Sir Rowan and the Camerian Conquest (6 page)

Their party journeyed on, and Rowan rode in silence. Balenteen tried in his annoying way to lighten his spirits by talking about the grand tournament ahead, but the agent’s efforts did not help.

“Shut your mouth, Balenteen,” Hatfield finally said, much to Rowan’s relief.

By late morning, they reached the Rock Forest, known for trees growing thickly among scattered boulders. The road twisted and turned to navigate through the rugged landscape.

“Once we get through the forest, we should make good time to Kroywen.” Balenteen smiled, venturing one more attempt at lightening Rowan’s mood. “We ought to be there before sundown this evening. I’ve made arrangements at the finest inn of the city.”

Rowan just nodded. He didn’t want to encourage the man too much, or he would never stop talking again.

They rounded a bend in the road to find two men working on a
wagon that had toppled its heavy load of wood. One wheel was off the wagon, and the cut timber was strewn from one side of the road to the other.

“You imbeciles,” Balenteen blurted out. “You’re blocking the road!”

“Sorry, sir,” one of the men said. “Wheel jus’ fell off.”

“You can get round over there.” The other man pointed to the right side of the road, where there was just enough room to pass by single file, skirting the trees and boulders to the right.

Balenteen cursed and ordered the two leading guards to guide their entourage in that direction. Rowan followed Balenteen off the road, but as he passed the wagon, one of the men looked up at him and slapped his partner.

“Aye,” he said, “that’s Sir Rowan of Laos!”

The other man’s eyes opened wide, and the two men ran to Rowan’s horse. The animal spooked a bit, and Rowan halted his steed.

“Are y’ truly Sir Rowan?” the second man asked with excitement in his voice. “The champion of Laos?”

“Yes, it is I.” Rowan smiled down on the men. Their enthusiasm helped awaken him from his muddled self-pity and reminded him how good it felt to be on this side of the conversation. Without the fame of the tournaments, he could very well be one of these common laborers.

The men came closer. “We hope t’ be at the games next week to cheer for ye.”

Both men were standing just beside him, staring up in great admiration.

“We must keep moving, Sir Rowan,” Balenteen turned on his horse to see what the extra delay was. “We must make the inn before—”

Balenteen’s words were cut short by a deadly arrow that struck the nearest guard square in the chest. A look of terror filled his eyes as he doubled over and fell to the ground. Balenteen’s eyes widened as another arrow pierced the second guard. Balenteen turned back to the road, kicking his steed into a full gallop.

Before Rowan could respond, he felt himself being dragged to the ground by the two men as chaos erupted around him. Rowan heard more
arrows splitting the air, followed by screams and the neighs of frightened horses. Rowan hit the ground with a thud that nearly knocked the wind out of him. He glanced toward Hatfield and saw him draw his sword. Rowan reached for his own sword, but one of the laborers had pinned his right arm to the ground while the other scrambled to grab his left. Dozens of marauders emerged from the forest trees, and a group of them ran at Rowan with swords drawn.

Rowan screamed in anger and blasted a full-force fist into the temple of the man clutching his right hand. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. Rowan rolled away from the other man and set one knee solidly on the ground. The man dived for him, but Rowan smashed his fist into the man’s chest. He heard bones crack, and the man collapsed in a heap. Rowan drew his sword and gained his feet just in time to engage the marauders.

Rowan was a tournament knight who had never fought in real battle, but the anger and frustration of the morning still seethed in his blood, and he was eager to release it on someone. The first marauder charged, and Rowan reacted instinctively. He parried and thrust, downing the man, then prepared for the next. He wasted no time with the superfluous actions of tournament play. Two attacked at once, and Rowan easily handled them both.

More men came at him until it seemed there were a hundred marauders, all trying to kill him. His sword flew not only with the speed and strength of a well-toned fighting machine but also with the fury of battle anger, something Rowan had never fully felt before. Fifteen men went down and ten more encircled him, hesitant to advance. Rowan knew he could beat them all and more, but suddenly the attack stopped.

“Drop your sword!” one of the marauders screamed.

Rowan jerked his head in the direction of the voice. The men surrounding Rowan parted to reveal three men holding a wounded Hatfield in their grip. One held a knife to his neck. Two squires lay dead at his feet, but the third was held by two more marauders. The look of fear in the lad’s face shook Rowan. Besides this, three marauders with crossbows were aiming their arrows at Rowan’s chest.

“Drop your sword now, or they will die!” the man holding the knife
commanded. “And so will you!” A jagged scar ran from his left eyebrow down beneath a black eye patch and then halfway down his cheek.

Rowan looked about for the other two guards and spotted their lifeless bodies nearby. He was breathing hard from the fight but was far from spent. He wanted to tear these thugs apart, but Hatfield and his squire would pay with their lives if he did. It was obvious the attackers wanted to capture Rowan alive … probably for a ransom.

“Take our money and be gone.” Rowan gripped his sword tightly. Every fiber in his body refused to let go of it.

The man holding the knife sneered at Rowan. “You’re not listening.”

He pressed the knife against Hatfield’s throat until blood trickled down.

“Stop!” Rowan screamed.

The man just smiled and continued until Rowan could take it no more. He dropped his sword, and six brutes collapsed upon him in an instant. They bound his hands behind his back with thick ropes and looped another rope around his neck and down his back, tightly securing the end to the rope binding his hands. This made it difficult for him to move his arms much more than to allow a little slack in the rope around his neck.

When the ropes were secure, one of the men behind Rowan kicked his legs just behind his knees, forcing him into a kneeling position before their leader. The man played with the moneybag that had been retrieved from Rowan’s horse.

“You have our money,” Rowan said. “Now let us go.”

The marauder to Rowan’s left kicked him in the stomach so hard that he fell to the ground. The pain was so intense he thought he might be sick. He opened his eyes just in time to see another riveted leather boot smash into the right side of his face. A tooth in his lower jaw broke loose, and blood filled his mouth.

Rowan spit the tooth and blood on the ground, hoping the beating would stop. Two more kicks to his abdomen left him breathless.

“You are in no position to make demands!” the voice of his captor exclaimed.

Two men grabbed him by his arms and lifted him again to a kneeling
position. Rowan was dizzy with pain, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. The leader grabbed his chin and lifted it so he could look into Rowan’s eyes.

“Camerian hero—ha!” the man spit on Rowan’s face, then motioned to his companions. “Bring him. Kill the others.”

“No!” Rowan screamed.

Hatfield and the squire struggled briefly, but two swords pierced them each from behind. The look of absolute horror on their faces made Rowan close his eyes and turn away, but the images remained etched in his mind.

Rowan was placed on a horse and taken deeper into the forest. The marauders stopped once they were well clear of the road and placed a black bag over his head, then journeyed onward. For two days the marauders traveled without giving Rowan any food or water. He thought he would die of thirst. At last they stopped, pulled him off the horse and onto the ground, and dragged him deep into a cavern that echoed with each curse and footstep the marauders made. He was left facedown in the dirt with the bag still over his head.

“Water … please,” Rowan begged. His plea was rewarded with a powerful kick to his unprotected ribs. He knew his ribs were bruised, if not cracked, and the pain made his stomach churn. Footsteps echoed in the cavern and faded away.

He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious, but he was glad for the oblivion. Then he was jerked awake as hands brusquely grabbed his arms and yanked him to a sitting position. The bag was removed, and he blinked against the brilliant torchlight that burned his eyes. Two of the men moved aside to allow their leader access to Rowan.

“The mighty Sir Rowan—a champion of Cameria.” A black-haired scoundrel with a full, scruffy beard paraded in front of Rowan, flaunting the victory cloak that now hung about his shoulders. “What do you think? Does it look as good on me as it did on you?”

Anger burned in Rowan’s bosom. How dare this lowly villain pretend he could wear such a prize? The man stopped directly in front of Rowan and looked down his nose at him, pretending to be a gallant
tournament knight. Then he whipped off the cloak, threw it down in front of Rowan, lifted his boot, and trampled it into the dirt.

“You think you are something special, but you are just Camerian scum.”

The man knelt down close to his captive’s face and smiled. Rowan raised his chin in defiance, and the man’s smile contorted into a snarl.

“You arrogant Camerian,” the man planted a fist into Rowan’s face, reopening wounds from his previous beatings. Rowan’s head jerked to the side; then he slowly turned back to face the man.

“I will collect a ransom for your life that will give Lord Malizimar and our allies enough money to continue our great work. Would you like to know what that great work is?”

Rowan just stared at the vengeful, weathered face. “It is the conquest of Cameria, the great evil eagle that is feeding Chessington and its pathetic pigs. You play in tournaments while my people die in starvation. Now you will live what our children live!”

The man made a fist and brought it close to Rowan’s face. “Your life means nothing to me,” he spat. “I would love to kill you along with every other Camerian, for you all disgust me!” The man reached down, lifted the cloak from the dirt, and rubbed it across Rowan’s face.

“Your blood on your cloak will prove you are my prisoner. Your money will be mine, just as your life is mine!”

The man stood straight and walked to what looked like the entrance of the cave, though Rowan could see no light beyond it.

“Chain him up,” the man said to his men. “When you’re done, give him some water. He must at least be alive when they bring the money.”

They replaced Rowan’s ropes with chains, binding his wrists and ankles together, and secured him with another short chain to an iron stake in the ground. One of them poured fetid water from a dirty canteen into his mouth, nearly choking him in the process.

When they left with the torch, darkness swallowed him whole.

PRISON WITH NO END

Rowan had heard of Lord Malizimar and a region of people far to the southwest, near Chessington, but he had never given much thought to such faraway affairs. Why should a pauper-turned-champion care about such issues between people who were in constant strife?