The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1)

by Brendan DuBois

  He stepped down and then they were forced into some sort of ragged line, and guards went down the line, counting off sixteen prisoners, and then leading them into an open boxcar. Armand looked around at Toronto, at the familiar buildings, at the Spire and the Coliseum. Everything seemed like he was looking at it through a thick fog. This could not be happening, he thought. Should not be happening. Sire Armand de la Cloutier, of Maison de la Couture, was not a traitor to the Empire or the Emperor. Should not be here, in prison garb, sent off in a boxcar to the oil sands out west, not even sixteen years old.

  He was seized, his shackles removed, and as he rubbed at his sore wrists, another push to his shoulders sent Armand walking to the nearest boxcar. Wide wooden steps were before him, and he stepped up into the dim interior of the boxcar. There was a stove in the center, straw on the floor, and wooden bunks around the walls. Armand kept on rubbing at his wrists, looked around at the other prisoners coming in, of all ages, shapes and sizes, and he wondered what to do, where to go, when --–

  “De la Cloutier! Armand de la Cloutier! Front and center!”

  His heart leapt at hearing those words. He wasn’t going! He wasn’t going to be exiled! Father had come to save him!

  Armand turned and shoved his way through some of the prisoners, went to the boxcar opening. “I’m de la Cloutier.”

  A guard with a shouldered carbine gestured to him. “Come here.”

  He clambered down the steps, feeling as light as air, his heart thumping with pleased excitement, thinking that Father had saved him, had gone against Mother. He was probably grounded for the rest of his life, or until he graduated from Service Academy. By then he was sure he was grinning, for the guard looked at him and said, “Well, I don’t know why you’re so goddamn happy but here, this was left for you. Strictly against regulations but I have a weakness for pretty young things.”

  ‘This’ was a small package, wrapped in brown paper, which Armand took. “Is… is that it?”

  The guard laughed. “No, there’s more. Get your ass back on the boxcar ‘fore I put you in one of the punishment cars. Back up you go!”

  He held the package in cold hands, went back up into the boxcar, as a guard came by, counted out who was in there. “Sixteen accounted for chief!”

  “Sixteen!” came the answering voice, and Armand stepped back as the door slid shut, clattering along its rails, and then a thump as it was locked. He held the package to his chest, and pushed against the other prisoners, to find some light from an overhead barred window. Armand tore open the brown paper, which revealed a wrapping of wax paper, which he removed. A scent of cinnamon struck him and he lifted the loaf of bread to his face, breathed in, thinking of his family’s kitchen.

  There was a sheet of parchment, which he next held up to the light, and a young girl’s handwriting.

  Older brother –

  Mother and Father and Michele refuse to say what has happened, but all I know is that it is something horrible. I had the cooks make this for you, knowing it is your favorite. I will think of you and pray for you every day, and I hope all will be well, and that you will come back to us soon.

  Your loving sister Jeannette

  P.S. Windsor Tom made sure I enclosed this as well. He said it would be a charm for you. But he’s very very sad and I don’t know why.

  At the bottom of the parchment, attached by a thick piece of tape, the coin Armand had gotten from Micah, during that ill-begotten tour of Potomick. He took the coin in his hand and almost threw it to the ground, but even in the dim light, he could make out the shape of Father Abram, he who had once freed all the slaves.

  Slaves, in whose ranks Armand now belonged.

  There was a whistle outside, a thump and jostle as the train began to move. There was laughter and some groans from the other prisoners, as they all realized their trip to exile had just begun.

  Armand clenched the coin tight and then slipped it into a pocket of his jumpsuit, and then, with the cinnamon bread clasped tight to his chest, he clambered up one wall of the bunks, looked out the barred window. He made out the buildings of Toronto, the city he had called home all his safe and pleasured life, and Armand watched until the billowing clouds of smoke from the train finally obscured his view, and he climbed back down to the floor of the boxcar, to the darkness.

  # # #

  Coming soon in the Summer of 2012, the sequel to “The Noble Warrior,” “ The Noble Prisoner”. The first chapter in Book Two of the Empire of the North series follows….

  The Noble Prisoner

  Empire of the North: Book Two

  By

  Brendan DuBois

  Chapter One

  Armand found a bunk, sat down. Something flickered and then electric bulbs at each end of the railcar lit up, bringing on laughter and sarcastic cheers. There were two rows of bunks on each side of the boxcar, one row consisting of twelve, the other of four. The bunks had stained mattresses filled with straw. Folded gray wool blankets were at the end.

  In the center of the boxcar was a woodstove, with a pipe that went through the wooden ceiling. At the other end of the car was a box with a toilet seat upon it, with a waist-high wooden fence for privacy. Next to that a metal barrel was bolted to the wall, with a spigot and water cup underneath it, hanging by a chain.

  Straw covered the floor of the boxcar, and he took in his fellow male passengers. Some were obviously old friends, for they sprawled out on the floor, gossiping. If they had any fear about being transported to the oil sands, they didn’t show it. The oldest seemed in his late sixties, with a few boys about Armand’s age, and a great spread in between.

  Somebody kicked Armand’s foot. Two young men were looking down at him, grinning, their smiles not friendly at all. They had on the same orange jumpsuits but while Armand felt out of place wearing his, these two looked like they had worn similar suits all their lives.

  “Yes?” Armand asked carefully.

  The one on the left, who had long black hair, slicked back into some sort of pompadour and who was chewing on a toothpick, said, “You’re sitting on my bunk.”

  Armand looked behind him, saw nothing there save the folded blanket. “I didn’t realize the bunks were assigned.”

  His friend, a skinny blond guy with acne-scarred skin, laughed. “Sure, they’re assigned. And we’re the ones assigning them. Bug out. This one’s ours.”

  There were two of them and one of him. Armand was tired and achy, so he got up and moved down a row, and was followed. “Sorry,” the one with the toothpick said. “This one belongs to a friend of ours. Move on.”

  Silently, Armand picked up his bread, started to climb up to another bunk. The skinny guy tugged at his jumpsuit. “Damn, man, can’t you see? That one’s occupied, too.”

  Armand turned around. The interior of the boxcar had gotten quiet. The rocking motion increased and he held onto one of the nearest bunk frames for support. “I see,” Armand said, looking at one and then the other, gauging, evaluating. “Well, let’s make this easier. There are sixteen bunks and sixteen of us. So which one is mine?”

  The skinny guy smirked. “None. We use the spare one to store our stuff, so you’ll have to sleep on the floor ‘til we get to the Oil Sands Authority.”

  Now the boxcar was really quiet, and Armand could sense the other men and boys looking over at this bit of drama. He quietly moved away and went back to his original bunk. Armand put his gift of bread down on the mattress and looked to the two young men.

  “This is my bunk,” Armand said. “Sorry if that disappoints you fellas.”

  The one with the toothpick came up to Armand and said, “I guess you didn’t hear, sonny, we get to tell people where they’re sitting, and –--“

  Armand stepped quickly into him, stomped on a foot, grabbed a wrist, twisted it, and tugged the guy towards him. With the flat of his right hand, Armand smacked him right into the nose. He howled and went to his knees, and the skinny guy was trying to get to Armand, but with hand s
till on the first guy’s wrist, Armand shoved him into his thin buddy. He took a fall into the straw and Armand gave a well-placed kick to his crotch, which made him yell out, too.

  Armand let go of the first guy, wiped his hands on his jumper, and loudly announced, “Anyone else got a problem with me being in this bunk?”

  Nobody said a word. The guy with the thick pompadour hair got up, weaving, hands to his bloody nose. “The name is Patterson Greg, and that’s my brother Paul, and you just screwed with the wrong people, buddy.”

  He folded his arms. “The name is Armand de la Cloutier, I’m not your buddy.”

  His skinny brother was on his feet, too, face red. “Oh. A precious noble. How sweet. What are you here for? Wanking off in the emperor’s bathroom?”

  “No,” Armand said sharply. “Treason. Sentenced to life. And I don’t care what you think. Now leave me alone.”

  They shuffled off, cursing and muttering. Armand stretched out on his bunk, trembles beginning, aches hurting more. He took the cinnamon bread and put it on his chest, breathed in deeply. A bit of home that wouldn’t last long, but at least there were other bits of home that were coming in handy. Mother had never approved of Armand taking self-defense courses, but Father had insisted on him receiving the training. “The boy needs to be toughened if he’s going to be a man,” he had said. “And I want him to be tough.”

  Some tough. Armand rolled over in the bunk, blinking through some tears, thinking of Father, and how he had let him be betrayed like this. How could he have done that… and how could he have let Windsor Senior be executed?

  What had gone on back at home?

  And who had done this to him? And why?

  Armand woke up to a touch on his shoulder and sat up quickly, thinking, fool, the two brothers are back here, ready to hurt you, and --–

  A boy about his age, squatting down, wearing the same bright orange jumpsuit. “Sorry to wake you,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  Armand moved out of the lower bunk, letting his legs touch the floor. The Patterson brothers were on the other side of the boxcar, do their best to ignore him. Armand coughed “Doing all right, I guess.”

  The boy had pale, splotchy skin, dark blue eyes sunken in his smooth face. “The name is Tompkins Earl. Fellow traitor, I suppose. But my sentence… just five years. Not life. You must have done something exceptionally horrible.”

  “You would think,” Armand said. He looked to the Patterson brothers. “What are they doing here?”

  “Those two fools? Counterfeiting. Oh, they’ve done many other things in their short and stupid lives, from burglary to assault… but those crimes don’t get you exiled to the Oil Sands Authority. Crimes against the Emperor are what does that, and counterfeiting the Emperor’s own sovereigns and bank notes, that will do it as well.”

  “How come you know so much about them?”

  Tompkins grimaced, stood up. “My inquisitive nature, I suppose. I like to learn who my fellow mates are. That’s what a schoolteacher is set to do, you know. Even a student teacher like myself. Ask questions. Supply possible answers. Tell your younger charges the ways of learning things, from knowledge you gained from your uncle, also a teacher. Until, of course, you smack up against one of the biggest rules in our little empire. Never, ever, question the basis of our society. For then society will turn upon you.”

  “Like the Patterson brothers?”

  His grimace turned into a smile. Armand decided he liked the young boy. “You did well, beating back their bullying nature. But be careful. You’re going to need friends here, young sire, and you’re the only person of noble blood in this car. If you were to have an accident between here and our arrival in Manitoba, many witnesses will testify that your death was an accident. Do you understand?”

  Armand did, wondering if he had overreacted by taking on the Patterson brothers.. Then he decided it was too late to worry about it. He brought forth his bread, unwrapped it and offered the student teacher a slice. “I do understand. And are you hungry, Tompkins?”

  “Always,” Tompkins said, and he took the bread and within seconds, it was gone, and his eyes were staring at Armand with such sad intensity, he passed over another slice. Tompkins nodded his thanks. “If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll take the bunk above you, young sire.”

  “That would be fine,” Armand replied, and that’s how he gained a bunkmate on his trip west to exile.

  After some hours of traveling the train started slowing down. Armand had been slumped up against a corner of the boxcar, letting everything that had happened to him in the past few days --– from his arrest to the beatings to the betrayal from Mother to the death of Martel --– run through his mind like a short horror film, running over and over again. When the train shuddered to a halt Tompkins Earl squatted on the floor in front of him.

  “I thought the trip lasted about two days,” Armand said.

  “It does,” Tompkins replied. “We’re probably just making a watering stop. If we’re lucky, we’ll also get something to eat.”

  They waited. The Patterson brothers were slumped up against the far wall, still ignoring him, which was just fine. Then there was a burst of light, as the boxcar’s door was rattled back. Two guards were there. “Watering break! Come on out, but anyone who moves more than two meters from the rails will be shot.”

  Armand started to move and Tompkins grabbed his left arm. “Hold on. Let the eager ones go off first. Less chance for you to have an accident coming out. Besides, you’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That wonderful bread you shared with me. Don’t leave it behind, unless you mean it as a gift for your bunkmates.”

  “Oh.” Armand grabbed what was left of the bread, unzipped his jumpsuit and put it inside, and zipped it back up. He walked over to the open door, blinking against the bright light, and lowered himself to the ground. His bunkmates were about him, talking, one or two smoking a smuggled cigarette, and a couple with their pants about their ankles, making water against the ground. There was the huffing of the locomotive and Armand saw a tower with a siphon system pumping water into the train’s tank. The rail lines extended in both directions, surrounded by the flat, empty grassland that just seemed to stretch out forever to the horizon.

  Tompkins stood next to him, rubbed his hands. “The greatness of our empire, eh?”

  “It’s so empty,” Armand said, his voice nearly a whisper.

  “This is just the beginning,” Tompkins said. “For klicks and klicks, this is what our empire is mostly made of. Empty space, filled with empty promises.”

  Two guards approached them, carbines over their shoulders. One pointed to Armand and then Tompkins. “You two look strong enough. Follow us.”

  “What for?” Armand automatically said, and Tompkins slapped the back of his head. The first guard said sharply, “What did you say?”

  “Not a thing, monsieur,” Tompkins said. “Not a thing.”

  Rubbing at the back of his head, Armand followed the guards to the rear of the train, where another boxcar was open. Steam and smoke billowed out from chimneys on top of the boxcar, and Armand smelled something cooking. He joined Tompkins in a short line of other prisoners.

  He poked Tompkins with a finger. “Why the hell did you hit me like that?”

  Tompkins said crossly, “You want to eat tonight, right?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Of course I do.”

  “The guards decide who eats, and who doesn’t,” he said, arms crossed. “You anger one of the guards, then the kitchen doesn’t have enough for the night, and you and your bunkmates go to bed hungry. At the bed check next morning, the guards find you’ve broken your neck, trying to use the latrine. Do you understand now?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Armand said, feeling embarrassed.

  He lowered his voice. “Then listen well, young sire, as a young teacher to an equally young student: you’re no longer a me
mber of the nobility. You’re one of us, a prisoner. You can’t walk out and leave your belongings on a bunk, thinking it will be there when you return. You can’t count on being deferred to because of your last name, or because of who your father is. And you can’t question the guards. You do what you’re told, and you do it well, or you’ll be punished. Despite your last name. Do you know what I mean?”

  Armand stepped forward as the line moved towards the open boxcar. “Yes, I do.”

  Tompkins gently patted him on the shoulder. “No, you don’t but you will. I promise you, that you will. In time.”

  Armand suddenly felt very tired. “That’s all I have, Tompkins. Plenty of time.”

  At the boxcar a cauldron of soup and a collection of metal dishes and spoons were given to them. A heavyset kitchen worker, his apron stained brown and red, said in a dreary voice, “Dinner for the night. You get sixteen bowls and sixteen spoons. Come back with sixteen bowls and sixteen spoons, or you’ll get nothing tomorrow.”

  There were handles on the cauldron, and they slowly made their way back to their own boxcar, carrying the bundles of bowls and spoons in their free hands. Armand and Tompkins lowered the cauldron to the ground and they passed out the spoons and bowls, and started ladling. The soup was thick with vegetables and a few chunks of meat.

  One of their mates said, “Watch how you’re ladling that slop. I saw you give more to that first guy.”

  Tompkins said, “I taught history, math and geometry before I was arrested. I know how to measure volume. Everyone’s getting a fair share. Shut up and eat.”

  When it came to the end, there was just enough for he and Tompkins, so they ate in the shadow of the open boxcar, legs stretched out, watching the setting sun. One of the guards came by and kicked at their feet. “Five more minutes, and then we leave. So hurry up and bring that crap back to the kitchen car.”