The Defender of Rebel Falls: A Medieval Science Fiction Adventure (The William Whitehall Adventures Book 1)

by Christensen, Erik

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t succeed. You might overpower the Guards by surprise, but someone is bound to get a message to Faywater Port. They’ll send a whole company of Guards to take back the town, and you’ll either be captured or killed, or at best you’ll escape. Not only won’t you have the town anymore, but you’ll be chased and eventually captured. Worse, your secret will be out.”

  “So capturing Marshland makes no sense. Which means I must be stupid, correct?”

  “But you aren’t. At least you don’t seem that way to me.”

  Antony raised an eyebrow. “Flattery? Don’t even try.”

  “No, that’s not it. I’ve met smart people, and I’ve met stupid people. You aren’t stupid.”

  “Correct. I am not stupid. So far you are doing quite well, I must commend you. But now we come to the tricky part. If I am not stupid, why would I make such a drastic mistake as to attack a town I can’t possibly hold?”

  Antony clearly enjoyed testing William. William wasn’t eager to gratify him, but he had to learn what was going on here, and Antony wasn’t about to spell it out for him. He was sure of only a few facts, and fairly certain about most of the rest. An old rule about puzzles popped into his head: if the reasoning is correct, but the conclusion is wrong, then at least one assumption must be incorrect. Fine, he thought. What am I assuming?

  First, that they were rebels. But Antony had admitted it, so William ruled that out. He had also assumed they intended to take and hold Marshland Crossing; maybe they only wanted to loot it. True, they had robbed the outlying areas for a long time now, but maybe they found it too slow and desired a bigger haul.

  Of course, he only assumed Marshland Crossing was the target. Maybe the real target was Faywater Port. It would be a hard town to capture, spread over several islands and strands throughout the river delta, but a rescuing army would take weeks to muster from the small towns. Help from Ibyca might be even longer in arriving with fewer ships sailing. But such a plan didn’t seem realistic. What if—

  The answer crashed into William’s brain with enough force to stagger him. He reached for something to hold on to, but found nothing, keeping his feet through sheer force of will. His faulty assumption was that this was the only rebel camp, and Marshland the only target. In fact, they had many camps, poised to attack several major towns and cities at once. The important question was when—but he needed to know something else. “Why?” he asked, unable to hide the disgust welling inside him.

  Antony laughed. “Well done! Finn, that’s the fastest anyone’s figured it out, isn’t it?”

  Finn nodded. “Pure iron, Boss. Just like I said.”

  “I don’t trust him, Boss,” said the younger man. “He’s an Earl’s man, I can tell.” William turned, and was met by a look of pure anger.

  “Young Finn here doesn’t seem to trust you, Whitehall.”

  “Young Finn?” asked William. “Then he’s his son?”

  “No, they aren’t related. That’s Ray Findlay,” said Antony, pointing at the older man. “This lad is Finbar Delroy. For reasons surpassing understanding they are both called Finn.”

  Delroy? Could he be Farmer Delroy’s son? He would be about the same age, for sure. If it was him, he would have reason to hate anyone associated with Earl Masterman. No wonder he spoke out against me, thought William. But he needed to focus on Antony now.

  “Why do you want to overthrow the King?” he asked. “Do you plan to take the throne yourself? You know the Dukes will never stand for it.”

  “Not me, no. And if the Dukes have a problem with it, they can share the King’s fate. No, my motive is not personal glory.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Whitehall, has it occurred to you that the current system of government is broken?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Barons are nothing more than men who learned to please an Earl, or their firstborns. Earls are appointed by Dukes who inherit their positions from fathers who got them by the King’s favor, in return for supporting the King’s claim to the throne. Meanwhile men and women of ability—second borns, third borns, commoners—feed on scraps from the manor table. Meanwhile the Kingdom declines, slowly enough that no one notices, but decline it does. And no one has courage to stop it.”

  “Except you,” said William, unable to hide his sarcasm.

  “Except me, and others like myself. The men and women in this camp have grievances against the Earl, or whichever Baron whose shadow they once lived under. Those who lead them are chosen by the man who will replace Duncan the Coward when the time comes.”

  “How dare you call him that…” William’s hand reached for his sword. When it came back empty he simply glared at his captor.

  “More of a King’s man than an Earl’s man, I see. So your complaint is not with the King, but with the Earl.”

  “The Earl does what he does for the good of the town,” said William.

  “The Earl does what’s good for himself!” said the younger Finn. The older Finn grabbed his arm to hold him back from William.

  “Really, Whitehall,” said Antony. “Smart, yes, but you’re quite naive, aren’t you?” Antony tapped his dagger against his knuckles. “Very well. I’ll leave you in the hands of the two Finns. Perhaps they can convince you.”

  “A smart lad like you should see you’ve got no choice,” said the older Finn as he led William back to the shack. “The Boss has only three things he can do with you.”

  “Which are?” asked William.

  “Recruit you, ransom you, or kill you,” said the Keeper, counting the options on his fingers. “And you aren’t worth much ransom. So it’s up to us to convince you. Have a seat while young Finn ties your hands, and we’ll start the persuading.”

  The younger Finn tied his hands much tighter than the older one had, and he was not gentle about the business. The young man’s hostility was evident, but William could not understand why it was directed toward him.

  “So,” said the older Finn as he sat on a stool in front of William. “What questions do you have? We’ll answer anything we can to help you decide to throw your lot in with us.”

  William swallowed hard. The older man genuinely wanted William to convert, but the younger man’s eyes spoke of vengeance instead. He had to find out what fueled that hatred.

  “What’s his story?” William asked in a low voice as the younger man pulled another stool from the storage pile.

  The Keeper laughed. “What, you don’t want to hear my story first? No, my tale’s not worth telling, really. Work was hard to find, at least not the kind of work I wanted to do. I have a good spot here with the Boss, that ain’t no lie. Delroy, quit dallying and bring that stool here. Our guest is curious about you.”

  “Why should he care? He’s had a soft life.” The young man slammed the stool to the floor before sitting.

  “Just you never mind what kind of life he’s had. Tell him about yours. Remember, the Boss wants this one.”

  “The Boss is wrong.”

  “So you’ve said, but the Boss disagrees with you, and so do I.”

  The younger man glowered at his senior partner before turning to William. “You’ve never been hungry, have you?”

  “I’ve missed dinner a few times, but other than that—”

  “Listen to him! Missed dinner, he says. You have no idea what it’s like to be really hungry, do you? To starve. My family spent whole winters with nothing but a few rotten onions and a handful of oats every week. We’d go days without a scrap of food passing our lips, and you talk about missing dinner.” He was animated now, enough that William feared he might lash out at him. But his face changed, and he stared into an unseen distance. “It could have been better,” he said in a quiet voice. “It should have been. My father is a good farmer, he’s been working on the Earl’s land since he could walk. We had land to work as long as I can remember, but something always went bad for us. Harvests came up short, less tha
n what my dad knew we should reap, but we could never prove a thing. A prime lot would be given to another farmer, usually someone new. It got harder and harder to grow enough to eat, let alone pay the rent, and the rent never dropped even though we had less and less good land to work. Meanwhile, the Earl and his friends got richer and richer…”

  Delroy seemed to have forgotten William. He went on as though speaking to himself. “Five children we were…I was the oldest, and another was on the way. Times were hard, but we had reason to hope for a good crop, and the sheep were healthy. We thought we might finally have a comfortable winter, but then three sheep went missing. Dad knew who it was, too. He found them on a new tenant’s field, my dad’s brand burned over by the newcomer’s. Dad complained to the Earl, but the Earl ruled in the new man’s favor. What could we do?”

  “You could appeal to the Duke,” said William.

  Delroy whirled to face him. “What good would it do? Even if one of us could be spared to walk all the way to Faywater Port, would the Duke himself ride back with us? Not for the likes of me, you can be sure. Even if he sent a letter back overruling the Earl, it would be too late. Those sheep were dead within a week, served up on the Earl’s table, you can count on it. Later, I found out who that new tenant was: a second son of a Baron under Bradford’s thumb, making a living robbing honest farmers and giving the Earl a cut.”

  William had no answer. He had no proof for or against the story, but knew in his bones it had to be true. Earl Bradford had earned notoriety as a greedy man, but William hadn’t realized the extent to which the town’s supposed protector went to stuff his coffers. To cheat starving people of their only source of livelihood…that was low. “Your father is Morgan Delroy?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Finbar, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know him?”

  “I’ve worked his harvest every summer for years.”

  “I thought I knew you,” he said. His face darkened. “If you had anything to do with our harvests going missing—”

  “Not on my life,” said William. “Stealing is not my way, nor would I keep silent if I saw anyone who did.”

  Delroy glared at William for a moment. “I don’t believe you. You helped steal our crops, and Bradford gave you a soft job in return. Admit it.”

  The Keeper broke in. “Now, Finn, don’t go jumping to conclusions. Nothing will get those crops back now. Let’s give the man a chance to decide which side he’s on.” He shifted his gaze to William. “You’ve heard his story, and I could tell you a couple dozen more from folks in this here camp. Every other camp has a bunch more. Are you still sure about your Earl now?”

  William swallowed hard. “I’ve never had any great love for the Earl, but the Duke is a good man.”

  “That he is, but he is a rare one. And he’s guilty by association, as they say. A good man fights evil, else his goodness is for nothing. You’re either with us, or against us. Which is it?”

  Nothing William could say would improve his chances. He didn’t dare admit he knew the truth about his father being killed by these rebels, or else they would know he would never join, and would probably kill him right away. He couldn’t tell Delroy about the baby’s demise; he would surely ignore the elder Finn and take William’s life here and now. And he couldn’t join, or even pretend to join the rebels. They would be watching him, and anyone with half an excuse to end his life would do so without hesitation. No, better to let them believe he might change his mind later, and submit now to whatever “motivation” Antony might think fit.

  It was Oz and his gang all over again. The intimidation, insinuations, and insults, all with the threat of violence lurking in the background, silent but powerful, like a concealed panther waiting to strike from above. His heart raced, pounding so hard that it blurred his vision. “I don’t know…” he muttered, hoping it was convincing.

  The beating was savage. They pummeled his battered ribs without mercy, making it impossible to inhale and brace himself for the blows that followed. They avoided his head on Findlay’s orders, because, as he put it, “the Boss wants him to keep his wits.” When he shielded his ribs, they switched to his legs; it was impossible to block all the blows raining down on him.

  It was surreal in a sense, as Findlay constantly gave his young student lessons on how to extract the most pain with the least damage. It was a cold and calculating voice that said, “This here is bamboo.” Findlay held up his beating stick. “From down south. You’ll agree it’s perfect for the job. Enough weight to make a decent impact, light enough to swing hard.” He struck William’s chest with a solid thud to demonstrate. “Same stuff this shack is made of, and the Boss’s quarters too. Very useful.”

  It went on for three days. It became a waiting game, where William would delay his final decision, and the two Finns would exact a painful toll to force William to declare his allegiance. They let him rest between sessions, at least as well as he could while lashed to the pole. They gave him plenty of water, but no food. When they returned the questions were always the same: “Are you with us or against us?” Each time he answered without commitment, saying he couldn’t disappoint his mother, or his own boss. When he refused to choose, the beating would resume, and William did his best to withstand it. He tried to concentrate on other things, like his friends, whom he hoped had gotten away; or Melissa, who once again was torn from him before he had a chance…

  Most often he focused on the shield in the shadows only a few steps away, out of sight. He didn’t need to see it, though; the vision of the white fist glowed in his mind, and sometimes he barely felt the sticks on his battered flesh.

  Bruises covered his body, and he could hardly move when they left him alone. For that matter he barely moved when they were there; it hurt more than being hit now. His muscles felt like they had been beaten to a jelly that would never take useful form again. It occurred to him that this was exactly what he had feared all those times Oz and his friends tormented him. They would never have been this thorough, though. With his mind fixated on the white fist, he realized even this didn’t match his worst fears. Physical violence could only hurt him so much. True, it did hurt—a lot. But the fear had been worse in a way. He chuckled at how ridiculous it was to submit to those whose only goal was just that. If they wanted to kill him, they would have done so instead of tormenting him. It was a simple formula, but one he had accepted willingly. And it was funny to him now, even now with the possibility of death hanging over his head.

  He laughed out loud, unable to contain the feeling of freedom that accompanied his realization that he could never again be manipulated by fear. Even the agony of his ribs couldn’t stop his convulsive laughter. He didn’t notice when the blows stopped. The Keeper said in a voice that sounded miles away, “He’s lost it. Let’s go tell the Boss.”

  They left him alone for at least three days. It may have been more, but William didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. Food and water were brought daily by either of the two Finns, but neither one spoke other than to instruct him to stand, sit, or relieve himself. The wait was agonizing. Not just because of his injuries, which were extensive, but also because he didn’t know what would happen next, or when. His only consolation was that every day that went by was a day closer to a possible rescue. Not that he held much hope for it.

  Had his captors freed him, he would not have gotten far. He couldn’t walk, let alone find food or shelter, or defend himself. The ropes binding his hands were superfluous, and served only to prevent him from finding a less painful position.

  The morning was warm and smelt of spring when Findlay fetched him. The Keeper’s friendly banter was gone now, and William suspected Findlay had suffered for William’s resistance. About thirty rebels filled the courtyard outside Antony’s quarters, and Antony himself stood on the step overlooking the crowd. William was brought to stand in front of him, the camp’s inhabitants surrounding him.

  “Whitehall, you’ve delayed enough. I’m an honorable man, so
I will give you one more opportunity. I told you before I have only two options: the other is to have you killed to prevent you from giving away any information about us. As your friends have eluded capture, I am forced to break camp before your Earl sends men to find us; I have no doubt we could defeat any group he sends, but it is not in our interest to confront them yet. So, once again, I invite you to become one of us, and swear an oath that both of us know you would not fail to keep.”

  William hesitated only a moment. He had to answer without looking weak. He had one weapon, and Antony’s pride was its target. If he hit his mark, he might have a chance. Taking as deep a breath as he could without wincing, he answered in the clearest and loudest voice he could manage. “Kaleb Antony, you are an outlaw and a rebel. You claim your cause is just, but you have killed innocent people and would kill more to achieve your supposedly noble goals. If I cannot die at the hands of an honorable man, then I will die at yours.”

  Antony’s face distorted in rage at William’s insult. The crowd murmured behind him, and the few men in the corner of William’s eye looked between him and Antony, watching for their boss’s response. William could not help but smile at the effect he had made on him, and his smile angered Antony more. “Who are you to call me dishonorable?” asked Antony as he dismounted from the step and circled William. “What sort of claim to honor do you hold that you pass judgment on me?”

  “I have the same right as you, as any person, to judge another by his actions.” William was gaining confidence now, and pushed on. “Do you know what I saw when I looked at you?”

  Antony spat on the ground. “I don’t care what you saw.”

  “Of course you don’t.” William shrugged, hiding the pain as he did so. “Only an honorable man would.”

  Antony stopped in his tracks. “Very well. I won’t have it said that I had a man killed without letting him have his last words. What is it that you saw, oh Master Bookworm?” Antony bowed in William’s direction, resorting to sarcasm to win his men back.