The Rigel Chronicles: part 2

Fantasy flash fiction

Thanks to everyone who commented on the previous two parts of this serial. I’ve enjoyed sharing my latest versions at the Gotham Write-Ins. I’m nearly at a point where I feel like tackling my next novel again.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this.

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Ricardo’s head throbbed, like the drumming of hooves he’d heard on the plain. He opened his eyes and saw five rebels sorting through a pile of discarded military equipment. One man looked familiar: his broad shoulders and long hair were not unusual among the enemy, which was composed mostly of woodsmen, farmers, and miners. It was the double-headed axe that dangled from the leather thong on his wrist that was unique. The rebel turned to look at his prisoner.

‘I know you,’ Ricardo said. His voice croaked, his mouth was dry, and his lips were cracked. ‘You’re Koberic the executioner.’

The executioner flinched, as if struck by a glove. ‘Don’t call me that. My name is Orryn, and the only people I kill are the oppressors.’

Ricardo blinked. His wound had reopened, and blood was trickling down his forehead into his eye. The blinking was futile, and his hands were tied behind him, so he kept his eye shut. He squinted at the executioner; he’d never seen his face before—it was marked with pox scars, his nose looked like it had been broken half a dozen times, and two teeth were missing. Yet, the executioner did not look grotesque. Something was different about him.

A kick in his ribs caused Ricardo to grunt.

A thin rebel with a scar on one cheekbone waved a cavalry sabre at Ricardo. ‘Up you get, lancer. Time to see the boss.’

Ricardo crossed his legs and rocked forward to his knees before staggering upright. Pins and needles stung his calves, so he stomped his stockinged feet to get the blood moving again. He looked at the rebels to see who wore his leather boots but couldn’t see them.

The rebel prodded Ricardo with the sabre. ‘Move.’

‘Careful where you put that,’ Ricardo said. ‘It’s designed to be used from a horse. If you trip, you might hurt yourself.’

‘If I trip, this sword is going right up your arse!’ The rebel laughed. The others joined in, except Orryn. His expression never changed. He walked silently, serenely, aside from the group.

‘Maybe I could turn him into an ally,’ Ricardo thought. ‘He did use to work for the duke, after all.’

Round hide tents were scattered around four campfires without any pattern or order that Ricardo could see. A month ago, he would have sneered at the lack of discipline, but this ragged band had defeated his squadron. There was no lack of fury when they fought despite the singing and laughing around the fires. Ricardo estimated about forty rebels were in this camp; it couldn’t be the only one. How could it be when they’d defeated a whole squadron of the duke’s cavalry?

Where were the rest of the rebels? The duke had two other squadrons in his cavalry regiment, and maybe they would fare better.

The smell of meat cooking washed over Ricardo: his mouth salivated and his stomach rumbled. He saw a huge haunch turning on a spit. ‘That’s a horse leg,’ he thought. ‘They’re eating our horses!’