The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  Shortly he came to a rail fence, marking the start of his father’s farm. He decided to take a shortcut across the field. He might be able to get someone to lower a ladder over the rear of the stockade. If not, he could circle around to the front gate.

  The stubble was ankle high and the soil was moist and soft as he jogged across the last field. He could smell wood smoke and see the glow of fire ahead. Strange—perhaps his father was burning something—trash?

  Suddenly he stopped, his heart thumping in his chest. Something was wrong, very wrong. He could not tell exactly what, but he could sense great danger. He circled off to the right to come up to the stockade from the willows and cottonwoods.

  As he got closer, he could hear the cattle bellow and men shouting. Cattle thieves? Or was his father selling some cattle? But not in the spring, surely. They were thin from the winter and would fetch little at the market. He crept closer and saw a number of torches coming out of the front gate. It seemed to be a group of men herding cattle, wagons following behind them.

  There was now no doubt. The farmstead was being sacked: looted. Where were his parents and their servants? He dropped to the ground and tried to think. What should he do? Run to a neighbor for help? Go to the village?

  He had to do something quickly. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. If only his throat weren’t so dry! He had to think. He stood up, then threw himself down again and crawled forward on his belly. The bee hives were ahead, to the left. He slowly crept among them. He noticed one of the outbuildings was gone—with a glow of embers marking the spot where it had stood.

  A bonfire blazed in front of the stockade gate. In fact, it looked as if the great gate was broken. Philip saw a soldier, in the full uniform of the Prophet’s army, standing in the light of the fire. Three silver lightning bolts flashed on his steel helm, marking him as an officer. Had the army arrived in time to drive off the robbers?

  Just then more soldiers came out of the stockade and threw armloads of things on the flames: curtains, rugs, and furniture. Suddenly, Philip knew! These were the tax collectors! This was the season for their dirty work, and they must be making an example out of his father.

  A large wagon stood in the light of the fire, about fifty yards away. Philip moved closer and sidled, crabwise, to the right to see better, and to get behind a beehive. He could see that his father was tied to a wagon wheel. He heard another commotion, and then he could see that his mother was being led out. She was forced to watch as the tunic was ripped from his father’s burly back. A tall soldier unwound a heavy whip such as the drovers use and cracked it against the side of the wagon. His father jumped convulsively, and Philip could hear the soldiers jeering and laughing. He couldn’t watch. He put his head down and closed his wet eyes.

  Over the jeers of the solders, he could hear the cries of his mother. The whip swished, then slapped. The sounds came again and again. He couldn’t bear it.

  “Maybe next year you’ll pay taxes with a ready will! Eh, Farmer?” the officer taunted. “We’ve been very patient.”

  He heard his mother scream again. He stood behind the beehive and looked over to where she was standing. He saw the soldiers holding her arms and another with his hands under her clothes. They were all laughing. The officer grinned, his teeth red in the torchlight. Smack! The whip fell again. Philip looked to the left and saw blood running down his father’s back.

  Philip’s pulse hammered in his ears as he felt for his sling and searched his pouch for a lead bullet. He stepped to the right just enough to clear the sling from hitting the square, white beehive, whirled four times and cast.

  He never learned where the first missile went. He lost it in the darkness and no one else even seemed to notice. In quick succession, he threw three more times with all his strength. The first, aimed at the soldier who had been molesting his mother, was a perfect cast. It struck him on the lower rim of his helm, driving the cheap metal back into his forehead. He dropped like a slaughtered ox. As all eyes turned to the falling man, the next bullet was already on its way toward the man with the whip. He turned, just in time for the egg-shaped missile to strike him square in the middle of his bare chest with crushing effect, smashing the sternum and driving broken bones into soft tissues.

  A shout rose and a soldier cocked his arm to throw a javelin. Philip made one step and made the third cast at the officer. Again, his aim was perfect. It hit him square in the face, knocking him backward to fall in the edge of the fire. The javelin, thrown in reply, almost found its target, and a cry went up.

  The soldiers charged towards him, apparently having caught sight of his arm in the firelight. His mother shouted something in a note of utter despair. He looked at her, then turned and fled for the river bottom, the notes of her cry echoing in his ears.

  His flight had the terror-filed quality of a nightmare. He had the advantage of a short lead, and the moon was behind clouds, but his familiarity with the area was his greatest advantage. Following cattle trails that had been his playground throughout childhood, he ran for his life. His pursuers crashed clumsily behind him, some carrying torches.

  He ran for a long time. His throat felt raw and his heart nearly jumped from his chest. His feet, clumsy with fatigue, caused him to trip and fall heavily to the ground. He lay gasping, his body quivering. Gradually, he realized that he heard no more sounds of pursuit. He realized there was no need for them to stumble around in the dark. In the morning the Prophet’s army would follow his trail with trackers, dogs and horsemen. They would have him before night fell again.

  Chapter 2

  †

  The Caravan

  And I looked, and, behold, a whirlwind came out of the north, a great cloud, and a fire infolding itself, and a brightness was about it, and out of the midst thereof as the colour of amber, out of the midst of the fire. Ezekiel 1:4 KJV

  A hint of green tinted the tawny, rolling hills, yet frost sparkled on a puddle in the well-traveled scar that was the north-south road. The little caravan moved by, paying no more attention to the mud than to the white-capped mountains looming against the western horizon. Wagon wheels squealed, leaving a thin note of complaint hanging in the air.

  One traveler walked apart from his fellows, along the shoulder of the road, and ahead of the five ox-drawn wagons. A young man above average in height, but somewhat slender, he was no burly Northern giant. His had brown hair, chased with gold, but he wore no beard. His tunic was plain and well worn, and his patched linen trousers were splotched with mud from his shoes.

  None of this was particularly unusual, yet an observer familiar with Northern customs would have instantly known he was no ox-drover, or ordinary traveler, either. His tunic and cloak were grey, for one thing, which contrasted with the gaudy colors and wild checks of the peddlers and adventurers. His shoes, belt, and purse, of fine leather, and the close weave of his clothing set him apart from the drovers. His conspicuous lack of weapons, except for a stout staff and a belt knife, meant he could not be a guard or a soldier. The pale face and hands (except for a red, peeling nose), the shapeless, fur trimmed cap, and the high, stiff collar gave the answer, even if the horn pen and ink case at his belt had not been visible. He was a lore-man, a long way from his books. He could not, of course, be a lore-master, since he was obviously no older than thirty. That title of respect was reserved for sages rich in both learning and years.

  If the mornings on the northern grasslands are cold in early March, the midday sun can be surprisingly warm. The travelers wiped the sweat from their faces and clustered in the shade of the wagons, as the animals rested or nibbled at the brown tufts of shortgrass. A pot of tea heated over a small fire, and dried meat and cold wheat cakes were distributed.

  The wagon-master was short and beefy, with a florid face as red as a sunset and fingers as thick as sausages. His grizzled beard was close-cropped as a sailor’s, and he wore a b
lack, broad-brimmed felt hat, a leather jerkin, and stained green trousers. Knee-high boots completed his costume, announcing his profession as clearly as a lettered sign. As weather beaten as the stump of a fallen fir, he bore the name “Stub.”

  “Here, Lore-man,” said the older man. “Have some traveler’s food.” He held out a round, hard biscuit and a brown strip of dried meat.

  The young man gave a thin smile of thanks and accepted the food. “Your fare is plain, Mister Wagon Master,” he said. “But it lasts through the day.”

  “Aye! That it does, and the more you chew it, the longer it lasts. But you won’t find weevils nor worms.”

  “No. I cannot complain …” The response trailed off at the end as if his thoughts were drifting.

  “It doesn’t compare to your normal fare, no doubt. And a staff is heavier than a pen.” Stub paused, giving his new companion a fixed look.

  “The ancients say a good appetite is the best sauce.”

  “Oh, yes! The ancients and their wisdom,” smirked one of the nearby young men. He wore a scarlet cloak and a many-colored tunic and carried himself with an air of importance. “Perhaps the lore-man will entertain us tonight with a fantastic tale of the old ones?”

  “Perhaps I might, sir,” returned the lore-man, ignoring the sarcasm. “There are many strange tales to be told, if willing ears wish to hear.”

  The group of young travelers snickered and dropped the subject. The lore-man finished his meal in silence. It was not long before the oxen were re-hitched and continued the southward journey, their hooves muffled in muddy ruts.

  They camped for the night in a narrow valley below the road. A small stream and pinched meadow and a few small poplars made a pleasant site. The oxen were tethered in the meadow and a guard stationed on the hill above. The evening chill came as hard on the heels of the setting sun as a hungry wolf after a crippled hare. The party ringed a blazing fire and rested their weary bones on their bedrolls, or wrapped in their cloaks.

  Donald of Fisher (known to his friends as Don) sat on his nearly new bedroll close enough to the fire to feel the heat burn his face. He squinted his blue-gray eyes as a puff of pungent smoke came his way. But he had a full belly and was content. He cradled a half-full cup of tea in his hands and stared at the coals. His muscles ached less; he was finally getting used to walking.

  As he mused about the value of exercise, he became aware of Stub staring at him from across the fire. Don was curious, but not surprised when the burly man moved around the blaze and took a seat next to him.

  “Lore-man,” began Stub, “Do you also know the sung stores of old? How Brian the Warlord did break the Prophet’s might or the story of Carl the Elder and his spurning of the crown?”

  “Of course, I know the stories. But in the Valley of the Smoke, where I was raised, the bards and the gleemen sing of such. I cannot sing a note.”

  “Well, then,” continued his persistent companion, “How does a lore-man earn his bread? I hope you do not think me nosy …”

  “No. No,” returned Don, with a quick wave of his hand. What was the man getting at? The unwritten law of the road forbade direct questions about a man’s past. Stub seemed a bit awkward, but continued to push the custom. “Well, a lore-man, to answer your question,” began Don, finally, “Is one who studies the wisdom of the ancients, to learn of the past, to understand the knowledge of the writings that have been preserved, and to hand the knowledge down.”

  “Yes, yes! And pardon me for troubling you,” interrupted Stub, earnestly. “I know that. But why would a Northern lord, or anyone in a remote keep, want a lore-man in his company?”

  “You can probably guess some of the reasons. Many powerful men want to increase their power and look to the ancient lore for ideas. Others want lore-men for prestige. Petty lords want lore-men because great lords have them. Some want them to teach their children the Classics.”

  Stub nodded, then turned to stare at the coals for several minutes. “Lore-man,” he finally said, “Do all of your kind study the arts of soothsaying and bewitching?”

  “No!” answered Don. “No true lore-man does such! We are not magicians or old women selling love potions. We look to the past, which we can study, and certainly do not claim to foretell the cloudy future!”

  “Then maybe you can tell me why I myself have seen lore-men cast spells!”

  “I, too, have heard of such,” returned Don, “But those that do so are no brother of mine.”

  The drover made no response, but gazed at Don so intently that he wondered why. Don glanced down at himself, but saw nothing unusual. His grey tunic was whole and fairly clean. He could feel the high collar firmly clasped at his throat. His belt carried a rather thin purse, and though the dagger was an heirloom, he doubted that a casual observer would guess that fact. The only other ornament he wore was his family crest, a kingfisher with a trout in its beak, cleverly chased on a silver disk, hanging from a chain about his neck. He noticed some of the other travelers staring at them

  “Lore-man,” said the wagon master, somewhat formally, in a quiet voice. “I must go check the tethers. Would you join me?”

  “Of course,” returned Don, puzzled and somewhat curious. They left the group and walked over to where the oxen were picketed. With deliberate movements, Stub tested the stakes to which the halter ropes were tied. There was a chill in the air. Don wished he had brought his cloak.

  Stub moved close to Don and spoke in a low voice. “I have another thing to ask,” he began. “Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but your mention of the brotherhood makes me bold, and I would like to know how the brethren fare in your land …”

  “Brotherhood?” asked Don, puzzled at the emphasis on the word. “I meant my fellow lore-men and the masters of our craft—that is all.”

  “What about the fish on your medallion?”

  Don looked at the disk hanging against his breast. “Just my family crest,” he answered. “I am of the Fisher clan.”

  “But … But!” sputtered the older man. “When you spoke out against bewitching, I was sure you knew the truth.”

  “I hate the cheap trick of pretending to find magic spells in ancient books, and then robbing people. I dislike the practice of charging for worthless information. That’s all—but I believe that is the truth.”

  “Well … I see,” the Drover finally said. “I had hoped …” his voice trailed off, and he stared vacantly off into the distance. Don noticed he clenched and unclenched his fists several times.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Don, apprehensively.

  “Nothing! I misunderstood something you said. Let’s go back to the fire.”

  Don followed him back, confused. It was something about a brotherhood; that much was clear. A secret society, perhaps? As they returned to the fire, he noticed several of their fellow travelers eyeing them curiously. Their brief discussion had not gone unnoticed.

  Morning came rudely and early. Don awoke to the sound of an axe on wood mere feet from his head. Muttering to himself, he went down to the small stream and washed, using a small piece of soap. He only shaved every third day on the trail, so he merely scratched the stubble of his beard, scrubbed his teeth with some salt on a frayed stick and felt fit to face the day.

  The road stretched out before them as the wagons formed the line of march. As usual, the first mile was the hardest. Muscles stretched, cold joints thawed, and feet shaped themselves to shoe leather. Mid-morning found the caravan ahead of schedule. The men talked but little, and Don even less. Stub was again the busy wagon master, but he had his cheerful smile back, and while he did not avoid Don, he did nothing to resume the previous night’s discussion. The day passed rapidly.

  The discussion at the noon halt centered around the city of Stonegate. One of the peddlers was describing its attractions to the others. A huge,
young towheaded drover listened intently, jaw agape.

  “You’ve seen nothing like Stonegate in your frozen North,” the sharp-faced man was saying. “The beer is rich and nut-flavored. Not that thin, sour stuff. The mead also has no yeasty taint. It’s as good, in fact, as Lord John’s of Goldstone, and there is none better, I’ll wager.”

  “How about the wines?” asked the young giant, ox-goad in his hand. “Don’t Southerners drink good wines?”

  “Aye, they do indeed! You can get the wines of the South there if your purse can stand it. Some sweet wines are from Stonegate and are not bad. Nothing done there is bad.”

  “The women, how are they?” asked a pimply-faced youth with a loud checked tunic.

  “Women are women,” laughed the first man. “But Stonegate women are fair of face. They have tavern girls there, but don’t trifle with the women you see on the streets. Stonegate women freely come and go as they will. They go to the market alone and without a worry. But this does not mean they are not spoken for, or a stranger is free to speak with them or make advances. You could find yourself with a smashed face or dead. Their justice can be swift and not understanding of different customs.”

  “Lore-man,” asked Stub, turning to Don, who sat cross legged on the edge of the group. “What do you know of Stonegate from your lore?”

  Everyone turned to look at him, which made him feel uncomfortable. There was something he had read. A large settlement had stood there in ancient times.

  “I recall a few things,” answered Don, finally. “Some sort of fort stood there in very ancient days; later a town was built up. There was a great center of learning there, too. It was called a ‘university.’”