Back From Chaos

by Yvonne Hertzberger

  “Well?” Gaelen turned to him as they walked together and let the question hang.

  Klast chose his words carefully. “She is strong and intelligent, not someone who can be swayed by pretty words. Your strategy is a good one, though not traditional, which will prick some. If the lady can be persuaded to your plan and agrees to join with you, you will have a useful ally. If she cannot be persuaded to your plan, she could prove a formidable opponent.”

  Gaelen nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, my friend. Then we are of the same mind.”

  Klast studied Gaelen as he walked away. It seemed his young lord had aged ten years in the last day. The unexpected burden of lordship sat heavy on his shoulders. Yet Klast believed the best son had achieved that title. Lionn, Gaelen’s elder brother and heir, while popular, had shown no vision. He had been unable to think beyond what tradition dictated. Gaelen, on the other hand, had always found original and clever solutions for traditional situations.

  Klast gave his head an imperceptible shake as he recalled how he had come to serve Bargia over fifteen years ago. Now, his loyalty to the House of Bargia would never fail. He owed them his life.

  ~7~

  KLAST’S STORY

  Klast had entered the service of the house of Bargia in a very roundabout way. Born in neighbouring Gharn, his father, Nathis, owned a small tack shop close to the border of Lieth. Until the age of four, Klast enjoyed the love of family and the security of a quiet, if humble, home. All that changed when his mother died in childbirth, along with his stillborn sister. No relatives lived close by to look after Klast, and as the shop bordered the road out of the village, he did not have access to other children. He had to learn very quickly how to amuse himself.

  While his father did his best; his work demanded almost all his attention. Klast soon knew to stay out of his way and not distract him with questions. Klast learned, mostly by trial and error, how to make porridge, feed their six chickens and gather and cook their eggs. Before he turned six, his father could trust him with errands in the village. By age seven, Klast had the responsibility for the home, such as it was.

  Young Klast spent much of his time silently observing. He began to pick up on nuances in a customer’s tone, posture and facial expressions that his father missed. On more than one occasion, Klast alerted his father to an unscrupulous customer. When his father came to realize this talent in his son, they developed a secret signal. Klast would scuffle his feet while he sat on the floor and hum a familiar tune as he pretended to play.

  It was a lonely, hard life, but not an altogether unhappy one. That all changed when Klast was nine.

  On this day, four youths looking for trouble crossed the border into Gharn, where they chanced upon Nathis’ shop. Laughing, they pushed him around and ransacked his wares, sliced tack, defecated on new saddles and burned his tools in the fire pit. When Klast’s father drew a knife to defend himself, they handily took it from him and killed him with it.

  Klast came upon the murder just as he returned from the village with bread and meat. Hearing the laughter and clamour, he ran the last of the way home as quickly as he could. His father’s last words to him were a hoarse, “Run, boy, run!” through the red foam between his lips.

  Too late. Before he could turn away, one of the hooligans grabbed him by the tunic and held him aloft in a vice-like grip. He shook Klast, laughing, “Look what I found. A scrawny cockerel who thinks he is a rooster! What shall we do with this one? He can’t be left to tell. Do we gut him? Or can he still prove profitable?”

  They trussed him, threw him in front of the leader’s saddle and returned across the border into Lieth. There they sold him to a man named Rand, known to have uses for young, pretty boys.

  Klast hated his new owner. Rand was a tall man, slack from inactivity and doughy from self-indulgence. His skin always bore a sheen of sweat and grease, his cheeks and jowls shook when he spoke and his lips pursed wetly even when at rest. He proved to be a sadist who considered it a point of pride that he could make any man, boy, woman or girl weep. Fear aroused him.

  It was for this reason that he soon lost interest in Klast. The boy quickly recognized what increased his captor’s enjoyment and schooled himself not to react.

  He observed the same arousal with others in Rand’s menagerie, boys, girls and young men alike. He felt certain, too, that not all who disappeared from the place left alive. So he schooled himself to stony indifference. The less he reacted, the less Rand took interest in him.

  When Rand realized that Klast could not be broken like the others, he hobbled him with ankle chains and made him his house boy. Klast became part of the furniture. All the while, he watched, learned and waited for the chance to escape. That opportunity did not come for more than two years.

  During the nights, when Klast found himself alone in the dark, he worked at his chain, until he wore one link so thin he was sure a good blow would sever it and he would be able to run.

  Rand employed a cook named Klee, almost as twisted as he was, who entrusted him with the keys to the cells at feeding time.

  Klast promised himself that, if and when the opportunity came to escape, he would somehow manage to leave the cells unlocked. He could not save anyone else, but perhaps some might still have enough courage to run.

  On a midwinter evening, Rand had a visitor. This Drell eyed Klast several times and eventually made an offer for him.

  One last time, Klee called Klast to feed the others and handed him the keys. Here was the opportunity he had waited for. He left all the cells unlocked, and calmly returned the keys.

  Rand called him into the study and passed Klast a ragged, grey blanket and a pair of low boots two sizes too large and shoved him over to Drell with a cruel laugh. “He be a silent one.”

  Drell ordered Klast to lie down in the back of the open carriage and cover up with the blanket so he would not be seen. Klast scrambled in awkwardly, doing his best to appear spiritless. Drell fell for the ruse and did not bother to tie him, but hauled himself up onto the driver’s seat and took the reins.

  When Klast deemed he had waited long enough, he managed to roll out the back of the carriage, the blanket still wrapped around him. He stifled a grunt of pain as he hit the road, and he made himself roll over in the snow until he bumped against the trunk of a tree. Only then did he lower the blanket from his head. The carriage had not stopped. Good. He took stock. The trees thickened to his right. He crawled deeper into the thicket and stopped under another tree to think. Darkness and the blanket of snow lent a stillness to the woods that Klast found comforting.

  While he pondered his next move, he found a small rock, and with three sharp blows severed the chain that hobbled his stride. The snow could prove a problem. His tracks would be easy to follow. Klast’s only hope lay in finding a settlement. The presence of other people could be the only deterrent either man might heed. He tried to imagine what would happen when he did find others. Each scenario grew more terrifying than the previous one. It had been so long since he had been among ordinary folk. He was no longer a small boy. And he was wearing leg chains. Would they believe him, if he told the truth? Even if they believed him, would they want a wild youth with no apparent skills around? Or would they chase him out to fend for himself, alone in the cold? With each new thought Klast’s fear grew.

  The first rosy hint of dawn had begun to light the eastern horizon when Klast spotted a grey plume of smoke. Klast’s stomach growled. People meant food … but people also meant danger.

  A cock crowed its wake-up call. Klast chose a shed at the outer edge that looked like it might be a smokehouse and made a dash for it. As soon as he slipped inside, he knew he had made a grave mistake. The shed also served as a winter storeroom for root vegetables, cheeses, milk, and hung meats. He had no sooner tucked himself into the darkest corner when he heard the voices of a woman and a man approaching. He could hear the last of the conversation clearly.

  “Saevin, I hev some good sa
usages left to trade. You may hev those, and a quarter o’ the old cheese fer the eggs and that big sack o’ flour yer da’ sent.” The door opened and light limned the two in the entrance. Klast froze. His corner no longer hid him.

  As soon as she spotted him the woman shouted, “Thief!” and made to grab him. Klast ducked away under her arm, but the young man with her still stood in the doorway and nabbed him before she could turn around. Klast struggled in vain. Saevin was twice his size and strong as an ox. Klast deflated and lowered his eyes in submission.

  “What will we do with ’im, Missus?” Saevin asked.

  Missus Larn poked him in the ribs, eyed him thoughtfully a moment and said, “Boy, ye hev not taken anything, hev ye?”

  Klast shook his head, doing his best to look helpless and forlorn.

  Missus Larn turned to Saevin. “Take ’im into the house. He looks near starved. I will feed ’im some while I think on what to do. Dinna let ’im get away, mind.”

  Missus Larn looked a woman in late-middle years, heavy set, with a round face and an underchin that jiggled as she spoke. Under heavy eyebrows, her pale blue eyes sparked with keen intelligence, and her lips pursed as though whistling silently as she worked. She moved with the efficiency of long practice. A few wisps escaped the severe knot at the nape of her neck. She absently brushed them away with the back of her hand as she worked. Now she bustled about as though fussing for company. She placed a bowl of thick, hot porridge and a wooden spoon in front of Klast and bade him eat. Then she cut a generous slice from a round of cheese, placing it and a clay mug of hot cider beside the porridge.

  The heat from the stove after the bitter cold he had endured all night, the failure of his bid for freedom, the food and drink and, most of all, the rough kindness of the matron was too much for Klast. His shoulders started shaking, and soon his whole body wracked with bitter tears. Even his gnawing hunger was no match for his misery.

  Missus Larn shook her head slowly, studying Klast.

  One of his boots had come off in the skirmish, and her gaze fell on his bare ankle. Klast heard her gasp at the manacle still there. Finally, she murmured, “Eat, boy. Ye can tell us who ye be after. Ye look ill used. There be a story here, I warrant. But it can wait ’til yer fed.” She seemed to make up her mind.

  “Saevin, go fetch the justice. He be needin’ to hear the lad’s story.”

  Klast started at that, spoon halfway to his mouth.

  “Dinna fear, boy. I dinna aim to hand ye to a monster. The justice be a fair man. He be knowin’ what be right.” She nodded to Saevin to go.

  Saevin brought the justice a span later. Klast had eaten his fill and sat with his feet soaking in a bucket of warm, salted water. Missus Larn had managed to remove his manacles. She had clucked over the raw, weeping sores there from Klast’s winter walk and at the ropey web of scars from previous injuries. The water had stung at first, but by now the pain had melted into bliss. Klast wanted to stay in this woman’s care forever and allowed himself a few moments to dream about it as sleep threatened to overtake him. The knock on the door brought him swiftly back to reality.

  While Klast had no idea of it, this was his lucky day. He had wandered into Bargia, into the village of Ilonja, under the jurisdiction of Justice Grinth, a fair man who could not be bought.

  The good missus put a mug of hot cider into Justice Grinth’s hand and bade him take the chair Saevin had vacated. Then she recounted in great detail the events of the morning. When she finished, Grinth thanked her and turned his full attention to Klast.

  “Now, boy, this is your chance. You have, no doubt, a revealing tale to tell. Tell it truthfully, and fully, and you may save yourself. Do not lie. I will surely know it. Then we will speak of what your fate may be.”

  Klast had assessed Grinth while he had spoken with Missus Larn. He could not mistake the keen mind that dwelt behind those grey eyes. Grinth was not a man to be trifled with.

  Klast told his story tersely, leaving out many sordid details. But he did not lie. There seemed no point. These people would surely treat him no worse than Rand had.

  While Klast spoke, he saw that Justice Grinth watched him closely.

  Grinth seemed to be able to tell when Klast held something back. Finally, he looked at Missus Larn.

  “Missus, what do you think? Will he slit our throats in our sleep? Rob us? Take up with criminals?”

  Klast kept his face inscrutable.

  “Or will he obey orders if given a chance?”

  Klast held himself rigid and waited.

  “I warrant ’e be no killer, Master Grinth. As for the rest …” she trailed off with a small shrug.

  Grinth made up his mind.

  He gave Klast a hard look. “You will accompany me to Bargia Castle to be trained as a soldier. I will leave it to you what you wish to divulge of yourself. The only story the commander will hear from me is that I found you living by your wits and offered you this opportunity. Only Lord Bargest will hear your true past. He needs to know the risk he is taking.”

  The next came almost as an afterthought, but Klast was not fooled.

  “I will have your information about Rand and his cronies checked.” Grinth regarded Klast through lidded eyes.

  Klast gave him no reaction. He kept the skills he had learned firmly in place, the same skills that would serve him so well in his role as spy. It would not be until much later that he would learn to kill.

  Klast took to military training with a fierce intensity. Yet he never fit into the social life of the barracks, but kept determinedly apart. His reputation as a strange loner without feeling grew.

  Eventually, Klast was given individual assignments that required his particular skills. His unique abilities, coupled with his immaculate record, led to missions of greater importance.

  Lord Bargest began to include him in private strategy discussions with his advisory council. It was one such meeting that led to his first killing. Lord Bargest had received intelligence about a traitor in their upper circles, a man of status who had the trust of the most influential members of the court. To prove his treason would be extremely difficult, and would lead to rifts that could damage the security of Bargia. Lord Bargest charged Klast with bringing back proof of treason, and if treason was proven, to dispose of the traitor in such a way that no suspicion would come to Lord Bargest or his advisors. He fulfilled his duty and removed the threat.

  Klast hated killing, but in each such assignment he clearly understood the need. Thankfully, the need did not arise often. He had learned very young to get by on little sleep. It was the only way to keep the nightmares at bay.

  In time, Klast had earned the position of trust that placed him at the right hand of the lord of Bargia. His loyalty remained unassailable.

  * * *

  Now, he watched Gaelen assume the mantle of power as though born to it. Gaelen’s actions had been decisive and well thought out, if somewhat unusual. Klast wondered how many of his advisors understood what it cost Gaelen to hide his uncertainty and keep up his appearance of strength. Klast understood. He had known Gaelen almost all his life. They had spent many pleasant hours discussing strategy, sparring in weapons practice, hunting and on lesser missions together as Gaelen came of age.

  Klast could see through Gaelen’s mask of confidence. Gaelen had desperately needed to hear that he approved of his current plan. If Klast had not supported it, Gaelen might have succumbed to the pressure from Sinnath and Janest. The council might have become divided, and Gaelen’s control might have crumbled. But Klast had seen the value of Gaelen’s strategy and approved it. His response to Gaelen had held nothing back. Gaelen needed a truthful supporter, and Klast felt honoured to provide it. He knew he would do whatever it took to keep Gaelen safe and in power. Bargia needed Gaelen. And Gaelen needed Klast.

  So Klast slipped unnoticed through Catania, eyes and ears open, senses alert.

  ~8~

  WHAT NOW?

  The door
had barely closed behind Klast and Gaelen before Argost, Janest, and Sinnath all began talking over each other. All three stopped at the same time, looked at each other and laughed at their own lack of discipline. A fine way for the most influential men of the land to conduct themselves!

  Argost leaned toward the others, placing his hands on the table in front of him, and took the lead. “Friends, this has been a day of great changes. We have lost and gained a lord, won a battle and lost many good soldiers, many of them friends who leave behind families. We have added a demesne, passed tests and survived to talk about it. Our new lord is proving to be his own man. Given time and experience, it is my opinion that he will be a strong and able leader. Yet he is young and untried. He will need us sorely in the next months if he is to come into his birthright with his lands and authority intact, especially if he is to avoid rebellion in Catania. We have, all three, sworn to support him and to uphold his sovereignty. We must show unity before the people. It is critical we keep any questions and disagreements within our closed council. Can we agree on that much?”

  Argost looked first to Janest, who nodded solemnly, apparently having come to the same conclusion.

  “To withhold support for Lord Gaelen at this juncture would throw Bargest into chaos. He is the legitimate heir. That alone will buy time from those loyal to his father. They will wait to see what kind of leader he is before they consider treason. I have known Gaelen all of his life. I was his history tutor and taught him diplomacy. He has often sought unorthodox solutions, but they were always well thought out. He is a man of reason who will hear arguments from all quarters before making decisions. I also know him to be honourable. This scheme to take Cataniast’s daughter to wife worries me. Yet, that alone is not reason enough to withhold support. I say we do as he requests. We owe him the chance to prove himself. And there is always the problem of who would succeed him. The alternatives strike me as most undesirable.”