The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  “Do the thick walls date back to the ancient times, then?” asked the sharp-faced man.

  “No,” returned Don. “The elders did not build such walls. When the town was at its peak, the land was at peace.”

  “Strange,” a voice called out, heavy with sarcasm. “Since the elders were destroyed by war.”

  Don said no more, even though the point was well taken. Talk died and did not resume.

  “Two more days’ journey, lads!” shouted Stub as he unyoked the oxen at their evening camp. The well-used campsite offered little forage. A swift river, swollen with the spring thaw, ran next to their camp. It was fringed with a row of tall cottonwood trees and a narrow but dense strip of willows and alders. A ford was there and since the feed was better on the other side, two of the drovers took the oxen across and staked them out for the night.

  Later, in his bedroll, Don lay and looked up at the stars. On this night, in particular, they seemed unusually far away and showed him nothing. No pattern could he see. He knew a little of Stonegate as it was in generations long past. He knew of the rich crops that the ancients raised, the busy highways, the canals that irrigated the fields, the even larger cities to the south. He had heard of the Old Alliance where the towns had once joined forces. And especially, he knew of the halls of learning, with the wealth of knowledge that had once been stored and taught. Knowledge, he reflected, is one thing that is not exhausted in its distribution.

  But the Stonegate of the thick walls, nut-flavored beer, and tavern girls, this town to which he was traveling, he knew next to nothing. Nothing, that is, but that it had a lore-house of great size and reputation.

  The town of his birth had given him shelter all of his life, but it had never shown him a mother’s love. His father was the lore-master, serving Lord John of Goldstone. If the Goldstone mead was fabled, Lore-master Fisher and his wisdom were only slightly less so. Don was raised in his father’s shadow and from his youth served as a scribe and assistant. The lore-master was as lean as a spear shaft, and only his tongue was sharper than his mind. Don had lived most of his life sorting through musty volumes in dimly-lit rooms. He liked reading and tried hard to please his father. But within the past year he had become more and more dissatisfied. Arguments had erupted about differing interpretation of manuscripts. Don had been accused of sloppy pen-work. Disagreements had become more frequent until it reached the point that Lord John, himself, had suggested that the lore-master’s son should go study somewhere else for a while, perhaps to Stonegate. Neither Don nor his father was in favor of the idea when it came to it. Nevertheless, when spring came, Don had walked out through the gray, lichen-covered walls and set his face toward the South.

  It was exciting, in a way. He had never before been more than five miles from his home. He was nearly thirty years old, yet had never had a close friend near his own age. He knew much of the history of the last twenty generations of life on the continent on which he stood, yet had no idea of the latest tavern gossip. He could read and write in the High Tongue which was the book language as contrasted with common speech. He could cast sums, and read deep volumes that even his father avoided, yet he had no “practical” skills. He could neither plow a furrow nor shoe a horse. Indeed, he had never ridden a horse! He had shot a bow for sport, but knew nothing of spear or sword, though he could discuss the weapons and tactics of the ancients in great detail. He was unsure of himself around strangers, and was considered quiet. Indeed, had he known it, he was thought to be cold and aloof, and many thought his father’s sharpness of tongue was not wholly absent from him.

  Don frankly did not know if he could ever go back. Lord John lusted for power like some men for wine. It had been an evil day when his father had mentioned the weapons of the ancients, for that idea had fastened itself on Lord John’s mind like a leech. He feared that other rulers had the same idea, that of reviving some of these weapons of death. So his interest in the ancient writings was at a high pitch. Knowing of his passion, peddlers brought old volumes that no one could read, mere blocks covered with green mold, faded into illegibility, brittle and shattered, or rude copies scribbled onto sheepskin rolls. Lord John bought them all and expected his lore-men to comb them for weapon-lore that would be useful on the field of battle.

  Don, however, had for the last several years avoided the search for new arms. The idea sickened him, particularly when he read ancient accounts of battle and the hideous forms of death that were once common. Viewed in this light, the revival of ancient weapons would be a grave misfortune.

  He had questioned his father, challenged him, even, on this point. His father had agreed that it was undesirable to bring more efficient ways of dealing death back into the world, yet pointed out that the Prophet’s agents were also known to be buying books. What if an evil enemy army were to come east, spewing death like a hailstorm and Goldstone had no defense? Don had no answer to that question, but it did not change his mind. Even as he fell asleep, the question returned and nagged him like an abscessed tooth.

  The soft light of false dawn lit the camp faintly when Don awoke. He felt an urgent call of nature, and his entrails were gripped in a painful cramp. He quickly pulled on his outer tunic and boots, and buckled his belt as he walked toward the cover of the willows, upstream from the camp. The long tunic, reaching nearly to his knees, was warm enough for a few minutes, in spite of the fact that he left his cloak and trousers behind. He relieved himself and was just starting back when the morning stillness was shattered by hoarse shouts and the clang of metal on metal. The camp was under attack!

  “One went this way!” came a nearby voice.“Hunt him down!”

  His heart lept. He knew he was in danger, and turned and fled upstream. He ran out of his unlaced boots in three steps, but hardly noticed. Branches whipped his face. About fifty yards farther on, he tripped over a stick in the dew-wet grass and fell heavily into a shallow puddle. The cold water, nearly freezing, shocked his senses.

  He suddenly realized he had no chance of escaping upstream. The willows formed only a narrow strip in the valley bottom. He remembered from the evening before that perhaps a half-mile further on they narrowed to form only a scattered fringe on the stream-bank. He could never move faster than someone running on the road to cut him off.

  There was crashing in the bushes behind him. He sprang to his feet, and crouching low, ran as quietly as possible toward the stream. When he saw the bank in the gray light, he turned back downstream in the direction of the camp. A sort of tunnel showed itself under a clump of twisted willows, thatched with brown grass and damp with dew. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the hollow, drawing himself up into a ball. His breathing sounded as loud as a forge bellows, and his heart pounded like a smith’s hammer.

  Hearing footsteps coming closer, in a steady jog. Don held his breath, with an effort. He would soon be seen, of that he was sure, and grabbed for his belt knife. Seconds passed. The steps slowed, their swishing clearly audible as they passed through wet grasses and sedges. Then they seemed to get fainter as if moving further upstream. The distant sound of hoof beats came from the road to the east.

  Horses! thought Don. They must know that no one could get too far to the north before running out of cover. But what about downstream? His heart turned cold in his breast, and he knew his hiding place would not save him. His grey tunic (thankfully not a bright check) had no doubt teamed with the dim light to conceal him, but the day was growing brighter by the minute. The searchers would look more carefully as they returned downstream. He would be hard to miss. They were probably the bane of travelers—highwaymen!

  He felt that he must move, but downstream he had to pass the camp. The ford was clearly visible from the road, with no cover for a hundred yards. If the campsite was now being robbed, he could not pass unseen. He was trapped in a narrow strip of willows and miles from any other dense cover. He had to find a b
etter hiding place. Remembering his fear of dogs, he stepped out into the frigid water. He waded downstream, anxiously looking in all directions. If he were to be spotted in the water, he would have no chance to escape. The river was swift and muddy with spring runoff, and it clawed at his thighs with icy fingers, trying to pull him down.

  The river made a sweeping turn to the left. Don hugged the shallow right bank. He looked ahead and saw a thin column of smoke begin to rise over the trees, and the sound of an axe and of voices drifted upstream. Don could go downstream no farther, yet it all sounded normal. Could he have imagined the whole thing?

  Off to his left, he saw a deep pool in the river where the water swirled and slowed somewhat. Perhaps forty feet across, it was bisected by a half-submerged cottonwood log. On the far side was a cut-bank about four to six feet above the water. Floating debris lay lodged in a fork of the trunk.

  Don could not swim, and in fact, few Northerners braved chill waters enough to learn the skill. But perhaps he could still struggle over and hide on the far side of the log. He waded across the current, slipping on rocks until the water came to his chin. The pool proved to be over his head, and he was never sure how he managed to reach the log. But after a panicky struggle in closed-eyed terror, his hand touched the slimy wood. Holding his breath, he ducked under the cold water and under the log, and emerged on the other side.

  As he gasped for breath, he assessed his hiding place. If he lay quiet with only his face out of the water, he should be safe from any eyes on the shore he had recently left. From the cut bank above him, however, he would be easy to see. He inched upstream along the log.

  Perhaps if he could make an air space under the debris caught in the fork of the log, he could hide under the main part of the trunk, completely out of sight. The idea frightened him, but he decided to try. He fought back a spasm of panic as the suffocating water again closed over his head. His fingers found a limb and he pulled himself upward, but could not reach the surface! He pushed at the mass of sticks and leaves and scum. This time his nose and lips reached air. He drew a grateful breath, hardly noticing the wet, moldy smell. He opened his eyes to see lacy shadows and a few rays of light. There was a tent of sticks over his head with three inches of space above the water, a space that tried to collapse downward from time to time. He let the current pull his legs up along the underside of the trunk and then clung there like a snail beneath a rock.

  He had no way of knowing if he was completely hidden or not. Perhaps his white legs would be visible under the log, or perhaps the pool would be an obvious hiding place. All he could do was wait, wait for the cold water to turn his muscles into knots. He could see nothing and heard little over the sound of the water.

  Surely, the highwaymen would not spend a great deal of time looking for him. They had to collect their loot and be gone before an alarm could be given. The light under the sticks grew brighter. It was obviously well past sunrise. Minutes dragged by as slow as slugs on cabbage leaves. He knew he must be patient, but it was all he could do to force himself to be still.

  Finally his whole numb body began to shake, and he feared he might lose his grip and drown. Moving to the far side of the log, he risked raising his head for a look. A glimpse of the sun showed it was past midmorning.

  Gratefully, he filled his lungs with clean air, intoxicating compared to the damp, stifling hole under the log. He clung cautiously to a limb and watched the tree-line, looking in the direction of the camp. Nothing was in view.

  Finally, he dragged himself toward the shore and struggled up the steep bank. Lying on his back in a small clearing, surrounded by willows, he let the sun burn down on him for what seemed like a long time. Gradually, life returned to his limbs. He stripped off his sodden clothes, and wrung as much water as he could out of them. They still felt cold and clammy when he put them back on.

  Cautiously, he circled through the willows on the opposite side of the river from the camp, finally coming to the open area next to the ford. He could see the meadow where the oxen had been, though they were now gone, as he had expected. He could see the edge of the campsite, but there was no movement or sign of life. He summoned up his courage and waded across at the shallow ford.

  The first thing he noticed was one of the wagons laying tipped over on one side. The spokes of the offside wheels were chopped in two. He wondered for an instant why they hadn’t burned it, then realized that the smoke might draw attention to the area.

  The next sight was far worse. He came across one of the young travelers laying face down in the trail, surrounded by a black pool of blood. His head was split open and covered by a buzzing swarm of flies. Feeling his stomach churning, Don forced himself on. He found the bodies of the rest of his companions, all dead. All, that is, except for two, who seemed to be missing.

  Most of the bodies were scattered around the fire, near where they had slept. It appeared as if resistance had been brief, and surrender futile. One bedroll was charred as if it had briefly caught fire, but it had been carefully put out.

  Don checked the wagons. Every item of value was missing, and what remained was piled in one heap. They had spared no time for vandalism. His trousers and stockings lay in a heap, and his staff was under the wagon where he had placed it. But his precious package of books and manuscripts was gone.

  His loss was petty compared to his life, but it was enough to release the slender hold had he had on his emotions. He fell to his knees on the ground and wept. Great shuddering sobs tore from his throat. He wept as he had not when he had seen the body of his stiff, cold mother, but he was a frightened six-year-old all over again. His fears crowded in with him again until there was no room for anything else, and his body shook.

  At last he controlled himself, humiliated by his running nose and eyes. He felt cowardly and unclean. Why had he not tried to help the others? He was ashamed to realize that the idea had simply not occurred to him. And kindly Stub … He raised himself and walked hesitantly to the wagon master’s blood-drenched body. He rolled it over and was amazed to see the lips move.

  He cursed himself for not checking the bodies sooner. A gaping hole in the abdomen showed that Stub was beyond Don’s help. He poured some water from a nearby bucket and gently washed the blood from Stub’s pallid face. After a few moments, Stub’s eyes opened. They seemed strangely calm, almost peaceful.

  “I can’t move, “ he whispered. “What would the ancients say to that?”

  “You’re … You’re badly hurt!” Don blurted. Stub’s eyes seemed to cloud over, and his face twisted as if in pain.

  “Give me a drink. I’m as thirsty as a desert.”

  Don was quick to comply. Stub managed a couple of deep swallows. Then his eyes seemed to clear and he smiled.

  “My request has already been answered,” he murmured. The words were now quite difficult to understand. “You are the one that God will use.”

  Don winced at the reference to God, but he knew that religious superstitions could be a comfort to a man at the hour of his death. He reassured him that all would be well and gripped his hand, for the lack of anything else to do.

  “You will know Him too,” whispered Stub. The small smile was still on his lips. “Funny, it doesn’t hurt at all now … Sweet Jesus, I am coming!”

  He fell silent. The mist came over his eyes again, like a fine frost on a pane of leaded glass, and then a long sigh passed his lips. Don knew without being told that the wagon master would speak no more. He bowed his head and wept again.

  He didn’t think carefully about Stub’s words just then, nor did he forget them. His father scornfully relegated all religion to the wishful thinking of the simple and credulous. “No omnipotent, loving God could possibly allow all the cruelty and suffering we see in this world,” he often said.

  He felt numb like the a half-frozen man in a northern blizzard. What should he do? Report t
he attack—that seemed obvious. But where? Several stockaded farmsteads lay about four miles to the northwest, but it was unlikely they could do anything, and that way was farther from town. Stonegate, itself, was an easy two days’ journey to the southeast, and there surely must be other farms or villages on the way.

  He began to rummage through the discarded baggage when he heard a shout, and the sound of running feet. He spun around to see a fair-haired man bearing down on him, sword raised, face twisted with hate.

  Don recognized his attacker as one of the young drovers. “It’s only me!” he shouted, waving his arms.

  The other man recognized Don at the same instant, lowering his sword.

  “What are you doing here, Lore-man?” he challenged, suspiciously. “And where were you last night? Calling them in on us?”

  “I’m making a package of food,” Don snapped. “And I plan to hurry on to Stonegate to sound the alarm. I hid in the river. Where were you?”

  The young giant lowered his gaze. He stared at the sword in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. Then he slowly returned it to the sheath at his belt.

  “Aye,” he mumbled, avoiding the bodies as well as Don’s eye. “Aye. You can run and hide and no problem for you. You are a lore-man and can act the coward. Who cares? But me! I was to guard the oxen. When so many came, all at once, I ran.”

  “You ran,” repeated Don, picking up his iron-shod walking staff from under the wagon.

  “My parents will say I had better died,” continued the drover. “And they would say rightly. I played the coward’s part and failed my trust! My fair Eliza will turn her face from me.”

  He began to glance from side to side, wildly. His contorted face and trembling limbs made Don afraid. The young fool wouldn’t harm himself, would he?