Rebellion of the Black Militia

by Richard Nell

  Sweat soon beaded and dripped down every brow, drenching uniforms at chest and back. Still Lamorak marched them in ramshackle unison, taking every step they did, all the while coated in two layers of leather and chain.

  Johann’s arms and legs began to tremble and his eyes lose focus. The knight’s voice became a distant, incessant drone, like some hateful insect’s wings, stripped of meaning or context. Only the sound of it mattered, like a horn, or a drum. Start, stop, turn, again. Start, stop, turn, again. The meaning changed depending on where the men stood in the courtyard.

  Johann soon heard more than smelled or saw some of the men voiding the contents of their stomachs, though whether from exhaustion or heat, he did not know. The sick simply wiped their faces and tried to keep in line while the other men trampled their breakfast, grinding it into the dirt.

  I’m the seargent now, Johann thought, too tired to laugh at it. I mustn’t quit. I must keep up. I must earn their respect.

  Even still, he wanted to say enough, too much. But then with clouded eyes he would glance at the knight marching every single step beside them, his body layered in leather and chain, heavy sword in hand, joints swollen, sweat dripping freely from his baldness. Until he quits, he knew, I can’t.

  “Every man has two voices.” The knight’s voice finally became words, carrying over the grunts of the half-dead unit as light finally dropped to darkness. “The first will say you’ve had enough. It will tell you that you’ve done all you can, that the task is too hard. It will tell you this is impossible, it will give you every excuse, every chance to quit—that you’re not good enough, that you will die, that your muscles will tear, that it’s no longer up to you. You will ignore it. That voice is a liar, and a coward, it’s the devil himself. It’s not good enough. March.”

  Johann used every ounce of will he had left to hold his gun higher, stepping at least once more to the beat of the man’s footsteps before him. Once they crossed the knight spoke again.

  “The other voice, gentleman, is the voice of God. It is discipline. It is life, and victory, and courage, and it’s your ally. Listen to that voice, gentleman, it will protect you, and comfort you, and make you a man. This voice says turn, step, march.”

  Like all the others, Johann obeyed. He heard savage, almost bestial grunts from the men around him as heavy pikes heaved into place, dragged across the dirt.

  The men crossed one last time like walking corpses. When they turned they found Lamorak in their path, sword sheathed and hands on hips.

  “Gentlemen, today you’re still alive. Today you’re soldiers. Now go and eat and rest like soldiers, and tomorrow we’ll see which voice you hear.”

  With that the knight turned and limped off the courtyard that had become a battlefield of will, the men all staring behind him.

  Johann sagged against the stock of his gun and rested his head against the barrel. He noticed a few of the regulars watch their new captain and shake their heads, eyes wide in open awe.

  “Tough fucking bastard,” one said, and a few laughed and helped ease pikes from the limp, almost paralyzed grips of the younger men.

  Johann recalled the pain he’d seen in the man as he limped down a simple flight of stairs—he thought of the purple, swollen feet, and the torso riddled with wounds gained over decades of war.

  You have no bloody idea, he thought, with perhaps a little pride. I don’t think any of us do.

  * * *

  But over the next two weeks, they began to learn.

  Lamorak of the House of Northwen marched and drilled Johann and the men of Fort Tyne beyond all mortal tolerance. To their continued awe he took every step beside them in heavy armor, carrying his sword, shouting until his raspy voice drew so quiet the men strained to hear.

  Every night Johann lay sprawled in his fine, padded mattress covered by Humberland wool, pillow stuffed with down, and warred with himself. You are not a soldier, his mind would whisper in the quiet, dreadful moments before sleep. You are an educated man, a man of the tower. Your superiors do not expect you to march with or fight or lead common soldiers. You need not suffer this.

  But every night too he heard Lamorak’s words. Every man has two voices. The first voice is a liar.

  In the hours before sleep Johann thought back on his life and heard the truth of this. He remembered long hours studying by candlelight in the tower library, the urge to simply walk away and sleep. He remembered the voice whispering you’re too tired, you can work tomorrow, knowing in his heart that the voice would find some other excuse when he woke.

  Yet he had always thought of himself as a man of strong will. He had never been one of those in the tower who gorged themselves and spurned exercise, soon bulging with gluttonous abandon. He had rarely indulged in alcohol or tobacco. But being honest, he knew lust well enough.

  Often he heard the voice while he lay in bed, telling him at first to at least think of women would be harmless, and soon the thought kept him awake. And when he woke he would plan a trip into town. Just to see one, said the voice, just to see they exist, you don’t have to touch. Soon he found himself in some bawdy house, staring until approached.

  And so, every morning, in his single windowed guest room in Lord Tolly’s fort, Johann dragged torn and aching feet from his bed. Every morning he felt fatigue building like poison in his limbs before he even began, and feared it would be the last he could rise.

  Yet every meal he found his appetite grow. Within sore, aching muscles he yet found the trembling strength to somehow clasp his musket firmer than ever in the courtyard. He made less polite conversation at the table with his host, and stared less at Lady Tolly. Every evening the moment of dreadful solitude shortened, and every night the sleep grew darker, and soon more restful than Johann had ever known.

  “Thirdsmen of Fort Tyne, on your feet.”

  As Johann and the men rose on the fourteenth day of training, Lamorak stood across from the line in his usual greeting. The morning sun lit his white tabard from behind, and gave his outline the illusion of a radiant glow. He held scrolled paper that looked freshly milled.

  “Last night, the magistrate received a message from the…Patriots of Humberland.” He held it up and examined it as if reading. “I had intended to relay said message word for word, but I’d rather not lose my breakfast. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just interpret.” He cleared his throat.

  “We, the so-called ‘Black Militia’, demand on pain of death that the Royal Humberland Guard…” he looked up, “that’s you…discard their weapons, and vacate Fort Tyne immediately. If they do not, we vow in the days and weeks to come, on whichever day bloody suits us, we will arrive here at your doorstep, and butcher the whole rotting lot of you.”

  At this he curled up the crisp paper, jaw clenching and unclenching with the effort perhaps not to crush it. The men shifted their weight and some dared a glance at the others, but most stood rigidly at attention, their eyes vaguely addressed towards the Eastern wall.

  “I am tempted to wait and test that claim. For if they were truly so foolish, I assure you gentlemen, we would ring this place in fiery death, and promptly blast the sons of bitches all to hell.”

  A few of the young men voiced their agreement, and Lamorak took a deep breath and began to pace.

  “But I’ve read the reports. These criminals are attacking caravans. They’re thieves and rapists and blackmailers, and my guess is while we sit here waiting, our good patriots will instead take the time to learn all your names. While we sit here waiting for them to prove their manhood, these cowards will sneak round your houses and find your parents, your wives, and your children. And at best, one by one you’ll all get letters telling you to walk out those gates, or else.”

  At this the knight turned, and Johann glanced about the men to see they were as surprised as him.

  After all, despite their differences, the recruits, regulars and militia were all countrymen. They were the sons of civilized farmers and merchants, not bloody barbarian
s. Surely, they must have been thinking, this is an exaggeration.

  “I could be wrong, gentlemen. But I think not. And I for one would not take that chance.” The knight paused until all eyes asked the obvious.

  “So we will not wait. I wish we had more time, but you’ve come a long way in the past two weeks. Tomorrow we will gather our weapons and supplies, and together we will march through field and forest to the traitorous Duke Malory, who harbors these traitors on the king’s land even now. We will find their camp, attack them, and kill every man who doesn’t run, or surrender. And the next day you’ll be damned heroes. Agreed?”

  With a chorus of shouts, most of the men cheered.

  * * *

  That night, Johann settled himself for what he assumed was the last time at the Magister’s table. Lamorak seemed sullen, or perhaps lost in thought, his tabard and armor now removed, only a sweat-stained tunic in their stead. He pushed dry roast beef around his plate.

  “To the King, and his loyal servants.”

  Lord Tolly raised a cup, his perfunctory smile fooling no one since about day two of his ‘guest’s’ stay.

  “And to victory, and the king’s justice.”

  Lady Tolly covered her husband’s failing as usual, smile authentic and radiant. Johann felt his own lips turn without effort.

  Since it was the final night he permitted himself to see her long, black hair as it flowed, like a river in the moonlight, into the dark folds of her dress. He followed the neckline down to the bodice, then regained control. He raised his cup.

  “Our thanks, my lord, and lady. The men will do you proud, I have no doubt.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Lady Tolly’s eyes sparkled, and Johann wished, then scolded himself for wishing, that her radiance and luster were his. “And I expect you will as well, Mr. Planck. We’ve seen you marching and shooting with the men. A man of books, and a man of war. Most impressive, isn’t he husband?”

  “Yes, most impressive.”

  The magister quaffed his wine with the flick of a wrist, as if the conversation now bored him. Johann felt himself blush at the Lady’s praise, and then again as he noticed and despised himself.

  Lamorak’s fork bounced carelessly to the table.

  “You’ve doubled the guards as I asked? Another ring outside the fort?” It was the first time he’d spoken since he sat, and the magister’s face soured further.

  “Of course I did. You don’t need to ask me a thing twice once requested. And anyway I don’t see the point in the first…”

  “You don’t need to see, only obey.” Lamorak leaned forward, the knight of the past two weeks disappearing, replaced by something darker, crueler. “And Magister, if you fail, or if your men fail, or if I believe for one moment you’ve betrayed me or your king with something so benign even as momentary inaction, or failure to assist me with every shred of your power. One day I will return to Fort Tyne, and that will be a very unpleasant day for you indeed.”

  Without waiting for a response, Lamorak stood and half bowed towards the Lady. “Thank you for the food, and hospitality. The king will hear of House Tolly’s continued support.”

  She seemed both horrified, and relieved, and had the presence of mind and good grace to nod with only the required respect, so as not to offend her insulted husband.

  Johann chewed in hurried, awkward silence, avoiding all eye contact. He excused himself as soon as polite, walking gratefully, and in an exhausted shuffle, to his room.

  * * *

  That night he dreamt of his mother. He remembered wailing as she sent him away, their old and only servant having to forcibly carry him from their modest home on the coast of Etrea.

  “You must meet your father, and his kin. You look just like him, Yonny, he will accept you and help us, I am sure. Please go, and impress him, please, please, for me?”

  Still he’d fought, and only when he saw her tears and desperation had he quieted and gone. He hadn’t wanted to leave his friends, or his studies. And though he was old enough to know he was a bastard, and that his father was a foreigner and across the sea, he knew too that it was all his father’s fault for leaving.

  Adalard. His father, the stranger. According to the others he was just some lusty nobleman who’d had Johann’s mother and disappeared in the night. And whatever the truth, he had never once visited again. Even still his mother believed he cared.

  “I have written to tell him you’re coming, Yonny. But take this letter, and show him how you can read, and write, and how clever you are. Oh Yonny if he accepts you you’ll be taken care of, don’t you see? You’ll live in castle with servants and brothers and never want for anything ever again.”

  “But I don’t want to live in a castle.”

  She laughed, and by then they both knew he argued only out of petulance, and so she’d kissed his cheek and said ‘Be brave, my son, they will love you, as I do.’

  And so he’d ridden a horse until his skin broke and the man who took him only grunted and said ‘Stop yer fussin, boy. It ain’t far, then you’ll walk.’

  Until finally at the coast they loaded him and his single bag of clothes onto a galley with two masts. The sailors ignored him except to curse when he stood still at the loading ramp and nearly trampled underfoot, and the man who’d brought him only grunted again and walked away.

  “Where do I go in Keevland? Will someone meet me?”

  The horsemen who was maybe a messenger stopped and sneered, and spit. “I look like yer mother, boy?”

  No, Johann had thought, you most certainly do not. So he’d swallowed and held his arms out to balance as he climbed the boarding plank, trying to stay out of the way until finally a man grabbed him and pointed to a holding room filled with barrels. Johann climbed in and sat in what was to be his room, and wept.

  “Mr. Planck? Are you awake? Johann?”

  Darkness and the cool sound of rain on stone greeted his blinking eyes.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, yes? Who is it?”

  His door creaked and revealed a pale, feminine hand bathed in candlelight.

  “It’s…Lady Tolly. Celeste. May I?”

  Johann jerked upright at once and leaned against the headboard, mind still groggy and not much help. He gestured a welcome reflexively, but in fact saw no reason at all why she might come into his room alone.

  “Thank you.”

  She entered and closed the door, then came forward to sit on the bed. He realized with some mixture of fear and lust she wore only a thin, cotton dress that revealed her curves. Half her breasts were clear in outline.

  “You may look,” she said, after what seemed a very long wait, and stayed perfectly still.

  “I…Lady Tolly, this is, surely, most inappropriate, perhaps you should…if your husband…”

  “My husband does not care where I sleep, Mr. Planck. And if he knew I was here, and why, he would approve.”

  Johann stared and had no response to that. He remained motionless as ‘Celeste’ kicked off her slippers and slid forward down the bed.

  “His interests in the bedroom are more…masculine,” she explained, setting her candle on the nightstand. As she did Johann could see her hands were trembling.

  “Lady Tolly, regardless…” Johann felt almost betrayed by the instinctive need to deny whatever this was.

  “I am the last of my house, Mr. Planck.” Her voice tightened as she cut him off and met his eyes. She began to fumble at the strings on her bodice. “The very last of the house of Tolly. And without an heir, my family’s land and titles will be spread amongst a dozen lesser claimants, their name forever destroyed. I ask only for your help, and for your discretion. Please.”

  She took his hand. Her fingers were cold and clammy, but not unpleasant, and with a deep breath she pulled it forward and slipped it inside the fabric to rest against her warm, soft breast.

  “I…perhaps…I…Sir Lamorak, would be…”

  “If I wanted that brute I would be there now. I do not.”

&
nbsp; Johann swallowed and noticed he had not for one moment resisted her hand. He felt himself stirring at the feel and sight of her, at the look in her eyes.

  She released him and took the fabric of her dress, letting it drop to pool at her knees, body now entirely exposed.

  Johann stared and knew instantly he would submit. He had only ever lain with prostitutes. Each time he had endured the mockery as he inspected the girl’s genitals, terrified of one of the many carnal diseases that could destroy a man in body and mind. Each time had been short, rushed, and awkward. The girls had stunk like sweat and perfume and moaned as if they’d never been so ravished, and the ugliness of the masquerade nearly deflated him.

  Lady Tolly smelled like rosewater and soap. She had clearly just freshly bathed for this moment. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, pale as fresh cream save for the glow of yellow light, and her shy but resolved eagerness seemed to him as clear as day.

  When she came forward and kissed him, he did not resist. She stripped him and touched him everywhere, and when she finally lay him down she loved him, slowly, and deliberately, until his passion awoke more deeply and fiercely than he could ever have imagined.

  He woke her twice in the night, and each time she smiled and wrapped herself around him without hesitation, and each time was more magical than the last.

  When he finally lay down to sleep, utterly exhausted somewhere deep in his gut and mind, he stared at her face as if in a dream. He watched the gentle rising of her chest, thinking suddenly how strange and wonderful life was. And all thoughts of his poor mother, of his father’s rejection, and of his lonely childhood, vanished into the darkness.

  Chapter 6

  Celeste was gone when Lamorak kicked the door and growled.

  “Get up, and wake the men.”

  Johann grunted but stayed in bed long enough to smell her scent on his sheets, pillows and skin, then rose to the pre-dawn gloom. After brief hesitation he packed away his apprentice robes, setting aside the lighter and more comfortable uniform of a Fort Tyne Regular. He set his inks, quills and needles on top, wrapping them in the heavy fabric before finding space for books, drawings and his pistol.