An Emperor's Fury: Most Favored Read online

  "Get him!"

  To Feln's dismay each guard put his foot in the cocking stirrup first, intending to get their weapons loaded before they chased him. He came to the masonry tools and scattered them to the smooth stone, throwing the wooden box against the merlon. There were hammers, chisels, picks, and tools he didn't know the names of. None of them though, would be adequate against a guard, much less two of them. His only chance would be if they missed their first shot, which he figured would be from point blank range; unlikely misses. He didn't stand a chance. The first guard had his crossbow cocked and bolt loaded, but the other was struggling with his weapon. Feln picked up the discarded wooden box, intent on using it as a shield, and he found the first of two saviors on the day.

  Rope.

  Attached to the merlons were iron stands for arrows, bolts, or swords. Feln affixed the rope haphazardly, made a makeshift knot, then without thinking jumped through the crenelation. A crossbow bolt clipped his tunic, scraping the skin on his triceps and causing him to yelp in pain. The rope jolted his hands, the friction blazing through his sleeves as he came to a stop halfway down the wall. He felt the burns on his hands, searing pain like he had never felt before. Hand over hand, he made his decent as quickly as he could. When he was near the ground he looked up and saw a crossbow aimed at him from on high. With his feet he pushed away from the wall and let go of the rope, knowing he would probably land on his back. The bolt whistled by his foot and stuck in the ground. He twisted in midair and met the ground with his knees bent, vaulted forward, and rolled to safety. His surroundings became distorted as he ran, and soon he was lost in the crowds and outer structures, headed for the only place that he knew he would find help.

  He didn't stop running until he was well away from the castle, slowing to a quick walk as to not attract attention. Now he was crying, the realization of his father's death hitting him at once. His body ached and his tunic was wet with blood from his bleeding triceps. His hands were blistered and red, on fire from the rope burn. The rest of him was sore and battered. Across the City of Borgard, through the streets and by businesses and homes, he traveled until he came to a familiar structure, the Accord of the Spirit monastery. It was an unremarkable series of structures on a too small plot of land, framed on both sides by downtrodden properties. The only part of the area that looked appealing was the street because part of it had been paved recently with flat stones. There was a short iron fence lined with dying hedges that couldn't even keep curious children out or unruly goats in, and the iron entrance gate was open on askew hinges. A layman was there working on the gate, using a hammer and brute force to coax the hinge back into proper position. Feln wondered if the caretaker knew to use fire to heat up the iron, making it more pliable. He had seen the castle smith do that once, and it worked well. Before the caretaker could ask questions, he sped by. To the right were the cloisters, squat stone buildings with few furnishings for the Spirit monks. The wood roof was in poor shape from recent storms and was probably the next project for the caretaker. Ahead of him was a quaint church, one story, made of wood and stone. There was an old wine cellar, a room for the head of the monastery, kitchens, meeting rooms, and a nave - he always called it the hall but his friend Taawn corrected him every time with the proper church term.

  Ahead in the church, he could see Taawn, his second savior for today. He was an older, kind man who had been Feln's mentor, tutor, and second father. In the last several months, he had spent time with Taawn, doing odd jobs and delivering messages, money, or food to poor families. Most of their time together, though, they had spent talking about monastery life, the Accord of the Spirit, and the Accord of the Hand who occupied the lands located to the east of Borgard. Feln often wondered if Taawn wanted him to join their order, but he had never pushed for him to do so. It seemed natural that Taawn would recruit him for the Accord of the Spirit. Perhaps Taawn had different ideas? He didn't know. He was only ten, and dedicating himself to a monastic life didn't have much appeal. It was a lot of thankless work. As he walked forward, he could see Taawn's silvery hair set amongst his tanned, middle-aged face. Those bushy eyebrows were furrowed and full lips quivered as if he didn't know what to say. Feln slowed, gave a curt bow and resisted the temptation to jump into Taawn's arms.

  "This is unexpected," Taawn said. "Why…"

  "They killed my father," Feln blurted out. He lifted up his arms to show the blood, then held out his palms to show the rope burns. "They were killing all of my father's friends too. Those who were helping him. Remember, I told you about the meetings! Chopping their heads off! All of them!"

  "My word! I'm deeply sorry!"

  Feln ran into Taawn's outstretched arms. He could feel the strong man hold him close, comforting him. It made him feel better, but it didn't change what had happened today. His father was dead - he had no parents now. "They're after me…Kragan. They'll figure out where I've gone. I don't know what to do. I ran from him - he said he was going to kill me! They made me watch, they made me watch…"

  "I'm sorry that they murdered your father. That is terrible. I would tell you that everything is going to be alright, but I would be lying to you. Under Frederick's rule this monastery was safe from the Borgards, soldiers, and any other meddling. Now under Jakks's rule, I can only speculate what Kragan will do to get to you. We don't have much time. Feln, you must be strong. Can you do that? Can you be strong for me?"

  He nodded.

  "Go to that basin, wash off the blood and bandage your hands with cloth. There is a box with strips of cloth on that wooden bench. When I return, you must do whatever I say. Do you promise?"

  "Yes," he answered with a lump in his throat. Suddenly he was scared.

  Taawn departed at a jog to the unknown parts of the church. As instructed, Feln cleaned his wounds and used the water to soothe his burns. He took linen out of the cedar chest, and with it he bandaged his triceps and wrapped his hands to protect them. All at once his body began to ache and he felt fatigue set in. All of the accumulated adrenaline vanished and left him with nothing. He wished he could sleep. He sat down on the wooden bench and waited for Taawn, his eyes on the door that he was sure would come crashing down any moment. Knights, soldiers, and hardened steel would make quick work of him.

  Minutes later Taawn returned with a pair of monks who were carrying light traveling packs in their hands. They wore the black robes of the Accord of the Hand, and each had terribly sharp weapons strapped over their shoulders and long knives at their waist. The long, sharp blades were called katanas, made from folded steel using an ancient technique only known to the monks of the Accord of the Hand. He had heard that the swords could not be broken by any means. One of the monks had sandy hair and a scraggly beard. He was lanky and looked quick, and had he had a lighthearted manner about him. The other monk was shorter and thicker, looked mean and disgusted with the situation. Feln instantly knew who he liked and didn't like.

  "Feln, this is Caleth and Holt. They are monks from the Accord of the Hand in Waskhal." Taawn presented them with more formality than what was needed.

  Feln nodded. The mean one glared at him.

  The lanky one stepped forward. This close he looked younger, perhaps twenty years old or so. "I'm Caleth," he said. "Taawn says you are in a predicament and we've agreed to help you."

  Holt grumbled.

  "He looks pissed off," Feln said, finding his courage.

  "He's always that way," Caleth told him. "So nothing to worry about."

  "Escorting some brat," Holt said. "We weren't supposed to head back today."

  "But today is our day to return," announced Caleth. He looked at Feln. "How old are you? Eight?"

  "Ten! I'm ten!"

  "We move quickly, can you keep up with us? Not many ten year olds can keep up with two Accord of the Hand monks."

  "I think so," Feln responded. "I can't run all day. No one can."

  "I'm not carrying him," Holt stated. "I'll drown him in the Thull if he slows us down!"
r />   "I don't like you," Feln said.

  "Feeling's mutual, brat."

  Taawn let out a deep sigh. "You better get moving. I won't be able to deny you were here if you are still here."

  "We don't run all the time, but we move quickly for long periods, then use walking as our rest," said Caleth. "We have a long journey to Waskhal and it won't be easy. Bandits are along the roads and the forests are forever presenting unknown dangers. You may have to fight."

  "I can do it," Feln said as he thought of the alternative - Kragan's sword.

  "We'll send a note when we arrive in Waskhal," Caleth said.

  Feln rushed to Taawn and embraced him again. "Go," said Taawn. He took off a simple silver bracelet and handed it to Feln. "Keep this with you. If you get separated from Caleth and Holt, it will protect you. Any Accord of the Hand or Accord of the Spirit monk will help you."

  "I'll come back one day," Feln declared as he took the bracelet. He shoved it in his trousers as it was too big for his wrist.

  "Don't come back, not for me, not for anyone," Taawn advised. "Kragan has a long memory and he will not forget that you eluded him. He will kill you on sight. Today or in ten years or twenty years. Don't come back. My brothers will take care of you my friend."

  Caleth bid Taawn farewell, as did Holt, then the Accord of the Hand monks put up their cowls and slung the packs over their shoulders. Feln's head was spinning as he followed the two monks out into the street. They walked at a brisk pace toward the outer gates, which would take them to a bridge and an old trading post that was now used as a gatehouse. Feln waved goodbye to the monk who had been his best friend besides his father. It was the last time he would ever see Taawn in Borgard, but not the last time he would see Borgard.

  Chapter 2 - Gallows

  Ten years have passed since the execution of Francis Surrey and the conspirators who schemed to overthrow Jakks. The escape of Francis Eln Surrey (Feln) from Borgard has not been forgotten. Amongst the children, now of age, his escape is legendary.

  It was a death march. The followers of the Accord of the Spirit, locked in iron shackles and heavy chains, were dragged toward Borgard Castle by mules. In the distance, spires of the massive castle blotted out portions of the sky, sticking up like thin smooth fingers. The rut-covered avenue was strewn with refuse and was now crowded with mobs of people who had assembled to see the spectacle. The lane narrowed as the monks were forced forward by the mules and the soldiers driving them. The mob grew beyond manageable; more people spilled out into the street. Rocks flew from the crowd toward the Accord of Spirit monks, then a hail of anything that could be thrown filled the air. Few missiles hit their mark, while the majority impacted on the mob on the opposite side of the street. It was going to become a riot. After the captives went by, the mob surged together and the fighting began. The Borgard Militia waded into the mess, dispersing the crowd with random justice. Blood spilled onto the street. The mob scattered, leaving the dead and injured behind, including a few of the militia.

  Those of the Spirit too weak to stand were pulled through the streets by mules, their skin scraping across the cobblestones. Streaks of blood were left behind. Many would not survive the rough trip to the castle dungeons. Those at the end of the train had taken the brunt of the viciously thrown rocks, and the most gravely injured monks silently begged for death. The leader of the Accord of the Spirit, Taawn, looked toward the townspeople. He was certain he had helped many of them in one way or another, and he wondered, why had they forsaken him now? Why would they condone this brutality? Why would they make the situation worse and injure others?

  This sudden incarceration of his monks didn't make sense - Taawn was uncertain what the Borgards would gain by taking his Spirit Monks prisoner. If Jakks had wanted them dead, then they would be dead. Their capture had another purpose. Though this reason escaped him, he knew one truth - it would anger his brother monks across the lands, the Accord of the Hand. Unprovoked violence would bring vengeance from afar, didn't Jakks understand that? The Accord of the Hand would crush Borgard! Taawn closed his eyes to say a prayer and shuffled along, keeping pace with the mules dragging them toward the castle. The Hand would crush them if it came to war!

  Taawn opened his eyes. The castle and its numerous stone walls drew nearer. He tried to settle the crowd with a glance of his green eyes, but he was powerless to stop them from hurling rocks and garbage. One of his monks went down and was dragged by the mules, and he couldn't find footing long enough to stand up. Taawn reached out, but was unable to help because the chains were too restricting. This filled him with more dread as he was responsible for the men and women of this order, and now he was powerless to do anything to help them. Inside his anger grew, but he wouldn't give in to the rage. It was not his way. It was not the way of the Spirit Monks. The Accord of the Spirit was peaceful and affected change through peaceful means. He felt pity for those so caught up in their primitive emotions, and he said another silent prayer, asking the gods forgiveness. Taawn struggled through the cobblestone street and fell, his knees slamming into the stone. He stood quickly before he could be dragged, and bolted haphazardly forward.

  Minutes passed and the reason why this was happening still remained a mystery. He didn't know what crime they had committed or why the Borgards would do this. It was a stark realization that he had already lost at least a quarter of his order. So many dead already. Deep inside, Taawn felt anger stir. Horror swept through him and he fought to keep it suppressed. He purged himself of the tingling sensation and prayed for forgiveness. You've asked for too much forgiveness lately, he thought. It is only a matter of time and my prayers will go unheard, because I will be dead. Taking a deep breath, Taawn exhaled and tried to cleanse his soul for the horrors that awaited them.

  There was a sudden sting on the back of Taawn's head and he swooned, fell to his knees, then struggled to stand. He touched the back of his head and felt the warm blood flowing. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of a young boy poised with another stone. The crowd surged, blocking the street and causing the mules to stop. The handlers tried to move the mules forward, but there was nowhere for them to go. Calls went for the militia to come and disperse the crowd. Taawn looked at the young boy again. He could see the hate in his flashing eyes. Why must they hate? "I forgive you my boy," he said as loud as he dared. "You don't know what you're doing. Don't take pleasure in violence, for it will stain your heart forever."

  The boy's brow furrowed and his eyes seared Taawn in two, and the arm lifted higher as the words appeared to have no effect whatsoever. The stone flew with speed, grazed Taawn, and hit another monk on the temple. Kark crumpled to the ground from the direct hit to the side of his head. Taawn rushed to his left, chains clanging and straining, and picked up his friend. Kark's eyes were rolling in the back of his head and he was mumbling. A flurry of stones came and pounded both Taawn and Kark, and the cackles and hoots of the boys rose above the din of the crowd. Taawn pulled Kark to the ground with him, curling up the best he could so they could minimize the damage. He winced as the stones glanced off him. While he waited for the next barrage, he heard the sound of a galloping horse, and then he heard the ring of hardened steel. A chill covered him and the core of his body became numb. Taawn braced himself for what was to follow. Those boys were dead. He could hear the horse coming closer and people screaming. Taawn looked up. The shining mail of Kragan, Captain of the Guard, blinded him. His sword glinted, part of it muted by fresh blood. The jackal on his breastplate was as red as the blood on his sword.

  Kragan, First Knight of the Order of the Jackal, brought his armored steed to a halt with a delicate pull of the reins. He leaned toward the boys who still had rocks in their hands.

  "You there, come forward," he commanded.

  No one moved.

  "Now," he demanded.

  Three of the boys stepped forward.

  The longsword stabbed quickly through the middle boy's heart, his surprised expression only matched by the shock t
o the boys beside him. The tip came out, covered with dark blood and it hovered for a moment while the boy fell to the ground, dead. Kragan pointed toward Kark and Taawn with his free hand. "If they die, then all of you will take their place if I don't run you through first!"

  Dozens of stones fell from hand to street. The crowd surged backward, leaving the gang of boys to face the Captain. Both of the other boys had soiled themselves and had not moved. "Get out of here!" Kragan lifted his visor, his hard gray eyes staring at the boys. They dispersed, leaving their dead friend behind. He nudged his horse toward Taawn and Kark. "Get up before I drag you to the castle myself! You! Get those mules moving! Now!"

  Taawn and Kark struggled ahead, stumbling over an array of stones and trying to keep up with the driven mules. Taawn looked toward the Knight Captain. He picked apart the brute, and deep in his heart he felt sorry for Kragan. At one time before Jakks's rule, Kragan had been an honorable man. Now he was just a pawn of the wretched king's terrible schemes. He wondered if Kragan was the one who made Makison, the only decent one of the three Borgard brothers, disappear - he knew the truth - Makison wasn't dead. He wondered if Kragan was the one who figured out that Francis Surrey was the man who had banded the people of Borgard together. Francis Surrey had detested the regime so much that he had set out to bring a halt to the tyranny, but he had failed. It brought to mind Feln Surrey, the son of Francis, whom he had protected during that tumultuous time. Feln was a young man now, a member of the Accord of the Hand. Taawn looked at his wrist, trying to imagine what his silver bracelet had looked like. He had given it to Feln Surrey so he would have safe passage throughout Accord lands. Ten years had passed since that time, and he couldn't remember the last time he had written Feln a letter. His inaction of late left him filled with regret. I should have kept in touch with him.