The Forgotten Kingdom

Chapter 3

    It had been a week since Desmond had delivered the tools to the camp in the forest, and one day ago the clearing had stopped. No one on the logging team had said anything about it, but rumors were abundant. Some said that they’d stumbled on bandit hideout, while others said there was a Frost Troll den, and everything you could think of in between. One thing all the rumors agreed on, though, was that logging was stopped until someone was called in. Whoever that someone was, though, was also up for debate. The whole thing made Desmond uneasy, and his thoughts kept gravitating to the same two things over and over again.

    The brick.

    And the look on the head logger’s face.

    It was easy to get lost in his head while he was working on the cheese, and so he came up with a hundred scenarios sometime between boiling the goat’s milk and straining the curds and whey, and a hundred more would have come, except his mother interrupted his work in the cheese shed halfway through with a look on her face that made Desmond’s heart stop.

    Silence followed her entrance.

    They stared in each other’s eyes.

    And then finally she spoke.

    “Desmond, have you done something wrong?” Her words felt like an accusation and a plea all wrapped in one. It was then that he realized how tightly she was gripping her apron, her knuckles were almost as white as goat’s milk.

    “What? I haven’t done anything wrong that I know of.”

    “Desmond, I need you to be honest with me. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what you’ve done.”

    “Where is this coming from?” Desmond asked, feeling less and less in control of his own breathing, “Please just tell me why you’re acting like this.”

    His mother tensed and opened her mouth in what looked like the start of a sentence, but no words came.

    She floundered for a moment, looking for words Desmond couldn’t even begin to imagine.

    Finally, her shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh.

    “There’s a man from the mayor’s personal guard here for you,” her words were grim, and her eyes couldn’t meet her son’s. “So, if you’ve gotten in some kind of trouble, please tell me.”

    Desmond was at a loss for words. The mayor’s men weren’t like Argent. Like the mayor, they were from Ashvale, the Capitol city. What could he have done to get their attention?

    “Mother I swear to you I don’t know why they’d be here for me.”

    “Then that’s even more reason to worry… listen to me Desmond,” she began, looking over her shoulder, then back at him, “tell them whatever they want to hear, but if it keeps you safe. Lie. No go, he’s in the house I’ll take over here.”

    Desmond nodded slowly and started to undo his apron as he went to move past his mother, but she stopped him.

    “And Desmond.” He looked her in the eyes and could see the fear in them. “I love you. Those Byrons and their men… I’ve heard stories about how cruel they can be. Nothing’s worth losing your life.” Desmond was still for another long moment, and his fear must have shown on his face because his mother cupped his cheek with one hand and pressed her forehead to his. “I’m sorry Desmond… I’m scaring you. I shouldn’t be doing that. Just answer whatever questions they have and don’t make them mad, and you’ll be fine.”

    Desmond took a deep breath, then pulled his mother into a tight hug. “I love you too, I’ll be back before the evening milk, I promise.”

    “Just focus on coming back at all,” she whispered in his ear, before pulling away and hurrying to pick up where Desmond had left off. He steeled his nerves and left the cheese shed.

    The walk between the shed and the back door of his house felt even longer than the trek from Gilford’s to the logging camp, with an even heavier weight to carry. So heavy he could barely lift his hand to the door handle. When he finally could he saw a man standing on the opposite side of the house at the front door, itself also open.

    It was a strange moment for Desmond, he’d seen the mayor’s guard before, of course, but never this close. He found himself caught up in examining the pristine condition of his breastplate, as if it were a part of him and not something he wore for protection. Emblazoned on the center of it was the symbol of the Byron family, a paw print of a fire wolf, with its toes consumed in flames.

    “Are you Desmond Klein?” He asked, his voice even and harsh, like a boulder slowly rolling down a hill, assured in its own power to crush whatever lay in its path. And right now, Desmond felt like that applied to him.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Come with me. Mayor Hyram wishes to speak to you.” The guard stepped away from the door to show Desmond the path that led up to his door. There was a red carriage with fine gold trim sitting out front, the horses drawing it had similar armor to the man in his house. Desmond couldn’t find the will to move. “He is not a patient man.” The guard said firmly, which spurred Desmond to finally move out of the doorway he stood in.

    The same fear that had rooted him in place now propelled him to the carriage, where a servant opened the door for him. When Desmond sat down, he couldn’t decide if he was relieved or horrified that he was alone in the carriage. Alone until the guard entered the carriage immediately after him.

    The ride was a long and silent one.