The Zero Hour | #Wattys2016

Chapter 2 - An Eye for an Eye (Part 1)

Old Jarbus was right. The very next day, Malevolent Drake – the ruler of White Harrow and father of Waldo Drake, appeared in the middle of the commoner camp with a cloud of smoke. As he walked down the snowy path, an atmosphere of dread and despair followed him. Being one of the most powerful wizards in the world, an oppressive aura weighed heavily upon those who were unfortunate enough to be nearby. The commoners fled away from him, whispering to each other.

"Jarbus!" he yelled as the strolled casually towards the nearest group of commoners. "Get out here or people will start to die!"

At his words, the normal bustling activity of the commoner camp froze. There was nothing but silence. Seconds later, one person screamed, setting off a chain reaction of screams that grew into widespread panic. In the midst of the chaos, Old Jarbus stepped out from the crowd calmly and looked Malevolent in the eye.

"Yes, how may I be of service today?" he asked calmly.

"You know very well why I am here," Malevolent replied. "My son returned home yesterday covered in manure and blood. It seems your entire camp ganged up on him while he was helping a commoner down from a tree."

Old Jarbus raised his eyebrows to show both surprise and amusement. "I assure you, the commoners did no such thing."

"I don't care what you assure me, I demand justice. Now, you know the law, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." Malevolent raised his fist in front of Old Jarbus's face. He held it so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his entire hand shook.

"My son is worth more than all the lives in your pathetic little camp." Malevolent reached out and a commoner nearby was flung effortlessly into his grasp. Trembling in his grip, the man begged for his life with tears in his eyes. "Allow me to demonstrate," Malevolent said coldly. Old Jarbus's eyes widened as he saw the life drain out of the victim's eyes. The begging and tears stopped as Malevolent released the lifeless body onto the snow.

"How do you expect to pay me for this blatant insult of the Drake crest?"

A spray of spittle found its way onto Old Jarbus's face as Malevolent spoke in anger. He held up Waldo's blood and manure stained cloak, showing the desecrated Drake family crest. He paused for a while and took in a deep breath.

"However, I will be merciful today." He raised his hand and pointed a finger straight at Old Jarbus's face. "In three days, a hundred commoners in this worthless camp are to be killed, and the bodies are to be put into a pile on this very spot."

Malevolent motioned towards the muddy ground. He lifted up his finger, which glowed bright red. He then used his glowing finger and melted an engraved "X" on the very spot he was standing on.

"I will give you three days. On the morning of the fourth day, I will come with the entire army of White Harrow. If I do not see a hundred willing volunteers standing on this spot to be sacrificed, this camp and all its inhabitants will be burned to the ground, and I will personally see to it that there will be no survivors."

He then turned to the audience of fearful commoners who were hiding behind crates and tents, some were peeping out of rocks and trees. He raised his voice for all to hear. "If anyone tries to leave, I will know it, and I want all of you to be warned," he paused and lifted up his glowing finger, as a school teacher would do to reprimand a misbehaving child.

"Anyone who tries to escape will be killed in the most painful and slow way possible." With that, he blew on his finger and the red glow left it in a puff of smoke, signifying the end of his speech. He then disappeared into thin air with a clap and a bang which sounded like thunder.

The entire town stared at Old Jarbus in silence. Amadeus, who was crouched behind a boulder, was feeling particularly guilty. Perhaps if he had allowed Waldo to kill him, the camp would be spared from such a horrid fate. They were now prisoners in their very own camp, and would be fated to die in three days.

"Call an emergency meeting of the camp. There is much to discuss." Old Jarbus said grimly as he walked into the tent of meeting without looking back. The commoners filed into the tent quietly and obediently behind him with their heads downcast.

The tent of meeting was large enough for the entire community of commoners. It was circular in shape with the opening on one side of the circle. It was dim inside and there was a fire burning in the middle of the tent. Small holes were cut into the center of the tent to allow the smoke from the fire burning in the middle to escape. Old Jarbus stood next to the fire as the commoners all sat around him on straw mats. The embers from the fire lit up his face from the bottom, as the flames moved, they made the shadows cast on the sides of the tent dance with a rhythm.

When Amadeus entered the tent, Old Jarbus was staring intently at an old unfurled parchment which lay on top of a large wooden table next to him. Everyone was anxious to hear what plan he would come up with. Old Jarbus cleared his throat as he prepared to address the crowd.

"In three days," he said. "We will all be dead." A wave of murmurs filled the tent at his words. He raised his hand and the whispers died down to silence again.

He then continued, "Malevolent has said that a hundred must die, or he will kill the entire camp." He looked dead serious as he delivered the next line, "I tell you the truth, he has no intention of letting us live." The audience opened their eyes wide with shock. "Commoners are easily replaced, and he will most definitely kill all of us no matter what we do. He would only want the pleasure of seeing us kill our own and wait in fear for three days."

"What should we do?" shouted a panicky voice, interrupting Old Jarbus.

"We must 'not' leave the camp. The Nobles will surely kill those who try in the most torturous way possible." Old Jarbus emphasized the word 'not'. It was important that the camp understood the urgency of the situation.

"However, there is hope..." His audience listened closely, gripping at the frail strands of hope. "As you all know, I am from a tribe of the Exiles called the Avianath. Perhaps we could seek them out for help."

"The Nobles are strong. The army of White Harrow itself should have thousands of battle-ready Nobles who are eager for blood. None of us are warriors, and how many of the tribe could Avianath spare?" questioned one worried commoner.

"The Avianath Tribe is perhaps the smallest tribe of the Exiles. Years ago, their army would have been at least two hundred strong. Today, I believe they may have grown to at least five hundred." Old Jarbus stroked his beard lightly as he spoke.

"Five hundred aren't enough!" shouted a panicky member of the crowd. "A single Noble battle-wizard is known to wield the deadliest magic, capable of killing even a hundred commoners!"

"Enough!" shouted Old Jarbus with a tone of finality. Silence fell upon the room as they waited for his next words. "We can only hope and pray that the Avianath will aid us. This is our only hope. The Exiles are not normal commoners, and we may stand a chance if we manage to rally enough Avianath riders to our side."