The place was dark, the only source of light came from a naked bulb, roughly hanging from the ceiling, casting a little of the circle. An assembly of men were gathered round a crude construction apparently made for the purpose of a table. A cream-colored couch sat in a corner, a map stuck to the wall, curling at the corners, and the six armchairs made up the furniture. At present, only five were occupied. All their face were hidden well enough in the shadows.

“How is the Orphan Brigade going?” an old man asked. His hair was dark brown, his complexion was rather pale but a relaxed expression could never look more devilish than his.

A few snorts arose in the dark room at the emphasis on 'orphan'.

“Heh, do you actually trust those babies?” one man spat. His blonde hair was combed and gelled perfectly into place, his eyes were rather large, colored with a slightly milky green. His bottom lip stuck out as he spoke.

“They don't have a pinch of information. They have nothing to tell, Jasker. They're just fodder, paying for their meals and lodging with their lives,” a middle-aged man grunted the reply. His eyelids looked too droopy for a man even of his age. His hair was surprisingly still a perfect black, his jaw was set widely apart and he seemed a few teeth too many.

“I asked a question!” the first guy stormed, slamming his palm onto the table.

Another younger-looking personage stood up abruptly to storm back at the old man's temper when their not-so-friendly exchange was rudely interrupted by a beam of sunlight thrown into the basement from above.

“The heck? It better not be Sir Silton.”

“Greetings, gentlemen. Please, sit.”

The men stared, astonished at the person who caused the prior interruption. Whispers of ' it's him' and ' the leader himself' could be heard passing from their mouths.

“You must be surprised that I would finally show my face,” he chuckled, “with no notice whatsoever.”

“Mister Preston!” one of the men finally managed to blurt.

“Please, just call me master,” he laughed.

Upon scanning their pale faces and shocked countenances, Mister Preston dropped his humorous mask. “Let's discuss our plans, shall we?” he asked, emphasizing 'plans'.

The men cleared their throats and pulled their chairs forward. They stayed as respectful and attentive as possible, no doubt, to make a good impression on their chief.

“Jasker, how much manpower do we have?”

“Yes sir! I mean... ehem. We're low on men. Many have lost their lives at the Battle of Cattlebent. There are approximately 3,000 more soldiers excluding the special forces. 2,000 consist of the foot soldiers and 850 knights. We only have a little more than one hundred snipers. The number is fast diminishing too.”

“Thank you, Jasker.”

“Peter Hadrin!”

The middle-aged man arose. His hair was tinted with a hint of white, his deep blue eyes seemed to shine in the dark, his heavy eyebrows arched to form a shade over them. He opened his pale thin lips and spoke “Three hundred men between the age of 16-30 are currently under-going training!”

“That. It's only those who signed up?”

“Yes, Mist...Yes, Master!”

“Good...good,” Mister Preston cooed, the little light bounced off his fair blonde hair as he nodded, satisfied. “Then, the Orphan Brigade?”

There was no answer, for the former mentioned, Sir Silton, was the man in charge of it.

Jasker rose in his stead. “Yesterday night an orphan by the name of Afton assumedly completed his mission,” he reported.

“Yes, and what was the mission?”

“He placed recorders onto the caravan secretly passing through last night. They're definitely going to bring our adversaries new forces in the tens, as well as new weapons and food.”

The younger-looking personage from before now arose.

“You have something to say, Lifrank?”

“Afton is part of the orphan brigade but the wonders of his accomplishments and intelligence have reached my ears. I say, he is worthy to be part of the special forces.”

“That's where you are wrong, my friend,” the one addressed as Peter Hadrin said, arising, “do you know the origins of this child?”

Another new face came under the light. “He is but 16, Lifrank, have you finally lost it? He is in no condition for any type of hand-to-hand action. Have you seen his build?”

“I agree with Fonde. The boy is not to be trusted. He is more quiet than a ghost can be, he hasn't said a word in years. We don't know what he's thinking,” the old man said slowly in his hoarse voice.

“This Afton...” Mister Preston said, musing, “is he dependable? I might have a task for him.”

****

“Hey, that was my quilt! Give it back!” a little child screamed

“Heh, it's the survival of the fittest. That's the rule of my life,” the bully replied with his eyes closed, hugging the child's quilt tightly to his recently mud-stained rags.

“You...you're a newbie here, aren't you?” a looker-on asked quietly.

“So what,” the bully snarled, opening his eyes to glare at the speaker.

“It's nothing,” the kid shrugged before dragging the victim of theft downstairs.

They came upon Afton as he reclined in his chair. Muddied boots on the table, arms crossed upon his chest, eyes closed.

“Afton, there's a new case upstairs, a rude, undisciplined one too.”

Ah...these kids...come around every time, breaking the peace. Once I finish with one, another one comes along. I'm getting tired of this.

The child sniffed as he sucked on his thumb.

Poor child, might as well make his life better until the day he dies.

Afton threw his legs down with a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair before taking up a pen and scribbling on a stray piece of paper.

He took a hammer and some nails as well as the piece of paper and dragged the kid upstairs.

With that same bored look, he kicked the door open and pushed the kid in.

At the noise, the bully turned. The commotion had brought many of the kids running, they were all ears (and eyes) as they watched the newcomer receive his...welcome.

“It's different every time,” one of the older boys whispered to himself, “I wonder what he's gonna do this time.”

The talkative Alistair wormed his way through the crowd and introduced Afton as 'The Best' before being shushed from all sides.

Afton smirked at the new kid before turning to hammer the paper to the wall.

Brats...I'm running out of patience. Breathe in. Breathe out.

That accomplished, he turned and pulled out the pistol and fired right above the bully's head. The bang of the pistol took many of them by surprise. But none more than the kid who was shocked to the marrow at the grazing of the bullet against his unruly hair. Afton blew the smoke of the pistol before replacing it and exiting the room.

Too late...he'll be shivering and squealing through the night.

“Cool!” the fan said in awe, “totally....awesome!”

The crowd fought to take a look at the poster....

“Afton! Afton!”

Ah...so noisy. Well, no one else is here, might as well.

“Quiet there, Alistair, I'm trying to get some sleep.”

“You....spoke to me?” he asked, totally shocked.

Afton just resumed his former position without replying.

Alistair stood there, “Am I dreaming?” he asked aloud, pinching his cheeks. “Feels real...looks real...sounds real too...but this must be my imagination...” he went out muttering to himself.

****

“I shall be taking my leave now. Remember what I have instructed you to do.” Mister Preston stepped into the carriage and closed the door.

The butler bowed as the driver started off, flicking the whip at the two white horses.

“Ah. Sieser, remember to send Afton to my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, the carriage continued on its course without further interruptions.

****

“Afton! Afton the Mute!” Sir Silton cried. Bead of perspiration lit up his face into a glow.

All the boys present stood at attention, hands flat at their sides, face staring blankly ahead.

Sir Silton trounced his way through them, taking a careful look at each white face as he passed.

Horror stories had been passed down from first-hand witnesses, some of whom had already made it to Heaven (or Hell), instilling fear of the outside into every imaginative young head. And every time an adult interrupted their everyday lives, it ended up taking a turn for the worst, so this turn of events was not welcome in the least.

It has to be noted that Alistair's face was the palest, for though he took great pride and had abnormal faith in Afton, he worried for his safety. After all, it takes just one mistake to get one's throat slit.

Sir Silton grumbled something negative, having to do with mutes, his eyes scanning the wide-eyed assemblage.

And out of the blue pops this bored looking kid, rather short, in his mud dressing.

“Afton, I presume?”

Afton put his right hand to a salute and bowed.

Not again...I just....ok...ok...Breathe in. Breathe out. You got this. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Afton! The leader himself has summoned you!”

What in the world?

If one was observing his face, one would have caught a glimpse of intense fear that betrayed him...however, all else were still staring straight ahead, hands at side....

****

Afton took a deep breath and made his way down the hall. His heart was beating...fast....not crazily but still....

Come on, now. Breathe in. Breathe out. Take a deep breath. Breathe out.

“Afton?”

“Yes, sir, Afton of the Orphan Brigade, at your service!” he said, bowing.

“Oh hoho, kiddo, I'm not the one in charge. I'm merely the king's servant.”

“I am unworthy even to be in the present of his servant!” Afton persisted.

“Arise, young one, you can save your greetings for the king himself. You are going to meet him.”

I'm meeting the king? What are these thoughts, these feelings? He's been killing off poor orphans...yet, I know he's hurt when some of his citizens die... What is his catch really?

The attendant led Afton up an arc of steps. Soon, they beheld a large door, made of the finest oak. The attendant knocked on the door, the deep sound echoing a little around the spacious, almost empty house.

I was seriously wasn't expecting to see him at his own quarters...This mansion....it's a palace.

“Your Majesty, Afton the Mute.”

“Mute...you say. Tell me, Afton, you really can speak, can't you.”

“Your Majesty! Forgive my impudence!” Afton cried, falling upon his knees.

“He speaks,” Mister Preston mused.

The boy was currently experiencing terror, more than any on his missions. His forehead and nose were pressed to the ground. We best not describe the beating of his heart.

“Arise,” the young king said quickly, as if he had only just noticed him.

“I am indepted to you, your majesty, I have no idea as to how I should act before you. I beseech you to allow me to stay thus, as we converse.”

A sharp lad, he is... (king of Isumton)

The king arose and stepped toward Afton. “I swear to you. I mean you no harm. I wish for us to be friends.”

What in the world does he want with me?(Afton)

“Arise now, I have something to discuss and I would like for you to capture every word.”

Afton lifted his face slowly, “I hope your majesty understands that I have had cases of amnesia.”

“Never mind the illness, it is but a passing cloud, you haven't lost your speech as was rumored, I see.”

“Your Majesty is so gracious. You wanted to discuss something?” Afton asked, he had lifted his head from the ground, now in a kneeling posture with his back straight.

He looked better in a suit. His hair, combed and washed, really had a luster to it. In daylight, his eyes, slitted as they were, there was a noticeable brown.

Preston studied him for a minute before he began. “You said you have suffered amnesia?”

“Yes, sir, I have no memory of my childhood.”

“No idea who your parents are?”

“I've always had a prodding in my heart to find out, but there is no clue.”

“Well... ehem. I'm sorry about them...your parents.”

“Your Majesty need not apologize for something he hasn't done,” the boy replied quietly.

“Yes! There you are right. It's true. We have been accused of theft! I should not apologize! Chrision...is in the wrong,” the king burst, suddenly flying into a passion.

Afton just stood stationary, observing...

The king composed himself and addressed Afton again.

“Can I trust you? To get my revenge? To help me punish the insolence of a distant sister?” the king asked.

Sincerity...hope...hatred...anger...and...something else. I can see it in his eyes. (Afton)

“I'm at your service. I will willingly give my life for you, your majesty....for Isumton!”

“Then... help me. It's a mission from the king himself.”

Out of hell's jaws! I knew he'd put me on something dangerous! Merciful gods! How am I to ansswer him?! (Afton)

“Yes, your majesty! My life is yours to do as you please. Your servant awaits your orders!”

Afton saluted. His right fist upon his chest, left hand on upraised knee, right knee on the ground, head bowed.

“Receive the Request of your king! We have confirmed that the trucks you placed a recorder on last night are here for the purpose of escorting Chrisianons back to their homeland. The conversation held between insufficiently trained soldiers give evidence that there is a greater purpose. No doubt, they will try to attack us by surprise. Your mission is to find out how many men exactly, how much arms, and...”

The hell am I supposed to find that out? (Afton)

“And?”

“What is their motive, their goal for trespassing.... you may take as many of your friends as you want.”

“Your servant receives the Royal Request!!”

“Your deadline...is in four days. In four days you will return and give your report. Understood?”

“Yes, your majesty!”

And he wanted to be a friend? Pfft...he wants to be my death... (Afton)

“Attendant! Please show Afton out!”

The title of mute does not befit him. But he must have a reason behind it. (king of Isumton)

****

Afton sighed as he breathed in the cool refreshing smell of nature.

I'm out once more...but I'm not free. As of today, Maius 25, 1975, I shall die.... no. I'll die in the next four days. I'd better get going already...no point in waiting. Well except for the suit. I'll appear in it twice...once to visit the king...the next depends on the results. I'd be in it alright, wrapped snugly in a coffin too. Gosh... better calm down a little. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out... (Afton)

****

“Afton! I was worried sick! I know you'd get through any missions but you're nothing to the king!” Did he hurt you?”

Alistair bounded at his side, keeping up with Afton's fast walk. He got no reply, whatsoever, Afton had returned a mute.

When they returned, their quarters were silent. Not that it mattered really, they were expected to stay so, all that mattered was that they stayed quiet.....or not.

Afton opened the door to witness a couple of boys attempt to flee their former safe-haven. Their bags were roughly packed, a few belongings were protruding out of their wrecked bundles.

Ah...afraid that I'd return in pieces huh? You guys are a bunch of sick idiots. Even however cowardly I am, I've never tried to run. (Afton)

Afton took out a piece of crumbled paper from his pocket and wrote down each of their names. He wasn't the oldest, but he was the one who kept them all in line. With that 'big brother 'responsibility, he was expected to know each boy from their face.

Heh...it's always smarter to keep paper and pen handy. (Afton)

He walked in and picked some chalk up on the way to the dining hall. There, he scribbled some words in big font, nailed the paper to the wall, and walked off.

Some twenty boys pushed their way to see his new artwork.

Soon, the crowd had dispersed. And if one was observant they would have seen the two boys sighing in regret, their whole body expression was as if they were expecting death..... for they had just signed themselves up for a four-day mission...