The morning sun shines. Birds chirped in trees. Grass rustled with life within unseen movement. Alistair peered through the mighty oak's bough, leafy-branch arms spread, and a small sword clutched in his hand. He charged and held a sword to the startled rabbit, which ran away into a flash of brown fur. Sword clanged into nothingness against mud and threw a spray of dirt all about him.
Disappointment clouded Alistair's face. His first hunting foray went in the wash. He chased at the rabbit, pumping spindly legs in overdrive. "Hey, rabbit!" he yelled. "Come here!" The rabbit hopped just beyond his reach, wagging a white tail over his head. Alistair flung the sword once more, frustration spurring his aim to get the better of him this time off by miles.
Panting, he sat down, having finished the chase under the shadows of a willow that stretched over a small well. He stared blankly at his sword.
He stood there with the awkward sword held stiffly behind his back and threw it forward, taking aim for the great broad trunk of a maple in front, his mouth closed into a determined frown. The sword bounded back to hit at his feet with a clang. So he did it again and again, till Alistair took the sword—the pain and sorrow in the eyes—the forest sneered and made jests through its leaves of his failing attitudes. A loud caw had slashed across the quiet of the forest. Alistair jerked back and could feel his heart leap in his throat. There sitting out upon a high bough was a crow: black sleek feathers glinted in the touch of the sun. The crow delivered another caw and screeched aloud, sharp as any ringing noise among the trees. Alistair watched as it took wing when the steady beat was swallowed in the rise beyond the top of the tree. He gazed at it with his eyes until it disappeared on the horizon.
He was shocked at the surprise encounter that jolted him out of his focus. Wiping a droplet of sweat from his forehead, he took a deep breath and tried to calm down his racing heart. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, reminding him constantly of his predicament. Almost whispering, he mumbled to himself, "I need water. I need food. Please. Anyone." Despair was almost suffocating him, but something was keeping him alive. He had to get out of the woods; he had to get home.
He went deeper into the thick forest. Over him, towering trees formed a canopy of green leaves. The sun's light filtered through the leaves and threw dappled shadows across the forest floor. Hours passed with his stomach groaning in protest. As he looked ahead, a small lake came into view. There was hope in his eyes. He ran to it; his legs were tired, but the resolution gave him new strength in them. He cupped his hands in a bowl and eagerly drank the water, then spat it out instantly. "Too salty, too muddy!" he coughed, disappointment taking the place of hope.
He looked around his broken heart.
The lake lay across his way, its sullied water dancing in patches under the warmth of the midday sun. Yet Alistair refused to be thwarted that easily. He surveyed the location intently, searching for something that might aid him in crossing the area. Then, a flash of hope caught his eye: an overturned log lay close by, half-submerged in the shallow water near the shore of the lake. After all, it was not beautiful, exactly—tall as he was tall—and covered in moss and wet leaves; it was his only hope.
With new-found intent, Alistair approached the log. It was much heavier than it seemed. He was straining with all his might, grunting with the effort as he tried to push it toward the shore. Inch by inch, he was wrestling the log; under the exertion, the muscles were burning. Drop after drop, sweat started dripping on his face. He would stumble backward because of frustration; however, this thought of being trapped in the forest helped him propel forward: "It's too heavy," he said while dragging on the log. Finally, he maneuvered it onto the firm ground of the bank with an ultimate cry.
He stood up, brushing off his clothes. He turned to the log, his arms throbbing in a dull ache. "This thing is heavier than it looks," he muttered to himself. He looked up and down the bank, scoping out anything that would help him leverage. "Maybe a rock?" His eyes landed on a huge, smooth stone half buried in the mud a few feet away. "That might work." Groaned, getting himself to rock. It was heavy, small, and usable, though compared with a log that had to stand on this thick end part by itself—it became something of the fulcrum. Alright, he rubbed sweat down from his forehead. Here's the deal; he made legs to keep him glued against the log to the bottom. One-two-three—he shouted and pushed all force. The log groaned in protest, but now it began moving, crawling agonizing inch by agonizing inch.
"Come on, come on," Alistair grunted, pushing himself to the limit. His face contorted with exertion, his muscles burning. But he wouldn't give up. "Just a little further..."
Finally, with a triumphant cry, he managed to maneuver the upper end of the log onto the bank. Exhausted, he fell back and gasped for breath, staring at the vast blue sky above. "I did it," he whispered, a smile spreading across his dirt-streaked face.
A squirrel, perched on a nearby branch, watched the scene unfold with beady eyes. As soon as Alistair stood up, the squirrel scurried back up the tree, clutching a nut in its paws.
Taking a shaky breath, Alistair cautiously stepped onto the log. The wood creaked under his weight but held. He crossed the small river, his heart pounding with relief. He soon crossed and ran into the forest.
A small water sound took his mind. "I need water...plz..." he was walking so long, "a stream sound??" He soon scanned and tried to hear a few times and ran inside the forest. The sound of rushing water grew louder as he ventured deeper into the forest. Soon, he could clearly hear the gurgling of a stream. He broke into a run, following the sound. He reached a bend in the path where the stream cascaded down a rocky outcrop. Alistair leaned down and drank deeply from the cool, clear water, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
At the back in the grass, a movement can be seen from there; the thing is watching Alistair from the bushes. The eyes started to glow, staring at him. Alistair started to move and went inside the forest. The eyes started to follow Alistair.
After a few minutes of frantic walking, Alistair stopped to catch his breath. He gathered a pile of dry twigs and leaves, then settled near a large rock. He carefully arranged the kindling and rummaged in his pocket, retrieving a small, sharp piece of rock. He remembered watching his mother use a similar tool to start a fire. With a determined frown, he began to rub the rock against a larger stone, sparks flying in all directions. The sound of scraping filled the air. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder, hope flickering in his eyes. Just as a small spark ignited the tinder, the rock slipped from his grasp, scraping a small cut on his finger. He cried out in pain, instinctively sucking the hurt finger into his mouth.
Unbeknownst to Alistair, the glowing eyes were now much closer, watching intently as he tended to his wound.
---
Two soldiers stood guard at the entrance to the royal palace. Their backs were stiff and straight, and their eyes scanned the vast courtyard.
"Do you think Talthon the Strong can actually defeat the king?" one soldier asked his companion, his voice barely a whisper.
"It's hard to say," another replied, his stare unrelenting. "Both Talthon and the king are great warriors. It's just a matter of what will happen."
King Thassalor sat on his throne, a smirk playing on his lips. Talthon stood opposite him, looking worried and defiant at the same time.
"You heard me right, Talthon," declared the king, dripping with condescension, "I want your land. All of it, along with possessions inherited from your father."
Talthon's jaw locked, setting. "Never!" he bellowed through the chamber. "Those lands and goods are prized memories, part of my heritage and my father. They tell of victories fought and bitter hardships endured. They make me who I am. I would not give up a blade of grass. And if your purpose here is to take them, I'd like to be dead before submitting to your tyranny!"
"Oh, sweet Talthon," the king purred, a smile spreading across his lips. "Please do not take my words too personally. I do not intend to cause you a great deal of emotional stress." He laughed, an unnerving sound that rang through the room. "But remember," he added, his voice growing unyielding, "if you refuse to cooperate." His words hung in the air, his eyes darting to the woman who hung suspended by General Ecolier at the rear of the throne room.
Talthon closed his eyes as the fear came sweeping over him. His face contorted into a spasm of fear and fury. He looked to see the face and state of his wife and the villagers' young women sitting behind. Seeing her all trussed up and unable to move inflamed the flame in his stomach.
"What's the other option?" He rasped out, his voice barely above a whisper over the pounding in his ears.
The king leaned forward, staring at Talthon with calculating eyes. He saw worry on Talthon's face, but that didn't deter a twisted feeling of pleasure inside him. He was now going to present the second option. It was a test—the final test of loyalty and strength—to choose between heritage and life over an innocent woman.
"Ahhh," Thassalor chuckled, pacing before Talthon. "My mind works as swiftly as I could have hoped." Thassalor halted before Talthon, and across his face, for the space of an instant, spread one such wicked smile. "Your second choice, now." He closed his eyes in thought again. A sinister smile played once again on his mouth: his eyes snapped open. "You must kill Corvus Kein.," with malice dripping into each word.
Talthon's eyes opened wide at the idea. "Kill?" he whispered, his voice incredibly low.
"Indeed," Thassalor agreed, grinning. "Confront Corvus Kein. He is a sworn enemy of mine."
"I. I'm supposed to kill someone because you're enemies." Talthon's voice rose in anger. "Why would I do that? You know I'm against violence!"
A voice, heavy with sorrow, reached him from behind; it was Alistair's mother. "My dear," she pleaded, "you wouldn't do something like this. Please try to understand. Your father was against violence too. You remember, don't you?"
"Yes, every word," Talthon growled, clinging to the memory of his father's teachings. "But King Thassalor, I refuse your offer." He looked back at the king, eyes blazing with righteous anger. "Oh, I see," Thassalor murmured, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes.
A sob escaped the young woman in General Ecolier's grasp. Her hair, still clutched tightly in his cruel hand, seemed to mirror her growing despair.
General Ecolier plunged the blade into her white throat, tip up; a sharp shrill shriek came tearing from between her lips. Big tears rose inside and rolled slowly down each.
"No! Halt, you madman!" bellowed Talthon, his voice filled with rage and desperation, in which the woman's very fear was his tinder and his fists closed into bunched fists.
Thassalor stepped forward, a harsh smile twisting his face. He reached out and took Talthon by the shoulder, pulling him hard against himself. "You stand at a point of critical juncture, Talthon," Thassalor hissed, his voice cold and calculating. "Choose. Save your people, your family, even this young woman. Or refuse, and watch them all suffer the consequences.
They'll become nothing but slaves, broken and compliant." Thassalor had played a master game by forcing Talthon to make what seemed an impossible choice. He had anticipated that Talthon would hand over his land to him, but, almost frankly, the impasse added a layer of intrigue to the game. Either way, Thassalor fancied Talthon's defeat as the ultimate prize. Talthon stood there with his head bowed, slumping shoulders bearing the burden of this impossible decision.
Finally, after what had seemed an eternity, he spoke in a low voice, echoing eerily within the great throne room. "I accept your second offer, King Thassalor."
A flicker of surprise crossed Thassalor's face. "He chose it?" he thought, a smirk playing on his lips. "Interesting. I expected him to offer the land. But no matter... he'll be dead soon enough." Thassalor watched Talthon, his gaze filled with chilling anticipation.
"Release her, Ecolier," Thassalor commanded, his voice sharp.
"Yes, Your Majesty!" General Ecolier bowed and stepped back, releasing the woman. She stumbled forward and fell on the cold stone floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
"So," Thassalor said to Talthon, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "you've finally embraced violence, haven't you?"
"Yes, for I have no say over this matter!" Talthon thundered, his words bitten out with barely stifled rage. "Bring the villagers out. Fine; I accept this abominable choice." Fire was burning in his gaze as if to question even the foundations of the throne room.
Thasalon stood there for one moment, his storming emotions churning inside his chest. "You are the winner, Thasalon," he thought through his mouth filled with acridity of bitterness, "for I love the people I came to seek peace and holiness in the human creature. How could I then bear another shed of their blood? The choice remains mine, but the trail is shrouded in darkness. How am I supposed to face Corvus Kein?"
A cunning smile spread on Thassalor's face. "He has just stepped into my trap," he thought. "This Corvus is no ordinary foe. He is a strong one. Maybe Talthon will be lucky to win, but that would be a very slim chance. Whichever way he is heading, he is going toward his doom."
Talthon's gaze was fixed on the king as he spoke once again, his voice restoring a measure of steadiness. "I have accepted your terms," he declared. "But I demand a boon, King Thassalor."
"A favor, you say? And what might that be?" Thassalor's voice dripped with a false sense of curiosity.
"Half your army and time to prepare for this war," Talthon said, his voice stern. "Two months, at least. I must think, plan, and muster my strength, physical and mental." A shocked laugh tore through Thassalor's lips. "Oh, excellent," he said, that flicker of amusement jumping into his eyes. "I shall make certain immediately to liberate the natives. But." He drew out the word, permitting it to dangle almost precariously in space.
Suspicion flickered in Talthon's eyes as he narrowed them. "What?" he demanded, his voice taut with tension. There's one condition, declared Thassalor with a sly glint in his eyes. "The villagers will be free, but not entirely. They shall work for me and remit a good amount of their earnings as tax. Such tax shall fill the kingdom's coffers so the prosperity and security of all are ensured."
"Tax?" Talthon roared; his anger reignited. "This is a mockery of freedom! You're simply extracting profit from their misfortune! You're nothing but a greedy tyrant, enslaving them with debt!"
Thassalor feigned innocence, cupping a hand over his ear. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."
A chilling smile stretched across Thassalor's face. "Money, my dear Talthon, is the lifeblood of any kingdom. A strong treasury allows for a strong military, improved infrastructure, and a flourishing economy. And I enjoy it."
"Let them go, Ecolier," Thassalor growled. "Free the villagers. Give them land. And tell them what the tax codes are."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" General Ecolier bowed and accepted the order.
He turned to Talthon with cruel amusement glinting in his eyes. General Ecolier stepped forward to loosen Talthon and Alistair's mother-daughter bonds.
Thassalor remained silent while General Ecolier released Talthon and Alistair's mother.
There was one thought that kept on repeating itself in his mind: "You have taken the harder road, Talthon. Let's see how you fare in battle. One thing I must say, Talthon, I appreciate your courage. It is not often these days that one finds someone who looks at a tyrant with that kind of unyielding confidence. And your physical and mental strength is there, too. That never-say-die attitude is a quality I find. interesting. Maybe even useful.".
A flicker of twisted respect flared beneath Thassalor's usual cruel amusement. Talthon, even when backed into a corner, had shown a strength of character that Thassalor couldn't help but grudgingly admire. It was a quality most lacked in these subservient times. Of course, that admiration was soon eclipsed by the excitement of the coming battle. Talthon's defiance was a challenge, a game to be played, a puzzle to be solved.
Talthon stood, the fire of rebellion burning in his rebellious eyes, though anger sat marked across his face. "I withdraw, Thassalor," he declared, his voice dripping with almost-forged menace. "Do not forget your oath." Thassalor never uttered a word, his stare riveted on Talthon as he stormed from the throne room with Alistair's mother by his side. A cruel smile crossed Thassalor's lips as he observed their departure.
"Death or survival," he thought, and his words dripped with dark promise. "Now it is in your hands, Talthon. The choice is yours." The king slumped into his throne and wore a satisfied smile to his lips. He enjoyed this new fight, trying to see how his power compared to Talthon's. Maybe, after all, Talthon was not such a strong opponent, an opponent one needed to be worthy enough to fight for and win an argument against.
-------------------------------------- Chapter 5 Ended--------------------------------------------------------