Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four
Chapter Fifteen

The King woke into pale daylight, the smell of frying meat in his nostrils. He sat up and scratched the stubble on his chin. His muscles ached, though he felt partly refreshed and wondered how long he had slept. Jiila crouched by a small fire, cooking breakfast. She let him rest longer than she should, but he was glad for it, tired to his bones from the long days hiking since leaving Judgar. He was slowing her down, as he had Erol. The King closed his eyes and groaned. The memory of the soldier’s sacrifice chilled his heart, not least because it was a pointless waste. Had Jiila not arrived, Matrekku would have killed him anyway and fed his body to her children. Erol died for nothing.

With a grunt he stood and stretched again. A cold mist lapped about his boots and he stepped closer to the fire, where the heat swept back the fog, clearing a small circle of ground.

“Smells good,” he said. Jiila glanced at him and smiled.

“So, you’re awake. I thought you might sleep the whole day.” She turned back to the food, grinning, and he sat beside her. Judgar was a desolate place but the Wastelands were worse. An ice-cold mist smothered the land, fading their surroundings to gloomy shadows. Vast curling stalks, thorned and thick as tree trunks burst from the ground like serpents, vanishing high into a canopy of grey vapour before plunging back into the swamps further into the fog. Some sprouted fat yellow leaves, so numerous they formed an overlapping rooftop blocking out the feeble sunlight breaking the clouds. For most of their journey they were forced to wade through waist deep water, bubbling and oil slicked; freezing their legs to numb stilts. Things moving below the surface, but the King forced himself to ignore them and press on, fearing when they emerged from the water he would replace chunks bitten from his legs. Though the mire had no pathways Jiila read the land expertly, directing them to sparse islands cresting from the mist. Dark, leathery bats swept through the air silently, gone almost as soon as they appeared and clouds of darting bugs buzzed around their heads and covered them in tiny, itching bites. Worst of all was the smell, a rank stench like rotting meat and soft, mouldy fruit.

Although most knew it as the Wastelands, the region was found on maps as the Tressa Marshlands, though it was difficult to believe anyone would wish to travel to the place. Perhaps it was only documented to warn travellers away. No roads led in or out, and there were no trade routes to its villages, or messages passing across its borders. The Wastelands’ inhabitants had no families to contact and no friends except those sharing their unwelcoming home. They lived as scavengers, hunting the strange wildlife for food, and working the sparse arid land for tasteless crops. Even the Majia covering the landscape was different, untamed, bursting in flashes or fading to specks.

The King watched Jiila cook breakfast. Twice she had saved his life. Twice put her own at risk to defend him. In Hatriila she was an outcast and a criminal; a prisoner he hadn’t even known but now he owed her his life. She could easily have abandoned him once freed from the Council’s prison convoy. He’d even sent her to Geermund, to begin a new life with the aid of his allies. Instead, she turned back, hurrying after Erol and the King, despite their suicidal mission to Judgar. She tracked them for days, often losing their trail and doubling back, and if Erol had travelled alone, she would never have found them. The soldier left no trail. Thankfully the King was not as light footed. Day by day she drew closer and by the time they reached the ruins at the heart of Judgar she was close behind. Too far to save Erol from Matrekku’s swarming children but close enough to save the King from a similar fate.

The longer they travelled the more she insisted their journey was pointless. All they would replace were the outcasts of Antigol, exiled criminals scavenging a bare existence in the swamps. She did not believe in the prophecy and thought the Dead Mines a myth, just a scary story for children at bedtime. She remembered her own parents telling her about the beast of the swamps which stole away bad children. Do as you’re told or the Mire Lord will come for you! He will pull out your teeth and pop out your eyes and if you cry out for help he will rip out your tongue! She laughed at the memory but even so her gaze flicked warily to the gloom when dark shadows lumbered past.

“Can I ask you something?” Jiila said. She was turning meat in a small pan over the fire.

“Of course, anything,” the King said.

“This prophecy you follow, it foretells events that cannot be changed. That is what you believe?” The King nodded and smiled at her scowl. “So, if the future is set, our choices make no difference. Whatever we decide to do, the result will be the same.”

“Our choices will lead to the outcome. They are part of the prophecy. The choices are not really choices at all.” She considered this.

“So, instead of choosing the safest path, we could go anywhere from here, and we’d still end up at the mines. You’d still meet your son?”

“No, we must still choose the right path.”

“Why?”

“Because the prophecy foretold we would.” Jiila snorted and shook her head,

“So no matter what we do, you’ll just say it was foretold?” The King laughed,

“I suppose you could see it that way.”

“What if I’d let the spider eat you?”

“You didn’t.”

“But say I hadn’t found you.”

“You did.” She laughed and turned back to the meat,

“I think all the years carrying the Majiak have sent you crazy old man.” He laughed too, but suddenly Jiila stopped, turning her head towards the mist. They both held their breath but the King heard nothing except the gurgling of the swamps. Jiila’s shoulders slumped and she dropped the pan to the ground.

“What is it?” the King said. She cast him an annoyed look,

“They could have waited until after breakfast!” she said, then stood and drew her sword, “Alright, come out!”

To the King’s amazement shadows begin to emerge from the mist around them, men and women, a dozen at least, dressed in patchwork armour; all armed with battered swords and bows. They were gaunt, wiry creatures, hair matted with dirt, faces etched with grime, and though their appearance suggested weakness, they carried an air of menace.

“Shall I kill them?” Jiila said. The King stepped forward, raising his hand to deter her attack. After Matrekku’s execution he knew she could deal with the strangers, but if they were going to replace the Dead Mines they would need help.

“I am Evlan Caldor,” he said, “I wish to speak to Beil Flint, your King.”

It was a town unlike any the King had ever seen. No two buildings were the same, scattered haphazardly at the edges of a large island in the swamp’s centre, each thrown together from scavenged timber and steel, fastened tight with coils of rusting wire. Metal plates were bound together and waterproofed with thick tar, and patchwork sheets, stained with oil, flapped against windows, or hung weighted in doorways. Every dwelling looked as if it would withstand no more than a strong breeze, but like their owners, the King suspected they were hardier than they looked.

Their captors led them into the town from the south, flanking their prisoners and bringing them to a halt before the largest of the buildings. Prisoner was the wrong word. The scavengers had not attempted to disarm Jiila and her sword was ready in her hand. They cast around nervously and the King guessed their orders were to capture the trespassers, though none were foolish enough to challenge his ferocious companion.

A short man appeared in the building’s doorway, holding a long curved horn, which he lifted to his lips and blew three times. Already the town’s inhabitants trailed the procession and more appeared from their homes, joining the crowds. Children peered from behind their parents, grubby and thin, with wide unblinking eyes.

Eventually there was silence. The small man gave a nod to two guards beside the door and returned inside. Jiila threw the King a warning glance.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she said.

Finally the heavy sheet covering the building’s entrance was drawn aside and the Scavenger King appeared. He was taller than most of his subjects and certainly more well fed; his clothes in single pieces, though scuffed and torn. He strode forward, heavy boots thumping in the dirt, and stopped before Jiila and the King. His gaze fell to Jiila’s sword and he flashed a disapproving glance to the leader of his men, before smiling warmly.

“Evlan Caldor!” he said, “What an unexpected honour.” He gave a small bow, though more mocking than respectful. The King returned the bow,

“Beil Flint, the honour is mine.” They watched each other carefully, Flint’s face blank, though a mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes.

“Days past we would have met as equals,” he said, “One King to another. But I hear you no longer rule Hatriila. In fact, you are now a common criminal, pursued by the Council of Twelve, like the rest of us here.” The King said nothing and Flint paced slowly in front of them, hands clasped regally behind his back. He glanced at Jiila, who regarded him coldly.

“We wish to barter for aid,” the King said, breaking the silence. Flint raised an eyebrow, turning to a battered throne placed before his makeshift palace and lowering himself into it.

“I hear Hatriila now bows to your son, Avarat,” he said, with another pleasant smile. It was the smile of a crocodile.

“Unfortunate, but true,” the King said, “A temporary arrangement.” Flint laughed, thumping a fist on the chair.

“Temporary he says! The boy rules the whole of Antigol and his forces are unmatched and undefeated! ” He laughed again, louder, until he broke into a rasping cough. A guard hurried forward to assist him, but he pushed him away in annoyance.

“Avarat will fall,” the King continued, “The four realms will be re-united. On that day your assistance will be rewarded.” Around them the crowd muttered among themselves.

“Really?” Flint said, eyes narrowing, “And what reward does the criminal outcast offer us?” The King held Flint’s gaze,

“A royal pardon,” he said, “The chance to return to Antigol as free men.”

“Interesting. What would you have in return?”

“Passage to the Dead Mines.” Flint raised an eyebrow.

“Only a fool would enter the mines,” he said, “No-one ever returns from its depths. Regardless, your offer has no value. I have a rule never to barter against a promise.”

“Whether you aid us or not, Avarat will be defeated. The question you must answer is how you might profit from it.” Flint watched them closely, settling back into his throne,

“There is no profit here unless you retake your throne,” he said, “But perhaps you can prove you have the strength to do so.” He signalled to two guards at the edge of the town. They stood beside a large wooden gateway and at the Scavenger King’s command they quickly drew back a pair of heavy locking bars, dragging the gates apart. Mist curled in the opening and from the darkness came a low growl.

“This is going well,” Jiila said. A dozen soldiers appeared from the gateway, backing away slowly, holding on to long taut ropes rising into the fog. Their feet struggled in the dirt and they shouted instructions to each other, gradually hauling their captive into the light. The watching crowds clutched their children, slipping back towards their homes. Jiila groaned.

The King had heard of the Threshmaw, though he thought the creatures extinct. During the Majia wars they were used as mounts by the Grollian forces, though their tendency to attack their riders as often as they did their enemies eventually led to the decision to have them destroyed. The beasts had not been seen for centuries.

The Threshmaw was as tall as the King’s palace and loped forward on four muscled legs, each ending in talons as deadly as any soldier’s sword. Its body was a mass of muscle, squat and powerful, and covered in a leathery hide too thick for even the sharpest arrow to pierce. Though it allowed itself to be led, it was clear the soldiers were only guiding the creature. It could easily scatter them with a shake of its head. It snorted and bellowed again, opening its jaws to reveal row upon row of dagger-like fangs. Two large tusks broke each side of its mouth and bone-white horns crested its skull. For a second the King recalled the story of the Mire Lord. Could the stories have been about this poor beast?

The soldiers led it closer and hauled on the ropes. It snapped its jaws in annoyance, but came to a halt.

“Prove to me your barter has value,” said Flint, “Defeat the beast and I will consider the deal.” The King hesitated. He did not fear the creature and his skill with a sword was better than most, but he doubted it was a battle he could win. Though half starved, its strength was formidable and he doubted any weapon in the wastelands could do more than scratch its hide. There was no choice. He had to refuse Flint’s offer and hope he would let them pass. As weak and untrained as the soldiers were, there were too many of them to fight. It was probable Jiila could outrun them, but he was old and slow.

“I’ll do it,” said Jiila. She stepped forward before the King could stop her and Flint bolted from his throne. The crowd fell silent immediately, unable to believe what they heard.

“But you’re a woman!” Flint said. Jiila shrugged,

“Then my victory should have enough value for the stake” Flint ignored her and turned to the King.

“You accept this woman as your champion?” The King looked at Jiila and felt sorry for the Threshmaw.

“She is deadlier than I,” he said. Jiila was already watching the giant beast closely, searching for weaknesses. Flint rubbed his chin, shaking his head,

“There are traditions to uphold,” he said, “It is unfair to send this woman against the beast.”

“Yes, it’s a pity you don’t have a few more,” Jiila said with a smirk. Flint glared at her angrily,

“There will be little value in watching your quick death woman.”

“Tell you what,” she hissed, no longer amused, “When I’ve killed it, if you’re still not satisfied, I’ll kill you.” Flint shook, his face turning purple,

“Prepare the Arena,” he snarled and the guards dragged the beast back towards the gate. Jiila turned back to the King,

“The poor creature is starving and in pain. It lives for their sport and torture,” she said, “I will end its misery quickly. Then we are leaving this pigsty.” The King nodded and she turned back to Flint, who was smiling dangerously. He snapped his fingers and around the edges of the village his soldiers raised their bows. Their arrows were trained on the King.

“Take their weapons,” Flint said with a sneer, “And put them both in the pit.”