When Writing, Make An Outline!

I'm a fiction writer. That's what I love to do. It's about building worlds and people and sending them on adventures that test the limits of their character. And there are no limits to what you can do. If you have the vocabulary and the drive, you can write a story about anything, anywhere, anytime. No limits. Isn't that nuts?

Here's the problem that I had over this semester. I decided to write Captives of the Eastern Mountain without much direction at all. I just figured knocking out one episode at a time and winging it would be okay.

Nopers.

I found that I lost interest in the story after four episodes! Don't get me wrong, I'll probably pick it up again sometime and turn it into a novella based off my first novel, but I definitely should have planned this out a little better. So I apologize to everyone who got emotionally invested in this story. Both of you.

I wrote Foreordained with a strict outline. I planned My Name Is Hammerfist with an outline. I didn't do an outline for Captives of the Eastern Mountain. In this respect, I have failed.

The good news is, you live and learn, right?? So thanks! And sorry! Until then, feel free to check out some of my other works that I did make with outlines in mind. And expect new iterations of My Name Is Hammerfist every month! I'm seriously stoked about this story, guys. Thanks for reading!

Foreordained

My Name Is Hammerfist: Volume 1


Thanks again!

-Aaron

New Project!

Hey guys! Sorry that it's been a minute!

Here's the thing. I love Nezmyth. I love the world that's been created here... but I've actually been working on a different project for the past month. It's called "My Name Is Hammerfist."

It's a superhero story! But it's more on the fun side and doesn't take itself too seriously. It's a series I'm going to make available on the Amazon Kindle store for $0.99 an episode. I hope to release a new episode every month, and over time, compile the episodes into collections that will then be published in paperback.

Guys. I'm so excited about this. Like, so excited that it's almost obnoxious.

From this point, I'll likely be updating my writings through my main blog, but until then, I'd like to share with you a taste of the first volume of "My Name Is Hammerfist!" I'll post the same tidbit on my main blog as well.

Enjoy! :D

            I know it’s lame, but this whole story started because of donuts. Freaking donuts. Of all things.

            If you had tasted these donuts, though, you would probably know where I’m coming from. Zeke’s Grub has the best snack food hands-down in the town where I’m from—which is called Gladview, by the way. It’s funny that they call it Gladview because you can barely see anything and it made me anything but glad. It’s a tumor of a town that’s bunched together in the middle of forest, so I spent a lot of my childhood fighting off ticks and angry squirrels when I was out playing in the trees. But that’s beside the point.

            I wanted to drive home for the weekend so I could get some of those killer donuts at Zeke’s Grub.  I was just into my first semester at Carus Community College in Citytown, so I was feeling just a little homesick anyway. I graduated from high school with an astoundingly bland GPA not long before, but luckily Carus had open enrollment and it wasn’t too far away from home. That made my decision to move there easy.  Besides, I had no idea what I wanted to study and it seemed like a good idea to go there and get my general eds knocked out of the way.

            But again, I’m getting sidetracked. Oh jeez! I didn’t even tell you my name!

            I’m Herman Fitzgerald the third. Not exactly the most intimidating name, but I’m not exactly the most intimidating person—the last guy you’d expect to replace his prosthetic hand with a hammer and go beat bad guys in the middle of the night. I like cheese crackers, action movies, most of my jeans are ripped in the knees and I wear a size medium t-shirt. I also have plenty of acne scars, messy black hair and crappy brown eyes. Yeah. Kind of an average guy, but I’m cool with that.  Aren’t good stories about average people who deal with crazy circumstances anyway?

            So let’s get back to how this all began.

            “We can pay you for gas once you get home!” My mom lovingly said on the other end of the phone.

            “That would actually be awesome,” I replied thankfully.

            “I know you’re driving late, so just be careful,” she continued. “There are a lot of deer that like to hop into the middle of the road when it’s dark.”

            “I know, mom.”

            I was leaning with my back against my car, my eyes scanning the buildings around me. I was living in some off-campus apartments just a few minutes away from Carus. The skyscrapers of downtown Citytown weren’t too far away, but in the immediate area, I was surrounded by red brick apartment buildings that had to have been built in the sixties. Cars sped through the traffic light at the corner and occasionally honked at each other.  Across the street in another parking lot, a couple was making out against the side of a truck, some guys in tank tops were walking together laughing, and some overly-giggly girls were staring at them not far away. I exhaled and rolled my eyes, my thoughts completely occupied with savory, scrumptious donuts.

            “Have you had dinner yet?” my mom asked. She worries about me all the time.

            “I had a sandwich,” I told her. “And I’m going to stop by Zeke’s on the way home.”

            “Oh, that will be so nice!” she said. “Could you pick me up a Mega Choco-Blast while you’re there?”

            “Sure, mom.”

            “Okay! Love you! Your father is excited to see you, too! See you in a few hours!”

            I clicked the hang-up icon on my phone and pocketed it. My apartment was locked and I had just a few things packed in my car to make for a comfortable weekend stay with my parents.  I hung around outside my car for just a minute longer, looking around and soaking up my surroundings.

A lot of people from the boonies can’t stand the city. I’m the opposite. I love Citytown. Sure, people here are a little busy and can be kind of rude sometimes, but there’s always something happening. There’s more opportunity. There’s more of, well… everything. It’s dirty and loud and crowded, but I love it.

I took a deep, smoggy breath, pulled open my car door and slipped inside. My beat-up sedan from the nineties belched and churned as I turned the key and managed to back out of its parking space without a problem.  The last thing I did was check my tires and fill up at a nearby gas station before I hopped on the interstate heading out of Citytown.

            Billboards for restaurants, movie theaters and casinos crawled passed me as my car cruised along the freeway, joined with dozens of other cars like fast-moving ants along pavement. I turned on the radio, but didn’t listen for long after they played a crappy electro-pop song that kept saying “pump up the jams tonight baby.”  When I changed the station, the same song was playing. I changed the station again, and again it was playing the same song. When I changed the station another time, it was in the middle of a commercial… then that same song came on again. Click. Silence. Thank you.

            After several minutes, the urban landscape of Citytown evaporated to smaller towns, which then evaporated to even smaller towns. Trees became more plentiful to the point where the freeway started to cut through a forest. I started seeing more churches than I did warehouses and more quaint markets than superstores, which was a sure sign that home was getting close. The sun had dipped over the horizon and now the red glow of rear car lights were like angry ghost eyes glaring at me down the road.  I signaled and took an exit that turned into the road heading to Gladview.

            I’m not going to lie, the drive to Gladview is pretty scenic during the day when you get off the freeway.  It’s a narrow two-lane road that winds through a forest, and occasionally the view will break out into clearings or ponds. On any weekend, you could drive down this road and see Citytown photographers park their cars to get out to snap some shots. On a road trip when I was younger, I lit a firecracker and threw it out the window at one of these photographers. It missed the photographer by a longshot, but instead landed by a squirrel who was scavenging for some nuts. I swear I saw that squirrel crap itself and tear off when that firecracker exploded.  Freaking squirrel. I hate squirrels.

            At night, though, the drive to Gladview isn’t as scenic. It’s actually pretty creepy. If you’ve ever driven through a foggy forest at night before, you know what it feels like. You almost expect some crazy chainsaw guy to jump out at you from the trees. I was ready if he did. He was going to end up on my windshield. But I don’t think I need to tell you that it didn’t actually happen.

            Here’s what did happen.

Captives of the Eastern Mountain - Episode 4

Sorry for the late entry, everybody! Life got a little crazy with school and everything! Here's the latest episode of CotEM! Hope you enjoy! :)

* * * * *

The second day was nearly identical to the first.  Miraculously, Bolif was able to conduct most of the day's work without a problem.  He was obviously bleary and tired, but with his massive frame and strong arms he was able to do more work than most of the men anyway.  Whenever food was handed to him, it was gone within a few seconds.

There was one instance where he went to the water cart after several trips--he was still massively dehydrated from the previous day.  When soldiers started turning people away halfway through the afternoon, Bolif started approaching the water cart regardless.  Gulaf watched and realized one of the soldiers standing guard was one of the soldiers from the other night.  When he made eye contact with Gulaf, he let Bolif have another drink.

Sweat dripped down Gulaf's face and neck as he hauled one rock after another.  Near the end of the second day, the pile of rocks hundreds of yards away was becoming considerably large.  The mountain face was far from clear, but the convicts had made some amount of progress.  Regardless, many of them couldn't handle the strain of the day, and many started to collapse from exhaustion.  These were wheeled away in carts like the ones from the day before.  However, no one saw the ones from the day before.

Gulaf thought of Tarren frequently throughout the day, sitting at his table, working on instruments to hang in his shanty shop in an alleyway.  How was he getting along with the Harvest Tax? Would he have enough to pay when the next one came in three months, or would he be doomed to the Eastern Mountains like he was?

Halfway through the day, Gulaf realized that the deep cut on his arm had opened up again.  It was when he was carrying an exceptionally-sized rock down the mountainside that he looked down and realized that blood was seeping down his bicep and dripping from his elbow.  He looked around at the nearby soldiers.  They probably wouldn't get suspicious.  They would probably assume that he cut himself on a sharp boulder or something.  He didn’t address it until he had dropped off his rock with the others.  On his way back to the mountainside, he tore the bottom of his sweaty, dusty garment so his abdomen was showing.  With the torn cloth, he wrapped it around his bleeding arm.

He was just bending over to pick up another rock when he heard someone shout to his right.

“You!”

Gulaf stood up slowly and turned around, and what he saw made his blood freeze.  Mongotha was standing just a few paces away with his whip in his hands, poised and ready, eying him with a gaze like fire.  Gulaf tried not to shudder.

Mongotha gestured to his bandaged arm, “What’s that?”

“Got cut on a rock,” Gulaf replied lowly.

Mongotha’s gaze become more fierce. “None of the rocks here are sharp enough to cut you.”

He stalked up to where Gulaf was and ripped off the bandage, revealing the long, deep cut.  Mongotha held his arm in his tight fist to get a better look at it. Blood had thickened and clotted and left a dirty black sliver several inches long.  Dust had also crept in through the bandage and was crusting up the long cut.

Mongotha glared at the cut, then at Gulaf’s face, then the cut again.  His eyes narrowed, then he got a mischievous grin.

“So you’re the one.”

Gulaf’s eyebrows furrowed and his skin crawled as he contemplated what that must have meant.  Mongotha released his arm, then jerked his head and said, “Come.”

Mongotha trudged down the mountain face and hesitantly, Gulaf followed after.  Several prisoners turned and gawked as he did, each of them likely wondering if Gulaf was making the last walk of his life.  Gulaf scanned the hundreds of prisoners for Bolif.  When he found him and made eye contact, he gave him an unsure nod.  Bolif looked on helplessly with a rock over his shoulder.

They walked back to camp, passing through the large patch of dirt where everyone slept, and kept walking.  As they turned around a mountain face, a small shack came into view with a few soldiers standing outside.  Gulaf followed Mongotha several paces behind, and neither of them spoke a word to each other.  The only sound that was made was the whistling of the wind carving through the mountains and the crunch of dirt under their feet.

Mongotha threw the door open to the edifice and ducked inside.  Gulaf didn’t follow immediately. The thought of what could be waiting for him inside repelled him.  Was Mongotha going to kill him?  What about that devilish grin he gave him just a few minutes ago?  What does he know?  At length, he knew there would be no running at this point, and hesitantly walked through the door.

The house had a wooden floor.  And a bed.  Gulaf stared at it longingly and wondered how long it would be before he got to pull a blanket over himself again.  Along the walls, there were also dead chickens and rabbits hanging by their feet, waiting to be cooked and eaten in a stove that sat not far away.  Rugs made of the pelts of exotic animals were strewn across the floor.  A table with two chairs, occupied with a clean tablecloth and a set of spotless dishes and utensils sat waiting.

“Sit,” Mongotha said.

Gulaf lumbered over to the table and took a seat, his eyes still wandering around the cosy cabin.  Mongotha slipped the sword from off his back and leaned it up against a wall, but kept the daggers slung to his hips and calf.  He strolled over to the stove, where a large pot was simmering on top.  He took it off and walked it over to the table, setting it between him and Gulaf.  It smelled heavenly.  Gulaf saw carrots, potatoes, peas and meat swimming near the surface, and his mouth began to water.

Mongotha took a ladle and served himself a liberal helping before beckoning Gulaf to do the same.  Gulaf thought about it before he did.  What was in the soup?  Was it poisoned?  It couldn’t be if Mongotha was scooping from the same pot.  He was already slurping up his helping.  It must be safe.  Gulaf took the ladle and started filling his bowl, and it wasn’t a moment before Mongotha started firing questions.

“Three soldiers against one prisoner,” he said. “It was you, was it not?”

Gulaf’s blood turned to ice again and the ladle stopped in midair.  Mongotha folded his arms and his eyes bore into Gulaf.

“I don’t plan on punishing you unless you lie to me,” Mongotha said coldly. “Now tell me, was it you?”

Gulaf slowly filled his bowl with the second scoop.  He set the ladle back down in the pot and thought about the night before.  The rude awakening.  The soldiers.  The fight.  The long cut on his arm that came from a spear jab.  He inhaled deeply before he answered.

“Yes,” he replied.

Mongotha stroked his chin and traced the bottom of the scar that ran down the side of his face. “Those soldiers go through rigorous training to do what they do.  You must be a professional.”

“I was,” Gulaf said. “Many years ago.”

“Soldier?”

“Just a brawler.”

“For sport?”

Gulaf nodded. “Travelled the Kingdom doing paid fights.  Sometimes one-on-one, sometimes they would hire several guys to come at me at once.  They called me Gulaf the Grand.”

Mongotha smirked. “So my soldiers were no problem for you.”

“No.”

“Are there any other professionals I should know about in the camp?”

Gulaf’s eyebrows bent.  He said, “Not that I know of.”

Mongotha nodded silently and wiped his lips with a napkin.  He set the napkin down by his half-empty bowl and folded his arms, his eyes once again bearing into Gulaf.  That milky-white eye was even eerier up close, and looking into it was even worse when you knew it was focused on you.  Gulaf tried not to shudder. Meanwhile, Mongotha was trying to appear more hospitable with every minute.

“Do you have a family back in Nezmyth City?”

Gulaf thought of Tarren, then thought of his maddened wife living in the faraway village. He tried not to scowl. “That’s a complicated question.”

“Explain.”

“I have a son, yes, and a wife. My son is in Nezmyth City and my wife is in Lunli Village.”

Mongotha’s eyebrows creased. “The village for the maddened?”

Gulaf nodded and the words came off his lips like venom, “Maddened by imprisonment at the Nezmyth City prison. I’m sure you’ve heard of the conditions there.”

“Indeed,” Mongotha sneered. “I was once a guard there.”

Gulaf’s eyes popped. What if he had a hand in torturing my wife? Is it possible? His jaw tightened and he flexed his hands under the table.

“Let’s get to the point,” Mongotha said. “You’re a great fighter. Excellent, actually.  And from talking with you I know you’re not just strong physically.  That’s why I have a proposition for you.”

Gulaf fiery gaze didn’t break and listened intently while Mongotha leaned over the table and laced his fingers together.  Their eyes locked.

“I want you on my side,” Mongotha said. “You’re strong, and you’re smart.  I need you to let me know if the prisoners start getting restless and report it to me--give me names and specifics of who might be starting to make unwise decisions.”

Gulaf’s finger traced the spoon that lay by the side of his bowl.  He thought of the potential unrest that would happen as time went on, and he knew that prisoners easily outnumbers soldiers ten to one.  Mongotha was likely going to have this conversation with other stronger prisoners, perhaps like Bolif.  Gulaf returned the stoic gaze.

Finally, he asked, “How will I be compensated?”

This seem to deflate Mongotha a little. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms again. “What do you want?”

“I want a guarantee that I’ll be free to see my son and wife again.”

“There’s no point promising you that,” Mongotha said flatly. “You’re going to build mines and die here.  Unless some King is Foreordained to take Barnabas’ place sometime soon and releases all of you.  But if you want to know what I think… those ways are dead.  Nezmyth is the only kingdom left that follows Foreordination of Kings.  And after His Majesty, King Barnabas has reigned?” He shook his head. “Not anymore. The Sacred Dragon--if it really exists--has abandoned this place.  I can give you larger meals.  Good meals.  And a bed and maybe a cabin of your own.”

Gulaf surprised himself with how quick his answer was. “I don’t care about any of that. I want my family.”

“Abandon thoughts of them immediately,” Mongotha said firmly. “Sentiment is nothing but weakness and you’ll stay weak along as you attach yourself to them. You’re dead to them at this point and you should accept that you’ll never see them again.”

Gulaf thought of the dream he had last night.  Tarren in his shop.  That great hall with the red carpet and those two people conversing.  Change was coming.  There had to be.  He remembered what he felt… and it felt so real. He took a deep, shaky breath, staring into the bowl of food that he hadn’t had a single slurp of. Something inside him knew. He couldn’t deny it. He gazed into Mongotha’s eyes with as much resolve as he could muster.

“No.”

Mongotha’s eyebrow popped, and he echoed, “No?”

Gulaf didn’t reply. He didn’t need to repeat himself. Mongotha suddenly leaned in and his face filled with the same menace that was there the first time he saw him.

“Are you a fool?” Mongotha hissed. “Do you realize what you’re refusing? Any of the other prisoners would fight and die for what I can offer you.”

“As long as I stay here, you can’t offer me anything,” Gulaf said softly.

Mongotha stared at Gulaf for a long, hard moment, and tension filled the cabin. It was about this time that Gulaf remembered the daggers that were still slung to his hips and calf, and he himself was unarmed. Maybe Mongotha would do away with him right now? It was the perfect opportunity, and he had proved himself useless to him. Maybe he shouldn’t have turn down the offer.

“Well then,” Mongotha said. “When you change your mind, I’ll be waiting. It won’t take long. After a few weeks of what I’ll put you through, you’ll be back. I’m an expert in these methods, and best of all, I’m patient. However, you’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Box.”

Gulaf didn’t realize that a soldier was standing in the shadow behind him the entire time. With one swift move, Gulaf was knocked unconscious and his body flopped to the floor.  His soup was still untouched.

* * * * *

"Captives of the Eastern Mountain" is a spin-off of Aaron N. Hall's debut novel, Foreordained. If you're interested in reading the story in which this one originated, you can buy it exclusively through Amazon in paperback and Kindle format.

Captives of the Eastern Mountain - Episode 3

Just play their game… at least for now.

Cold dirt had never felt as good as it did when Gulaf laid down to rest his body at the end of that first day.  Backbreaking labor was only interrupted by lunch and dinner, which were just as meager and unsatisfactory as breakfast.  Lunch consisted of an old hunk of cheese and a cup of water.  Dinner was more stale bread and nothing else.

The excavation site had a carriage with large barrels of water not far away.  Throughout the day, prisoners would try to get as many drinks as possible from the cart--which was of course, guarded by several soldiers--but after a while, the soldiers would push away prisoners and bark at them to get back to work.

The sunset couldn't have come slower.  It seems as though the sun was cruelly taunting them across the horizon, inching by as slowly as possible as they carried rock after rock off the mountain face.  Some men had collapsed from exhaustion and were loaded onto carts to be taken back to camp--at least that's what everyone hoped.  Whip cracks and shouts were fairly frequent as some soldiers took delight in harassing the convicts.

There was the one soldier, however, that Gulaf had nearly attacked earlier.  That one kept a sharp eye on Gulaf for the rest of the day.  Gulaf didn't make eye contact with him, but it seems as though that soldier made it his calling to make sure Gulaf's labor was particularly unpleasant.  Gulaf could expect at least one or two whip cracks by his head every time he walked by.  By the time the sun had set and everybody was trudging achingly back to camp, Gulaf's ears were steadily ringing.

Every convict in the camp collectively collapsed when they reached the large spot of dirt where they had slept the night before.  Sleep came easily as they allowed their fatigued bodies to rest for the first time since sunrise.  Gulaf himself collapsed thankfully in the same patch of dirt as the night before, covered in dust and sweat, and fell asleep in a matter of moments.

He could see Tarren.  He was working alone in his musical instrument shop back in Nezmyth City, his eyebrows furrowed and his face gaunt with worry.  Was he worried about him?  About paying the next Harvest Tax?  Both?  He brushed the long blonde hair out of his eyes, his face focused on polishing a flute before him.  He must feel so alone.  His father was carried away captive and his mother had to be sent away due to her madness years ago.  What was he feeling or thinking?  Gulaf couldn’t help but think one thing:

I wasn’t the father I could have been… he thought. I wish I could go back and do things differently.

How many opportunities did he pass up to tell him he loved him?  How many times did he encourage him or tell him he was doing well?  No.  He had to appear strong.  It was always about carrying your own weight and being your own man--fighting and toiling each day to do whatever it takes to get by.  But where had that gotten Gulaf?  How did that matter now?

And now I’ve lost my chance, he thought despairingly. I’ll never see him again.  I’m doomed to be a slave.

If only I weren’t.

Something flashed before his eyes that he’d never seen before.  It was the image of a great hall, with stone pillars and walls that was obviously centuries old and a red carpet that stretched for dozens of yards.  Stained glass windows poured in fragmented, multi-colored sunlight as two people conversed.  One was a boy--he couldn’t have been much older than Tarren.  Something seemed familiar about him.  The other was a brutal figure with a thick peppery beard and a long, sickly black cape.  He was sitting in an ornate chair facing the boy.  They were conversing, and it seemed serious.  Not just between the two, but the conversation had an air of dire importance for many.

Somehow, Gulaf had the feeling that change was coming.  Something drastic, maybe something that could alter his own life.  Maybe this could mean he could have another chance to be home with Tarren.  Maybe this wasn’t the end.

Just as this thought surfaced, he was awakened just as rudely as the previous morning, but it was still dark out.

"Hey!"

Gulaf jerked as he was awakened by an aggressive whisper and a kick to the chest.  The pain from the kick subsided quickly and he blinked around, his anger flaring.  It was still dark out and everyone else was still asleep.  The kick had come from a soldier, but not just any soldier.  It was the same soldier that he had nearly beaten earlier that day.  He was glaring down at his resting body with eyes full of juvenile rage, a dagger protruding from his clenched fist.

"Get up!" He soldier hissed.

Gulaf, at the sight of the dagger, didn't say a word, but dusted himself off and forced himself to stand.  His body ached even more than the previous morning.  His back had stiffened from so much bending and standing, and his knees trembled as they attempted to push up his weight.

The soldier jabbed the dagger into his back and forced Gulaf to walk forward.  Gulaf complied with every meager effort of his body that so desperately needed rest.  The soldier pushed Gulaf far away from the camp, where a couple of other soldiers were waiting in the dark, barely illuminated by the starlight but obviously eying him menacingly.  Gulaf's blood became ice and his palms grew sweaty.  His eyes darted to all three of them.

The first soldier whipped around to face Gulaf.  He leaned in close and muttered, "I can tell you're not afraid of us like the others are.  That's a mistake."

He paused as if waiting for a response.  Gulaf said nothing.

"Don't you know what we could do to you?  We could kill you right now and no one would miss you.  We have the authority.  Mongotha has spoken it."

Gulaf thought of Tarren.  Again, he said nothing.

"Why should we not kill you right now, you arrogant oaf?" The soldier seethed. "Because if you don't have an answer, we will."

At this, Gulaf's eyes bore into the soldier.  He thought of saying, "You can try," but again, he said nothing.  He simply glared with with the same glare he had given the soldier that afternoon, daring him to make a move.  His hands flexed at his sides, waiting to exact vengeance.  His heartbeat started to rise.  In the silence, he waited for the initial strike.

It came.  The soldier lunged forward with his dagger and Gulaf's heart jumped into his throat.  He dodged to the left and grabbed the soldier's wrist, wrenching it out, forcing him to drop his dagger.  The soldier yelped and dropped it, but quickly attacked with kicks and punches.  Gulaf parried each blow carefully.  It was difficult to see in the starlight, but he managed to kick at the soldier's ankles, knocking him off balance.  Gulaf seized this second opportunity and grabbed the soldier by the throat, thrusting him into the ground.  The soldier sputtered as the wind was knocked out of him, and Gulaf punched his head just strong enough to render him unconscious.

It wasn't a second before the other two soldiers were upon him, each with spears.  One jabbed and Gulaf reflexively knocked the weapon out of the way, but it still grazed his arm, leaving a long, deep cut.  He grabbed the end and yanked it out of the soldier's grasp while managing to crack the other across the head.  The soldier recoiled and Gulaf followed through with a blunt jab in the gut, toppling him.  Gulaf expertly flipped the spear around so the sharp end was out, pointed at the last standing soldier.

The disarmed soldier immediately threw his hands up, his eyes wide, but still trying to muster an unintimidated stare.  Gulaf’s teeth clenched behind his lips.  The tip of the spear was inches away from the last soldier’s throat.

“I should wake up the entire camp right now,” Gulaf muttered. “Mongotha would come to see what was happening, and would see three soldiers disarmed and beaten by one man.  I don’t think he would be too happy with that.  Do you think he’d treat a useless soldier the same way he’d treat a useless prisoner?”

The third’s soldier’s eyes became wider.  The first soldier was coming to and the second coughed as he tried to push himself up.  Gulaf gave him another firm kick and he sprawled back onto the ground, hacking in the dust.  His eyes remained fixed on the third soldier for a long moment, then his eyes darted to the other two.  The first soldier was starting to get up, bleary and hazy-like.

After some thought, Gulaf threw the spear onto the ground.  He whipped about and grabbed the first soldier by the neck, forcing him to look him in the eye.  Gulaf’s tone was deadly when he spoke.

“I could’ve killed you and your friends tonight,” he hissed. “Easily.  But despite the torture maggots like you will cause us to go through every day, I’m going to let you live.” He paused. “But... attack me again, and I’ll avenge my broken family on you and every soldier that comes my way.  I’ll make sure you’re the first to fall.”

Gulaf pushed him onto his backside and stalked back to camp, frequently peering over his shoulder to make sure the soldiers weren’t following him.  His heartbeat didn’t subside when he finally lay down amidst the hundreds of other convicts.  He closed his eyes, but sleep never came.

When they dragged Bolif out of the metal box after sunrise, Gulaf couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

So much for pulling them out at nightfall, Gulaf thought bitterly.

A small band of soldiers dragged him and the other man out and dropped them not far from the box, their faces in the dirt.  Gulaf didn’t hesitate in hustling over to where they were instead of hopping into the breakfast line, and when he reached him, he couldn’t help but shudder.

They looked terrible.  The clothes they were wearing were stained with dried sweat and covered in dull brown dirt.  Gulaf flipped Bolin’s body over with some effort and got a look at his face.  His eyes were sunken, bleary and lost.  His lips were cracked and dry, and he was breathing slow, deep breaths.  His eyes fluttered and slowly slid open as they faced the rising sun.  It took a second for them to focus on Gulaf.

“Gulaf?” Bolif said with great effort.

“Bolif, I thought you were pretty ugly before,” Gulaf said. “But this is a new low, even for you.”

Bolf smiled, and a laugh came out that was more like a painful wheeze.  He blinked a few more times, the sunlight obviously painful to his eyes. After a moment, he put his hands to the ground and tried to push himself up.  Gulaf hoisted his friend up and kept his hand on his back to steady him.

“Gulaf...” he muttered with cracked lips. “I don’t ever remember feeling like this…”

“Did they feed you anything yesterday?”

Bolif shook his head slightly.  Gulaf heard his stomach growl loudly.  Everything about Bolif was hazy: his eyes, his hanging jaw, and his entire body seemed as though it were on the brink of falling apart.  Gulaf knew he needed food, but there was no way a soldier would give Bolif any if he didn’t manage to make it to the line.

“Come on,” Gulaf said as he put his arms in Bolif’s armpits to hoist him up.

It was like lifting a gigantic baby.  Bolif made a valiant effort of trying to steady himself.  His knees shuddered horribly as he pushed himself up and he couldn’t keep his balance to save his life.  He asked, “What happened yesterday?”

“They took us to the nearby mountainside where we’ll be building the mine,” Gulaf replied as he put Bolif’s arm around his shoulders. “We hauled rocks all day.  All of us.  They want to build a road leading up to the mountain before we start digging.” They started for the breakfast line, but then Gulaf noticed the body of the other man in the metal box.  He hadn’t moved since the soldiers dragged him out.  His eyes fixed on it, wondering.  Bolif read his expression and answered.

“I don’t think he’s alive,” he said lowly. “We never spoke to each other when we were locked in there.  He was coughing a lot last night, then by this morning, he stunk real bad.  And it wasn’t a normal stink that comes from being dirty.”

A lump lodged in Gulaf’s throat as he gazed on that lifeless body just a few yards away.  In a moment, the soldiers had returned with a small cart and hoisted the body onto it.  They wheeled it away to something far away from camp, disappearing in the distance behind the breakfast line.  Gulaf bowed his head and heaved a great sigh, thinking of the family back in Nezmyth City that likely just lost a son, brother, or father.

After some more silence, Gulaf said in a low tone, “Bolif.  I don’t think we’re going to stay here forever.”

“We’re probably gonna die here,” Bolif replied.

“No,” Gulaf said. “I had a dream last night--I saw things.  Maybe things that are happening.”

Through his still-bleary eyes, Bolif gazed at Gulaf in wonder. “Gulaf, did the Sacred Dragon give you a vision?  I know that happens to folks sometimes, but it’s so rare!”

“I don’t know, perhaps…” Gulaf replied. “But I feel like something big is about to come.  I just… it’s hard to explain.  I think we can make it back to Nezmyth City someday.  I don’t know how long it’ll be--but something tells me it’s possible.”

There was another tense silence, then after some thought, Bolif said, “I believe you.  My heart’s telling me what you’re saying is true.”

“Let’s hope we’re both right,” Gulaf said. “If we are, we have to keep our heads low.  Promise me now that you’ll stay out of trouble Bolif.  I’ll do the same.”

“Of course, boss,” Bolif replied.

With that, they started toward the breakfast line.  As Bolif hobbled alongside Gulaf, Gulaf’s eyes glanced about him.  The dusty mountains, the stark, cloudy sky, the battalions of soldiers marching about, glaring at innocent, starving convicts… maybe it wouldn’t be forever.  Maybe there was still hope.

Through this, he thought of the image of Tarren, working silently and alone in his music shop.

* * * * *

"Captives of the Eastern Mountain" is a spin-off of Aaron N. Hall's debut novel, Foreordained. If you're interested in reading the story in which this one originated, you can buy it exclusively through Amazon in paperback and Kindle format.