one hour’s time.”

  By the time they arrived, though, the town had already been deserted. The people, wanting no part in the aftermath, had either joined with Taylor or set out on their own with their families. Not even the birds had courage enough to stay. They had flown out, away from the horrible rotting smell of dead bodies that wafted down the street. Only the scavengers remained, and they too fled when Farv approached.

  “They must have come through the woods,” Farv observed, more to himself than those around him. “Why come head-on when the woods provide such safety?”

  Tugging at his horse’s rein, he galloped to the woods and peered in, his lieutenants following closely at his side. But Farv saw nothing.

  His men scoured the grounds for three hours, finding not a clue as to where the attack had originated or to whence Taylor James and his men had gone. Dozens, maybe more, had passed through the woods, attacked Rahavi’s men at Lind, and passed back through, and yet they left nothing. No prints. No clues. Nothing.

  “Amazing.”

  Chapter 26

  Help from the Lord