The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2)

by Harry James Fox

  He had heard it before and realized that it told of a girl who considered it likely she would be parted by death before she saw her true love again. The raw emotion of the lyrics amplified his mood. Hot moisture burned at the corners of his eyes, and it was as if steel fingers gripped this throat. “God,” he whispered. “May it never be so! I need to see her again.”

  He noticed Philip was giving him a puzzled look. Then he realized he had just said a prayer to a Being that had always seemed dubious to him. Did he have the right to pray, unless he was a true believer? If there were a God, would He care to hear from him? What gave him the right to ask God for anything, if there were a God?

  †

  They stopped for the evening in an alpine meadow, not far below timberline. The camp routine was familiar and comforting. After their plates and cups had been scalded and put away, the party gathered around a scattering of small campfires, as the sky darkened to velvet black. Samuel sat with Bobby, Eric, and the troop leaders. Don leaned back against a spruce and watched Deborah’s face in the firelight. She and Colin were talking with Thad, the healer.

  “You seem deep in thought, Don,” said Deborah.

  “Sorry,” answered Don. “I haven’t been very good company today.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I suppose I have been thinking too much.” Don paused. What is bothering me?

  “He’s a lore-man,” said Thad. “Lore-men are supposed to be deep thinkers.”

  Deborah slid closer and looked directly at him. “Something is wrong. You are never chatty, but you have said perhaps two words all day.”

  Don returned her gaze for a moment, then looked back into the fire. “You are right, of course. But—well, part of it is what we will see tomorrow. We will be going by the battlefield where Robert fell. I suppose I am dreading it.”

  Philip spoke up. “You will show it to me, won’t you?” he said, all in a rush. “I have heard the stories about the stand you made! How you brought the Prophet’s army to a stop!”

  Somehow, Philip’s enthusiasm lightened Don’s mood. “You make it sound as if I stopped them by myself,” he said with a dry chuckle. “I had very little to do with it. In fact, I never drew my sword.”

  He paused for thought. “Maybe that is part of what bothers me. I remained with the guns, while Lord Robert led the horse troops in the field. I should have insisted that he stay back. Had I done so, he would still be alive.” The last few words came out almost as a choke.

  “Come now, Lord Don,” said Thad, forcefully. “I was there too, you know. I drew the crossbow bolt from his side, as you remember. You were following orders, and you did your job well. You took command after he was struck down, and you led us—you gave wise direction and brought us home with the victory. This was war. None of the deaths were your fault!”

  “Robert was always kind to me, and I miss him terribly. But is that all that’s bothering you?” asked Deborah. She continued to search his face. “Somehow, I sense that there is more that you are not telling us.”

  Don collected his thoughts. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself, Deborah,” he said at last. “I think we need to talk, but this is not the time…” His voice trailed off. He paused, and silence crept in. “But tell me, both of you,” he continued. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  “I learned the old songs from my mother,” answered Colin, as if he was glad to change the subject. “She had a voice like a bird and could play the fiddle and the guitar.”

  He turned to Philip. “A guitar is an old kind of taro—they played it before the time of troubles. You don’t hear them anymore. Everyone plays taros now.”

  “I have heard fiddles,” said Philip. “They used to play them at the fair every Mayday.”

  “Of course you have, lad,” said Thad. “There is a fiddle-maker in Bethuel.”

  “I remember her saying that she learned them from her father, my grandfather, whom I never knew,” continued Colin. “Many of the songs come all the way from Erin, where my family came from, long ago.” He turned to Philip. “Erin is a magical island far across the sea, far to the east. I wonder if it is still there.”

  “It was much the same for me,” said Deborah. “I learned to sing on my mother’s knee. But I was taken from home when I was about ten. Lady Lilith had a choir, and I was commanded to sing before her. Soon after, I was taken to her fortress and was never allowed to go home again.”

  “But you are a lore-man,” said Philip. “Surely, you must know about the old songs, too.”

  “Probably no more than you,” answered Don. “No one can know everything about the old days. Music was never one of my interests. Maybe because my father had no interest in the subject.”

  “The old songs are in the High Tongue,” returned Philip. “Yet I can understand them, mostly. Where did you learn the speech of the old days, Don?”

  “I grew up learning it,” answered Don. “It was the only tongue that I ever remember hearing until I was not much younger than you. It is not really a different language, you know.”

  “It sounds strange, though,” said Philip. “Very old-fashioned and…Well, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, I suppose. I sometimes lapse into it without thinking.”

  At this, everyone started laughing. Don looked up, confused. “What?” he blurted.

  “Don, Don,” laughed Deborah. “You probably don’t realize. Why do you think everyone knows that you are a lore-man? Anyone who heard you talk for two minutes would know that!”

  “That is not true, I don’t talk that much differently—No one has ever said they could not understand me!”

  Deborah spoke gently. “Now, Don,” she said with a smile, patting his knee. “Don’t get your feelings hurt. But it’s true. It’s hard to say exactly why, but you just talk like a lore-man!”

  “I had to study the old speech in the House of Healing,” said Thad, “And it is different. I had to learn rules and old endings and—well, it’s all very complicated. Those old irregular verbs!”

  “Yes,” said Don. “Our modern language is very much simplified. ‘English’ is another name for the High Tongue. Once there were many languages, but I suppose most are no more. But perhaps I need to be more careful how I talk.”

  “No,” insisted Deborah. “That is part of who you are. No one would want you to change. But you don’t need a high collar and a pen case at your belt to show that you are a lore-man. Everyone can tell.”

  Don nodded, then suggested that Colin and Deborah sing another song. They conferred and finally found a ballad that must have been old when the Empire was nothing but a band of colonies on the seaboard far to the east. It declared love for a girl named Mary, not simply because of her great beauty, but for the truth in her eyes. Again, they harmonized and all within earshot heard “The Rose of Tralee.” Their voices were pure and the tune achingly sweet. Everyone urged them to sing another, but they smilingly refused. A hard day lay ahead.

  †

  The sky was turning rose-red as Don issued the orders of the day to the leaders. He was concerned that enemy patrols might still be in the area. They took their seats on cold saddles, and their horses climbed back to the roadway. The night had been chilly, though not freezing, and dew covered the grass. Don’s padded tunic beneath his mail was none too warm.

  “Get rugged up,” said Colin to Deborah, handing her a warm coat. She put it on with a word of thanks.

  Don rode with Samuel who went over the contents of a message from Blackie, commander of all the cavalry forces back at Haven. Received in the middle of the night, the message reported on enemy activity to their rear. It appeared that the enemy had abandoned the attempt to move supplies up the Kolaroo River and, instead, were using their remaining forces to escort supply trains north in the directio
n of Steamboat.

  “There is a fairly good wagon road going over the mountains to the north,” explained Samuel. “They have been using a large infantry force with pikes and crossbows to accompany the supplies. It is a slow process, but our cavalry can do little to stop them since they are so well guarded.”

  “That means we probably won’t see any baggage trains on this route,” suggested Don.

  “I think you’re right about that. This way has been abandoned, or so it appears,” returned Samuel. “By the way, Blackie adds a note, saying that General Logan has apparently been called back to confer with the False Prophet. The enemy armies seem to have stopped their march. I wonder whether they are reconsidering their plans.” Samuel wrinkled his brow, and put the folded messages back into his pouch.

  They had left their heliograph operator, a crossbowman, and one of the messengers atop First Pass. From there, messages could be rapidly sent back and forth to the Haven area. It was a long ride back to Camp Robert, their home base, but the heliograph would cut the time greatly. They also had pigeons for return messages but had not used any yet.

  They were following the route that the Prophet’s army had taken a few weeks ago. No army can march through without leaving a trail of noisome refuse in its wake—unless it is highly disciplined. But the state of the enemy campsites became more foul as they progressed. The stench of one assailed their nostrils when Samuel signaled that he wanted to leave the highway to look it over. The main column halted as they rode down to a muddy meadow. Don had seen cleaner pig sties. Rotted garbage and some broken crockery marked the site of where the camp kitchen must have been. Thad, the healer, rode off to the edge of the clearing and shouted, “It looks like there are a couple of graves here!”

  Deborah and Colin joined them as they looked at the two fresh mounds. The size and shape were right. All agreed they must be burials. There was no marker, but a few rocks had been thrown on the soft soil. “I wish we had more time,” commented Thad. “I would like to open these and try to determine the cause of death.”

  Deborah’s lips curled. “Ugh! Why would you want to do that?” she asked.

  Thad dismounted, then looked up at Deborah. “Don’t look so disgusted, Deborah,” he snapped. “If you want to be a healer, you will have to get your hands dirty.”

  “I am not afraid to get my hands bloody, to save lives. I think I have proved that,” she responded.

  “If we exhumed the bodies, we might be able to see how they died. If it was a brawl, we would see wounds. You should be able to grasp that. If some kind of pestilence, we might be able to tell—” Thad’s retort was cut short.

  “That is really a good idea,” said Colin, sarcastically, taking Deborah’s side. “Dig up a corpse and spread the contagion. Let’s all find a shovel!”

  “I am willing to help the wounded,” continued Deborah, as if the others had not spoken. “But not to desecrate graves!” She reined her horse away and galloped back toward the highway, with Colin at her heels.

  Thad, Samuel, and Don all looked at one another for a moment. Samuel broke the silence. “Well, that was gracefully done, Thad. You certainly have a way with words.”

  “I somewhat understand her—squeamishness, or scruples—whatever it is,” said Thad. “I share them, to some extent. What do you think, Lord Donald? Surely you know that disease often kills more soldiers than edged steel.”

  Don had to admit that he was right. The old history books all said so. Suddenly he began to appreciate the emphasis that the healers put on hygiene, on clean hands, and even the insistence that mess cups and plates be scalded with boiling water in the field. But somehow he still half-agreed with Deborah and admired her spunk. “You do have a point, Thad,” he answered after a long pause. “But we don’t need to see the bodies to learn that the enemy is not concerned about spreading disease. This whole camp looks and smells like a privy.”

  Samuel nodded, thoughtfully. Thad remounted, and all followed the other two to rejoin the column. “I am sorry I was sharp with her,” Thad said.

  “If apologies are in order, apologize to her, not us,” answered Samuel, shortly. “Your point was well taken, and it is clear that the enemy has a problem. One that might cost them dearly.” He paused. “I must say, though, that even if my head agrees with you, my heart agrees with Deborah.”

  †

  The long day in the saddle was drawing to a close when they approached the site of the previous battle, where Haven’s forces had stopped the mighty army of the Prophet and encouraged it to take the northern route. It seemed long ago, somehow, but had been only a little over a week since they had made their desperate stand. They decided to make camp there, and the Blades began to unsaddle and care for their horses. The gun crews parked their field artillery near the center of camp, muzzles facing outwards. Don took a few minutes to talk to the commanders and arrange for the guards. A couple of scouts rode up to report.

  “We saw nothing more of the small band of Raiders, Lord Don,” said Jenkins, who commanded the missile troopers and the scouts. He had proved his worth many times in the early skirmishes with enemy cavalry and had been riding well in advance of the main party all day.

  “What small band of Raiders?” asked Don, sharply, returning the other man’s salute. “I heard nothing of this.”

  “What?” said Jenkins. “I sent a scout back to report. It was about an hour after we stopped for lunch.”

  “Whom did you send? Let’s get to the bottom of this!” returned Don. “Your main job is to keep us informed. We can’t tolerate any slipups!”

  A chastised Jenkins rode back to his men and soon returned with a lad, who did not look much older than Philip. “He says that he did report, to Sir Slim,” reported Jenkins.

  Don questioned the lad, then asked Slim to join them. They finally learned that Slim had ordered the young scout to report to Don and Samuel, but he had misunderstood and had returned to rejoin the other scouts far in advance of the column. It was a good lesson, and Don emphasized the need to repeat orders to make sure they were understood.

  “I will have him punished, sir,” said Jenkins.

  “No,” said Don. “No serious punishment. It was an honest mistake. But a day of mess detail would do him no harm.”

  “Very well,” said Jenkins. “I almost forgot to mention something strange. The Raiders, only three or four, well up near the top of the ridge to the north, were flashing something. It looked like a signal mirror. We couldn’t figure it out.”

  “Who could they have been flashing signals to?” asked a voice from behind Don. It was Samuel.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Samuel,” said Jenkins. “I probably should have mentioned it earlier.”

  “You certainly should have,” said Samuel. “I am very surprised that you didn’t personally report it. Didn’t you realize that it could only have meant that they were signaling another force in the area?”

  “But we had seen no fresh tracks—” began Jenkins.

  Don had been trying to be patient, but he could feel his face getting warm. This was deplorable judgment. What am I going to do with Jenkins? Does he have what it takes? “Don’t you realize that you are our eyes and ears out there?” He raised his voice and confronted Jenkins, who took a step backward.

  “Yessir!” he said. “It won’t happen again!”

  “Very well,” said Don, coldly. “We can’t take any chances. Issue cold rations to your scouts. I want them to set up listening posts a half-mile out in all directions. You be out there yourself, watching the main road from the south. We will also post guards near the camp perimeter. I will speak more to you about your responsibility. You are dismissed.”

  Jenkins saluted and left without another word. Don and Samuel faced each other.

  “It was my fault, Samuel,” said Don, ruefully. “It was my idea to
put Jenkins over the scouts. He has a lot of field experience commanding the crossbowmen. But this is new to him. I should have made sure he understood his responsibilities.”

  “We are all stretched thin here,” said Samuel. “It is probably well that we discovered it now. Don’t relieve him of command. He has the makings of a good officer. But we’ll have to make our orders very clear until he gets more experience.”

  “Yes. I can’t help but wonder what the signals meant,” agreed Don, looking back to the north. “Yet, I think Jenkins is right. My instincts tell me that there is no large force in the area.”

  Samuel nodded, thoughtfully, as he continued walking through the camp.

  The evening was routine, but there was no singing around the campfire. Deborah was withdrawn, and Don was not in the mood for conversation. They did decide to hold a memorial service at dawn on the place where Robert had fallen. Don stared into the fire for a half-hour before he took to his bedroll. But instead of Rachel’s face in the flames, it was Robert, his old mentor, he kept seeing.

  †

  “We are standing on the spot where Robert fell,” began Samuel. “But we stand here this morning not just to honor him, though honor him we shall. But we want to have a moment of silence for all those who died here. Most rest on the hill to the north, near where their blood earned them our eternal respect and honor. Let us keep their faces in our memories and their names on our lips. Let us tell our children the terrible cost of freedom. We do not know how this war will end. We will, no doubt, look back to see that this was but a skirmish. Even so, I believe that what was won here that day will prove to have been the real turning point: The time that our enemy turned toward the way of defeat!”