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.