The Severed Empire Collection

Chapter 6

Mykal didn’t like the idea of leaving his grandfather alone. Although he’d had time to milk the cows, feed the livestock, and clean a few stalls in the barn, there was always more to do.

Their parcel of land was outlined by a rickety wooden fence that always begged repair. The animals grazed separately in sectioned off areas. Lush green grass grew outside the fenced perimeter. Dirt with patches of thin blades of grass, but mostly weeds, covered Mykal’s land within. The cattle, sheep, and horses ate dandelions, and anything green. Occasionally, he let them graze beyond the fences. It was dangerous, because that land belonged to the king, but at times necessary.

Though Mykal wanted to stay home and finish the chores, Grandfather insisted he go. Clearing the breakfast table, Mykal decided to protest one last time. “I think I should stay here. There’s too much to do. If we jump every time the king says jump—”

“If you don’t jump every time the king says jump you could very well find yourself next in line to be hung.” Grandfather was seventy-two years old, and except for bushy white eyebrows over deer-hide brown eyes, he was bald. Heavy around the middle, the loss of abdominal muscle was not grandfather’s fault. His left leg was missing from above the knee. He’d been grievously injured when he raised a pitchfork fighting alongside King Nabal’s army. The battle had been against an enemy that encroached from the northwest trying to increase the size of their kingdom’s footprint. King Nabal claimed an easy victory, with minimal Grey Ashland lives lost. Grandfather received nothing in return for his patriotism, for his volunteering to join the fight, and nothing for the loss of a limb. The only thanks came in the way of higher taxes to afford more knights in the king’s army. “Besides, I want to know the names of the men being hung this morning.”

don’t Grandfather always wanted the names of those sentenced to death.

“I don’t know why King Nabal demands villagers attend hangings.” Mykal set the wooden dishes and spoons inside a bucket of water on the counter under the kitchen window. He stared out of the single pane of glass. On the right was the barn, and fenced property. The cows chomped at the few remaining patches of long green grass. Above, a blue, cloudless sky showed no sign of last night’s storm.

“Hangings serve layered purposes, Mykal.” Grandfather pushed away from the table. Mykal had replaced the legs on an oversized chair with four wheels; two big wheels in the center of the arms, and two smaller ones by his feet, for balance. Grandfather kept a blanket in his lap and over his legs, regardless of the temperature. It was as if the stump didn’t exist if he couldn’t see it.

Mykal turned around and leaned against the counter, his arms folded. They were muscular from long days spent working the farm, and continually repairing sections of fence. His hair was copper-colored, like the king’s coin, and too long for summer weather. When not pulled back and tied off in a tail, it hung just past his shoulders. Grandfather threatened taking a knife to it while he slept if it weren’t trimmed soon. “It shows the people they have a just king, a ruler who will not tolerate crime?”

Grandfather nodded. “That’s right. Don’t you think that’s important?”

“I do. It is important. When he hangs these men for their crimes, word will spread. No doubt. I just don’t see the need to demand we all attend. I don’t need to see men hung to obey laws.” Mykal sighed and turned back to the bucket. He quickly scrubbed a dish with a brush. “If I stayed home, no one would be the wiser.”

all “If you stayed home and someone, for some reason, told someone else, you’d risk spending time in the stockade. If that happened, I’d be prone to wheel myself down to the keep and through the gates just for the pleasure of throwing rotted cabbage at your head,” he said, and humphed.

humphedMykal set the clean bowl aside, and laughed. “You would not! Besides we don’t grow cabbage.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t? You don’t want to find out. Trust me. And for you, I’d buy old cabbage just for throwing. Now go get changed,” Grandfather said.

“Changed? I just put these clothes on.” Mykal pulled at the waist of his tunic. Dirt and grimy handprints spotted the otherwise white fabric.

“You smell like pig.”

“I work with pigs, Grandfather.” Mykal sniffed the air around him, as he waved his hand wafting the scent toward his nostrils. “And I believe it is more of a cow patty aroma than pig that I detect.”

Grandfather pointed toward the bedchamber. “Do not make me ask again.”

Mykal knew his grandfather was serious, but also having fun. “Grandfather?” Mykal pulled off his shirt. “What are the king’s other reasons for forcing his people to witness hangings.”

“There is just one other.”

“Fear?”

Grandfather nodded, his lips pursed. “Fear. A king wants to be both respected and feared by his people. Combined, these tend to keep uprisings to a bare minimum.”

Mykal stuck his arms and head into a fresh tunic, but left on the same pants. They were the only cleanish ones left. He would wash laundry when he returned from the hangings. “I’m going, Grandfather. Depending on how long I’m gone, I will fix a meal as soon as I return. Or would you like me to mix something up quick?”

ish“I think if I get hungry while you’re gone, I can make something to eat,” Grandfather said, the smile gone. “I’ll be fine, Mykal. But the names, don’t forget the names,” he said.

Grandfather was excused from attending the hangings. His missing leg the reason. Regardless, Mykal didn’t think his grandfather wanted to witness the executions. “I won’t forget.”

The old man nodded. “Thank you, Mykal. Thank you.”

Unraveling wisps of near-transparent white shredded the blue sky. The strips of clouds sat suspended and seemingly motionless. For the end of autumn it was an unseasonably hot few weeks. Today was no different. The day’s heat already apparent; it caused a mirage that resembled smears of shimmying oil on the ground further down the path. The sun was barely over the eastern horizon and the air already felt stifling and almost too hot to breathe. Mykal stopped by his favorite tree on his way to the castle. It wasn’t the tallest by any means, and neither was it the strongest. Mossy growths on the bark and branches suggested the tree might be sick and dying. His grandfather had planted the tree when he first married Mykal’s grandmother and they settled the land given to them by the king.

He often thought about climbing to the top, imagining the view would be spectacular. He bet from up there he’d be able to see the Isthmian Sea to the east, and Nabal’s castle to the west. Getting even a few feet off the ground stopped him cold. His body broke into a sweat. He’d look down and the ground would become unfocused immediately, forcing him to climb back down. Heights troubled Mykal.

The tree was his favorite because natural holes and folds in the bark let him hide his sword, dagger, bow and arrows. He removed his dagger from his belt and placed it safely inside the tree with his other things. He looked around, making sure no one saw. He wasn’t anywhere near the Cicade Forest, so he wasn’t worried about tree dwellers stealing his things. Those Archers couldn’t be trusted.

The dirt path he followed fed into the main road leading to the center of Grey Ashland, where King Nabal’s castle was located. His feet kicked up small plumes. The brown cloud and stones settled onto the top of his boots. Few travelers were on the path. He did his best to blend in, walking behind a group adorned in green and red cloaks, men who used large walking sticks and carried empty wicker baskets. They reminded him of his friend, Blodwyn.

Behind him came a wagon pulled by two horses spotted white and brown. Mykal, and those in front of him, stepped aside to let the wagon pass. The previous night’s storm must not have stretched this far West. Dust swirled over them in the aftermath. Mykal covered his mouth and nose, and coughed, fanning the air in front of his face with a few waves of his arm. He jumped back as the dirt settled. A large spider had tried to blend in with the ground and done a fine job of it, until it moved front legs and mandibles, as if also annoyed by the dust. The body of the arachnid was half the size of Mykal’s palm, the spread of its eight legs made it larger than his hand. Mykal held his breath. He could not think of a thing he feared more than spiders. He’d rather climb a tree than face a spider. He didn’t even have the courage to step on it. He gave the multi-eyed thing wide berth, and hurried to catch up to the group ahead, wanting to get as far away from the spider as quickly as possible.

A falcon soared overhead. Its presence made known by a screech and caw as it circled before making its way toward the sea, in search of rodents, or any fish it could pluck from the water.

Maybe after lunch he would escape for a quick swim in the Isthmian. It offered the only true relief from the heat. Moist armpits already dampened his fresh tunic. Rumors of monsters living in the sea didn’t frighten him. He never swam out far, or gone too deep, though. He also fished the sea, another taboo. He caught bass or pike—which he cooked on an open flame, and ate with relish—but had yet to hook any monster.

The rock wall of the keep loomed just ahead. The Cicade Forest had once stretched this far south many, many years ago; long before he’d even been thought of, no doubt. Hundreds of tree stumps yet remained. Grandfather said no one removed the stumps because they served as a minor form of protection. Those attempting a siege had to contend with them as a first obstacle. There was no clear path to run at the castle walls. The only better, more defensible location might have been along a mountain face—where impenetrable was an understatement, such as the legendary castle of the Osiris Realm.

impenetrable Two armed guards stood at either side of the barbican, about thirty yards in front of the lowered drawbridge and raised wrought iron gate, while several marched back and forth above on the wooden walkway between crenellations within the compound.

Only two of the eight bastions were visible from the main road. Far to the east a third could be made out. Multiple loophole breaks in the brick and rock faced in three directions, south, west and east. The other bastions also had loophole breaks, facing three directions accordingly, as well. It took over an hour, but he’d walked the wall many times, and had seen them all. The rock structure seemed to stretch on and on without end. When standing on the outside of the keep, the walls towered above him.

The moat prevented enemies from running ladders up the castle walls, and rumors ran rampant about a bottom-dwelling beast swimming in circles around the castle. The monster supposedly captured from the Isthmian and dumped into the moat. Mykal never saw signs of anything under the surface, not even bass or pike.

As the group neared the lowered bridge, Mykal hurried his steps to approach with the men in cloaks. The king’s guards made him apprehensive. If he weren’t already sweating from the morning heat, the sight of them with steel swords at their sides, dressed in helmets and chainmail, and holding large badge-shaped shields bearing the Grey Ashland crest would have started him perspiring.

His footfalls echoed off the wooden bridge, and he wrinkled his nose at the stench from below where the staleness of stagnant water wafted upward. Scum and purple thistles littered the placid surface. Water-spiders skimmed across the top dodging dragonflies set on morning meals. Mosquito swarms huddled in areas behind the flowered weeds creating a loud buzzing noise. If a monster lived below the ripple-less surface, any visible current would give such a creature’s whereabouts away. There was no such indication.

Entering under the spikes of the raised portcullis was uneventful, thankfully, and once inside, Mykal distanced himself from the cloaked men, and made his way toward the market square. The marketplace was active, bustling with merchants, traveling vendors, and peasants begging for handouts. The encircling aisles in the middle of the fortress, and surrounding the tower, was lined with umbrella-covered carts where fresh produce and slaughtered meats were sold. The other farmers, like Mykal and his grandfather, worked on small parcels of land all across the Grey Ashland Kingdom. Mykal and his grandfather rarely had surplus for sale. Not to mention that prime selections of meat, dairy, and produce were paid as tax to the king.

Mykal wove his way toward the center of the outer keep’s town. A crowd was already gathering around the stained wood of the gallows. It looked out of place as everything else was cut from stone. There were stairs leading to a raised platform, a rectangle made of beams standing at either end, with one across the top of the two pillars. From that top beam dangled four nooses.

Today, four men would hang for their crimes.

Mykal made the mistake of walking to the back side of the gallows. The men waiting to die were shackled together, one in front of the other, foot to foot, and hand to hand. Their clothing was tattered, torn, and their faces marred with jagged cuts and bruises.

There was no mistaking who they were. These were not men from Grey Ashland. Their green tunics and brown pants were natural camouflage for living among the treetops. These criminals were bandits from the Cicade Forest.