Author: Johannes "Jergen[K]" Cruz			Viewing: Chapter 6

William was awoken with a start when guards banged open the door to the cellblock. The voices of several men flooded the previously quiet gloom, and in a few moments he overheard more colorful language than he had in his entire twenty years of life. The guards were having such a difficult time with a prisoner that they had to literally carry him down the stone steps and hurl him into a cell. After a few more moments of frantic yelling and brawling a metal door clanged shut and the retreating steps of the guards moved past Will’s cell. After what seemed like an eternity the prisoner stopped his constant stream of insults and snoring spilled out from his cell. With a great sigh William slumped back down on his own mattress and tried to get some sleep. Will was jolted awake when the slit at the bottom of his door was pulled aside and a bowl of steaming oatmeal was thrust through. After that came a piece of bread and a large wooden cup of water. Sitting up he scratched at the stubble on his face and regarded the slanting sunlight coming from the small window at the back of his cell. With a grunt he stood and moved to get his breakfast. Moments later the guards retreated, and the prison was silent aside from the sounds of eating. William was truly surprised at his treatment so far. For a prisoner he was being kept and cared for very well. “Hey,” came a voice from across the hallway. It was a rough sound, thick from the drunken adventure of the night before and lathered thickly with a northern accent. William approached his door and spoke through it; “I’m here.” “You a mind fer what is goin’ on above lad?” The voice asked. “How do you mean,” William asked, already curious. “Guards Lad,” the drunkard said. “These ain’t guards lad, they’re Knights if I ever did see one.” William was confused, Knights were often sent out on patrols, but they did not perform garrison duty unless a siege was underway. “I don’t understand why Knights would garrison,” he as cut off. “War sonny,” the other said quickly with a thick laugh. “We got a war a’ commin’ an’ if we don’ get out o this place we won’ be getting out at all.” ‘That’s ludicrous,” William began. “It would take an army months to push past the boarders.” “Nay lad,” the voice said, full of grim laughter. “Not if they were already inside.” He said the last word with a particular emphasis. “Traitors?” William asked, feeling himself getting more nervous by the moment. “Aye lad,” the other said, tapping on his metal door for emphasis. “How do you know this?” William asked incredulously, leaning against his door and looking out of the slit near the top. “You’ll see lad,” the voice replied, but it was softer this time, as if the speaker had turned away from the door. “Get yer sleep, long day on the ‘morrow.” “Wait a minute!” William said out loud. “How long do we have?” William waited for a few moments for a reply, but none came. He stood near the door to his cell for a long time, imagining hoards of enemy soldiers attacking the small Caer, and the town above burning down around him. With that image firm in his mind he called out to the guards. *** Allan’s head hurt worse than he could have imagined possible. He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea laid him back down again and left his head spinning. He just laid back and tried to stop his world from spinning every direction at once. He groaned with the sickness in the pit of his stomach and throat, and rolled onto his side. He fought with it for a moment, and then the memory of the Inn returned to him. Like a flash of pain it washed through him and stole his breath. All at once he tried to act, and promptly threw up next to where he lay. Weakly, he tried to stand, but decided that he wouldn’t be able to. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t tied up in any way, or better yet, dead like his mother and the others. Tears came to his eyes at the thought of her, but he managed to force them down. There would be time for grief when he was safe, whenever that was. A small camp had been made nearby, and sitting next to it were his things. His bow and small pack were neatly placed next to a tidy stack of wood that had been shaved of bark. He crawled to his things and began to go through them, his fingers reaching into every pouch and bag. He was surprised to find his possessions completely intact. Down to every arrow in his quiver his things were here. It made no sense to him. Why had they attacked him, but left him alone and alive without so much as trying to tie him up? He began to strap his things to his body when a shadow fell across him. Allan tried to bring his weapon to bear, but a tattered boot pressed itself firmly over one of his wrists, pinning it to the ground. He struggled against it, but felt the nausea returning with the effort and stopped. “What do you want from me damn you?” He asked, surprised that his voice was so raw. Allan’s captor simply watched him, and when he stopped struggling, he removed his foot from Allan’s wrist. He then pointed in a direction and motioned for Allan to get up. When the boy didn’t respond immediately he began to try and pick him up. Allan slapped him away, but could not stand. The stranger grew more agitated by the moment, his large eyes sweeping the forest, looking for something. “Where are you taking me?” Allan asked. For a moment, the stranger was completely confused. He looked at his feet and it seemed that he was about to speak, but he gave up with a shrug and just pointed again. “My Mother,” was all Allan could manage, choking on bile and grief. The stranger shook his head slowly, his brows meeting as he did so; a small frown pursed his lips. Allan nodded, then slowly, painfully he stood. He was surprised to find that he stood nearly a head taller than the man who had captured him, but he could tell the man was much more strongly built. Allan took his first good look at the man and was even more surprised to see an iron color bolted firmly about his neck, as well as the broken cuffs of manacles on his wrists and ankles. He was dressed in an odd assortment of torn rags and animal skins that had been cured very poorly. “Who are you?” He asked, trying to see the man’s eyes. The stranger looked up at him, and Allan was surprised when the eyes that met his were almost purely golden. They reflected the filtered sunlight of the forest like metal, and were shot through with silver. Never in his life had he seen their like. If Allan had expected a reply, he received none, and the stranger turned from him and began to walk the way he had been pointing, looking over his shoulder at the boy as he did so, motioning for him to follow. Weakly, Allan began to follow, taking a few moments to put his things on before he did so. After a few moments of walking he was able to pick up his pace as his stomach settled. Forcing himself not to look back he struggled to keep up with the stranger while his life settled to ashes behind him. They started to run when night fell, and every time Allan thought he was lost the stranger would appear out of nowhere and guide him for a while. With a gentle, but very firm hand, they kept up a murderous pace, always moving north. The moons rose and still they ran. Once they stopped for water, and a few gulped fish, still living, that gave them the strength needed to continue. Twice the stranger stopped them and disappeared into the underbrush after showing Allan where to hide. Once Allan heard voices in the night, but didn’t understand the language they spoke. Luckily, they were not discovered. With sunrise came sleep, and Allan greeted it immediately. He fell headlong into the fitful slumber of the truly exhausted, and when he was shaken awake he did not feel like he had been asleep at all. He sat up, rubbing his swollen eyes and looked at his guide. The man looked more haggard than he had ever seen anyone before. His torn clothes hung off of him, and his face was more a mask than flesh. It was obvious that he had been running for some time and living on only meat because his muscles, although strong, stood out on his bones like thick cords instead of the well-fed bulk of a man who kept his body strong and well nourished. “Where are we going?” Allan asked again, not expecting an answer, but at least trying. The stranger regarded him with his odd eyes, but he did not speak, he only pointed to the north and nodded. Allan was persistent, “I don’t understand.” The stranger sighed, and began drawing in the dirt at their feet, pushing the leaves of the forest to the side to expose the black soil. In moments Allan recognized the crude drawing of a town with a wall around it, like a child’s drawing. “Caer Dublin?” He asked. The stranger flashed a very rare smile and nodded. “How do you know which way it is?” Allan asked, feeling foolish for having so many questions. The stranger motioned for him to follow, and he did. Soon they lay low on a hill, looking down on the road that passed by the Inn, only they were far north from where they had been. They had been following the road all night and Allan hadn’t known it. That explained the voices, they had passed camps, maybe the camps of the men who had killed his family. “We have to go back and find them!” Allan said, trying to stand. The stranger reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back down. He shook his head vigorously. His lips moved, and it seemed as if he would speak, but he did not, he only dragged the boy back from the edge of the road to their camp. Franticly he drew figures into the soil there, but Allan could make no sense of it. He tried again and again to make the picture clear, but Allan just grew frustrated with it and sat down near one of the larger trees. The stranger stopped drawing and looked at the boy. He cocked his head to the side after a while and then moved to him, pointing to the collar around his neck. Allan would have backed away, but the tree held him in place. The stranger got very near to him, near enough that he could smell the days of travel and wilderness on him. He was pointing at the collar and holding it up as far off of his throat as he could. “I don’t,” Allan began, but then he saw the letters etched there. He was no great reader of works, and he could hardly write his own name, but he recognized what he was seeing. “El,” he read aloud. The stranger smiled and backed away, pointing at him and nodding. “Allan,” the boy said to the strange man. With this the stranger smiled and turned away, pointing once again to the north, towards Caer Dublin.