The Trials of Alar

13

Alar and Tucker traipsed through the forest for what seemed an eternity. Of course, every moment felt like forever to Alar. At least their guards guided them well, so they didn’t trip or stumble over any roots or forest floor debris. Eventually Alar could feel the earth becoming rockier underfoot. Then they came to a stop. He heard steps upon the gravelly ground, followed by grunting. There was a heavy grinding noise. Something big being moved, he guessed. He felt a light gust of cool, musty air against his whiskers. A cave? As they marched forward again, his suspicions were confirmed by the touch of cool, smooth stone against his footpads.

They took a few steps in, then he heard rapid movement and a loud whump!

“Not much farther now,” said the lead squirrel in a low voice.

And indeed it wasn’t. They were led onward through a chamber with water dripping in the distance. Alar sensed the chamber had a very high ceiling by the way the droplets echoed as they struck what sounded like a larger body of water far below. Could it be some kind of underground lake? he wondered. He had heard of such places long ago, but never seen one in all his travels. He had also heard tell of hideous creatures who dwelled in such lakes, and were said to be able to swallow a squirrel in a single bite. He briefly wondered if they were to be thrown as sacrifices to such a monstrosity as part of some bizarre cultish ritual of these unnatural cave-dwelling squirrels. Don’t be stupid, Alar! he told himself. They wouldn’t go through such trouble if they’d wanted to kill you.

Nevertheless, it came as a relief when they left the cavernous chamber in their rear and he felt drier, warmer stone underfoot again. Here they halted, and at last their bonds were removed. As soon as his blindfold was off, Alar shot a glance down to see that Tucker was all right, then looked up to take in their surroundings.

They were in a much smaller, he might even say cozier, chamber, which was lit largely by candlelight and furnished with a table and several chairs. There were a couple of side passages branching off of it: one leading to a little room with a bed in it and the other to a dark, musty-smelling tunnel. The gray squirrel leader gestured toward a chair.

“Do take a seat,” he said.

Alar did so and his host took the chair opposite him. Tucker took the chair next to Alar, though even standing he could barely see over the top of the table. The leader squirrel made a sign to his assistants with his paw and they withdrew. But they reappeared a moment later bearing a couple of bowls with some sort of acorn and pine nut paste. It looked less than appetizing, but in his bedraggled state, Alar lifted the spoon and tried it. It was actually not bad, despite the look and texture, and even had a mild sweet flavor to it. Tucker wolfed it down and held out his bowl for seconds.

“Nothing wrong with that one’s appetite,” remarked the rebel with a smile as he gestured for more to be served. “Now then, it is high time I explained a few things to you.” He lowered his hood, revealing a head even grayer than most of his kind. This squirrel did not seem all that ancient to Alar, but he certainly looked it. Living a hard life as a rebel constantly on the run had certainly taken its toll. He continued:

“My name is Rowan. I am the leader of this group you see here. We are called the True Bloods by one another and far worse things by others. But whatever the name, we have existed for many, many years.”

“Very interesting,” said Alar. “But what’s your point? Why are you so bent on overthrowing your king and evidently ours as well?”

“Oh, no no. Your king has nothing to do with our intentions. Or at least, he didn’t. Our goal has always been the restoration of the rightful heir to our own throne.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that our present monarch, King Basil, is not the true owner of the crown.”

“How do you figure? Basil inherited the throne from his father, did he not?”

Rowan nodded. “After his father was killed, yes. But the throne was never his father’s to give in the first place. Therefore, Basil is not legally the king.”

“Well, who is it, then?” demanded Alar impatiently.

“Myself.”

Alar snorted and rolled his eyes as though expecting just such an answer.

“No, truly. Let me explain. You see, long ago, my grandfather King Artiba was in line to rule Corallia. But ere he reached his majority, he and his mother were exiled by the regent, General Francar, who then took the throne for himself and his heirs. When he died, his son Francar II took the throne, and after him his son Basil. My family never forgot the insult, and we have been trying in one way or another to reclaim what was rightfully ours ever since. When Francar II took the throne, this resistance movement was founded by my grandfather for that purpose. And our struggle remained a purely domestic affair for decades until word reached our ears of this peace treaty to be signed between your country and ours.”

“And you thought starting a war between our countries would somehow help you reclaim your throne?”

“No, I did not. The rebels who attempted to kill King Fagan—those who attacked your party in the pass—are a splinter group comprised mostly of younger squirrels who are eager to see things restored sooner rather than later. It is their belief that in assassinating your king, they would indeed spark war between Kentros and Corallia, one which will naturally see the larger Kentros victorious. And with the country in ruin, the people would look for a new leader. At which point they would be conveniently reminded of the previous ruling family and how it presided over the most successful period of Corallia’s history. Thereafter, they would of course see fit to restore us to power.”

Alar shook his head. “A risky venture, that.”

“Indeed. Which is why I want no part in it.”

“Can’t you just order them to stand down? They’re under your command, aren’t they?”

“They’re not, actually. Their leader is one who feels he has more to lose by waiting. Namely my own son, Artika.” He sighed. “There was a time when I, too, had their zeal, just as my father and grandfather had. But with age comes wisdom, at least for some, and I do not believe that even our just cause is worth the price of destroying the very thing we seek to take back. Nor is it worth shedding the blood of the innocent. I hold no enmity toward you, your king, or the people of Kentros, whatever past differences our two nations may once have had.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but that doesn’t solve the problem. As long as your son and his friends are determined to wreak havoc, the threat remains. Who’s to say they won’t try something at the treaty signing ceremony this very day?”

“That is very likely.”

“Why don’t you stop him, then?”

“He will not listen to me, and I cannot bring myself to stop him through force of arms.”

“So you’re going to just sit by and watch as he attempts to murder your king and mine?”

Rowan sighed, and for the first time allowed his gaze to drop briefly in shame. “Love of kin can blind one to the faults of those dearest to him. And besides that, surely you must realize that to intervene would require my band to expose themselves to capture and no doubt execution. We are outlaws, Alar.”

Alar heaved a deep sigh, then nodded slowly, focusing intently on the wood grain of the table as he spoke. “I understand your hesitation, sir. And I admire the obligation you feel towards your family.” He rose, then looked Rowan in the eyes. “But I am under a different set of obligations. And right now I, too, have my duty to perform.”

“Of course.”

“Then by your leave, I will borrow a sword from one of your guards, then go and protect my king and friends.”

Suddenly Tucker sprang up from licking his bowl, his tail stiff and eyes gleaming with eagerness.

“Tuck wanna’ come too!”

“No, Tuck. You stay here where it’s safe. I promise I’ll come back for you.”

“You sure?”

Alar nodded. “I’m sure.”

Tucker thought hard about it for a moment. Alar was afraid for an instant that he would insist on coming along and make a scene. Fortunately the young squirrel was tired from his harrowing day, and one glance at the porridge still in his bowl decided it. He gave in with a nod. “Okay.” He reached up and embraced Alar, who was momentarily surprised, but returned the gesture in kind.

“You go beat alla bad guys, right?”

“Right you are, mate.” Alar gently pulled away and stepped back with a smile, then stepped over to Rowan and whispered quietly in his ear, “If I don’t return, take him back to Widow Mags in the village of Tunra to the northwest.”

“I know the place,” Rowan whispered back. He then continued out loud. “Very well. Take this passage here.” Rowan pointed to the darker one behind where he was seated. “It shall take you to a secret door in the Roxa Cathedral where the ceremony is to take place within the hour.”

“Excellent.”

“As for your sword…” Rowan reached over and grabbed a sword belt that had been resting in the corner. “You may borrow mine. I hardly use it anymore.”

He held it out to Alar, who took it and quickly replaced his old belt with the new, drawing the blade to examine it closely with a trained blacksmith’s eye.

“This is quality craftwork, sir.”

“And well it should be. It belonged to my forebears in the days when we dwelled in palaces instead of holes in the ground.”

“I will take the greatest care of it, I promise,” said Alar, sheathing it with great reverence. In spite of himself, he felt more than a little honored to have such a blade at his hip.

“I know that you shall. Skiourosspeed now, Alar of Red Fields. But if I may ask one favor ere you depart…”

“Name it.”

“Please, if at all possible, do not harm my son. He is rash, but he is not evil, and I love him still.”

“I make no such promises, but I’ll do my best.”

And without another word, he set off at a brisk trot down the tunnel, silently praying that he was not already too late.