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.