A Brief History
The lands were divided, not by name, which was common, but by a wall. Unlike the ramparts of this time, which were mostly made of wood, this wall was made of stone. Hailed a wonder of the world, it rose forty feet into the air. Nothing could penetrate or scale it.
King Umbert ordered the building of this wall. He was once considered a valiant king, the warrior who beat back deadly monsters, known as draignochs, all to save the people. Large beasts twice the size of the tallest man, with daggers for fangs and serpent tails decorated with deadly spikes, the draignochs terrorized the four lands. It took brutal strength to stop them. It took Umbert the Conqueror, a warrior known for honor and valor.
But that was before the wall.
When the war was over, the people crowned him king, and King Umbert built a glorious castle on the highest hill, a hill so tall it could be seen from every part of the land. Around the castle a great city grew, filled with those closest to the king, and those close to those closest to the king, and so on and so forth, until the city bustled and there was room for no more. The wall came next, and it was praised by all living in the city, for it offered them safety they had never before known. But shortly thereafter, the king and those who lived within the walls changed.
They forgot where the food they ate and the water they drank came from, as if it just magically appeared behind the wall or grew from the rocks they had planted rather than trees. And yet, the food and water still came, as did the thread for their fine linen clothes, leather for their armor, steel for their swords, wool for their blankets, and on and on, because a luxurious castle in a luxurious city needed such things to keep them in comfort.
No one asked where anything came from because it was always there. And it was always there because it was stolen—in the name of taxes for the king and his walled-off city—from those living outside, in the Hinterlands, where people slaved over fields, dug deep in the mines, and wrangled cattle and sheep, only to have their just rewards taken from them.
And as much as those in the walled city had forgotten, those outside talked of nothing else, every hour of every minute of every second of every day.
Anger spread throughout the lands. King Umbert’s legend was forgotten. His infamy grew.
Unrest roiled in the hearts of all who lived outside. All they needed to bring change was a spark to ignite the rebellion.
One
Maggie
“Did you feel that, lass?” The bones tied in Xavier’s silver hair clacked in the wind as his haunted gaze fell on the empty road behind us.
The drumbeat of cantering horses meant only one thing in the Hinterlands.
King Umbert’s soldiers.
They came down from the Walled City without warning. Always dressed in the finest smoothed leather tunics stained red for their king, always heavily armed, and always hungry. The soldiers raided, taking anything and everything in the name of the crown. Livestock and harvest bounty from the South. Steel, precious gems, silver and gold mined in the East. Timber from the West. And women from all.
“I feel it.”
He thwacked our old mare, Dorn, but she was no match for them even if she wasn’t pulling our wagon.
“There’s no other road,” I said, knowing what would come next.
Xavier grimaced. “Hide yourself until nightfall, then meet me at the village tavern. Take the back way. Some of this lot may wind up there.” At least he didn’t sound nervous.
“Understood.” I knew what was expected. This happened at least once a month.
I checked my dagger was in my boot.
“Whatever you do, Maggie—”
“Don’t be late. Performance starts just after sundown. I know.”
The road bent.
“Have I ever let you down?” I gave him my best cheeky grin.
“There’s always a first time.” Xavier shoved me out of the wagon.
I rolled down the short hill into a shady glen, scooting behind a thick tree with low-hanging branches I could easily climb. It had the benefit of colorful fall leaves that refused to bow to burgeoning winter, giving good cover. Once perched above sightline, I heard Xavier’s singing. He did that to keep the soldiers on his trail.
Xavier was a strange old man, putting himself at risk for me. I was nothing to him. No relation at all. A barely whelped foundling who wandered out of the woods, lost. I hadn’t been old enough to speak or remember how to get home.
Xavier lived a gypsy life, traveling here and there, performing magic tricks for handouts. He had no reason to take on a tiny child. To hear him tell the tale, he fed me that night, and like a stray dog, I followed him forever after. That was it. He was stuck with me. Softhearted sucker. And I would never let him down. My job was simple, really. As soon as I was old enough to hold things without dropping them, I became his magician’s assistant, helping with props and passing the collection pot. Tonight was a big night for us.
The past six months the earnings pot had barely made enough to feed Dorn. Drought devastated the southern farms. There was little food to be had, and what was to be had was expensive. We’d eaten nothing but what we could scavenge from places that had already been raked over. Berries, watercress, fish, and the occasional windfall of a squirrel.
The last four alehouses were mostly empty. But this night would be different. Ships had pulled in only last night, so the marauders’ pockets would be heavy, and they would be drinking their fill at the Lazy Storm, the only tavern in the western seaside village. The sots would be drunk, happy to be on land, and lulled into a dream state with full bellies. If they didn’t shill a bit of pirated silver for the performance, it would be easy to take it.
As expected, within seconds, horse hooves and wagon wheels exited the road, moving into the field on the other side of the glen. Wagon wheels rolled. I saw a team of twelve horses harnessed to an enormous mandarin-colored metal cage grind to a halt on the other side of the glen. I was too high to see what was inside.
Footsteps approached, growing louder by the second. I held my breath as a beefy soldier removed his helmet, throwing it at the cage. Blood trickled down the back of his neck. “I’m going to cut off every one of that rat’s claws!”
He pulled his sword.
A sniveling skinny boy about my age limped past the tree and around the soldier, standing in his way. Fresh blood stuck his scraggly brown hair to his forehead, his gray linen clothes shredded as if he’d been attacked by a wild dog. “No. You won’t. You will stay away from it, Moldark!”
Moldark slid his sword up against the boy’s throat, backing him up. “Why don’t you try and stop me, Perig, ya pissant?” His words whistled as though he was missing a front tooth.
The soldier shoved Perig through thorny bushes that stood between them and the metal cage, rousing squeaky helpless yelps, then followed him with determination, disappearing from view as well.
This was my chance to get away. I climbed down as silently as possible, relieved when my feet softly touched solid ground. The road looked clear. Directly across was the footpath that would lead me to the back of the village. Soldiers never used it. It took longer.
A sharp cry rang out. High-pitched, tinged with frustration and sadness more than anger. My heart seized. My feet froze. I had never heard anything like it.