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.

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"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.