The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  The Hunter looked back, totally confused. “A message, Lord?”

  “Yes,” barked the King. “A message to the Haven.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nigel dined alone on a light supper of cheese and black bread. But his anticipation left little desire for food. He left Dalia, her mouth in a frown, as he grabbed his cloak, fastened the clasp securely and hurried into the courtyard. The sun had set hours ago and the evening was chilly. Nigel smiled as he noticed the grass sprouting beneath his feet, a splash of wild-flowers beginning to bud in his garden. Spring was here at last, and his journey little more than a week away.

  “Good evening.”

  Nigel looked up and grinned. Des came strutting down the path, tall and slender, chin held high. His blue uniform was immaculate, his boots spit-shined. His hair was trimmed, curled slightly at the back of his neck. His eyes, deep-blue and wide, were bright and cheerful.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  Nigel smiled nervously. “Whenever you are,” he said. “Where are you taking me?”

  Des half-shrugged and tugged at his sleeve. “There’s an inn near the barracks, over by the East Wall. Know it?”

  Nigel shook his head.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Des said with a laugh. “It’s a gathering place for soldiers, especially Guardsmen.” He looked at the cloudy sky, the hint of rain already in the air. “On a night like this it should be packed.”

  “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” asked Nigel. “I mean, well, why don’t you just pick the men you want and have done with it?”

  Des grimaced.

  “No, this way is better,” he said after a moment. “Give them a chance to volunteer, let it be their decision.”

  “But what if no one volunteers?” asked Nigel, showing concern.

  Des laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Then at least we’ll have some good ale. And come tomorrow I’ll have to order them.”

  Des said this lightly, almost whimsically. But to Nigel it was far more troubling. Des was right; forced men would prove far harder to deal with than men who came of their own will. If the mission were to be at peak performance it must be made up of volunteers, men who knew the risks and were willing to take them.

  They walked off down the cobblestone street, Des with his head up, Nigel staring glumly at the ground. They seemed an odd pair, this dashing captain and this scholar. Where Des was vain, almost arrogant, Nigel seemed shy, even meek. Des was the darling of the Ladies at court, Nigel content to take a back seat while his dashing friend filled their minds and hearts with daring exploits that grew even more daring as the evenings wore on.

  But looks were deceiving, as they both knew. Five years earlier Des had been betrothed at court to a longhaired beauty named Beth. Their marriage would have been the high point of his life. He would have given her the world, were it in his power. But during an especially brutal winter, Beth fell sick with fever. The physicians could do nothing, except wait and hope for it to pass. Fewer than one in four ever recovered, and Beth was not in the fortunate number. While she was bedridden, Des had remained constantly at her side, watching as life drained from her body. And when she died, the physicians feared the soldier would lose his mind. Grief-stricken, he had taken to his rooms and refused to see anyone, even Nigel. He drank heavily, ate almost nothing. At night his screams could be heard echoing down the corridors of his home. And night after night Nigel had pounded on his door, begging to be let in. But Des never answered. Alone in his black world of sorrow, he begged the Fates to bring the fever down on him. But it never came.

  Weeks passed, then a month. At the onset of spring, when the scent of flowers and tall grass was in the air, Nigel one night found the door unlocked. Cautiously he stepped into the darkened chamber, half-expecting to find his friend dead, dagger in hand. But instead he found Des kneeling in the corner, shivering. His face was white, eyes puffed and darkened with torment. Nigel put his arm around him to comfort him, as the soldier wept bitterly, deep sobs from deep inside. Nigel sat with him all that night, weeping also. He knew what Des was going through, for although Beth was to have been Desmond’s wife, she was his sister.

  With summer Des came slowly out of his grief. He wanted nothing more than to resume an active role as a soldier — and he went at his task the way few others ever had. He undertook missions that others thought impossible, and succeeded. Time after time he risked his life, as though living made no difference to him. And Nigel watched sadly, realizing the deep pain that lay behind his courage.

  The bonds between them ran deep, despite the very different lives they led, and both of them knew the bonds would always remain.

  Without speaking they crossed the broad street and wound their way down the tiny steps that led toward the inn. The road narrowed, the homes clustered. Row after row of small stone houses stood at either side. Here and there was a small courtyard, a thin strip of green. But mostly the homes were bleak structures, unadorned, save for colorful shutters that were bolted in front of the window. Thin wisps of candlelight fluttered across their faces as they passed, the aroma of stew filled their nostrils. Off in the distance the East Wall loomed higher and higher. Nigel could make out the silhouettes of sentries on duty walking smartly along the parapet. It set most people at ease to know they were always there, but to Nigel it was a nagging reminder of what a fortress the Haven had become.

  “This way,” said Des. “And watch your step.” He led them down a spiral road that weaved its way beyond the stables. Wooden barracks nestled tightly against a low wall, then ended beside a row of warehouses. Several weary soldiers bowed slightly as they went by. The road became muddy farther on, with wagon tracks deep in the earth.

  “Where’s the inn?” asked Nigel.

  “Not far,” replied Des, and he gestured to a small stone building standing west of the wall. Dim light shone through the windows. They could hear laughter and singing. Nigel glanced hesitantly at his friend.

  “Don’t worry,” Des said. “It’ll go well.” A light rain began to fall as he pushed open the door.

  They were met with a flood of bright torchlight and grinning faces. The air was dank; sawdust lay strewn across the floor. There were dozens of soldiers milling about in the back, gambling. Others peered at them from the long wooden tables.

  “Captain Desmond!”

  Des spun around. He laughed and clasped the man’s hand. They were big hands, Nigel noticed, callused and stubby. “Good to see you, Harn,” said Des with obvious joy. Harn bowed slightly and gestured sweepingly for them to sit. “Will you not have a drink with us?” he asked.

  “That’s why we came!” Des answered, pulling up a long slat bench. Nigel stared awkwardly as other soldiers began to gather around. Harn sat and banged his fist on the table. A slim-waisted young barmaid ran to his side. “A tankard of ale, for our captain and his guest!”

  Seconds later she brought two large overflowing goblets. Des gulped his down; Nigel did the same. Harn laughed and his eyes became slits.

  “I knew you could drink well,” he chided, “but who is your friend? He drinks as well as a soldier!”

  Des glanced at Nigel, then at Harn. “This is a good friend of mine,” he said. “I would like you to meet Lord Nigel.”

  Ham’s face became long. He put down his tankard and began to rise. “Forgive me, my Lord,” he stammered, “but I had no idea.”

  “Sit down,” Nigel said with a laugh.

  Harn stared at the worn tunic Nigel was wearing: it was not at all like the garb of nobles he had seen. In fact nothing about Nigel seemed very aristocratic. Even his face was friendly!

  “Tonight I’m Desmond’s guest,” Nigel said. “There’s no need for ceremony.”

  Harn nodded, raised his cup. “A toast, then,” he proposed. A dozen others stopped their chatter and held their tankards high. “To the bravest commander a soldier ever followed!”

  There were cheers and foot stomping as they all dran
k to Des.

  Des looked up, embarrassed. He caught Sinjon’s eye. The young man winked. Crafty old Rolf was there, too, as was Dal, Sinjon and a few others that were in his command. From the back, Basil strode forward. Instead of his crossbow, slung around his shoulder was a mandolin. “Another round!” he called to the barmaid, and there were more cheers as all the cups were refilled. Nigel leaned back and relaxed. The fire was warm, the mood merry. He closed his eyes as he drained the cup.

  “Tell me,” said Rolf, after they all finished, “what brings you here?”

  Des wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand and looked evenly into Rolf’s eyes. “I’m looking for volunteers.”

  Rolf threw his head back and laughed. “So!” he said, hands on hips, “This is to be more than just a night of drinking!”

  “Tell us the mission,” said Sinjon, with anxious anticipation.

  “What matter?” called Basil. “Wherever our captain goes, we’ll follow!” Others began to shout agreement.

  “Wait a minute,” Des said, holding up his hands. “I’m glad I have so many eager recruits, but I think this is something every man should consider first.”

  “Why?” said Sinjon. “We have never questioned you before, why should we do so now?”

  Des stared into the empty cup and muttered: “Because it’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous!” mimicked Rolf. And with a wink he looked around at his companions. More inquisitive soldiers began to leave their own tables and gathered around Des. A stout man called Nevil leaned over and put down his cup. “A soldier lives with danger,” he said, stating the obvious. “What is so different about this mission that we must debate it in our minds?”

  “This is the most dangerous task I have ever faced,” Des told them truthfully. “And if no one wants to come, I’ll understand.”

  “I will go,” said burly young Dal.

  “And I!” chimed Sinjon, fingering the sheath of his dagger.

  Rolf tugged at his beard and smiled. “We won’t let you down,” he said, “but if it makes you feel better, tell us the dangers.”

  “So we’ll look forward to them!” interrupted Basil.

  Des turned to Nigel. His part was done. The rest was up to him. The young Lord fidgeted, cleared his throat. The soldiers fixed their gazes at him. Slowly and calmly he said: “We’re going into the forest. Into Deep Forest, to search for new lands.”

  For a long moment the group stared at him in silence. Then they began to smile. “So be it!” said Harn, grinning. “When my belly is filled with ale, I would risk anything!”

  The men relaxed, looked cheerfully at each other. Someone ordered another round.

  Nigel placed his hands open on the table. “I wasn’t joking,” he said, face stern.

  Harn let his jaw drop. He looked sideways at Des. “You mean this is serious? You actually intend to explore the forest?”

  Face impassive, like Nigel’s, he said: “Yes.”

  The soldiers looked incredulously at each other. Rolf glanced at Nigel.

  “Has the Council approved this?” he asked.

  “They have,” said Des in a somber tone. “We seek to expand the Empire to the furthest reaches. Also provide new areas to strike the enemy. I need eight men. Who will come?”

  Nevil took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. He looked into Nigel’s eyes. “I am an ignorant man,” he said humbly, “and I respect your title and office. But what makes you think such a thing can be done? Others have tried, and no one has yet succeeded.”

  Nigel met the stare. “It can be done,” he said flatly, “and to save the Empire, it must be done.”

  Sinjon put down his cup. “Don’t misunderstand us, my Lord,” he said. “We are not afraid to die, you know that. But in noble death, in defense of the Valley, of our homes and families. But what this journey offers is a senseless death, one without hope.”

  “Not so!” said Nigel. “This is a chance for once and for all to free us from the confines of the Valley. To show all the Forest-Dwellers that we, men, are masters of the world, not the dogs. And if we succeed there’ll be more than glory and honor. There’ll be the knowledge that we helped shape the future of all men.”

  “A noble thought,” said Basil, his brow furrowed. “But what if you don’t succeed?”

  Nigel sighed and leaned forward. “Our deaths still won’t be in vain. We’ll have paved the way for others to follow, and for still others after them.”

  Sinjon looked at Des. “Do you agree with this?”

  Des frowned for a moment. “My personal feelings are of no matter,” he said. “The Elder has instructed me to lead this mission, to take the best men I could find. That’s why I’m here. But I tell you this: I value my own life as much as any of you. Our route will be carefully charted and mapped, planned and carried out under military order. And if, and I say if, this path through the forest does exist, I promise you we’ll find it.”

  “We know the risks are still great,” said Nigel. “But nothing is done without risk. We will follow the way of Ciru, through the northern woods, and with the Fates beside us, we’ll come home before winter.”

  “Who will come with us?” Des asked again.

  “Have any volunteered yet?” asked Nevil.

  “Only one,” Des said, “Commander Lawrence, of the Royal Guard.”

  Rolf scratched his chin. “He is a good man,” he said, “but inexperienced. You’ll need fighters — and men good with their wits as well as their swords.”

  Des smiled thinly. “That’s why I came here.”

  Without the men’s realizing it, the entire inn had become hushed. Some men looked down, hiding their eyes from Des and Nigel. Others stared blankly, deep in their own thoughts. Nigel was bitterly disappointed. Not a single man seemed to understand the importance of what the mission could do.

  ‘I’ll come.”

  Nigel’s eyes widened. He swallowed hard and wet his lips. Rolf stood tall and straight, a scowl on his face. “I have no wife, nor any family,” he said. “If this mission gives me the chance to do something meaningful with my life, makes me remembered, then at least I’ll die happy.”

  “You won’t die!” blurted Nigel. “You’ll come home a hero, and live to be a hundred!”

  Des saw that many were wavering. Rolf had given the impetus needed. “Who else will come?” he said, not letting the mood drop.

  “You can count on me,” said Basil. He drained the last drops from his tankard and smiled. “I can’t let Rolf claim all that glory for himself.”

  Sinjon drew his dagger, thumbed it before their eyes. “I won’t let you down,” he said.

  Des became excited. He bit his lip to control himself. His eyes searched the faces.

  Nevil spit on the floor. “Me, too!” he sighed. “I’m sick of fighting dogs anyway.”

  Harn flexed his muscles and shook his head from side to side. “All right, Captain,” he said, “count me in, too.”

  Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. “Any more?” he asked.

  Reluctantly Dal nodded. And from the back a crusty old soldier stepped forward. The stubble on his chin was white as snow, his eyes wrinkled at the edges. But his voice was strong and firm. “I know I can’t fight as well as I did,” old Reese said to Des, “but my senses are as sharp as ever. And I’m no slouch! I can keep up with men half my age.” He smiled sheepishly, “Besides, I’m a good cook.”

  Des stood and placed his hands firmly on Reese’s shoulders. His eyes smiled warmly. “You’re more than welcome to join us,” he told him. “Good men are valuable, no matter what their age.”

  Reese beamed, a tear welled in the corner of his old eyes. Desmond had made him feel like a man again.

  Des turned to the others. “I have seven volunteers. I need one more. Who will it be?”

  One by one the rest shook their heads.

  Suddenly there was an anxious voice from behind the crowd. “Could I come, Captain?”

  Des squinted, w
atching a small wiry man push his way to the front. Des hid his frown, staring evenly.

  “You all know me,” the man said, looking about. “I was once a soldier, like yourselves. Until I became a — coward.”

  It was Carlo. Des had often wondered what had become of him. Now he knew. He was working in the kitchen of the tavern. His red, rough hands told him that Carlo did little more than scrub plates. Des felt a pang of pity. Indeed Carlo had once been a soldier, and a good one. But the loss of his wife had changed him, made him unable to face the dogs in battle. Disgraced, he became first a stablehand, then a water carrier. Now he washed dishes.

  Sadly Des shook his head. If only Carlo could have been trusted.

  “Give me the chance to redeem myself,” Carlo pleaded. “Let me wipe the shame from my past, let my name be cleaned.”

  Rolf shot Des a resentful glance. “Let him come,” he said. “I will vouch for him. He deserves the chance.” Des looked into his own heart, remembering what Beth’s death had done to him. Was Carlo any less a man for his own grief? Des knew the answer.

  “Didn’t you once study medicine?” he asked.

  Carlo nodded, looking hopeful. “I did.”

  “We’ll have use of such skill in the forest,” said Des.

  Carlo’s eyes brightened. “Then I can come?”

  “You can come.”

  Nigel pushed back his bench and got up. “Well, that settles it then,” he said with relief. “Our band is complete.”

  Des gestured for his men to move closer around him. One by one he glanced at their faces, their uneasiness, and tried to suppress his own. “We leave in eight days,” he told them. “Until then each one of you is excused from other duties. You’ll have your gear prepared before then, understood?”

  The men nodded grimly. They knew what was expected of them in battle. But what specific dangers would they encounter?

  “I am to command this expedition,” Des added, “but if something should happen to me, Lawrence will lead you.”