Chapter Seven: A Complication

The next morning, after another breakfast of berries and nuts, Aya and Will took off on the road. As to not ride too fast and catch up to the Gallicans, they followed at a walk a kilometer behind.

After an unhurried midday meal, they continued on the path, exchanging stories to pass the time. Will quite enjoyed having someone around his age to talk to, as much as Halt would say it was distracting. Aya proved not just to be good-looking and fit, but had an intellect Will admired. Will had a good time discussing advances in agricultural fields and was so distracted he almost missed something vital.

Will's head snapped up and he grabbed the draft's reins, pulling them both sharply to the right. "Aargh!" He yelled.

Aya looked bewildered but urged her horse to follow the young Ranger. The horses plunged into the underbrush.

Aya tied up her horse then followed Will, who had army-crawled to a break in the branches. Aya first saw that they were at the fork of the road, then followed Will's gaze. His face was upturned so he could have a clear view of the crumbling tower looming above them.

During one long-forgotten age, the tower may have been a great defensive structure, but until recently it was regarded as derelict and useless. Despite the crumbling state, the tower was all the Gallicans needed; a place to hold out until the main force arrived. That would be in a few weeks, a time they might as well spend in the comfort and protection of an ancient tower. And thusly, cracks were boarded, supplies gathered, and water barrels rolled from the nearby lake.

Guards were set around the perimeter, approximately five meters apart. Patrols were stationed on top of the tower, protected from arrow fire by the somewhat-intact crenellations. They haughtily stalked the walls, occasionally spitting over the edge.

Will turned to Aya and said, "this is worse than I thought. The Rangers must be being kept in the dungeon, and they outnumber us by far. While we wait for Halt, we need to formulate a plan."

Aya frowned. This was no easy fix. If they were to climb, they could be easily dispatched. The same result would come from a frontal assault. Aya mentioned his thoughts to Will, who agreed. They discussed different methods of attack as the sun began to tilt back over the horizon.

A few hours later, Will and Aya became alert to the sound of hoofbeats. It was one horse, at a gallop and nearing quickly. Coming from the same road upon which Will and Aya traveled, the speeding horseman yelled and whipped his horse to greater speeds. The rider's face was red and angry, scowling at his horse's supposed incompetence. They hurtled past Will and Aya's hiding place, hurrying for the entrance of the tower. Will looked after the horse, mind working in a frenzy.

A hundred meters away, Serge Mathieu, the Gallican commander, leaned back on the makeshift chair his men had made him. He inhaled a puff of smoke from his pipe, then blew it out. Smoke clouded the crumbling room on the bottom floor. He chose this room out of the many others because it was close to the door and the entrance to the dungeons. Mathieu smiled darkly as he thought of the Rangers. He fingered his cat-o-nine tucked into his belt and grinned, remembering his earlier visit to the dungeon.

Outside his room, which had no door, a guard helped the red-faced man off his horse. The guard cleared his throat and, in the Gallican tongue, announced, "Sir, a rider is here. He bears the arms of Lord Pierre."

"Let him in," Mathieu responded in his brutish voice.

The rider bowed his head in respect and handed Mathieu a note with an official seal. "You may leave." Mathieu grunted.

Mathieu broke the seal and read the note. He grinned an evil, lack-toothed smile and called for his second-in-command. The first officer arrived, and Mathieu explained the situation.

"I have just reviewed word that eight of Lord Pierre's men will be sailing into the Araluen harbor on the Semath River three weeks from now. Two other ships will pick us and the Rangers up in around one week."

"This is great news, milord." His officer said.

"Yes, indeed." Mathieu agreed. "We will hold Castle Araluen in a siege until the foul king himself begs us for mercy. Then we will rid him of his money, using the Rangers as ransom."

"An excellent plan, milord." Mathieu leaned back in his chair, setting the note next to a long scroll on his crude desk.

"Dismissed." Mathieu said. Mathieu relaxed in his chair for a few minutes, then remembered what he was going to do before he was interrupted. He left the room, viewing for a second the large barred door and ladder which the men had built, then descended down the trapdoor into the dungeon.

The dungeon, a foul-smelling subterranean prison, held thirty Rangers by their wrists. They had been stripped of their magic cloaks, belts, and tunics, leaving their backs exposed. Some sported stinging marks on their backs and suffered from malnutrition; the Gallicans hadn't seen fit to feed them.

Mathieu strode along the line of beaten men, taunting and jeering at them. He flashed his cat-o-nine at the Rangers, beating them excessively. He heard their cries of pain but that wasn't enough for him. He singled out the youngest Ranger and lashed his fearsome whip over and over again on the young man's back, unrelenting. He stepped back after minutes of repeated whacking and watched even more angry welts form on his back. The other Rangers pleaded with Mathieu to stop, to relent, but Mathieu was enjoying it so much he did not heed their cries. He listened to the sound of the Ranger's sobbing as he ascended the stone spiral staircase many minutes later.

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