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

by Christensen, Erik

  “I see a man who would order someone else to kill an unarmed, injured adversary, rather than face him in honest combat.” His trap was set. The rebel Captain looked around him, and saw the looks of expectation on the faces of his followers, and there was no way out.

  He leaned forward and whispered to William alone. “So that’s your game. You are either a better swordsman than I thought, or else you have miscalculated.” He returned to the step and addressed the camp. “What will it be boys and girls? Do we gut him here and now, or shall we have a fight?”

  It was a clever ploy, designed to rouse his men. They cheered, yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Despite Antony’s smug satisfaction, William felt relieved. His captor couldn’t back out now, no matter what happened. And William intended to control what happened next.

  Antony whipped his sword from its scabbard with dramatic effect to the cheers of his followers. He began to loosen up, his blade slicing the air so quickly William heard it sing from where he stood. “Bring a sword from the armory,” Antony said, sending two men scurrying to the shack. This was the moment.

  “Kaleb Antony, you disappoint me,” said William, loud enough for everyone in the camp to hear. All cheering stopped as heads swung to look at him. Even the two men running for the sword stopped. Antony’s arm froze mid-chop and slowly fell to his side.

  “What did you say?” asked Antony through clenched teeth. It was intended just for him, but the men nearest him heard it too.

  “I said you disappoint me,” said William loudly.

  “You wanted a fight, and you’re getting it. What’s your problem now?” asked the rebel.

  “No honorable man would fight an injured and starved prisoner and call it fair. Especially when those injuries came at his own orders.”

  A few gasps broke the silence that followed. The trap was shut, and he saw Antony realized it too. He couldn’t fight today, nor could he back out. William had won another delay.

  Antony neither fought the inevitable nor wallowed in defeat. “Three days,” he said. “You will take my quarters, where you will be held without bonds. You will eat what I eat, more if we can spare it. You will be given a sword to practice with, not that it will do you any good. I trust this satisfies your sense of honor?” Antony spat out the last word like poison.

  “I will do my best to recover and give you a worthy fight.”

  Marshall Ibycus was quoted as saying that the greatest stroke of luck the Colonists had was the distinct lack of lawyers among their numbers. This, he claimed, had freed them of the burden of statutes and legal precedents that no longer served their needs. A rudimentary code of law was developed by an elected council, judges were appointed, and systems created for both criminal and civil courts.

  These systems survived the Change, though they are now administered by nobility rather than appointees, and issues of jurisdiction and appeal are far more convoluted than in days past.

  Planet of Hope: A History of Esperanza

  Three days of rest did limited good. William’s ribs healed enough that he could breathe with almost no pain, even swing a sword, but they would sustain little in the way of a direct hit without crippling him. This mattered not at all to William, who expected death by bleeding rather than battering. But he could move. Three days of exercise had loosened his joints, healed the worst of his bruises, and boosted his stamina. Most importantly, he was no longer starving.

  Still, it was a lost cause. No rescue party had come to save him. He had delayed as much as he could, but ten days had passed since his capture, and Antony intended to strike camp as soon as the duel ended. The rebels had packed their few belongings, and the tents had been folded for transport to their next location. Only Antony’s quarters and the shack in which William had been held still stood. The courtyard was wide open now, giving the two combatants an unobstructed arena in which to fight.

  “This will be a slaughter, Whitehall,” said Antony as he led William from his temporary billing. “You’ve embarrassed me in front of my men, and because of it you have lost the right to a clean execution.”

  “Since we both know this is an execution, I have the right to say my last words,” said William.

  “If you insist, but make it quick. I won’t be delayed any longer.”

  “Of course.”

  Antony addressed his followers from the step as they circled around him. “The prisoner will now give his last words, but before he does, I make this final offer before you all as witnesses. Whitehall, you have proven to have wits about you, and you are as brave as they come. I can always use another good man, and it would pay back the fact that because of you, we must now relocate. As I said, you have proven your fighting skills, but you stand no chance against me, and we both know it. Do the smart thing. Join us and fight for a better world.”

  Antony relinquished the step to William. The camp’s inhabitants stared back at him, eager to hear him speak. “People of this rebellion,” said William. “I know some of you are here because you believe you are fighting against injustice. Yes, injustices happen, and they should be opposed. But not like this. You heard Kaleb Antony tell me my cause is pointless, that I will lose. He is right. But I ask you, is your cause any less pointless? Do you stand a chance against the well-armed and well-fed men of the King’s Guard? Or will you waste your lives living like this, moving from camp to camp without end? Your only hope is to sneak out one night and make your way to some small town where you can find work and live in peace.” A few faces stared back in defiance, but others cast their gazes downward, refusing to meet his gaze. Perhaps he had at least helped diminish the rebellion’s numbers.

  “Wrap it up, Whitehall,” Antony said with a growl.

  “Since I cannot leave, I choose to die now in open confrontation, though I know my enemy is stronger. Better this than to linger in doubt forever.”

  “Bring the weapons,” said Antony, ending William’s speech.

  Two men approached, one bearing Antony’s massive iron blade and thick wooden shield. The other carried a bent and badly-notched bronze blade and a shield no thicker than tree bark. William laughed at the equipment being offered and let the man stand there holding it. “Do you really seek such an advantage, Antony?” asked William, making sure the whole camp heard. “You can’t be that afraid of me.”

  Antony’s face turned so red William thought the man might have a stroke. “What now?”

  “This sword is a piece of junk, and you know it. This shield won’t stop the wind, let alone a heavy blade such as yours.”

  “Don’t expect me to give up my sword and shield to benefit you. As you’ve said, we aren’t well-armed. You’ve got the best of what I have to offer.”

  “What about my sword? The one I arrived with.”

  Antony looked genuinely puzzled. He turned and yelled. “Finn!”

  “Yes, Boss,” said the older Finn.

  “You never mentioned a sword,” Antony said, glaring at the Keeper.

  Finn swallowed hard. “I won it fair in combat, sir.”

  “What’s the rule about captives?” asked Antony.

  Sweat beaded on Finn’s forehead. “Report all confiscated property, sir.”

  “I’ll deal with you later, but right now I want you to get that sword and hand it to Whitehall.”

  Finn returned, his face glowing beet red and murder smoldering in his eyes. As he handed the sword to William he whispered, “If you get lucky and live through this, don’t count on surviving long.”

  “That’s quite a sword, Whitehall,” said Antony. “Are you truly a Librarian? Perhaps I didn’t give you enough credit.”

  “My shield, too please,” said William.

  Antony sighed. “Finn, his shield if you please.”

  Finn raised his hands in protest. “Honest, Boss, his shield was broken when we captured him. It’s the one with the lantern painted on it.”

  “Yes, that’s right; I remember,” said Antony. “It certainly was pretty. But are you s
ure you want to fight with a broken shield?”

  “Not that one,” said William. “My father’s shield. The one with the white fist.”

  Silence gripped the campsite. A look of understanding passed between the two combatants. “You never had any intention of joining us, did you?” asked Antony quietly.

  “No, I did not,” said William.

  “That shield belongs to us now,” said Antony, raising his voice for the others to hear. “Won in combat as Finn says. And it never did belong to you.”

  “Very well,” said William. He seized the offered shield and threw it on the fire pit. “I’m ready.”

  Antony rolled his eyes and unstrapped his own shield. “Whitehall, if I wasn’t about to kill you, I swear you’d be the death of me.”

  “A pity we’ll never know for sure,” William said as they walked toward the center of the clearing.

  “If you change your mind…yield, and I won’t kill you.”

  “You actually believe I could forgive you?” asked William.

  Antony paused. “Your father…I’m sorry about that. I truly am. Your mother, is she still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could have a message sent. Any last words you’d like to send her?”

  William faced the rebel Captain and readied himself for the battle. “Just one message.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell her I died standing up to a bully.”

  It was one insult too many. Antony stabbed at William’s chest, and William parried it with ease. Antony slashed low, glanced off William’s block and aimed for the head. William ducked under it and felt a rib digging where it shouldn’t. Refusing to stay on the defensive, William sliced at Antony’s arms, hoping his longer sword would give him enough of a reach advantage that he could nick away at his opponent without leaving himself open. Antony dodged everything without so much as breaking a sweat.

  Antony was toying with him. The older man was more experienced and in better shape, and where William might be faster with his lighter sword, Antony was stronger. William’s arms vibrated with each heavy stroke that he blocked; if even one blow breached his defenses the fight would be over. He needed to even the odds.

  The morning sun hung low above the trees. An idea popped into William’s mind. He maneuvered with each block and thrust to put the sun at his back and in Antony’s eyes. As expected, Antony moved to prevent it. They crept eastward, the crowd around them moving to compensate. They drifted into rougher ground outside the courtyard, and William prepared for his final move. He faked a last attempt to win the better position, and changed stance at the last moment to take advantage of Antony’s countermove—but Antony was ready. With a twist and a spin, Antony took the coveted sun-ward position, and with it the initiative.

  William barely survived the flurry of blows that followed, and found himself backing up. He was living a swordsman’s worst nightmare: the sun in his eyes, retreating over rough terrain. When he tripped, he fell hard, smacking his head on the ground. Dazed, he waited for the inevitable final blow.

  It never came. The men and women intent on the fight now murmured and pointed elsewhere, confusion and fear evident in their faces. Dozens of silvery shapes darted in and out of the crowd, too quickly to see clearly, but the flames they spurted told William what they were. Even Antony paid attention, forgetting his helpless opponent in front of him.

  Over the eastern tree line, a large, ominous shape rose silently. The crowd froze at the sight of this monstrosity, ignoring the spectacle of the fight. The monstrous silhouette filled the sky, and William’s heart leapt for joy as massive flames shot high into the air, and a deep trumpet blast pummeled their ears. The giant shape sank as quickly as it had risen, but the damage was already done. The rebels fled, the messenger dragons corralling their stampede down a single pathway into the woods.

  William and Antony were left alone. William tried to hide his smile, but Antony noticed it. “You know what those things are, don’t you,” he said. “That’s why you came here. It had nothing to do with the river.”

  “I told you. I was sent on a mission to find out what was wrong with the river.”

  Antony touched his sword tip to William’s throat. “Maybe you were. But you know what those are, don’t you?”

  He saw no point in denying it. He couldn’t lie convincingly, and no near-truth would suffice. “Yes,” he said. “But I won’t tell you.”

  “I will have the truth out of you one way or another. If you think you felt pain before, wait until we start on you this time.” Antony’s sword pushed against his throat, pinning William to the ground, leaving him no way to squirm free without cutting himself. But still he refused to speak.

  “Over there!” A voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Antony looked up and backed away from the approaching figures. William kicked out and tripped Antony as the rebel boss ran away. Relief flooded over William as two Town Guards tackled Antony and restrained him.

  “What on Esper did they do to you?” William recognized his best friend’s voice, and looked up to greet him. Charlie stood beside him.

  “Jack! Charlie! Boy, are you guys are a welcome sight.”

  “You okay, Will?” asked Charlie as he helped William to his feet.

  “I’ve been better, Charlie, I won’t lie.”

  “We never should have left you, Will,” said Jack. “You don’t look good at all. Maya’s on her way from the river as soon as it’s safe. She’ll let us know if you’re better than you look or not.”

  “I’ll be fine. Where’s Rachel?”

  “With the Guards picking off the rest of those bandits. They caught most of them when they ran down the path. Can you walk?”

  “I’ll lean on Charlie. Say, whose idea was it to send the dragons? Is the Elder okay with everyone knowing about them?”

  Jack filled him in on the events of the past ten days. Charlie and Maya had headed for town, running with little rest for four days. Based on their report, Hendrick Mattice had gathered all the Guards plus many able-bodied volunteers, and rode to the rebel camp to deliver justice. Mattice was no fool, and he was determined not to let any criminals get away.

  Meanwhile, Jack and Rachel returned to the dragon hive. They had an intense meeting with the Elder, and hatched a plan that would both rescue William and preserve their secrecy. They decided to use several tiny, fast moving messenger dragons to grab the attention of the camp, and one large, menacing silver drone displayed briefly to terrify the rebels into fleeing. They had arrived the day before, and prepared the attack to coincide with the Guards’ approach.

  The plan worked, and the dragons departed before anyone understood what they had seen. Plausible deniability, Jack called it. “The best part is, not one Guard saw them at all. The messenger dragons scattered at the last moment as the bandits crashed into the Guards’ trap.”

  “But I don’t get why the Guards expected them to run into the trap at all if they didn’t know about the dragons.”

  “Oh. We told them we would sneak here and pretend to run into them again. We said we would make it look like we were staging a rescue, and that they would chase us once we were spotted.”

  “I don’t know,” said William. “It sounds complicated. Someone is bound to tell someone else what they saw, and then the secret’s out. ”

  “It’ll be fine,” Jack insisted. “Remember how long it took us to realize we were looking at dragons, and we were standing right next to them.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll see.” William was certain the Guards could tell the difference between people chasing and people fleeing, and he wondered if Mattice would figure out what the rebels had been running from. Hopefully there had been enough confusion that nothing would come of it. After all, Antony had looked right at them and didn’t know what they were.

  The walk to the Guard camp was agony. With no immediate threat of death to distract him, he could no longer ignore the pain. By the time he reached Maya he had nearly pas
sed out.

  “King’s mercy, Will, what did they do to you?” she asked as she struggled to keep her composure. “Here, get him inside this tent so I can examine him. Charlie, don’t let anyone in. No, Jack, you can’t stay.” William submitted to Maya’s controlling tone, and did as he was told. He didn’t know half the things she was checking for, and didn’t have the energy to ask questions as he normally would. “The bruises look bad, but it’s your ribs I’m worried about,” she said. “They’ve been like that the whole time?”

  “They were injured when I got captured. The bruising came after.”

  “Who would do such a thing? They starved you too?”

  “Only part of the time,” he said. “They gave me plenty to eat for the last three days. They can’t cook like you, though.”

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “I’m okay for now.”

  “Good, because I want you to sleep. Drink this.”

  “King’s sweat, this is awful,” he said, nearly gagging. He fell asleep moments later.

  Night had fallen when he woke to the sound of Maya arguing with someone outside his tent. “He’s sleeping, you can’t talk to him now,” she said. “He was badly injured, and I’ve given him medicine that will knock him out for a few hours.”

  “Listen, little girl,” said a man’s voice. “I’m going in whether you like it or not. Whitehall has information that I need, and this is my camp, and Charlie follows my orders. Move aside Charlie.”

  “Don’t you ‘little girl’ me, mister. I’m a doctor, not a child, and if you put one foot in there you’ll need a doctor yourself.”

  “Maya, let him in,” said William. “You’re putting poor Charlie in a horrible bind.”

  The tent flap tore open. “You get back to sleep!” Maya said to him.

  “I’m awake now. I can’t sleep through that racket anyway. The sooner we talk, the sooner I can sleep again.”

  “Fine,” she said, meaning anything but. Her head disappeared and was replaced by that of Hendrick Mattice.

  “Whitehall,” said Mattice as he shook William’s hand. “Don’t get up; I know you’ve had quite the ordeal.”