CHAPTER 24

PRISONER OF WAR

Mark sat at a table in the Golden Donkey Inn, downing cold beer and biting into slices of salty bacon. The chill of the beer and the rich taste of bacon hit the spot. Suddenly, a man approached. Mark took him in: average height, average build, not too slim or bulky. He had short brown hair and a full beard and was dressed like a merchant, not a fighter. The man sat across from Mark. “Aren’t you going to say hello?” he asked.

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know who you are. Almost a year ago, I took a forgetfulness pill that erased my memory. I don’t remember anything from my past.”

The man chuckled, but as he realized Mark was serious, his expression turned to concern. “Why would you do that?”

“Something terrible must’ve happened—something that made me want to forget everything.”

“Could it have been abou—”

Mark held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. My old self wouldn’t have taken that pill without a good reason. Just to get that pill from Archon Anthemios, I had to slay an Elder Dragon. So whatever it was… it must have been something I couldn’t bear.”

The man nodded slowly. “I understand. My name’s Karl. I’m a merchant. We go way back. You saved once one of my caravans from bandits, and we became friends on the road.”

“Good to meet you again, Karl,” Mark said with a small smile. "Hey, Karl, any chance you've got work for a swordsman like me?"

Karl grinned. "Funny you should ask—I do, actually. I’ve got a caravan bound for Kleria, a town about three weeks' journey from Mavrosia. With the war going on, most soldiers are off at the front, so bandits are all over the countryside. I hired a couple of mercenaries to guard it, but they ditched me. I came to this inn hoping to find someone for the job. Lucky for me, I ran into you."

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Alright, but let’s talk pay. Friends or not, I want a fair deal.”

Karl chuckled. "How about two hundred gold coins, plus food and drink along the way?"

Mark nodded. "Sounds good. I’ll take it."

A few hours later, the caravan rolled out of Mavrosia. It consisted of four horse-drawn carts loaded with pottery, a few mules packed with goods, and over ten people. The pottery, Karl had mentioned, was worth a lot of coins. Mark rode at the front on his horse, scanning the road ahead. Karl followed close behind on his own horse, while the rest of the group walked alongside the carts and led the mules. Most of the men carried swords or knives, but it was obvious they weren’t fighters—they were merchants. That’s why Karl had hired someone like Mark: a seasoned sword-for-hire who could handle real danger.

The caravan followed the dusty dirt road, passing a handful of travelers heading into Mavrosia. The proximity to the town, with its armed garrison, kept the bandits at bay for now. But Mark knew the further they ventured into the countryside, the less safe things would be. By nightfall, the caravan pulled off the road to set up camp. Some of the men pitched tents, others got a fire going, and soon the smell of cooking filled the air.

Mark and Karl sat by the fire, eating roasted rabbit. “This is good,” Mark said, wiping his mouth. “Your men can cook.”

“Part of the job,” Karl replied, chewing on a piece of rabbit. “Caravaneers have to know their way around a fire. So,” he added, glancing at Mark, “you used to be a knight in service to Archon Anthemios. Does being a wandering mercenary suit you? You know, you could always reclaim your old rank. With the war raging, I’m sure the Archon would welcome you back with open arms.”

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Why would I throw myself into that mess? No thanks. I’d rather roam free, earn my coin with my blade, and spend it on good food, strong drink, and pretty women.”

Karl nodded. “Fair enough. War’s a nasty business. But you’re not the same. The Mark I knew was loyal to the Archon to the core.”

“Well, I’m not that Mark anymore, am I?” Mark said. “Erasing my memories gave me a clean slate. I get to choose who I am now, without being tied down by whatever baggage my past self carried.”

The next few days blurred together, a steady rhythm of traveling by day and setting up makeshift camps by night. Mark and Karl grew more comfortable in each other’s company, swapping jokes and friendly banter. Mark could see why his old self had been friends with the merchant; Karl’s humor and easygoing nature were a welcome distraction from the monotony of the journey.

On the eighth day, the caravan rolled along a winding dirt road. By now, Mark had expected at least one run-in with bandits. But the road remained oddly quiet. Too quiet. While he was relieved the journey had been trouble-free so far, something about the calm gnawed at him. It felt unnatural, like the stillness before a storm.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Then, from the east, came the distant sound of hooves pounding against the earth. Not the scattered gallop of bandit raiders, but the thunderous rhythm of an army on the move. Mark’s instincts flared. Moments later, dozens of armored horsemen came into view, their blue steel glinting in the sun as they charged toward the caravan.

The caravan’s men froze in fear. They hadn’t even drawn their weapons, their hands trembling at the sight of the cavalry bearing down. Mark remained calm, scanning the approaching riders.

He turned to Karl. “Those aren’t Innokentios’ men,” he said, motioning to their blue armor. “That’s Hanying’s army. How the hell did they push this far into Innokentios’ territory? I thought the fighting was miles away from here.”

Karl’s face was tight, but his voice stayed level. “I thought so too. But don’t panic. Troops don’t usually attack caravans. Even with a war on, Archons need trade routes open to keep their armies funded. Commerce fills their war chests.”

Mark nodded, though his grip on his sword hilt tightened. Karl’s logic made sense, but logic didn’t always win the day in times of war. He could only hope the riders would recognize them as merchants and move along.

One rider broke away from the formation and galloped toward the caravan. He was tall, his slanted eyes marking him as a soldier of Hanying. A thick mustache and full beard framed his face, giving him a rugged, commanding presence.

“I’m Qin Yang, Captain under General Liao Cheng,” the man announced, his voice sharp and direct. “State your business!”

Mark decided to let Karl handle the talking. Negotiating wasn’t his strong suit—he was a fighter, not a diplomat. His job was simple: protect the caravan.

“We’re just merchants,” Karl said, his voice calm but firm. “Carrying pottery and goods to Kleria. We don’t serve Archon Innokentios, and we have no part in your conflict. Now, fine gentleman, if you’d be so kind, can you let us go?” Silence ensued for a moment, and Karl reached into his coat and pulled out a pouch, giving it a gentle jingle. “Perhaps we can reach a... mutual understanding?”

Qin Yang spat on the ground, his expression hardening. “General Liao’s orders are clear—no trade, no farms, no peace in Innokentios’ lands. Everything burns. No mercy. Total war from now on.”

Mark’s grip tightened on his sword. He nudged his horse forward. “I’d advise you to reconsider. Let us pass.”

The Captain laughed, a mocking edge to his tone. “And what can you do, swordsman? I’ve got fifty riders under my command. You’re just one man.”

Mark didn’t answer. Instead, he unsheathed his sword in a fluid motion and spurred his horse into a charge. One of the Captain’s horsemen rushed forward to intercept him, a lance poised to strike. The rider thrust the weapon, but Mark leaned just enough to let the lance sail past him. In the same instant, Mark’s sword slashed upward. The blade pierced the man’s forehead with precision, and with a swift withdrawal, the lifeless body toppled from the saddle, hitting the dirt in a crimson splash.

Qin Yang chuckled. “Impressive. Let’s see if you can keep that up.” He motioned for two more horsemen to attack.

The first came with a lance, but Mark sidestepped the charge and swung his blade low. The sword sliced clean through the legs of the man’s horse, sending both rider and beast crashing to the ground. The fallen horse pinned the rider, and the sickening crunch of breaking bones filled the air as the man screamed in agony.

The second rider closed in fast, his sword gleaming. Mark met him head-on. Their blades clashed with a deafening clang, then clashed again, neither giving an inch. On the third pass, Mark feinted a downward strike at the man’s head. The rider raised his sword to block, but Mark abruptly shifted his attack. His blade darted upward, slicing clean through the man’s wrist. The severed hand, still clutching the sword, flew through the air and hit the ground with a thud. The rider’s scream echoed as blood gushed from the stump.

Before the man could recover, Mark ended it. With a swift, decisive strike, he decapitated the rider. The severed head tumbled through the air, landing in the grass, while the lifeless body slumped from the saddle to the dirt below.

Mark sat tall on his horse, his blade dripping red, staring down the remaining riders.

"You’ve got skill," Qin Yang admitted, his eyes gleaming with interest. "More than enough to catch my attention. Forget this pitiful caravan—you’ll make a much better prize." He raised his hand, and over twenty riders moved into position, forming a tight circle around Mark. Lances and swords pointed his way, leaving no gaps. Escape wasn’t an option. "Surrender now, and I might let you live."

Mark’s grip on his sword tightened as he scanned his situation. He’d faced bandits and even fought monsters in the past, but this was different. These weren’t ragtag thugs; they were disciplined soldiers, fully armored and skilled. And they had him completely surrounded—no room to dodge or fight back effectively. With a deep sigh, he slid his sword back into its sheath and dismounted.

"Alright," he said. "I surrender. But if I’m your prize, you have no need for this ‘pitiful caravan,’ as you called it. Let them go."

Qin Yang chuckled, his amusement clear. "Even in defeat, you bargain like we’re equals. I like that! You’re bold—a rare breed. Fine, I’ll honor your request. The caravan is free to leave."

Karl started to protest. "Mark—"

"Go!" Mark barked.

Karl hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. He and the rest of the caravan began retreating, their carts creaking as they rolled away. Mark stayed behind, his gaze fixed on Qin Yang, who towered over him from his horse.

"Throw your sword on the ground," Qin Yang ordered.

Mark frowned. "It’s already sheathed—"

Before he could finish, one of the riders jabbed him in the back with the blunt end of a lance. The force knocked him forward, sending him sprawling onto the grass. His armor absorbed the blow, but it still stung.

"I said, do it!" Qin Yang snapped.

Mark lay there for a moment, considering his options. He wasn’t encircled anymore, but running on foot was pointless; the riders would catch him in seconds. And the caravan hadn’t gotten far. If he resisted now, Qin Yang might go back on his word and attack them. With a grimace, Mark got to his feet, unsheathed his sword, and tossed it to the ground.

Now unarmed, he glanced toward his horse, where his spirit sword was strapped to the saddle. One of Qin Yang’s men already had the reins in hand, leading it away. Mark straightened his shoulders, locking eyes with the Captain, silently biding his time. He was now a prisoner of war…