A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  Still, this proven killer had for some reason spared them. In truth, one could even argue he had acted in their defense. Yet he was also quick to let the fisherman know their survival meant nothing to him, even as he was suggesting how they might live through the night. Who knows why he did it, he finally thought to himself, too fatigued to worry over the complexities behind another man’s inconsistent choices.

  Instead, talk turned to their shared situation and it was decided they would remain safely hidden through the night. None of them argued against that, as they were all spent. It was the singer who posed the unavoidable next question: "And the morrow? What’s the plan then?"

  Ansel was quiet for a moment, then answered, "I aim t’rise ‘afore the sun an’ we each go our own way."

  "Isn’t it wiser t’stay t’gether a while? asked the singer. "Safety in numbers an’ all?" Despite seeming like one who could take care of himself, it was plain he did not wish to be left alone.

  Hywel laughed but it was a harsh sound with no humor in it. "That’s bollox," he put forth in response. "Numbers only count in a fight, an’ we three’d be short work fer that mob, even wit’ the farmers all stumblin’ about outta their heads."

  Switching his focus to Ansel, even as he continued speaking to the bard, he added, "The woodsman ‘ere wants us all on our own, ‘cause hares’re harder t’catch when there’s three of ‘em all runnin’ in diff’rent directions. If they’re t’gether, the hounds corner ‘em easier."

  Ansel bristled at being called out for worrying about his own self-interests ahead of all else, but the truth of the matter was he had a wife and child to whom he owed allegiance above any others. "An’ what of it?"

  The sellsword ignored the question and only spat, but Ansel’s nerves were too raw from recent ordeals and he could not let it go. "If they got close, you’d probably sell us fer yer own life. Ya already broke whatever oaths those bastards had ya swear. A man who sells his blade cares fer nothin’ an’ no one but himself."

  Hywel said nothing in response, but rather moved like lightning and was on Ansel in half a breath. The two men struggled for a moment, then ended up entangled on the ground brawling in the small space with neither really doing any damage. Leffron finally got between them, trying to scream and yet still whisper, "Leave off, fools! Have ya’ll forgot there’re men in these woods lookin’ fer us?!"

  Hywel was still laughing, and it was a bitter sound. "Aye," he said, checking to see if his nose was bleeding. "I sell my blade, Woodsman. E’ery man’s gotta eat by ‘is own industry an’ mine’s killin’. It’s what I’m good at. But my blade works by contract, agreed wages fer agreed work. I’ve spilled plenty o’ blood fer coin an’ lost some o’ my own, but I never agreed t’butcher a mess o’ fisherfolk in their own homes in front o’ their weepin’ wives an’ children!"

  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he continued, "Any contract I mighta had or oaths I mighta sworn was voided by deceit. I don’t owe them or you a damn thing, so don’t ya worry." He settled back into his corner of their hidey hole, plainly done with the dispute between them. "I’ll go my way in the morn an you’ll not see me again."

  Ansel was not finished, though, at least not with talking. Too many unanswered questions had piled up in his mind until they all felt like buzzing bees that had built their hive in his skull and would not let him rest now that he was free. He knew sleep would be best, especially since nerves had become frayed, but he simply could not hold back. "I still d’not understand any of it. Why kidnap a bunch o’ regular folk from the countryside an’ force ‘em t’kill other regular folk? An’ who were those others comin’ from the river? Jus’ how widespread is this... whatever it is?"

  A moment of silence passed before Hywel answered in an incredulous tone, "Are ya askin’ me? I dunno if yer deaf or daft, but I jus’ told ya I know nothin’ about it."

  It was hard to tell in the darkness, but it seemed Ansel was drawing breath to argue more, probably thinking it impossible the sellsword had no information at all about a job he was being paid to carry out, but Hywel kept talking and nipped it in the bud. "Hear me now, Woodsman. My part in all o’ this only started a couple hours ‘afore I first laid eyes on ya when Donal—that weasely bastard who’s throat ya saw me part—found’t me in a roadside inn an’ said he had work fer me. Easy work an’ good wages. He was an idiot, fer sure, but we’d worked caravan guard duty t’gether a year ‘r two ago an’ he hadn’t never cheated me, so ya best believe I took ‘im up on the offer."

  He continued, "But, I knew nothin’ o’ the butchery they planned. Why d’ya think I kill’t the sweaty prick an’ run first chance there wasn’t twenty others ‘round t’do fer me as soon as I was done?"

  Ansel held his tongue. In truth, he had no idea if he should believe the man or not, but what he was saying made sense. All he could do now was swallow his need for answers and let it continue to burn him up inside. At least, perhaps, that heat could be converted to energy that would keep him going.

  Surprisingly, the tall, broad-shouldered mercenary they now knew as Hywel spoke again after a few moments of silence, his tone now softer and more conciliatory. "All that’s true, but I’ll also say you’re right, Woodsman. I seen them boats on the river, same as you, an’ the men gettin’ off ‘em. Whatever’s ‘appened t’you lot, yer not the only ones."

  After a time, they slept. It was a fitful half-slumber, the kind where one hovers in that state where dreams are possible, despite waking at the slightest sound. Ansel came awake often, but he was thankful for his meager rest nonetheless. He had realized the gods had sent the sign he had so desperately sought afterall. In fact, it had been granted, even as he had been praying, despite him not seeing it for what was at the time. His sign was the storm that had helped cover their escape.

  Storms were portends. The gods are ever fractious and storms are one way they send messages to the mortal world, scourging the land in what can sometimes be a violent tumult. Jagged lightning tears away the veil of darkness and stabs at the ground like angry spear points; thunder cracks violently and rolls across creation like the hooves of uncounted warhorses; and wind whips across the land, tugging at roof thatch and howling like night demons loosed from perdition. The temple priests taught, in fact, that lightning truly was a representation of the mighty war-spear of Vadron, the Lord of Storms, stabbing at the world.

  It is up to the individual to read the sign and decipher what they mean. That meaning tonight was clear to Ansel as the gods taking pity on them, sending the storm to help hide their tracks and drive their pursuers in search of shelter. That small blessing at least allowed him to find some peace.

  * * * * *

  The wind tugged at their tattered cloaks.

  "It’d be warmer down below the tree line," Hywel reminded Ansel for what had to be the hundredth time. He had taken to simply ignoring him now, figuring that the regular jibes were just another form of complaint. They had awoken the morning after their first night on the run, and in the glare of day cooler heads had prevailed with Ansel coming around to the notion that safety in numbers was not such a terrible idea after all. Coming to this accommodation, however, had not changed his opinion of the man. He did not trust Hywel, by any stretch of the imagination, but three was a better number than two if they ended up having to fight.

  What he really wanted was to turn around and throttle the bastard for not understanding that he, as their guide and a woodsman by trade, was keeping them above the tree line so they would leave fewer tracks. The slopes up this high were more rock than soil, but the trick was to also keep below the actual top of the ridge, where they would be silhouetted against the sun and visible quite literally to anyone within miles who bothered to look their way. Throttle him he did not, though; instead, he simply sighed, continuing to put one foot in front of the other.

  The reasoning for all that had occurred remained beyond his ability to understand. The participation of the sellswords could be explained away simply by their
willingness to do whatever was asked in return for enough silver. But who could be behind such a thing? And how were the barbarian Wodi involved? Or could it have been the case, not of them being involved as a people, but rather simply a rogue warrior on his own? He had to admit he had only seen the one, but he had held some position of authority, since they had witnessed him personally paying off Hunald for recruited them. No matter how much he turned things over in his mind, he simply could not fathom why anyone would expend resources to abduct a bunch of farming folk, drug them, and then turn them against their own. It made no sense.

  Shaking his head in frustration, he realized the terrain seemed to be becoming more level. The trio had been walking over uneven ground on the sides of hills, with one foot nearly always above the other, for so long that the change made each of them sigh in relief. Should help us make better time too, Ansel thought to himself, anxious to be back with his family and to put all of this behind him.

  He noticed something up ahead. Squinting and using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he could make out that it was square in shape, but remained unsure of what he was seeing. There seemed to be no one around, however, and his instincts did not alert him of danger, so he continued to lead the others toward the structure, which resolved itself more and more as they got closer.

  Finally approaching it, they could see it was a square of stacked wood, situated on a mostly level rock shelf that protruded from the mountainside. It was large; the wood had been stacked greater than the height of an average man, the width and length making it closer to the size of a wagon than the woodpiles set aside for the average home. It was also made from logs, clearly from several trees, and these were arranged in a crisscrossing pattern with straw and dried grass stuffed into the spaces between. The entire thing reeked of pitch, obviously having been dowsed, and it was then Ansel realized what he was looking at.

  "Bright Fires," he offered by way of explanation, but seeing that his companions weren’t making the connection, he continued. "The feast."

  The Festival of the Bright Fires was a springtime celebration of optimism for productive harvests. The hearthfires inside people’s homes were rarely allowed to die. Typically, they would only burn down overnight to embers reignited the next morning. This was certainly true in the country, Ansel knew. The one time per year this changed was during Bright Fires, when they were allowed to gutter out completely, then ritually relit for the coming year with a brand from bonfires built by each village. It was essentially a feast of fertility. Folks gave their prayers to the gods for a good harvest, and walked their livestock around the flames to ensure new stock would be born. Some young wives even danced around the flames themselves, hoping to bear a child in the coming year. Afterwards, herds would be driven out to their summer pastures.

  Communities would also sometimes build additional large fires on nearby mountaintops and hills, and Ansel realized that’s what they were looking at here. This would have been prepared only a few days before the festival, and seeing as how it hadn’t yet been burned, this gave him his first real indication of how much time had passed during their abduction. It had been only a matter of weeks.

  Seemed more like years, he thought quietly. So much of that awful time had been spent in a mental fog with each day drifting into another that this was the first bearings he’d had. As strange as it was to realize the ordeal had lasted so short a time, the more he thought of that the better he thought of it; only having been gone a short while should make his homecoming easier, though he was well aware there would be much explaining he would need to do.

  None of that mattered at the moment. All that mattered was getting home to his family and getting on with his life. He knew that he still needed to figure out how to pay the taxes on his land—the very problem that had led him down the shameful road he had found himself on—but that was a problem he would worry over after he had his arms around his wife and little boy again.

  He motioned for the others to continue on, turning to lead their way, but then stopped again abruptly. A previously unrealized problem had leapt into his mind, shocking in its implications. How was he simply to go home? Allet had not escaped with him, and would now either be dead or still a slave. And even as he stood there—stopped dead in his tracks and drawing questioning looks from his companions—he realized something much, much worse.

  They know who I am. They know Allet is family. They can make ‘im lead ‘em back t’the farm. But would they? He feared yes. His instincts were screaming there was scant chance they would not pay a visit to one who had escaped them, and he cursed himself again: Why could ya not’ve listened t’yer gut an’ stayed clear o’ this mess in the first place?!

  His spirits sank even lower the more he thought of it. Even if his tormentors might normally choose to cut their losses, rather than risk staying in the area overlong, revenge for the man killed in the escape might drive them. Of course, it was possible the man Hywel had killed would be believed felled by the fisherman, but there was no way to know that, and the fact that they had been pursued was beyond questioning. Even if revenge was not the driving force, he could not think of a scenario where they would simply allow escapees to go free with the knowledge they carried.

  At that moment, Ansel Wood was simultaneously struck by two things: he found himself almost unmanned by his fears—to the point where the singer had to reach out and steady him—as well as experiencing a profound thankfulness that he had heeded his intuition and sent his little family to stay with Kaeti’s parents before embarking on this fool’s errand. The more he thought of it, he knew they would go searching for him at his home, led by Allet under duress. His brother-by-law was a good-hearted man and would want no hurt brought to his family, but he was also weak and easily plied. If he still lived, he would eventually lead them there; this Ansel knew, and he found himself momentarily rocked by sudden guilt thinking that perhaps it would be better if Allet were lying dead back in that sad village.

  Shaking off such thoughts, he knew he could not count on that being the case. He had not seen Allet fall, so he must assume he still lived and would eventually lead their pursuers to the farm. At the same time, he felt confident Kaeti and Anders would be safe with her parents in Baedonton. That was no mere collection of hovels grouped together by the river’s edge, but rather the main village of a manor estate with the lord’s own stronghold nearby. They did not have the numbers to attack Baedonton as they had the smaller village. Admittedly, Lord Wendel kept few armed men, but there would be no way to keep some folk from escaping to carry word of what happened.

  Yet, he knew also that he could not simply go there himself. Reaching Baedonton would mean either using the road or going across country, which could be thick with the very bastards they were trying to avoid. Sadly, he also had no faith that Wendel would believe him. Their relationship was strained to say the least, and returning could even endanger his family further by pushing those seeking their capture to follow him there.

  Crestfallen, he finally raised his eyes from his boots to meet those of his two companions. He sighed deeply, tears of anguish and frustration threatening to brim, and said simply, "I mustn’t go home."

  To their credit, neither offered false optimism. Nor did they intrude on his grief by attempting to fill the uncomfortable space with words that would mean little. Instead, the two simply lowered their heads in a silent sort of understanding.

  After the appropriate amount of time had passed to allow Ansel to fortify himself, the singer asked, "Where then are we t’go?"

  In response came a beleaguered look and naught but silence for some time. Once realizing that he needed another plan, Ansel had forced the bulk of the anguish that threatened to consume him into a box in his heart to be dealt with later and turned his faculties toward just the question he was now being asked. Unfortunately, the answer did not come as easily as the realization that he needed one.

  He knew he must either stay away from home until after the danger had
passed or return in a significantly stronger position. He was not afraid to fight, despite wishing to put all of that behind him and have a peaceful life. This was doubly true in a situation where he might be defending those he loved, but just the three of them wouldn’t be able to stand against the numbers the marauders could send against them, even assuming that the sellsword would actually fight and not slink away to save his own hide. Complicating matters, he also had to worry about the possibility of being arrested. He simply could think of no path to getting his life back on track and keeping everyone safe except to involve a higher authority than Lord Wendel.

  Suddenly, he knew what he must do. "We go t’Sarton."

  "Why Sarton?" asked the singer.

  Quick on the heels of that question, almost speaking over the other man, Hywel interjected, "Lots o’ blokes in a city like that. Harder t’keep ourselves hidden." His tone had made it clear he didn’t care for the idea.

  "I’ll not dispute that," Ansel began in response, "but it’s where I’m headed, jus’ the same. Follow me or don’t. My mind is set."

  "Still tryin’ t’get rid o’ me, Woodsman?"

  Ansel ignored the jibe. "Someone’s gotta be told what’s happenin’, someone with some power t’do somethin’ about it. I cannot trust my manor lord an’ I never met the baron o’er in Durleston, but I might ‘ave an in with the Earl in Sarton."

  The sellsword looked incredulous. Guffawing, he asked, "You know Earl Philus?"

  Even the minstrel, Leffron, seemed dubious. "I’ve played an’ sang fer ‘is court, while he drank mead an’ ate supper, but I’ve never met the man, Ansel; much less do I trust ‘is mercy enough t’put m’life in ‘is hands. Why would he even grant ya an audience, much less trust ya?"