For two days they marched east. On the first day, the rope that had run up the center of the column was removed to allow them to progress more quickly. Instead, they were tied in pairs with their hands bound, connected by short leashes – released only for meals and one at a time to use the bathroom. They had set out with four guards and seven prisoners. But on the second day one of the injured men’s condition worsened. Eventually he collapsed, unable to stand and continue the trek. He had not been bound, deemed too injured to escape, and was left where he fell. One of the guards waited with him until the others were out of sight. And then there were six.

Though the rations were far from enough to keep him for being constantly hungry, Arden was at least no longer starving. Now, with a steady diet of hardtack and salt-fish, he could feel his faculties slowly returning to him. Not for the first time he thought about how the hunger had stripped him of all that seemed to make him human. His will. His reason. His very personality. Now, with the food, he felt himself returning to himself. A welcome feeling to be sure.

Though speaking was prohibited on the march, in the evenings the prisoners were allowed to talk amongst themselves. After a long day yelling commands and compelling action, the guards were too tired and lazy to continue to enforce any prohibition on whispering. Tying the prisoners to a post at the center of their makeshift camp, they distributed the rations, then sat down to their own dinner, drinking and talking boisterously by the fire. It was in these hours that Arden began to learn about and befriend his fellow prisoners. He had always been curious, and as far as he knew, well liked. And it was not long before he was begrudgingly accepted as an honorary member of this luckless tribe of Quarryholders.

“How many days longer do you think we will be made to march?” he asked one night as they sat, huddled against the cool air.

“It is hard to say,” said Torun, the eldest and as far as Arden was concerned the friendliest of the bunch.

“I hope we get there soon,” said Arden. “My feet have never been so sore, nor my wrists, nor my neck. The pack rope rubs on me terribly”

Torun frowned. “Do not be in such a rush. Nothing but toil awaits us. And once we are in camp…” he trailed off. “I know this is a hard road, especially for one such as you who insists on his innocence.”

“You believe me, don’t you, Torun? You know that it was the other boy who was stealing from the burial mounds, right?”

“Of courses, my child. But what difference would it make if I didn’t? In the eyes of God we are all innocent. And it is only from that lofty perch that the picture is ever truly clear.”

"Maybe,” said Arden. “But I think it’s only natural to want your friends to think of you as innocent.”

The old man smiled. “Speak for yourself, young one. My friends know me best.”

The third day began as normal. One at a time the prisoners were untied and taken to relieve themselves. Once this was done, their packs were slung over their shoulders and the caravan got underway. The second injured man had largely recovered. He no longer required help to walk, but was not yet well enough to carry a pack, limping along proudly but painfully.

Just before midday they came to a place where the road forked, its main part turning to the south. Continuing east, it departed from its ancient bed of gravel and asphalt and became a narrow path leading through a thick forest of high pines. Here was stationed a small guard hut, as they had seen many times on their journey thus far – a small semi-dugout with a roof of sod and sharpened spits that sat next to a high flagpole.

Typically, these guardhouses were manned by elderly soldiers well past their prime. They served as small supply depots from which the caravan could obtain water and sometimes food. Nearing this guardhouse, however, it was immediately clear that the guards were on edge. Halting the troop, they talked quickly amongst themselves, gesturing repeatedly to the red cloth flying ominously from the flagpole.

“What does it mean?” asked Arden, whispering to Torun who was tied next to him.

“Red means danger,” Torun whispered back “Usually that a bird of prey, a snake or something of that kind has been spotted in the area.”

Breaking from their huddle the guards hollered at the prisoners to move on, while they themselves drifted further back, staying in a tight formation. As the group approached the guardhouse no one came out to greet them, and it was clear to Arden that it was empty. The guards too soon realized that there was no one there and they once again called for a halt while they took each others council. Soon they had selected one of their own, Heidt, the youngest, and sent him off at a jog back the way they had come.

Meanwhile, a strange whistling call came from the brush on the far side of the guardhouse. Once low and twice high, it drifted out just loud enough to be heard by the prisoners but not loud enough to make it to the guards. Beside him, Torun bristled, causing Arden to look over to him expectantly.

“Say nothing, child,” said Torun, turning his back so that the guards could not see his lips. “Form here on out, see nothing and say nothing. That is all.”

Arden was about to nod, but thought better of it. Instead, he stared into the empty guardhouse, his mind filled with questions.

oon the prisoners were made to sit as the Legionaries inspected the hut. They cursed, finding nothing that would convince them that violence had been done here, but finding no note or marking that would explain the absence of the guard. Finally, the decision was made to press on. They were less than a day’s walk from the River of the First Men. There would be a small fort and a ferry station on the far side of the woods. They could spend the night in camp, safe from whatever danger the red flag heralded. And from there the prisoners could be shipped downstream, no longer the responsibility of their guards.

Passing from the road into the forest path the guards formed up behind the prisoners, javelins in hand, ready to spear them should they run or fend off any would-be attacker. On either side of the path the ferns grew tall, creating an arch through which they passed, the path becoming almost a tunnel. Through gaps in the underbrush, they could see the pines, towering trunks several feet around, their branches coming together in the canopy and blocking out much of the heat of the day. Around them mosquitos buzzed hungrily. Fully the size of a palm they threatened to suck the life from the prisoners, who struggled to fend them off with bound hands.

After an hour’s walk they came to a place where the trees grew sparce. Here was a low-lying area turned into a swamp by the changing course of the nearby river. For over a hundred feet in all directions the trees stood dead, while the water lay in muddy pools covered in great green blooms of algae. Across the center of the swamp, extending from the path and curving out of sight, was a boardwalk. Made of cut twigs and sitting on cribs of stones, it stood up over the water, providing a path through the swamp.

Continuing out onto the boardwalk, the guards grew closer together still. All eyed the waters on either side, expecting at any moment for some reptilian beast to leap up and drag down a member of the company. Up above the canopy broke and the sky could clearly be seen. Birds called, hopping among the dead branches, with bullfrogs croaked noisily out in their cool muddy recesses. And on marched the column, passing by great mossy logs flowering waterlilies and through patches of bullrushes swaying in the gentle breeze.

Rounding a turn, where the boardwalk bent around the last of the dead trees and approached the forest at the far side, Arden caught sight of a large felled branch laying across the boardwalk. Still green and fresh, it gave every appearance of having been intentionally dropped to block the path, and recently at that. It was thick and bushy, but would not have been insurmountable had their hands been untied. However, bound one to another, there was no way that they would be able to climb overtop. Coming to the branch, the prisoners stopped, waiting for the guards to round the bend and give commands.

Coming face to face with their predicament, the guards immediately began to argue amongst themselves, the three guards having quickly formed at least as many opinions.

“Brigands in the woods, captain, I’m sure of it,” said a short, freckled Legionary. “They want us to untie the prisoners so they can help do us in. I say we make them climb the branch bound, ’n if they fall in…” he shrugged.

“It’ll take too long, captain,” said the taller, darker Legionary. “My votes for killin’ the prisoners, then makin’ a break for the ferry. We can throw their bodies in the swamp ‘n say they drowned tryin’ to escape. It’s the safest course, n’ there’ll be none left to tell of it neither.”

“That’s not a bad plan, captain,” returned the first. “I’ve changed my mind, he’s got my vote.”

Arden looked from one to the other, fear rising in his breast. He willed himself to speak. To argue. To do something. Anything. “Listen-” he began, hardly audible over the sounds of the swamp.

“Shut your mouth,” spat the captain, spinning on him. “Or, we’ll send you into the bog without the mercy of stabbin’ you first.” He turned to his comrades. “If they try ‘n run we kill them, no question about it. But elsewise we head back, double time. If the woods are full of brigands, there’s no tellin’ if the ferry-camp is secure. We could press on just to find ourselves in an even worse state. We head back ‘n keep the prisoners as long as we can. I don’t want to have to account for losin’ them unless I verry well have to.”

With that, the guards immediately began on the difficult work of trading places with the prisoners, so that they could follow them back across the boardwalk and not the other way around. The walkway was narrow, and the prisoners were made to pass between the edge and the tips of the javelins, still tied one to another, with their hands bound and packs slung over their shoulders.

As he passed by the guards, Arden could not bring himself to look into the water, too horrified by the thought of falling in. There was no way he would be able to swim with his hands bound, and tied to another person. Not to mention that the packs slung across his shoulders would certainly drag him down to the bottom.

Instead, he looked into the faces of the guards. Stared wrathfully into the eyes of the men who had moments ago considered simply killing him out of convenience. He expected to find hatred, but instead was met by fear and fatigue. With uncertainty and human frailty. He wondered how those who held his life in their hands could appear so afraid of people who posed so little threat. In that moment he was reminded of how he had often looked upon small spiders that had made the mistake of crawling in his family’s cottage. Creatures who, because of their tiny size had posed no danger, and yet who he had looked on with mortal terror. As though they might at any second leap for his throat. Or crawl inside his mouth in some suicidal attempt to do him in.

No sooner had the prisoners shuffled past the guards and the order been given to start the march, then an arrow flew with a howling whistle and buried itself in the calf of the freckled legionary. He jumped, screaming in pain before stooping to clutch at his injured leg. Within a second another arrow flew from the same location, just on the other side of the branch, and narrowly missed the neck of the same guard.

Losing no time, the captain and the uninjured Legionary unslung their shields, lowering them to protect themselves and their wounded companion.

“Forward! Now!” screamed the captain, drawing his sword. “Any prisoner who pauses fer so much as a moment goes ta the bottom!”

Terrified and confused, the prisoners stumbled along the boardwalk as fast as they could, tripping over one another in their haste. Rounding the bend where the walkway wrapped around the last dead tree, they were confronted by a small contingent of armed men quickly advancing towards them, bows at the ready.

Limping along and facing the prisoners, the injured legionary caught sight of the men coming towards them. “Brigands, behind us cap’in,” he yelled, near panic in his voice.

Looking quickly to his front and back and taking in their situation, the captain screwed up his face. And, with a voice of steal, he gave his command. “Kill the prisoners. Now!”

Spinning, the captain swung his sword, hacking savagely into the back of the nearest man. Screaming in agony, the prisoner tumbled from the boardwalk, dragging the man to whom he was tied along with him. Within a second both of the other Legionaries were following the captain’s command. One, arrow still protruding from his leg, skewered the nearest prisoner with his javelin, pulling it back and stabbing another as quickly as he could. Meanwhile, from back in the direction of the felled branch, more men were advancing out over the boardwalk. Loosing several more arrows, some finding their mark, others sailing high and hitting the prisoners as they tried desperately to scramble away.

In the pandemonium, Arden froze, unsure what to do. Beside him, Torun watched as his countrymen fell beneath the weapons of the Legionaries or were pulled down into the swamp by their lifeless comrades. Pulling Arden along with him, he attempted to run toward the advancing brigands, only to stumble over the uneven planks of the boardwalk. From behind them, the freckled guard lurched forward, making to stab Torun with the blood-soaked point of his javelin. Struggling to his knees, Torun dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the incoming point. With bound hands he grabbed hold of the shaft, struggling for his life against the guard.

Seeing this, Arden broke from his paralysis. Leaping forward, he too caught hold of the guard, trying to assist in wrestling the javelin from his hands. Forced back, the guard stepped heavily on his injured leg, which gave way beneath him. With a shriek, he tumbled backwards, grabbing wildly for anything to stop his fall and getting hold of the rope that bound Arden and Torun together, pulling them both along with him – off of the walkway and down into the murky waters below.