Captives of the Eastern Mountain - Episode 2

“C’mon, Tarren!  Get up!” Gulaf said forcefully. “I know you can do better!”

Those young purple eyes that reflected his own filled with frustration, forcing back tears as he scrambled to his feet.  He gripped the wooden daggers in his hands tighter, calculating a wiser attack.  Sunlight poured through the windows of the massive, derelict hall--a combat gym that had long been abandoned after its owners couldn’t pay the Harvest.  Flecks of dust hovered in the air and stirred as Gulaf and Tarren danced by.  Tarren sent a barrage of attacks which were parried effortlessly by his father.

Sweat dripped off his matted blonde hair as Tarren shot each attack with agility, but Gulaf hadn’t even broken a sweat after nearly an hour of practice.  Finally, Gulaf went for an open spot and swept at his son’s ankles.  Tarren toppled to the floor, kicking up dust from the padding beneath him and choking as the wind was knocked out of him.  Gulaf stood with one foot on his son’s chest and pointed his fingers at his throat as if they were a knife.

“I win this round,” Gulaf said.

He stepped off of his son and turned away, walking toward a water canteen that was waiting for him some yards away.  After walking only a few feet, he felt Tarren’s wooden dagger smack his back, obviously thrown from where he lay.

Gulaf stopped.  In an instant, he flipped around and advanced on Tarren just as he was pushing himself off the ground.  Gulaf shoved him back into the padded floor, his mighty hand against his son’s heaving chest.  He glared vehemently into those surprised purple eyes.

“You never strike your opponent from behind!” he half-shouted. “That’s cowardice!  The next time you do that I’ll beat you even faster than I did now!”  Gulaf took a deep breath and withdrew his hand, standing up. “I really hope you never do that in your battle classes.  It’s the poorest of sportsmanship.”

“I don’t,” Tarren said, sitting up again and coughing. “But in my battle classes, I never lose.” He paused for a moment, thoughtfully, before adding, “I beat Jason again today.  Quicker than last time.”

“It’s amazing that you two are still good friends after the rivalry you share on the sparring mat,” Gulaf said.

Tarren smirked. “Yes… he’s angry sometimes, but for the most part he's kind.”

Silence enveloped them.  Gulaf drank deeply from his canteen and Tarren sat pensively several feet away.  Gulaf couldn’t help but notice that his son was growing taller and stronger--his shoulders were growing wider and his boyish face was becoming more pronounced and masculine.  It wouldn’t be long before Tarren would be the one pinning him to the floor.  It seemed so hard to imagine… that young man, just fifteen years of age, seemed like a child not long ago.  Where had the time gone?

Gulaf found himself lost in these nostalgic thoughts when Tarren broke the silence with words that made him ache even more for the past.

“Do you ever wonder what mother is doing while we’re here in Nezmyth City?”

“Get up!”

Two words followed by a swift kick in the stomach.  Gulaf wheezed into the dirt as his body involuntarily recoiled.  With that, the soldier silently marched away.  He pushed himself up, taking a bleary look around.  Groans and coughs drifted through the air as the other prisoners met a similar waking.  The torch by the pool of blood had gone out and and the blood had dried into the dirt overnight, leaving nothing but a sickly patch of red.

Gulaf's legs crackled as he pushed himself to his feet.  Everybody was congregating in a single direction, shifting from one foot to the other as they slowly trod, becoming a large cluster.  It wasn't long before Gulaf realized why.

One by one, men from the front of the crowd started dragging their feet back toward the center of camp, carrying just two small parcels in their hands: an apple, and a fistful of dried bread.  They would sit back down in the dust where they lay the night before and eagerly tear away at the apple and bread, devouring them in seconds.  No one said a word under the watchful eyes of soldiers.

Gulaf joined the congregation, and after several minutes of congested shuffling, he found himself at the head of the pack, and a blank-faced soldier thrust an apple and a rock-hard chunk of bread into his hands.  His stomach growled loudly, and he immediately took a bite of the apple.  When he sunk his teeth in, it was brown and mushy.

To his right, a man hungrily swiped at another man’s breakfast.  The man shouted something profane and pushed him away from his meal and into some more irritated prisoners.  The would-be thief pushed back, and in an instant the crowd had erupted into a hive of angry convicts, throwing fists and shouting.

Gulaf hovered near the back of the crowd as tensions escalated, holding tightly to his meal and taking liberal bites.  Soldiers immediately swarmed in, casting paralyzing curses, causing convicts to collapse to ground with their arms and legs limply cast about them.  This made tensions subside, but only a little.  The frenzy continued for several long moments until the one man showed up that could bring the whole camp to a standstill.

"Enough!"

It was him.  Amidst the tumult, Mongotha had forced himself into the middle of the crowd and seized the two perpetrators, holding them both by their collars.  Both of them were unconscious, with fresh marks across their faces clearly made from Mongotha's massive fists.  As soon as the whole crowd realized he was there, they went silent as quickly as they had erupted.  Gulaf’s heart stopped when he realized who one of the unconscious prisoners was.

It was Bolif.

Mongotha scanned the prisoners as if just his gaze could set everyone ablaze.  No one breathed.  The two unconscious prisoners he held in his hands didn’t stir.  Even the soldiers who had been trying to calm the riot didn’t speak.  Slowly, Mongotha turned his back and stalked away, dragging the two prisoners across the ground.  The crowd parted and watched intently.

A crude metal box the size of a carriage lay on the ground about one hundred yards away.  As Mongotha strode toward it, a pair of soldiers went to the box and opened its creaky, rusted door.  It opened from the side like a carriage would, but it had no windows and the door had an exceptionally large lock.

That thing must feel like an oven in the middle of the day, Gulaf thought anxiously.

Mongotha tossed both of the prisoners inside, which were just coming to.  But before the two prisoners had time to get their bearings, the guards slammed the metal door shut and snapped the lock onto the door.  As Mongotha walked away, a faint knocking was heard from inside the box that got louder and more frequent, as if begging for some way to get out.  No one answered.  Gulaf shuddered and his mouth became dry as he thought of Bolif trapped in there during the sweltering heat of the afternoon.

When Mongotha reached the center of the crowd, he gazed around the prisoners satisfactorily, relishing in the fear that emanated from them.

“That is the fate you can expect if you misbehave,” he yelled. “We’ll pull them out at nightfall.” Silence, again relishing in the horror he had created, then he said, “Breakfast is over!  Come!”

Crestfallen and with stomachs still grumbling, the prisoners trudged through the dirt, following Mongotha around the foot of the mountain.  Gulaf thought to himself that if this were a different region of the Eastern Mountains, the walk might have been rewarding.  In different regions of the Eastern Mountains, the peaks were tipped with snow and populated with thick, healthy trees.  Soft soil and twigs would crunch under your feet, the air would be crisp and fresh, and you’d likely see bears, deer and other wildlife quietly living amongst each other.

But this region of the mountains was stark and bleak.  The mountains were steep with barely any vegetation other than the occasional burnt-up tree or weed arrogantly sprouting from the parched soil.  Small rocks were aplenty, which made walking very uncomfortable, and the dust that the wind kicked up made it hard to breathe.  The only wildlife to be seen was the occasional snake or rat.

At length, they stopped at the foot of a mountainside that was riddled with large rocks nearly impossible to traverse.  The captives bunched into a cluster to better hear Mongotha.  He climbed atop a larger-sized rock so he could look into the eyes of every soul under his command.  A large battalion of guards circled the hundreds of prisoners as usual, watching and waiting for another riot to break out.

“This is it!” Mongotha shouted. “This is where we’re going to carve the next mine into this mountain.  But for the next little while, you’re going to haul these rocks off the mountain face and build a road that leads to it!  I want it done within a month, so you better get started.  Carry the rocks from this mountain face and dump them over there.  Work hard--break your back if necessary--and there won’t be any problems.  Now!”

The prisoners didn’t make a fuss or waste time with the thought of that metal prison box so fresh in their minds.  The crowd quickly dispersed and began to plaster the mountainside, picking up the biggest rocks they could carry and hauling them to the designated dumping place several hundred yards away.  Some of the smaller men struggled greatly with picking up the rocks because none of them seemed to be smaller than a piglet.  Shouting from soldiers and whips cracking started becoming more frequent.

With his stomach still growling and complaining, Gulaf hoisted a rock onto his chest and held it close as he hobbled down the mountain’s slope.  The dirt shifted from underneath him and several times he almost fell as he trod the several hundred yards to the dumping area.  As he walked, he thought about how he was holding the rock and how much it weighed.  He concluded it was about the same size and weight as Tarren when he was younger--around the same time he was learning to spar.

During those early sparring practices, before Tarren even had to take a battle class, Gulaf would set him up with two practice daggers, teach him how to hold them, then teach him how to swipe and lunge.  Tarren was a natural, and picked up the craft quickly with his sharp ten-year-old mind.  Seeing those eyes sparkle with pride when he succeeded at something new was so rewarding.  As Tarren got older, many of those moments disappeared.  His mother getting imprisoned didn’t help anything, either.

Crack! “Keep going!”

Gulaf hadn’t realized that he had stopped walking in the midst of his memory.  A nearby soldier had cracked a whip so close to his head that his ears burst into ringing.  Gulaf turned and faced the prisoner, still holding the rock.

The soldier’s eyes were merciless and serious as he gazed upon Gulaf, and although he had to be toned muscle underneath that armor, he was several inches shorter than him.  Gulaf knew immediately that this was one of those special kind of soldiers.  These weren’t the ones that merely joined the Nezmythian Army to grow stronger or to get some extra gold in their pocket--these were the ones that joined to satiate their thirst for power, their thirst to exercise control over something.  These were the kinds of soldiers responsible for Gulaf’s captivity, and for his wife’s madness.

Gulaf seriously considered dropping the rock and attacking.  He could probably put that soldier out of commission in just a few seconds if he acted quickly.  It would be so satisfying… exacting revenge on the breed of soldiers that ripped his family apart.  Maybe he could break his legs?  Crack a few ribs and break his arms?  What could he do that would put this soldier out of a job for good?

And would it be worth it?  How long would it be before he had a dozen more soldiers on him, ready to knock him out and throw him into the prison box with Bolif and the other convict?  No.  He had to keep low.  He had to behave.  Every part of him was screaming for vengeance, but if he was ever to get home again he had to play their game.  At least for now.

“I said keep going!” The guard shouted again, giving his whip a liberal crack.

Gulaf slowly forced himself toward the dumping yard, not taking his eye off the soldier at first.  When he finally tore his eyes away, he gazed over the hundreds of others who were carrying rocks just like him.  Maybe they had similar stories.  They had all been forced away from their families.  How else had the rest of their families been destroyed?  How were they ever going to get back, if ever?

Just play their game, Gulaf thought with a huff. Just play their game… at least for now.

* * * * *

"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 1

These are dark times for the Kingdom of Nezmyth. Dark times indeed.

The Harvest tax has been instituted for nearly twenty years—King Barnabas is as greedy as he is cruel, and the suffering of his subjects means nothing to him as long as he has his Throne and his wealth. Twice each year, soldiers patrol streets throughout Nezmyth, going from house to house collecting the substantial tax that the King demands. Most of the kingdom remains impoverished and fearful because of it, and lately, things have changed. But not for the better.

Somehow, King Barnabas' greed has only increased and his mercy shrunk in recent weeks. The latest Harvest tax included a substantial raise and introduced the dreaded Blacknote—a sign to be placed by the door of every household that couldn't pay the full tax. The heads of those houses are given one month to acquire the remaining amount for the tax, and if not, they are sentenced to indefinite service at mines of the Eastern Mountains. No contact with family or friends. No certainty of freedom or even survival. Just the beckoning, cold darkness of the mines.

Dust, thick and suffocating, hovered in the air as the caravan of barred wagons jostled down the lonely road heading eastward. There were many people squeezed into the wagons like pigs, their faces sweaty and gaunt, their eyes riddled with uncertainty and bleak hopelessness, their minds worried for what awaited them at the mountains not far on the horizon. Soldiers, stoic and cold, hovered around the wagons like vultures watching dying rabbits, daring someone to complain or make a sound.

This cacophony of captives hail from Nezmyth City, the capitol of the kingdom and a bustling hive of those constantly under the watchful eye of King Barnabas. None of these are from Upper City, the wealthy district on the hill. All of those entrepreneurs and aristocrats have no problem paying the Harvest tax bi-annually. No, these are the wretched souls of Lower City, those that fight tooth and nail and wear their fingers thin trying to make the money they need just to subsist. At last, the King's greed had inevitably gotten the best of them, and they traveled eastward with little hope and an abundance of worry.

One man sat at the back of the wagon, his back resting against the iron bars and his thick, hairy arms sitting atop his knees. He stroked his grizzled beard as if he could sift the dust from out of it and scratched his legs, his purple eyes faintly focused on the distance. Silently, he was thankful for his occupation as a stone mason back home in Nezmyth City. He had gotten used to long days in the sun, which is what this trip had been for three uncomfortable days. Other men shrunk under the heat, likely printers and blacksmiths back in the city. However, he was sure that wherever they were going, they were about to see the sun a lot less.

“Gulaf,” a whisper came to his left.

Gulaf slowly turned his head. A man built very similarly to him, as thick and hairy as an ox but with dark brown skin, was sitting not far from him, leaning over with intense blue eyes.

“What is it, Bolif?” Gulaf replied flatly.

Bolif leaned in closer, his eyes serious. “I was just talking to a man who knew a man that worked at the Eastern Mountains. Some people get paid working there, you know. He said the ceilings of the mines are so low that you can't stand up straight. Some folks get hunches in their backs for their whole lives and the dust is so thick you can barely breathe by the end of the day, either. And the soldiers say we work every day sunup to sundown.”

Gulaf's eyebrows furrowed. Bolif continued on.

“They told us when they took us that we'd be mining gold, right? Nope. They other guy said there's hardly any gold in those mines anymore.”

“He's sure?” Gulaf asked, his eyes still hard.

Bolif shrugged.

Gulaf paused, letting that sink in, then asked, “If there's no gold, then what are we digging for?”

In response, Bolif looked away, his eyebrows popping up, and quickly closed his mouth. Certain that Bolif was avoiding attention from guards, Gulaf leaned his head against the bars and exhaled a mighty sigh. With his eyes toward the sky, the blueness seemed so fragile above the decrepit kingdom Nezmyth had become. Taking a chance, Bolif squeezed passed another prisoner to sit down next to Gulaf, his back against the bars as well. The the shaky wagon hit a bump in the road that jostled them both uncomfortably.

In a lower tone than before, trying to be as inaudible as possible, Bolif said, “I've been thinking about my family, Gulaf. I don't know what they're going to do. My wife and my two daughters... they need me, Gulaf.”

This couldn't help but make Gulaf think of his own family. When the soldiers arrived in the dead of the night to apprehend him, they were merciful enough to let him leave a single note for his son, Tarren. It was scribbled hastily on a scrap of parchment, assuring him that he would be okay in the Eastern Mountains. He thought about it for a second, then scribbled “I love you, son,” at the very end of the note. Now that he thought about it, he wondered why it had been so hard to say those words so many times before. The rest of the note had been a lie, of course. He didn't know if he would be okay. He didn't know if he would live to see his house and his son again, but he couldn't let Tarren go on without hope... not when it's already so scarce.

He also thought of his wife, another victim of King Barnabas' mercilessness. She had been wrongfully imprisoned as well not many years ago due to a corrupt soldier seeking recognition. She spent nearly a year in the Nezmyth City Prison and was driven mad from the various horrors that she regularly beheld there. Even months after her release, she hadn't fully recovered her sanity. Gulaf and Tarren knew that there was no other choice but to send her away to live with others like her. Silently, Gulaf wondered if a similar thing would happen to him.

More hours passed and only occasional whispers were heard among the prisoners, interspersed with hacking coughs and quiet sobbing. The sun was beginning to set over the west. A soldier whipped the bars by a prisoner that slid him a dirty look. As Gulaf leaned his head against one of the bars by his side, and noticed a sign that they were passing as they crawled down the path. They had reached a fork in the road and had turned right. However, the the sign read “MINES,” but had an arrow pointing to the road on the left.

Gulaf furrowed his eyebrows again and scratched his arm. He shot a glance at a nearby soldier, looking for an expression. The nearest soldier remained stony and serious. When he felt eyes on him, he turned his head. Gulaf looked away before he could make eye contact. The last thing he wanted right now was to be harassed by a whip.

The caravan missed the proper turn, Gulaf thought.

“Did you see that?” Bolif breathed. “The sign?”

Gulaf nodded faintly. Bolif shuddered next to him.

Night had fallen over Nezmyth and the surrounding soldiers had conjured torches which were now throwing a glaring red glow over the captives. It was hard to see against the blackness of the night, but desolate plains had turned to swaying hills, which then turned into the towering mountains of the East. In the distance to his left, Gulaf saw a faint flickering of a small colony—likely those who worked at the Eastern Mountains for their livelihood. He thought about what families were gathered together by candlelight to enjoy a meal at the end of a long day as he and the others labored as slaves in the same mountain range. He remembered the time of him and Tarren sitting together for dinner after they had to send his wife away. His jaw tightened.

The mountains were like silent black giants hovering over the caravan as they crept their way through the valley. At long last, a small battalion of torches stationed in the ground were visible around the bend of one of the mountains. The rickety carriages approached and formed a semi-circle around the torches, where one man stood alone, more burly and fierce than Gulaf, and undoubtedly more ruthless.

Soldiers threw open the barred doors and immediately ordered every piece of scum and filth to exit. Some of the smaller men fell to the dirt when they exited the wagons, haven't having the chance to bend their knees for the last few days. Soldiers laughed heartily at the sight of this. Gulaf was one of the last to exit, and didn't make eye contact as he walked passed the soldier toward the circle of torches. A multitude of prisoners had gathered, surrounding the brutal man in the middle.

Even from the back of the pack, Gulaf could distinguish his features without problem. Scars covered his rippling arms and bare legs, with the most impressive one extending from his hairline to his left cheek. Where the scar crossed his eye socket, the eye was milky white and ghostly. A long, thick sword was sheathed on his back and he gripped a whip tightly with his left hand. What little garb he had was made of the pelts of large game, likely bears or lions, and it didn't do much to cover his torso, which was a wall of muscle.

“Welcome to the Eastern Mountain!” the man's voice was that of a warrior's. “Your new home! You should consider yourselves lucky that his Majesty, King Barnabas, didn't decree to have you all executed. Perhaps if you whelps worked harder you wouldn't be in this position! But don't worry, we'll teach you to work. You'll work until you beg for death.”

That last sentence was uttered with a devious grin. The multitude collectively became more still than before. Gulaf didn't blink.

“I am Mongotha!” the man bellowed. “I will be your master until King Barnabas in his mercy decides to set you free. But I wouldn't count on that. Not for a long time.”

Mongotha let that statement hang in the air. He seemed quite satisfied with the terrified silence that every prisoner was emanating. His one good eye scanned the crowd as he walked in circles, gazing into the faces that he would command indefinitely, soaking up the fear that was so thickly permeating the air. Suddenly, he stopped and his arm instantly shot out toward a man near the front of the crowd.

“You!”

Half of the crowd craned their necks to get a better look. Gulaf couldn't see the subject who Mongotha was addressing.

“Yes, you! Come here!” Mongotha barked.

A scrawnier looking man with glasses shakily marched out into the middle of the torches where Mongotha stood. Even from the back of the crowd, Gulaf could see his knees quake. Mongotha seemed to eye him hungrily, knowing this man would be an easy target—for what, Gulaf wasn't sure.

“Lift this! Now!” Mongotha motioned to something at his feet. The quivering man gazed at him with surprised eyes, as if he were asking the impossible. Mongotha's expression didn't change. Quickly, the man bent down, out of Gulaf's view. He heard muffled grunts and strains, and several of the soldiers chuckled. Mongotha looked down at the smaller man with mischievous glee.

“You're not going to be any good here,” he said with an oily tone. With one swift move, he ripped out a dagger that was slung around his waist and slashed it forward. Gulaf felt a surge run through him. He didn't see the murderous act, but he heard the body topple to the ground, sickly and lifeless. Many of the captives on the front row went white.

“You will work for me from sunup to sundown, every day, no exceptions!” Mongotha bellowed as he started pacing in circles again, thrusting the dagger back into its holster. “Gold is what we're looking for! Lots of it! But you won't be starting in the mines that have long existed in these Eastern Mountains—oh no. You're here to build another one. You see this mountain face?” He gestured to the nearest mountain, which was more of a big black shadow than anything. “This is your new destiny. You now work for his Majesty, King Barnabas, and your wage is your life. Work hard, and there will be no trouble. If I find any of your labor does not meet expectations, well...” he motioned to his feet. “Just pray to the Dragon that I'm satisfied.”

The multitude was as silent as a graveyard. Satisfied with the petrified silence, Mongotha continued, “Now you will sleep. We will feed you in the morning and you will go straight to work. Now somebody come clean this up.”

Nearly half of the soldiers made their way through the crowd and retrieved the torches. As they marched away, Gulaf noticed two of them carrying the body of the scrawny man off into the dark, lifeless and pale. He didn't want to look at the spot on the ground where blood had likely pooled, and he surely didn't want to think this was going to be one occurrence of many.

The silence grew heavier as soldiers with torches stomped away and the other half stayed to keep guard. All of the prisoners stayed in place, wondering, is this it? Is this where we're supposed to sleep? Not even a mat or a single blanket to curl up on?

Surrounded by soldiers, the prisoners slowly began to ease down where they stood, curling up on their sides, the stars their only light. The cackling red light of the departing soldiers' torches danced as they became farther and farther. But the prisoners stirred as a single torch turned around and quickly marched back toward them.

It was Mongotha. The one source of firelight made his milky left eye even more sickly. As he reached the surrounding soldiers, he shouted, “I forgot to mention... If we find that any of you have found anything of value and are withholding it from us, you will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.”

With that, he stormed back to the center of the crowd and stuck his torch in the ground. He stalked away, and every prisoner soon realized that he had stuck his torch right next to where the dead man's blood was slowly seeping into the soil—a reminder, and a warning.

* * * * *

"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.