The King's Tribe

by one of my mother’s stories in the tavern and as it turns out the tribe are unfamiliar with alcohol. I suppose that would explain the slightly confused looks he gave me in his silence when we were confronted by Bennie near the fire that night. Several minutes later we also learn that when every child comes of age, they must spend a few nights alone in the forest providing for themselves, an idea that horrifies my mother and to which she immediately expresses her concern. They continue like this for some time, trading questions and answers until they both finally run out of things to ask. I am struck by the curiosity of the young king, his interest in our lives easily matching my mother’s fascination for his.

Keys collide in the distance before the thud of a bolt sliding against metal echoes around the tunnel. Heavy footsteps fill the hall, it’s more than just a single warden this time. As the rustling of chainmail approaches, my mother cautiously slides a little further into the shadows. Contrastingly, Horas and Orrian rise to their feet. With a muttered thanks I shrug off the man behind me and join them.

The warden from earlier leads the way. His neck sticks out horizontal from his shoulders so that they rise above his drooping head. The last wisps of grey hair cling defiantly to his wrinkled scalp and a snakelike tongue flickers out regularly to wet cracked lips. In one hand he holds a lantern high, in his other he hangs a full crowd of keys from one single bony finger.

Next follows Prince Arron, flanked by a couple of heavily armoured and considerably more capable looking men than the warden. The prince is no longer in his gold-decorated armour but now wears a similarly elaborate shirt. The fabric shimmers in ripples as the firelight catches upon the many embedded green gems forming detailed patterns throughout his torso. An uncharacteristically simple belt sits around his waist but from it hangs a long thin sheath. Emerging from the top is an intricate hilt, curling in ribbons around the handle to presumably enclose its user’s grip.

Prince Arron walks with a stride in his step, the strut of a man who knows that he owns the ground beneath his feet. Whilst the two men either side of him are considerably larger, his posture and confidence somehow dwarves them. As he begins to pass the rows of cells his eyes are set fixed towards the end of the tunnel where Orrian returns the focus.

The old warden finally halts his shuffling after taking an agonisingly long time to reach us. One of the prince’s companions steps forwards to slap the bars with the back of his protected forearm until Horas and Orrian step away from the door. Prince Arron squares up in front of Orrian, behind him Becker comes into view from behind the large guards.

Surprisingly, I don’t have to resist against the uncontrollable rage I was expecting for our next encounter. Something much colder and more sinister bides its time inside of me. Throwing myself against the bars and banging my fists at him will serve no purpose other than his own entertainment. I will wait, for now, until I can exert myself inflicting upon him the pain he deserves. I have never thought myself violent but for once I imagine myself taking great pleasure in causing the person before me as much harm as possible. I may be waiting to act, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t dig my fingernails into my palms when he sneers at us from behind the prince’s shoulder.

“Come on. Time to have that chat I asked for,” says Prince Arron.

There’s a soft click as the warden turns the key before the barred door swings inwards. Horas immediately puts himself between our captors and his king.

An armoured soldier steps inside the cell. He not only has to stoop as he crosses through the door frame but also enter at an angle so that his shoulders may pass through. His silhouette fills up the remainder of the room as he glares down upon us.

In the dim light the lumbering giant’s meaty fist travels in slow motion before colliding into Horas’ cheek. The man’s jaw snaps to one side and he immediately crumples to the ground, temple luckily softened by a thin layer of straw as it strikes the floor. A thin trail of blood begins to make its way flowing parallel to his now vertical upper lip.

Orrian rushes to the chef’s aid, placing anxious hands on the boy’s cheeks. Horas’ eyes flutter feebly and Orrian lowers his head in relief as a soft groan escapes his lips.

The soldier moves past me and I make no effort to get in his way. Any resistance against him would be futile, this is only a single soldier, there are undoubtedly plenty more ready on call should we start making too much trouble for the prince. Orrian is roughly lifted away by the armpits, protesting as he is dragged towards the door.

“Get off!” he growls, such anger appears alien as it flashes across his usually calm expression. His arms flail at those gripping him whilst Prince Arron observes, eyes sparkling with mild amusement. All around us the tribespeople cry out in support for their king from their cages.

Orrian’s legs kick out as he struggles to get back onto his own feet. He manages to get some grip and uses it to launch himself upwards, throwing his head back into the soldier’s chin. He swings his arm round, knocking the lantern out of the warden’s hand as he does, and brings his fist smashing into the soldier’s exposed nose. Raucous cheers are bellowed around us. The second large man finally steps in to subdue Orrian whilst his comrade covers his face. When the soldier peels his hand away, I am satisfied to see that the man’s nose has been offset at a very unnatural angle.

“You just love making things difficult,