Crimson's Captivation (13 page)

The king considered the report, but decided
to press forward, “We will cross and make camp on the south side.
The area appears to be heavily wooded, and will offer us some
protection from the weather. Gather the men and have them fall in
behind me.”

The king was the first to arrive at the
riverbank and he immediately noted that while the commander’s
report was technically accurate, it failed to capture the spirit of
the challenge. The river was rolling over itself, waves slapped
against the wind and twisted as if they were in agony. The ice-cold
water crested like some fairytale sea monster he had heard of as a
child; one that seemed capable of rearing from the depths of a
stormy ocean to destroy entire fleets of ships. When the men were
situated along the river, the king compelled his horse into the
furious water. The icy water grabbed the animal’s legs and the
current almost undercut the animal. The horse snorted and neighed,
before backing out of the river. The king knew the river was too
deep and the current too strong to walk the horse across here. And
deep down, he knew he couldn’t let the river beat him; if it did,
then it would’ve been far better to be stuck at a port in Riga
rather than at a river in a cold forest.

The king galloped along the river until he
found a more favorable crossing point. This time, the horse made it
to the middle of the river before the current almost washed them
away. The raging water was well over the quarters of the horse, at
times reaching and cresting over its withers. The icy water nipped
with millions of little teeth at the king’s legs and fed like
ravenous rogues at his toes and then there was no feeling at all,
just numbness and a burning tingling. The horse stepped cautiously
forward, but lost its footing and momentarily going under a large
wave. The current carried them several yards downstream. The king
held on tight and when the frigid water hit his chest, he lost his
breath in a solitary and painful exhale. He dug in, yelled for the
horse to move. With a final push, the horse jutted forward and
found shallow ground on the far bank.

The king put on a brave face as he turned and
watched many of his supplies float away. He looked at the backpack
draped over his saddle and it was nearly empty, supply compartments
were now full of water rather than the provisions of moments
earlier. The commander was next, but instead of following the
king’s lead, he moved up the riverbank where he found a shallow
path across. Even as shallow as the new crossing was, all the men
were dripping wet and frozen to the core when they reached the
south side of the river.

On the south side of the river, nothing was
dry. No one was warm. They peeled away the wet clothing until they
were naked, brushed away the wetness from their skin with dry snow,
and worked quickly to build a fire. They shivered and wondered if
they had been lied to: maybe hell wasn’t full of fire. Maybe hell
was cold and froze your very bones—it seemed like hell. Soon they
were thawing out near a bustling fire, and though none said it, it
cultivated in the shaky soil of everyone’s mind and was ready to
spring off every tongue: the king was going to get them killed.

The king had worse problems than the
disappointment, the lack of confidence from his men. He had lost
the scroll Sierida had given him, and he couldn’t remember the name
of the dark prince they were traveling to confront, only that he
lived near the city of Pinsk. He laid his clothes near the fire and
didn’t share his worry with his men. “You,” he said to a rather
plump soldier who had warmed up faster than the others, “prepare a
warm meal. Everyone else, lay your clothes out to dry near the fire
and prepare for a cold night! We move at daybreak. Commander, a
word.”

The commander stood, his limbs still rigid
from the cold. He moved as a clunky ice statue toward the king.
“Yes, sir?”

“Is anything dry?”

“No.”

“Get the men in dry clothes as soon as
possible. Prepare a sentry rotation for the camp. If the rumors are
true, we’re on the outskirts of horror country. Ensure the sentries
have dry clothing before the others. Stakes and alarm horns, too.
Pick the men that seem the most alert, but don’t let them fill
their bellies. If any are derelict in their duty, they put us all
in harm’s way.”

“Yes, my king.” The commander sensed
uneasiness not in the words, but the tone of the king’s order and
asked, “Is everything alright?”

The king selected a warm stone near the fire
and rolled it in his hands to warm them. His toes were stiff, still
frozen, and the feeling had not returned. He feared they might be
frostbitten. He ignored the commander’s question. “Have the men
check their feet, too. The river was far more challenging than I
had anticipated. A small setback, but don’t let the opinion from
the men mark this as evidence of our future path. Any questions of
concerns from them should be answered with: we are on course and
advancing nicely. First thing at daylight, send a party to hunt
game. We will need a hearty breakfast to increase morale.”

“Yes, my king.”

Throughout the afternoon, and into the
evening, the main fire migrated to several fires around the camp,
where the men huddled between them using them to buffer and escape
the cool air. The fires’ flames flicked toward the dark sky above,
heated their skin, and warmed their bones. The king watched them
from the edge of the camp. Some of the troop would disappear behind
a wall of white smoke, a kind of white smoke that created a dull
reflection and clung to everything with an oily pine resin, only to
reappear smiling and chatting. The warmth of the fire and warm soup
made of turnips and garlic in their bellies improved their outlook
and they were generally in good spirits. As clothes would dry, they
would dress, and when the moon hung high in the pure black sky,
they slept.

Later that night, the alarm horns blasted and
the king, with his stake and pike in hand, was the first to rush to
the sentry line. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Two of his men
lay in the snow, bleeding and gurgling from wounds in their necks.
A third man was fighting a shadow, a blur. The horror moved so
swiftly that the king had difficulty tracking him in the moonlight.
Then more men arrived and surrounded the creature that was now on
top of the third man, whose body thrashed in death throws in the
deep snow. The horror growled and bared his teeth as he released
the third man and let him fall to the ground. The men inched
closer, their pikes encroaching the creature’s chest and heart.
They were ready to attack, but were shocked when the king yelled,
“I want him alive!”

One soldier yelled back, perplexed, “And how
would we do that?”

“Sound the alarm horn!” The king shouted
back.

Alarms burst and echoed through the woods.
When the creature turned toward the sound, the king rushed and
buried his pike through the horror’s thigh, driving the silver tip
deep into the ground. “Another!” the king shouted. No one moved.
“Another attack, pin him to the ground!” the king ordered again.
Two more men rushed, one targeting the horror’s other thigh and the
other his lower torso. The horror shrieked, swung his left arm into
the pike in his thigh and shattered it, ripping it from the
soldier’s hands, but the remnants still pinned him in place. He
grabbed the pike in his torso and began pulling it free.

The king aggressively took the pike from a
nearby soldier and approached the creature. He pressed its tip to
the horror’s chest, mere inches from his heart. The horror stopped,
his fangs dripped blood that ran down his chin. The horror grabbed
the pike and pulled it into him so that the tip broke his skin. He
grunted, “You had best kill me.” Almost immediately, three more
pikes were at his chest. “Get two leather straps,” the king ordered
to the men behind him. When a soldier returned with the straps, the
king tossed them so that they landed at the creature’s feet. “Tie
them to your wrist or I will do as you asked and kill you where you
stand.” The king wondered if his voice was steady or if it trembled
like he sensed it did.

The creature bent over at the torso. He
howled out in pain when the angle of his movement caused the pike
in his torso to rip open the wound. The men backed away. “Do it!”
the king shouted at the horror and it grunted and snarled before it
picked up the straps, secured them to each wrist, and let the slack
fall to his feet.

The king looked at the soldier to his left.
“Grab a strap and pull it tight. Make sure it’s in place and
restrain his hands.” The soldier stiffened and his jaw fell
open.

“Do it now!” the king ordered.

The soldier crept toward the tails of the
straps on the ground, all the while eyeing the horror. When he
reached out for the strap, the horror mocked by lunging forward and
the soldier fell over himself. The horror howled and almost seemed
to laugh. Without waiting, the commander blatantly walked up to the
creature, knelt, and grabbed the strap. He backed up and pulled it
taut. Another soldier, equally as brave, collected the other
strap.

“Move,” the king ordered the horror as he
nodded in the direction of a nearby tree.

The king secured the straps at the rearmost
part of the tree. The horror was secure, his hands pulled tight
behind his back and wrapped around the base of the tree. The
commander, when ordered, corralled the men back to the camp. The
king and horror were alone and the king desperately needed an
answer. He needed the name of the dark prince and he was sure the
horror knew. Shouts and orders from the commander in the distant
camp masked the king’s interrogation.

“Do you know of the trade, horror?”

The beast didn’t answer. He only growled and
bared his fangs. He chest muscles rippled as he pulled and tested
the knots of the straps.

The king found his wooden stake in the snow
and brought it in front of the horror. He pulled his knife from his
pocket and began sharpening the point. “You see the red color of my
stake? It has killed before. Do you know the trade horror? They
kidnap royalty and introduce them to a sex trade near Pinsk.”

The beast growled, “I know not of this
trade.”

The king stepped forward and brought his
knife to the beast’s throat. He could smell the stench of the
horror’s breath. “If you know nothing, then you are no good to me.
Am I understood?” He dug the blade in until it pierced the skin and
drew blood. “I want the name of the dark prince that runs the
trade.”

“Gaten is the only name that I know, but he
is not in Pinsk. You had best kill me.”

“Very well.”

Afterwards, the king walked far from the camp
and cleaned his blood-covered hands in the river. He returned to
camp, selected two men to bury the body, ordering them to cover the
fresh grave with wild rose branches. Later that night, he walked
the sentry line and was lost in his thoughts. Empty eyes of
retrospect looked out on a moonlit forest glade. The horror had
given the name of Gaten before the king had had enough and pushed
the pike in. The name didn’t match that of the scroll, but much had
happened today. Maybe Gaten was the dark prince he sought. Maybe
Gaten was the one who had kidnapped his sister. He couldn’t help
but feel the name wasn’t correct.

Suddenly, he was pulled from his train of
thought as movement to his far left caught his attention. He
kneeled, concealed himself behind a snow bank and watched a grey
wolf weave through the forest of small trees on the outskirts of
the camp. Wolves were nearly extinct in Sweden and he hadn’t seen
one in years. He marveled at the animal. Then his eyes played
tricks on him. He could have sworn he saw the animal stand on its
hind legs. The wolf’s fur seemed to roll off its body and although
it couldn’t be true, the wolf somehow took human form. He watched
it disappear into the thick of trees heading toward the lowlands.
Then a distant howl sent a shiver down his spine.

He returned to camp, found his commander, and
pulled him to the side. “Keep the sentry line tight this night. Set
a schedule of reports and ensure it is kept. There are more horrors
in the woods.”

“More my king?”

“Yes, and they appear to be …”

“What? What is it?” the commander
requested.

“They appear to be wolves.”

“Wolves, sir?”

“Yes, wolves chaperoning horrors. Or, they
are the horrors themselves. Keep the sentry line tight this night.
Instruct the men to be on guard for any wolves that come near.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * * *

Viktor, against his own desires, had cowed to
the request of his men and they stayed the night in Nyberg. He woke
before they did and the small training camp was in complete
silence. The sun had not yet risen but soon it would set the
horizon on fire and summon him east. He was anxious to get moving.
He made his way to the banks of Lake Malaren nearby and its inlets
were already starting to ice over. The rolling fog was as heavy as
wet clothing and it seemed to cling like wet clothing, too. He
studied the weather and knew the trip across the Baltic would prove
difficult. He mentally prepared their plan of action: he and his
men had to make good time to Stockholm. Once there, they had to
find the bravest sea captain they could. The night’s rest was a
good calculation and would be beneficial in the trip east, but he
could not, he would not accept further delay.

He found his two companions still asleep and
rudely woke them by yelling, “Get up! We move in ten minutes.” The
men grumbled and moved far too slowly and this displeased Viktor.
He waited outside for ten minutes and when the men were not at his
side, he burst open the doors of their quarters. “You two have two
minutes to be in formation! Need I remind you that not only do I
have a decree from the princess, but I am also a commissioned
officer. If you are not by my side in two minutes, I will find you
blameworthy and report your dereliction of duty. And if I leave
without you, I will order you to the stockades.”