Heavy Is The Crown

Perched amongst the boughs of a wise oak, the bark rough and steadying beneath his boots, Lark kept so diligently still. Fingers poised on the string of his bow, an arrow nocked and half-drawn, ready to fire through the gap in the rustling leaves. He kept his breath even, his heart slow, until he was permitted to do differently, until he was given the order to shoot. 

His target was oblivious to his bird-like position, and the creeping advancements of the rest of the Bruin horde below. The feeble attempt at guarding the stock stood no chance, but then none of those they raided did.

Dusk had set, the skies a navy blue and darkening, as a match was struck beside him and its fire urged to take hold of the alcohol dowsed material wrapped at the point of the arrow. It caught in an instant, casting an orange glow about him and one other member of his horde, that had been tasked to keep watch over him and assist.

Even after six years, the Bruin horde didn’t trust him enough to go anywhere alone, as if their chief, Briar Van Dalen hadn’t chained him enough to the horde for him to have no other choice but to stay.

Aiming with ease, he awaited the signal, and as Briar’s hulking hand snapped closed into a fist, he pulled the string of his bow back and let the arrow loose. There was never a time anymore that made his heart stop with trepidation, because he never missed a shot, no matter how much the winds tried to divert his arrow, or the leaves threatened to obscure his view.

His slender fingers released the string, sending the flaming arrow straight towards the intended target of a barrel of ale. It struck sure, and burst into flames, licking at the fur jerkin of the man beside it.

Lark didn’t stay to watch, he knew what came next and as far as he was concerned, his job was done. Small twigs caught at his burnt umber locks, unkept and wild upon his head, one in particular was flung back carelessly by the passing body of Briar’s more trusted watchman, striking Larks pale olive skin, no doubt leaving a reddened mark where it stung.

Clambering down the tree like a hastened squirrel, his feet met hard soil, and his eyes took in the sights of the Bruin horde dragging crates and rolling barrels from the inferno he had caused. Another mongrel stronghold had fallen, and so their bounties would be added to their own, seeing their stock and rations flourish and last them comfortably through the harsh winter months. None of them congratulated him, they never did, his distractions that gave them their way in, were mere easy tasks any of them could do, and yet didn’t.

They passed him by as if he were a ghost, an unimportant whisper.

He trailed after the group, ignoring the adrenaline fuelled bouts of laughter and slandering calls to those that most likely lay dead and burnt in the empty ruin. They’d be found by their mongrel leader, a thought that had once bothered him, but with it being such a frequent occurrence, the sight of blood and the idea of death was nothing but a dull remnant of the queasiness that used to overwhelm him.

“We’ll drink well tonight!”

Lark followed the congregation to their carts; the holdings almost filled beneath the blanketed coverings. The light jangling of the chains had him obeying without a word, knowing what would come of him should he refuse. Like a disobedient dog, he leant his bow up the cart wheel and let the collar circle his neck, clicking shut. Briars hands weightier than the metal, and his cobalt eyes even more so as they bore into the feeble green of his own. He knew to look away, finding solitude in the autumn leaves beneath his boots.

“Fall asleep and you die, call for help and you die, try to run-“

“And I die.” Lark finished, daring to glance as far up as the man’s broad chest. He had heard it every night for the past six years, but now they felt empty and overused, as though all meaning had disappeared form their letters.

With a dangerous silence, his head dipped to look at his shoes again, feeling the wrath beginning to swell in the beast of a man. The deep brown dreadlocks hung over his shoulders like untied nooses, his beard plaited and reaching his chest, but every strand, every fibre of Briar demanded reverence.

“You best remember it.” He sneered, yanking his thick fingers free from the collar, checking its integrity at once. “If I find so much as one mouthful missing from any of those barrels come morning, I will have you driving with the horses.”

Lark sat in submission, huddled against the wooden spokes of the massive wagon wheel. His bow that was leaning against the whee behind him dug into his spine, but he dared not move until they were gone.

Once the barrels were loaded and covered, a few extra arrows tossed his way as a precaution, they left with Briar at their lead, his deep commanding voice stilling the hooting owls and chirping crickets that would often keep him company.

The voices died out, as did the light and soon he was plunged into darkness, having to feel around for items to make a torch. A scrap of material ripped from his shirt and wound around the end of a stick from nearby and finally dunked into a left and battered tankard of ale, perched on the edge of the cart. He always managed to sneak a match or two here and there, squirrelling them away for night like these. They never noticed, but Briar would have his head on a spike to parade on the cart if he found out he was lighting fires in the dark, simply urging passers by to look. But equally, Lark hated the dark. It concealed everything, people lurking, animals prowling, and the ghosts and spectres his mind created and tricked his eyes into seeing while alone.

The torch lit up, flickering and blazing. He stuck the bare end into the ground giving him both of his hands to slowly pick apart his ration of stale bread.

It was rough down his throat, like swallowing rocks, and tasted strongly of starch but his stomach pleaded for sustenance.

The left-over ale in the tankard was bitter and sharp, but he winced and forced it down, tossing the empty vessel across the forest when he was done, hearing a shriek as it landed. He stopped for a moment, bread raised to his lips, listening for any other noise and surely enough, chattering grew closer. Where the light from his torch eased into black, two figures stumbled from behind some closely gathered tree trunks.

A woman, drowned in thickly layered gowns, a corset synching her waist to accentuate her hips and breasts that were alluringly peeking above the fabric, and a man, tall and toned, his shoulders broad beneath his black leather jerkin.

They swayed, evidently drunk and looking for a place to indulge in one another. It must have been she that the tankard had scared, he doubted it was the man, but then it wouldn’t have been the strangest of things he had seen while in the woods.

Lark remained quiet, keeping to himself hoping they would go on their way, but the woman seemed persistent on approaching, her eyes fixed on the cart rather than him.

Her face came into view of the light, paled with powdered makeup, her eyelids and lips lathered with shades of red, smudged and forgotten about. Lark had his bow drawn and an arrow knocked before her mud-stained fingers could even land on the wood. She jolted at the sight of it pointed at her, her face paling beneath the sheet of powder.

But her horror seemed to subside, and Lark discovered why rather hastily, as a cool sensation from a steel blade marked his neck. There was no forgetting the feeling, the way it made him shiver with gruelling memories, the way it nipped time and time again at his skin until it began to warm.

“I would lower your bow, if I were you.”

Lark’s hearing followed the voice that echoed the colours of autumn, the coolness it held with soft warm undertones of sunlight through orange leaves.

He listened, but he did not obey. He kept his fingers steadily on the string, his sights unmoving from the woman and her startled, drunken expression.

“I would tell that trollop to get away from my cargo.” Lark muttered in reply, never daring to speak so blatantly to his horde, but this man was not one of Briar’s men.

The tip of the blade slithered across his skin, halting beneath his chin. With applied pressure, it tilted Larks face towards the stranger and away from the woman. From the point at his chin, and up along its gleaming long blade, his sight fell upon nightly, oak hair, half tied up and half left down to hang in straight torrents, and irises that exuded the calming aura of hazel boughs greeted him.

“That’s a rude way to speak to a lady.” He said, urging Larks chin up further until the brand on his neck was visible for all to see.

“But then I’d expect nothing more from one of the Bruin Horde.”

Lark shied away from the long sword and the man at its end, his gaze averting to the woman who had her hand rooting around in the hessian bags. It clasped a hold of one and yanked it free, her flat and hole-bearing shoes carrying her back towards the town in a flurry of material that she tried to keep a hold of and raise from around her ankles with not a single look back. Lark launched an arrow, his bow tapped by the simple flick of the sword that sent it off course, embedding in a tree beside her receding silhouette. He was on his feet, straining his eyes after her, but she was gone from sight and any reach of another arrow. Panic set in, rooted deep within him. Curses fell past his lips, his mind forgetting his company momentarily as he yanked at the collar, scratching at his neck in the process until it left a raw band encompassing his throat.

“You, this is your doing!” He cried out, collecting the torch and storming towards the man that backed away with long strides. The chain snapped taut with the armed man out of reach, a smug smirk set firmly on his lips.

“It’s not my fault you have terrible aim. That should have been an easy shot.”

“You knocked me on purpose!”

An amused huff left the strangers lips. “It was just bread; I’m sure the great Bruin Horde can survive without a few measly loaves.”

Lark was ready to launch his torch at the brunette and fire every arrow he had in his arsenal at him while he was on the ground, but he refrained. Instead, he rounded the corner to the back of the cart and shuffled a few of the bags in the hopes Briar would overlook it, although he highly doubted it would work.

“Say, how much for a barrel of ale?”

“It’s not for sale.” Lark noted, his heart sinking with every passing minute the stranger lingered. If he were to try to steal or even break a barrel, he could not hide it.

“Would it be worth your freedom?”

The word clanged in his head, as though it were a coin in a tin. Freedom sounded so heavy, so out of reach. Even without the chains he was bound to the horde, even without the mark, Briar’s hold ran deeper, like spider webs, invisible and delicate but lethal, running through every part of him, every choice.

“Nothing is for sale.” He gritted out, collapsing into a pile on the floor beside his bow and arrows, feeling a different sort of anxiety festering, tampering with his heart and lungs. One man is all it took to ruin the piece of calm he had, there wouldn’t be any chance that Briar would leave him alone now, not after this mess.

“Suit yourself, can’t say I didn’t try.”

Sword sheathed, the man began to step away, his motives still unclear but his dispersing presence was comforting, nonetheless. “Good luck!”

He would indeed need all the luck he could find, for the horde spared none, not even its own.