A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Ansel next needed to get with his comrade and share what his brief physical contact with the guard had revealed, because it raised new and uncomfortable questions. He now understood what it was he had found strange about the men keeping pace with the wagon. Quickly, he squirmed his way next to Leffron near the center of the knot of addle-minded prisoners. Being careful not to be noticed, he also quickly surveyed the group to locate Allet’s position and settled in to wait for the attention of the nearest guard to drift.

  A few moments rest’d be welcome, he thought to himself. Choosing to forgo a portion of his allotted meals, especially with those rations being meager already, had begun to sap his energy reserves. If there was one thing the broth did, besides worm its way into a man’s being, was that it did keep them strong, and he was ever-aware he was giving up that advantage. As it would have it, the guard’s mind wandering did not take long, and so it was just a brief time later that Ansel quietly whispered, "These mercenaries ‘re wearin’ armor."

  Hearing that caused a surprised reaction both of them feared would be difficult to cover. Fortunately, however, the sound of horses nearby coupled with an apparently acute case of inattention on the part of their guard kept the sudden, exclamatory sucking in of air well hidden. After taking a moment to resettle nerves, Leffron—of course—asked the obligatory unnecessary question always proffered in such situations: "Are ya sure?"

  Trying not to roll his eyes, Ansel replied, "Aye, I’m sure."

  He understood now. Walking about in armor changes the way a man moves and looks and sounds, even hidden and muffled beneath cloaks and coverings. That’s what he had noticed earlier. More important, however, were the implications involved. A man did not wear armor for a stroll through the woods; he wore armor when he was going to war. There were fools who begrudged the discomfort even then. Looking back on his military service, he could remember soldiers being punished for removing required padding or even whole pieces of armor because of the weight, discomfort, it being a hot day, or any number of other things, so if they were wearing it tonight it was not without good reason.

  Just then, several things happened at once.

  Ansel noticed that, intermingled with that fishy smell from earlier, he also smelled wood smoke. A cook fire?, he asked himself. A big ‘n, if so. Or more than one? Hearthfires?

  He was also almost positive he could hear running water in the distance, which reminded him of his earlier thoughts of escaping by river, which then—in turn—made him think of Allet. Even if he had the opportunity, he still had no idea how he could drag his brother-by-law into the water, weakened as he was, much less keep the fool from drowning. Unconsciously, he almost looked in Allet’s direction, and he realized he and his fellow prisoners were being moved into more of a line, rather than the knot of bodies they tended toward.

  And then, suddenly, the subdued atmosphere was broken briefly as the sound of clanging metal and angry voices sounded out from somewhere on Ansel’s right. Trying to see what was happening without being noticed, he could see an altercation was brewing between two men. One he recognized as having been with them for at least most of their abduction, but the other he could never remember seeing before: blonde and bearded with his hair swept clean to the scalp on the sides above the ears, the corners of his beard tied in twin ringlets that hung down. At their feet, lay a pile of metal tools—wood axes, hoes, scythes—these having been, no doubt, the source of the metallic clang he had heard.

  The newcomer had the one he recognized jerked up onto his toes by his collar, snarling into his face so closely that if he were to spit Ansel was sure they would be sharing it. Angry words were flying, but only snippets could be heard from his distance.

  "What... got me involved in... little bastard?!"

  "... gold spends jus’ as good... Wha’d’ya care..."

  At that moment, someone in charge apparently decided to reinstate order, since a hand suddenly appeared on the larger man’s shoulder while another held a dagger to his throat. Quieter words prevailed thereafter, so Ansel heard nothing else as another party quickly gathered up the implements dropped at the men’s feet. Then, to his great surprise, he watched as they began handing these axes and scythes out to the prisoners.

  He felt his stomach sink, knowing that whatever this was it was imminent and would not be good. He was still running over possibilities in his mind when the rough wooden handle of an axe was forced into his hands, but at least that feeling was something he knew well, something that reminded him of his real life. The way the wood grain felt against the calluses of his hands allowed him to focus for the first time since he could remember, and he flexed his grip on the handle over and over as he thought.

  He needed to understand what was about to happen, but he could not reason it out, and then a hard shove had him moving. Glancing quickly to see who was urging him forward revealed none other than the tall, blonde sellsword from the squabble a few moments before, apparently now on board with the plan. They locked eyes briefly, drawing an incredulous look from the mercenary that had Ansel instantly turning away and cursing himself for having most likely revealed himself with yet another misstep.

  He steeled himself for the cry that would alert the others to his deception, so much so that he forced himself not to glance in the direction of Leffron in order to protect him from facing the same punishment. He knew it must needs be severe. He had already witnessed them kill, after all. The anticipated hue and cry never came, though.

  Nudge after nudge simply continued, keeping him inexorably moving forward in a line with his fellow prisoners. Glancing left and right, just by moving his eyes, he could see that they were being urged toward a line of trees that seemed to form a boundary of some sort. He knew it could not truly be a straight line, since—as a woodsman—he understood that natural structures don’t occur in straight lines, but it was close. Further, his instinct to think of it as some sort of boundary line was strengthened by the fact that the closer they approached the more he was sure he could see light visible through the foliage.

  It crossed his mind that he was holding a weapon for the first time in as long as he could remember. In that instant, he considered simply they might fight their way free, even though their weapons were really just a collection of farm implements rather than proper steel. Unfortunately, he was forced to put aside such thinking, at least for the moment. He could have no way of knowing if the other prisoners would—or even could—follow his lead in their current condition. The only one about whom he felt confident was Leffron, and any such move would likely mean abandoning Allet to his fate. Even if none of that were true, they would still be heavily outnumbered by their captors, armed with sub-par weapons, and barely able to defend themselves with the weakness they felt from not eating well. They would have to wait for another opportunity.

  One last shove finally propelled them through to the other side of the line of trees, and Ansel could see he had been correct about it forming a boundary. He had also been proven right about the smells and sounds he had picked up on earlier. On this side of the tree line stood a small village of perhaps thirty wattle-and-daub huts, not so different from his own back at the farm, except the roofs of these were thatched with river reeds taken from the edges of the swift waters running just beyond.

  The sound of the rushing water was much stronger on this side of the boundary, and the river appeared silver in the moonlight as it snaked its way around the bend. The village sat in a little hollow between the trees and the water’s edge. The previous day’s catch was drying on racks as tendrils of wispy smoke rose lazily from thatched roofs, hearthfires left to burn themselves down to embers that could be quickly revived when the people rose in the morning and needed to break their fast before getting to work. It looked to be an idyllic place, peopled by a simple folk living quiet lives.

  That’s ‘bout t’change.

  The thought had come to him unbidden, spoken perhaps from that same edge of hi
s consciousness that he had little control over—the part of him that operated on almost pure instinct, despite those instincts being tied to things he had done everything in his power to forget. He still had no idea what was about to happen, yet he was standing on the edge of a sleepy village with a weapon in his hands, and he knew that was not a situation likely to produce happy endings.

  Another animal call—obviously fake to Ansel’s ears—sounded in the night. It had come from the direction of the water, and when he looked he could see men quietly offloading from boats that had landed on the shore. Something about them seemed immediately familiar and then he realized it was because the groups were organized very similarly; rough men controlling another group of everyday-looking folk who shambled almost mindlessly about.

  Ansel suddenly turned toward Leffron to make sure he was seeing the same thing, only to find him glaring open-eyed just like himself. All of their carefully-planned pretense had suddenly been forgotten, but it didn’t matter now or wouldn’t for long. Whatever all of this was—this ordeal that had turned their lives upside down and made them prisoners for what? Weeks? Months?—it was obviously about to finally come to a head.

  Then suddenly he realized there was movement nearby and looked to see quiet orders being issued. Small groups—typically a couple of the sellswords and two or three prisoners—were breaking off and heading to different parts of the village, and he was just asking himself why when a violent jerk on his restraints almost planted him on his face in the mud. Righting himself, he saw now that it was the same big bastard with the braided beard who had been shoving him along before and whom he believed to be aware of his ruse. Curiously, the man still hadn’t told anyone.

  "C’mon, y’bastard. You an’ me’ll take these blokes out t’the far edge ‘afore all the juicy spots get taken," said the tall man. He was speaking to the same fellow he had seemed ready to throttle earlier, all their enmity apparently forgotten. Ansel looked to see who he meant, but the ropes binding him were yanked yet again and they were suddenly off on a twisting and turning journey between the little huts.

  He was essentially dragged, not knowing how far they had gone before he heard the first of the screams, but it had shocked him enough to make him stumble. Quickly yanked back to his feet and lead along, there was no time for him to see from which way the sound had come or the cause, yet his heart almost withered when it was soon answered by others, and then suddenly they weren’t moving any longer.

  Reeling from the abrupt halt, Ansel looked around frantically and saw with dismay that, while he and the singer remained together, Allet was nowhere to be seen. They stood before a cheery looking little hut, two prisoners and two sellswords, and then suddenly—almost before he could process his thoughts—one of the latter kicked in the door of the dwelling and they were being dragged through the darkened portal. Within, they were confronted by the man who obviously lived there, his woman and a child huddled together on a bed to the rear of the small one room home. All were obviously terrified, though the man was trying to hide it.

  "You’n me’ll hafta start the blood," said the smaller sellsword, speaking to the larger. "After that, that brew we been givin’ them’ll kick in an’ they’ll git their hands dirty too. Might hafta lead ‘em a bit. Git ‘em into it. That’s what they told us. Save the lassie ‘til the end an’ maybe we all get a turn, eh?"

  Ansel’s heart sank yet again. He had always known what was coming would be horrible, and as soon as they had come down upon this sleepy village with weapons in their hands he had known on some level something like this was possible, but finally understanding the truth was still almost too much to fathom. Having spent his time in service to king and country, he knew violence ruled the world, despite what was preached about fellowship in the temples. Even sellswords, though, typically did what they did for profit. Senseless violence for its own sake was something he could hardly understand, and yet here he was.

  He thought of Allet again. The poor fool was out there somewhere, likely standing in a hut just like this one facing down some poor fisherman, and—unlike Ansel himself or the singer—he was fully in thrall to the foul concoction they had been given. Ansel had instantly made the decision not to participate in the slaughter of these people, even knowing it would mean his own death, but Allet was not in the possession of his own meager faculties. And, if what he had just heard was true, the heightened aggression brought on by the broth would leave his poor brother-by-law guilty of murder in some respect or another.

  As that thought nearly brought tears to his eyes, his gaze settled on their would-be victims, obviously a family who had done nothing to deserve the havoc being visited upon them. The man, struggling not to show fear, his knuckles white gripping a piece of firewood he was wielding like a club and his eyes darting back-and-forth; his woman, openly weeping now and holding their child so tightly she might very well smother it herself in her instinct to keep it close to her bosom; and the child, a pretty little girl of perhaps three years, caught somewhere between terror and surprise, her eyes almost impossibly wide and holding a tiny homespun ragdoll tight to her chest. How could this be happening?

  The sellsword made his move then, darting toward the fisherman, who swung his makeshift weapon in response. He missed, and that was all it took for the experienced fighter to knock him to the ground. Laughing, the smaller sellsword raised his weapon to bring it down upon the figure now cowering at his knees, who had no defense left but to hold his arms in front of his face. The woman screamed. Almost quicker than he could register what was happening, though, Ansel saw the other larger mercenary move stealthily forward, and rather than a sword split the skull of her mate the woman saw the tip of another blade suddenly blossom from the throat of his would-be killer.

  The larger man with the braided beard twisted his blade and yanked it free almost as quickly as he had thrust it forward, causing a fountain of blood to spray halfway across the room as the dying man half-turned to look at his betrayer. His eyes were wide with shock and he tried to speak, but nothing came but a gurgle in the blood pouring from his throat. "That’s fer gettin’ me involved in this madness without tellin’ me, ya little bastard," were the last words he heard as his body slumped to the dirt floor.

  The woman screamed again. "Shut up!" the big man commanded and she complied with a whimper. Turning to Ansel and Leffron, who were looking on in shock, he asked simply, "Can ya run?" Neither registered that they were being asked a question at first, so surprised were they over what they had just witnessed, but he asked again in sharper tones and both of them quickly nodded in the affirmative.

  "What happens t’us?" The question had come from the fisherman, unsure whether this new turn of fate still doomed his family in some way or saved them.

  "It’s nothin’ t’me either way," said the big man, "but if ya want t’keep breathin’ an’ her unraped, toss this place t’look like it’s already ransacked an’ then rub that fucker’s blood all over e’rybody so’s you’ll all look dead already if somebody sticks a head in t’see." He had pointed to the body on the ground, ignoring the sickened expressions he’d gotten in response. "They can think you an’ him killed each other after he did fer yer family. Whatever ya do, ya don’t go outside ‘til it’s full daylight an’ ya can’t hear that"—he indicated the sounds of mayhem that could now be heard taking place from virtually every direction through the thin wattle walls of the hut—"goin’ on no more."

  The fisherman nodded and suddenly the big man turned and cut the ropes binding the hands of both Ansel and the singer. Ansel found himself being pushed through the door back out into a night that was now alive with slaughter. Some of the huts were on fire, while pitiable wailing echoed from within others. Screaming could be heard from virtually every direction. Simply taking a moment to realize what was occuring was enough to bring a good man to his knees, so Ansel did his best to compartmentalize his thoughts, something he hadn’t done in years—not since his own days soldiering.

 
Something he couldn’t help but realize, though, was that when all of this came to light no one was going to understand that the prisoners had been forced, even drugged, into being involved in this mayhem. Gods, they’ll hang us all if they catch us!, he thought. But then it came to him: The fisherman an’ his woman! They could tell the story t’whatever lord holds these lands! He didn’t know exactly how far they had traveled, but he knew enough to realize that the lesser lord would pass on such news and it would eventually reach the Earl in Sarton.

  He started back into the hut to tell them the story, but suddenly strong hands jerked him by his tattered homespun and flung him toward the nearby woods. It was then he realized that the big sellsword had chosen this spot, close to the forest and at the far edge of the village, to make it easier to escape. As he was being dragged away, he began to fight, and the big man jerked him up onto his toes to bring them eye to eye. "Ya can’t go back!" was all he said.

  "But someone has t’tell ‘em the truth an’ Allet is back there somewhere!" He knew this man wouldn’t understand half of what he was trying to say, but it was simply pouring out of him in the moment without time to explain.

  "Fuck the truth an’ fuck Alec ‘r whoever!" he insisted. "There’s nothin’ but death waitin’ back there!"

  "It’s too late fer Allet, Ansel!" agreed Leffron in more diplomatic tones. "Ya can’t save ‘im now! All you’ll do’s get yerself killed! We don’t even know which way they took ‘im!"

  To punctuate the point, another gout of flame rose into the night with a roar as the dry reeds of a roof went up in flames, this one much closer. The screams seemed to be growing louder also. He knew they were right, but he did not want to admit it to himself. What choice did he have, though? Finally conceding to reality, he swallowed hard to try to get the lump out of his throat and gave a brief, weak nod. With that, the big sellsword released much of the pressure he was holding him by, yet still insisted on pulling him along by his clothing as though he did not trust him. He had just enough time to take one brief look back at the site of madness and murder they were escaping before being pulled into the woods.