“By yourself?” asked the more alert man. “With no cart?”
The other guard stared up into a tree and yawned. Perhaps he was bored, not tired.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Jak lied, “We’re too poor for a cart, good sirs.”
“Stop calling us that,” said the alert man. “We’re soldiers.”
The bored soldier spoke up, saying, “Speak for yourself, Holb.” He looked to Jak. “You may call me ‘sir.’”
Holb turned to companion and said, “As long as you are wearing that uniform, Footman Haynes, you will call me Corporal Holb. And no one will call you ‘sir’ or ‘my Lord’ or anything of the like. Do you understand?”
Footman Hayes glared at Corporal Holb for a long moment, the resentment in his eyes clear. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Understood.”
Corporal Holb continued staring at the soldier. After a moment, Footman Hayne’s eyes narrowed.
“Understood, Corporal.”
Nodding, Corporal Holb returned his attention to Jak.
“So, what are you buying in Smithshill?”
Jak smiled inwardly, recognizing that the soldier was trying to catch him in his lie.
“Not Smithshill. I am headed to Killis Post.”
“That is what you said, isn’t it?” asked Corporal Holb. He studied Jak’s dirty clothes, the sack he carried, and the packages strapped to his back. “What’s your name, friend?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jak said, “Edward. Edward Hardtak.” He had worked on the name for some time. He liked it.
“Fine, Edward Hardtak, I’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to accompany us back to camp.”
Jak bit down hard and put on a smile he did not feel. “Of course.”
Turning to the footman, Corporal Holb said, “You lead.”
Footman Haynes glared at the corporal, turned, and began walking back to camp.
Looking to Jak, the corporal said, “You next, Edward.”
Jak fell in behind Haynes, wondering what about his story had led the soldier to bring him into the soldiers’ camp. As they strode between the tents, Jak looked around as legitimate curiosity joined his uneasiness.
Every soldier was busy doing something.
Some were tending to the horses, checking hooves, rubbing them down, or feeding them sweet oats in cloth bags hooked over each beast’s head. A handful were skinning and dressing a deer, apparently planning to roast the animal. Two groups of soldiers walked the northern and southern rim of the large clearing. Jak eyed them, wondering for what reason they were patrolling. As there had been no war for over two centuries, the most likely threat the soldiers faced was a squirrel and rabbit invasion.
Hearing the repeated clang of metal, Jak looked over and spotted a dozen soldiers in the midst of practicing with their swords. He slowed his pace a bit, fascinated by the swordplay. He frowned when they fell out of view, hidden behind a line of tents.
Eventually, Corporal Holb moved past Jak and took the lead from his partner, snorting with impatience at Footman Hayne’s leisurely pace. He glanced at Jak as he passed. “Don’t try to run.”
Jak shook his head, happy to show that he, Edward Hardtak, was quite sensible and would never do such a thing.
Holb led them to a group of three men standing in front of a tent. As the trio was engaged in a quiet discussion, the corporal halted a dozen paces away and waited. Jak stood next to him and studied the three soldiers. The two younger men—probably not much older than Jak himself—held their helmets under their arms and listened with interest to everything the other was saying.
A couple inches over six feet, the third soldier had long, dark brown hair that was pulled back in a single bunch and held in place by a thick, red leather band. Like Ropert from the road, he had a thick growth of brown hair on his face that was bushy yet meticulously trimmed. Jak estimated him to be in his late thirties, perhaps older, yet young looking the way that some people are blessed. He was strong and stout, with wide shoulders filling his uniform better than the two younger men with whom he was speaking. The shoulders of his tabard each had a pair of white symbols sewn onto them: a square and a diamond.
Curious, Jak looked at Holb’s tabard and noticed a single white circle on each shoulder. Footman Haynes had nothing besides the sword and shield emblem of Duke Everett.
Not long after Jak had arrived, the bearded man dismissed the two younger men. They put on their helmets, turned east, and headed through the camp. Jak watched them go, envying them.
Corporal Holb muttered, “Let’s go, Edward.” The sarcastic twist he added to Jak’s false name was worrisome.
Keeping his grin wide, Jak replied, “Yes, sir.”
As the three strode forward, the bearded man turned toward them and looked Jak over, taking in every detail, scrutinizing and evaluating.
The few days’ growth of a pitiful, wispy beard.
The bow case.
The dirty work clothes.
The sweaty rag on his head.
The satchel and waterskin.
After a few moments, the bearded solider said, “Corporal.” The single, crisp word was a greeting, a question, and an order all in one.
“We spotted him coming from the west. Your orders were that any travelers that seemed out of the ordinary were to be brought to you. He says his name is Edward Hardtak.”
“Edward Hardtak, is it?” asked the man. His eyes ran over Jak a second time.
“Sir, yes, sir,” said Jak.
“Supposedly heading to Killis Post to get supplies,” added Corporal Holb.
Footman Haynes abruptly leaned forward and said, “This is a waste of time. He’s just another brainless farmer wandering the roads. Let him go so I can get something to eat.”
Standing beside Jak, Corporal Holb stiffened.
For the first time since Jak had arrived, the bearded man’s gaze left Jak, shifting to Haynes. The expression on his face changed in an instant, going from amused curiosity to a restrained tolerance. In a hard, direct tone, he ordered, “Return to your post, footman. You now get to eat after everyone else is done.”
“I’ll get the bottom of the pot!” protested the footman. “I can’t eat that crusty muck.”
“If you’re hungry enough, you will.”
Glaring at the bearded soldier, Footman Haynes muttered, “My father—”
The soldier took a quick step forward while finishing the footman’s sentence for him.
“Is not here, footman. I am.” Jerking his chin to indicate west, he added, “Go.” When the soldier did not move, the bearded man’s voice grew firmer still. “Now.”
Footman Haynes spun around and headed west, back to where he and Corporal Holb had been guarding the road into camp. As he skulked away, the corporal muttered something about a “useless, spoiled noble’s broodling.”
Throughout the exchange, Jak continued to smile widely, never letting on he was following along.
The bearded soldier’s gaze shifted back to Jak and immediately softened.
“So. A farmer running some errands for his father?”
Jak grinned even wider, committing to his lie. Nodding his head up and down, he said, “Yes, I am. Headed to Killis Post, just like Mr. Holb said here.”
The soldier’s gaze bored into him.
“Truly, son?”
Jak shifted from one foot to another, uneasy. The man’s eyes were picking him apart. “Truly, sir.”
Keeping his eyes on Jak, the sergeant asked, “Corporal, why don’t you tell me what bothers you about young farmer Hardtak here?”
Jak glanced at the corporal, wondering at his misfortune. The Red Sentinels he had seen in Smithshill and seemed lazy and uninterested. It seemed Jak had stumbled upon one of the few groups of capable soldiers in the duchy.
“Well, Sergeant,” began Corporal Holb. He stared at Jak, shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s just say that if he were a playman, he would not be a successful one.”
The
tiniest hint of a smile touched the sergeant’s lips. With a nod, he said, “Thank you, Amiles. You are dismissed. Go tell Lord Haynes’s son that I changed my mind about his assignment. I want him to do five sweeps of the northern glades. Then he can eat.”
Grinning, Corporal Holb said, “Goodness, Sergeant, it’ll be dark before he gets done.”
“A shame, isn’t it?” asked the sergeant. “Go, Amiles. I’d like to speak with young Edward for a moment.”
The corporal gave Jak one last look, turned, and headed west, following Hayne’s path. Jak watched him leave, wishing he were walking away, too. As he stared, the sergeant sighed.
“Perhaps I should promote Haynes to Holb’s position. I’d get the baron off my captain’s guard for a little while. What say you, Edward?”
Looking back to the sergeant Jak spoke without thinking. “Nine Hells, sir, that would be a mistake. Haynes is a cosseted lout. Corporal Holb is clearly the better soldier. Any man with half a brain can see that.”
As a wide, satisfied grin spread over the sergeant’s face, Jak realized he had been duped.
Dropping his head to stare at the ground, Jak muttered, “Wondrous job, Edward.” Approaching footsteps drew his attention back to the sergeant.
The soldier stopped several paces away and said, “Two things, son. First, call me Sergeant Trell or Master Sergeant. Not ‘sir.’ That title is reserved for men much wiser than I am. Or people like Haynes who happened to be born to the right parents and need to be reminded hourly how important they are.”
Jak smothered a grin.
“Second, you are sharper than you are letting on. End the show. Amiles said it perfectly: you are an absolutely awful playman. Should that be your true profession, I would kindly suggest a reevaluation of your life’s goals.”
Jak said with a smile, “I’ll take that under advisement, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Trell nodded. “Good. Now, Amiles Holb is a good soldier, a good soldier who follows my orders to the letter.” He fixed his stare on Jak. “But one look tells me you are no brigand, no danger to anyone traveling the Southern Road. Why you felt the need to try to swindle your way past us is your business, young man, not mine. I’m tasked with keeping the roads safe for travel, not free of atrocious playmen pretending to be farmers.”
Jak let out the giant sigh of relief. “Yes, Sergeant Trell. My apologies.”
The man continued to look long and hard at Jak. “What’s your real name, son?”
Jak considered giving him a new made-up name, but decided the man deserved the truth for treating him so honestly. Moreover, Jak was afraid the sergeant would see through his second fake name and rescind the pardon he seemed poised to grant. “Jak Isaac.”
“And from where do you hail, Jak?”
Jak sighed, “A village called Yellow Mud.”
“Well, Jak Isaac from Yellow Mud, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Stop by the cookfire and grab a bowl of whatever they’re serving tonight. Smells like rabbit stew to me. And take it from the top. Haynes was right; the bottom turns to sludge. Also, you are welcome to stay in the camp with us this evening. I heard wolves in the hills today.”
“Thank you,” replied Jak politely. “That is very agreeable of you. Both concerning the meal, as well the offer of a safe night’s sleep. While I welcome the former, I’m disinclined to accept the latter.”
Sergeant Trell cocked his head and smiled. After a moment, the smile bloomed into a quiet chuckle. “A yokel farmer, indeed.” Turning, he walked from Jak and toward a group of soldiers. Calling over his shoulder, he said, “Good days ahead, Jak Isaac.”
“Good memories behind, Sergeant Trell.”
Jak stood in place for a moment, full of relief mixed with chagrin. Since leaving the ruins of Yellow Mud, he had spoken at length to but two people and on both occasions he had shared his true name and that of his home. He considered asking the sergeant if he had some paint and a board so he could make a sign saying “Jak Isaac of Yellow Mud” to carry and save time.
With the immediate crisis averted, Jak’s stomach took the opportunity to remind him that he was hungry. Following the stew’s aroma through camp, he sought out the cook fire and his promised eveningmeal. He glanced at the sky and estimated he still had a little more daylight. Jak intended to take advantage of the light and head east, away from the camp. Sergeant Trell was a smart soul. Should anyone come from the west with tales of Yellow Mud’s fate, the soldier would certainly wish to speak with Jak at length. And that would keep him from catching up to Nikalys and Kenders.
Jak peered eastward, down the Southern Road, anxious to be on his way already.
He needed to find his brother and sister.
* * *
Ropert sat top his driver’s bench, staring into what he assumed had been the village of Yellow Mud.
“Gods…”
A small breeze stirred the still air around his cart, forcing Ropert to cover his mouth and stifle a gag as the stench of death filled his nose and throat. Both horses whinnied and pranced, as disturbed by the odor as he was.
He pulled on the reins, muttering through his hand, “Whoa, girls. Whoa…”
After one last glance at the destruction, he directed the wagon around and headed back down the road on which he had just come. When he had seen the sign for Yellow Mud on the side of the Southern Road, he made a snap decision. The yellowberries were still green. His delivery in Redstone could wait a day. If one of his own sons had run from home as young Jak had, Ropert would want to know he was safe, even if he was angry for the rash and sudden departure. He had turned down the way to Yellow Mud, hoping to find Jak’s father.
Now, he whipped the horses, driving them twice as fast as he had on the way to town. The wagon cart bounced and rattled. He knew he should slow down else risk a broken axel, but he wanted to put Yellow Mud far behind him.
He had to get to Redstone as quickly as possible. The Constables needed to know what he had seen here. Whatever heartless catastrophe happened back there, it seemed impossible to deny that magic had something to do with the devastation.
He snapped the reins harder and glanced over his shoulder. With a cautious eye, he studied the oaks and ashes around him. If there was a mage on the loose, it could be anywhere, perhaps still be lurking near the ruined village.
The image of the beaten-down Jak Isaac flashed through his head. Ropert prayed the young man had nothing to do with this. Jak had seemed so nice, yet had not mentioned anything about this.
Ropert shuddered and snapped the reins again, spurring the horses to fun faster.
Chapter 13: Trust
A chill was in the air, something wholly unexpected for a summer night in the Great Lakes Duchy. Shivering, Nikalys rose from the ground and shuffled to a small woodpile, intent on retrieving another log to add to the fire. As he started to bend over, a series of sharp pains shot up his back and neck. He stood upright immediately, wincing through a sharp intake of breath. Trying again, he ignored the pain, gathered a log, and dropped it on the fire, sending a flurry of glowing orange embers into the air.
A deep voice rumbled through the clearing, gently chastising him. “Be careful, uori. You are still recovering.”
Nikalys looked over at the giant man.
Broedi sat on the ground, smoking a long, white pipe, the first of its kind Nikalys had ever seen. The pipes used in Yellow Mud were short and wooden whose function trumped form. However, the ornate creation Broedi held was as much a work of art as it was a smoking-leaf pipe. Engravings of animals, leaves, and trees lined the sides of the pipe that, to Nikalys eye, appeared to be made of bone. Nikalys had tried to puzzle out to what type of animal it might have belonged, but he could not. He simply prayed it was from an animal.
“Why do you keep calling me that? Uori? I’ve told you twice: my name is Nikalys.”
The Shapechanger eyed him for a long moment before replying, “It is a word my kind uses. It means…” He hesitated a moment, pensive, before saying, “Y
oung one.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Nikalys said, “Your kind?”
“Yes. ‘My kind.’”
“And what ‘kind’ is that?”
The Shapechanger puffed on his bone pipe twice and then lifted his gaze to the night sky.
Nikalys waited for an answer, but knew none was forthcoming. Their savior was a man of maddeningly few words. He had pressed Broedi at length about a number of things, but the giant’s answers were always short and uninformative. Eventually, Nikalys had shut his mouth, stubbornly deciding he would match the man’s reticent silence.
Shaking his head, Nikalys moved back to where Kenders slept and—wincing again--sat beside her. After checking that she was sleeping peacefully, he laid his head back against an oak’s trunk and shut his eyes.
“Perhaps you should sleep more, uori.”
Nikalys opened his eyes and stared at Broedi. “Pardon?”
Pointing the bit of the bone pipe at him, Broedi said, “You should sleep.” He looked to Kenders, adding, “You will need it when she wakes. You have a long journey ahead of you.”
Nikalys’ eyebrows narrowed. “What would you know about that?”
Again, Broedi stared at Nikalys for a long moment before slipping the tip of the pipe between his teeth and returning to study of the stars.
Frustrated, Nikalys muttered, “Blasted know-everything.”
The words were quiet enough that Broedi should not have heard. Nevertheless, the Shapechanger glanced back at him, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly.
Nikalys seethed in silence. This was like every other exchange the pair had shared today.
When Nikalys had awakened earlier, Mu’s orb had already crossed halfway across the sky. The soft, green pinecone that Broedi had given him last night had turned into a mushy, gritty mess. After sitting up and spitting it out, Nikalys had smacked his lips and grimaced; his mouth had tasted like bad ale.
Glancing around the camp, Nikalys had found the giant man sitting in the same place he was now, staring quietly at him and Kenders. Broedi’s lone acknowledgement that Nikalys was awake had been a silent, stoic nod.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 11
