Serving Anadrues

Chapter One

    A nocturnal summer wind swept over Caradon, whistling around the quiet houses. Queen Halatia’s castle cast a shadowy veil over the homes. This night, a dark, almost preternatural, fog cloaked the entire town. Then, the fog suddenly swirled out of the way of a dark figure racing down the beaten dirt road. The figure took the shape of a man, a horse, and an enclosed wagon with two barred windows, one in the back, and one right behind the driver’s seat. This wagon continued hurtling down the road, spitting up dust from the horse’s pounding hooves. It skidded to a stop at the end of the road. Beyond this, the edge of a dark forest gave a haunted feel to the night. The driver dropped the reins, pulled off his hood, and waited, looking up and down the road, to the left and the right. Soon after, another wagon pulled up beside him. This driver did the same. Both dismounted their riding seats atop the wagons and met in the middle of the road. The second driver extended his hand and grinned, revealing his yellow, rotting teeth. “Servant-master Tarac. Delighted to see you again.” Tarac flicked his gaze to the man’s filthy hand, didn’t touch it, and said in a disdainful tone, “Mordecai Damielson. Pleasure.” Damielson awkwardly lowered his own hand. Both men stared uncomfortably at the ground. Neither spoke. Then Tarac broke the silence. “So….do you have the boy?” Damielson grinned again, and Tarac shied away at his hideous teeth. Damielson exclaimed loudly, “Of course I have the boy!” He whirled around, his cloak fanning out around him, and traipsed over to his wagon and unbarred the door. He then beckoned to Tarac to approach. They both peered into the darkness of the wagon, with Tarac very unsure of what he was about to see. Shackled to the wall by long, heavy iron manacles was a boy who appeared to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. His clothes had clearly displayed his family’s small and modest wealth prior to Damielson’s rough treatment. They were now ripped and coated with dusty earth. The boy was quite handsome, with jet black hair that ended just below his ears, with long bangs that fell into his eyes. His complexion, apart from a liberal dusting of dirt, was unblemished, pale, and perfect. His eyes were a compelling, steely gray color. But, at this moment in time, these eyes were hard and cold. The boy’s face was blank except for a look of malevolent hatred, and a burning desire to punish the next to approach him. He turned his head slowly to the two men and stared. The hate in his eyes darkened, and he scowled before looking away. Tarac shuddered. This might prove to be difficult. He turned back to Damielson and said, “His name?” “Beckett Arlin,” Damielson replied. “You have done well,” Tarac said. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small leather pouch. He held it out, and Damielson greedily snatched it up. He ripped it open and smiled down at the contents. Then, the two men switched carts, Tarac taking the one holding the boy. Then the men separated, each driving off in opposite directions, into the night.