The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “We shall give out eighteen pennants tonight, red for valor and courage, blue for skill and gallantry, green for service to comrades, and all at the risk of death by the hands of the enemy and all judged by those who were there.” His voice rang out: “These men were put forth by their comrades, recommended by past men of valor and approved by the lord mayor and me. A small gift of gold from the people of Stonegate will go to each as well as a ring of engraved silver from the freeholds of the countryside.”

  A cheer followed, and Lord Thomas of Longmont stepped up to the dais to assist the marshall with the presentations. Eight red pennants were presented together with a purse of five ten-mill gold pieces to each. Five awards went to widows or relatives of those who did not return. One went to Lord Call for the battle of “Bloody Knoll” as it was now being called. The final two went to two of the best swordsmen in the troops. Cal and the other two were mobbed as they stepped down to the floor. Don applauded loudly with the rest. It took a few minutes to restore order.

  When the noise died down, six blue gallantry pennants were awarded with two gold pieces each. The first went to a young scout named Chad who first spied the enemy at Bloody Knoll, then carried a message through an enemy patrol to warn the watchtower and so warn Stonegate, as well. A popular young lad, the award was loudly cheered, and none more loudly than the scouts of Black Eagle, his troop. Four more awards were passed out for faithfulness to duty at risk of life.

  “The last gallantry award recognizes a man who distinguished himself at Bloody Knoll, who held a critical corner of the shield-wall, who killed or wounded his share and more of foes, who bested their champion with the sword and who held his post until loss of blood felled him,” thundered the marshall in a voice that boomed off the walls. “All this from a man who never lifted a sword or spear before this spring, or as near as I can tell, may never have lifted anything heavier than a pen.”

  He paused and looked around as the audience fell into a hush. At the mention of the word “pen,” Don started. Who could that be? His table companions smiled at him and began to clap. Gray John urged him to get up by waving his arms in a shoveling motion. Could Lord Thomas possibly mean him? Rachel’s eyes were glowing as she smiled at him. Don became aware that his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut.

  “Donald of Fisher, Lore-man, lately removed from Goldstone, formerly called outlander but outlander no longer, come forward,” ordered the marshall, with a broad smile that was matched by Lord Thomas, standing by his side.

  Don rose to his feet to the cheers of the assembly. He walked forward, stumbling as hands pounded his shoulders. A way parted, leading to the front. He stepped before the leaders of Stonegate, who gripped his hand with powerful clasps as they congratulated him. They handed him two blue streamers, one for the Red Axe troop pennant, and one for his own war spear. He also received a scroll and a pouch that contained the gold and the ring. He waved at the crowd, who cheered even louder, and then he bowed his thanks.

  The rest of the ceremony went by quickly. Four comradeship awards were given. One was posthumous, for valor in saving a friend’s life. Three went forward to receive their green pennants with a gold piece and a silver ring. Then a toast was offered to all eighteen men of valor, and the celebration broke up. The enthusiasm could no longer be stilled. Cal and Don were hoisted on the shoulders of Red Axe troopers and paraded out of the hall and around the courtyard outside to the merriment of all. Then Don stood on the bandstand by the barbecue pit and thanked the people of Stonegate for the honor that he insisted he did not deserve. The crowd liked his remarks and cheered him good-naturedly, but not without jesting about the dangers of penknives.

  When Don finally returned to Rachel’s table, the out-of-town guests and others were preparing to leave. Don joined them and presented one of the pennants to Gray John for the troop banner. Then he followed the group outside the hall. The horses of the Westerly party were tied to a picket line in the meadow on the slope below the citadel. Don walked with Rachel down to her horse to see her and her family off. She told him that they planned to stay with friends at a freehold just north of Stonegate, near the Red Axe Troop barracks.

  Don and Rachel stopped beneath a large elm. In the privacy of the shadows they embraced for a long moment. Her sweet, upturned lips were an invitation he could not resist. She returned his kiss ardently, if only for a moment, then they whispered each other’s name. Don wanted to tell her of his deep feeling for her. Could it be love? But he did not. He fumbled for his new pouch.

  “Rachel, dear,” he said. “In ancient times men often expressed friendship with a token to their lady. I would like you to have this ring.”

  “Oh, Don,” she whispered. “You are dear to me. But it is much too big.”

  “Put it on a chain, then,” he answered. “We could have a smith fit it to you later.”

  “Very well,” she answered. “I will wear it with pride. Thank you, my lore-man. Don’t forget me again.”

  “Never fear, nor did I ever. But I see you have to go.”

  “Yes, Let us get my horse and you can see us off.”

  They arrived at the horses in time to meet Lord Edward and the rest. The farewells were brief, but warmhearted. Then they rode off, and Don stood on the grassy slope, alone.

  He walked to the street and started toward the lore-house. As he fell in behind a small group of soldiers, he heard a chance remark that puzzled him.

  “The lore-man’s award was fated, I can see it, now.”

  “Oh, don’t be so sure. The gleeman said it was only an idle fancy.”

  “He sang the Song of Carl the Elder. Didn’t you hear? How would you interpret it?”

  “Carl the Elder was a soldier like you or me. And I doubt that he was any more than that.”

  “You will see soon. We both will, if it comes to that.”

  Don listened intently. Could they mean Carl’s song of prophecy? How did it go? It was old, but not really from the elder days, and he had given it little attention. He shrugged. No doubt just some soldier talk about omens and such. Superstition! he thought.

  By the time he reached the Quill and Sword he had almost forgotten the incident. The tavern was almost deserted, so he merely looked in and then continued to his home He was tired and his leg ached, but his lips were still warm and his heart leaped whenever he thought of Rachel and how soft she had felt. Stonegate seemed like home at last.

  Chapter 8

  †

  The Captive

  And had taken the women captives, that were therein: they slew not any, either great or small, but carried them away, and went on their way.

  1 Samuel 30: 2 KJV

  The ample storerooms of the lore-house lay twelve feet lower than the worn cobblestones of the street outside. It was somewhat damp, too damp to store precious parchment. A few cords of wood filled one corner. A bin of root vegetables could be found in another, flanking the flight of wooden stairs that led upward to the kitchen. A quarter of the largest room had been partitioned with dressed stones , and a narrow beam of light crept from beneath a rough-hewn door. A nearby stone stairway led to an alley entrance with a small iron-bound door, closed and barred in darkness.

  The room was plainly furnished with a trestle table and benches and several worn chairs. The table was covered with bone gaming pieces and money, which the four men around it ignored.

  Lore-master Duncan sat in a high-backed chair at the head of the table, dressed in a coarse woolen tunic of charcoal gray. To his right sat Thomas of Longmont, clad in a faded green jerkin with leather patches on his elbows. Across from Thomas sat two men, both wearing war badges. One was in his thirties, with light hair, a ruddy face and a flowing golden moustache. His short-sleeved tunic showed a heavy golden ring on thick biceps. His rich clothing, trimmed with fur, contrasted sharply
with his companion, who wore only the coarse wool and leather of a soldier in the field. His weather-beaten and scarred face marked him as a veteran of many campaigns.

  The lore-master spoke, the soft candlelight softening his features and gilding his close-cropped white beard:

  “Brothers, where three or four are gathered …”

  “…there am I in the midst of them,” came the response from his three companions.

  “Brothers,” continued the lore-master, “We have thanked our Master for His care for us.”

  “And we dedicate ourselves to His service.”

  “Fellow Deacons, Brothers,” began Thomas, “I am aware of a need.”

  And so the discussion continued for perhaps an hour. A widow would find a bag of cornmeal on her doorstep. Another would be visited by a surgeon from one of the troops. Many such needs were discussed, and the limited resources parceled out as best they could. As the tasks were organized, the time for petitions arrived. Needs discussed and others beyond their ability to help were recounted. The name of the dead drover was mentioned, with a petition for his family. Then the men sat silent with folded arms and bowed heads. Finally, with the needs of their charges dealt with, and petitions offered, the meeting relaxed. Thomas of Longmont spoke:

  “Brothers, one of our fathers left a bit of verse, which you all know, and which I would discuss.”

  “What is that, Brother?” asked the lore-master.

  “I think you have heard of Carl the Elder,” responded Thomas. A mutter circled the table.

  “You must mean the so-called prophecy,” said the lore-master, brow and nose wrinkled, as if he smelled something bad.

  “So-called is said well, of course,” returned Thomas. “Yet there is a prophecy that ‘your old men shall dream dreams.’”

  The lore-master closed his eyes and then began to recite:

  Under a waning springtime moon

  Bearing a blade with a northern rune

  Riding under a scarlet doom

  Through the stone gate came the key.

  He broke off the chant, opened his eyes and asked, “Is that the verse you mean?”

  “Yes,” answered Thomas, and continued the recitation:

  By an arrow’s shaft set free

  Lordly honor’s debt the fee

  Far from the Savior’s tree

  From wisdom to war turned he.

  “What does all this mean?” asked the scarred man to the lore-master’s left. “Do you give Carl’s prophecy any credit?”

  The lore-master only shrugged, eloquently.

  “I know what you are thinking,” said Thomas with a half smile. He spread his hands, reassuringly. “Carl the Elder did not claim to have seen more than a dream. We all agree that the pages of Holy Writ are closed. But if these lines mean anything, could they not speak to our time?”

  “They mean that Carl was not the world’s best poet,” laughed the loremaster. All joined in the chuckle. “But some give great weight to the words and see the promise of a deliverer, perhaps even the Lord, Himself.”

  “Brothers,” continued Thomas, “We all know, those within our fellowship as well as those without, that these are dark times. The Raiders are growing stronger and are bold enough to ride in broad daylight. The power of the Prophet is gaining strength in the West. I have heard my servants recently mutter the verses of this prophecy when I was thought to be elsewhere. Even they know that the times are as dark as they were in Carl’s day. But we have no Carl, no leader of his stature to unify the cities.”

  The young man in the richly woven tunic spoke: “I have forgotten the rest of the verses. Perhaps we should hear it all.”

  “Very well, but don’t expect me to sing it,” muttered the lore-master. “I’d not use the flowery tune the taro players use if I had the voice of a nightingale!” He cleared his throat, then began the cadences, his voice ringing hollowly from the bare stone walls:

  Weaned from ink to write in blood

  Turned an evil into good

  In a Lady’s keep he stood

  From a twisted love fought free.

  From the west, the darkest hour

  Scorched the fairest eastern flower

  Raged at the stone-wrought tower

  To claim the victor’s fee.

  In the crisis of the night

  The Bright Spirit won His fight

  A man in weakness found his might

  To form the Army of the Tree.

  Burn like a flame, O burnished blade

  Over the land that God has made

  From you all evil flees afraid

  Turn defeat to victory.

  “Thank you, Brother,” said Thomas, when the room fell silent. “But this is hardly clear enough to tell us anything. Carl was from Hightower, but some say that the stone gate means our city. Is that what it means?”

  “Who knows,” sighed the old lore-master. “As I said, some with little else to do have debated every stanza endlessly. A small cult formed in my father’s day, holding that the song means Carl himself would return someday and smash the Prophet. They held that the reference was to Stonegate, but I see no way to be sure. The stone gate could refer to many things, even a pass through the mountains. But, now the hour is getting late.”

  “Bear with me yet a few minutes, Brother,” returned Thomas. “How if I told you that, based on a simple man’s reading, the first two verses of the prophecy have been literally fulfilled before our eyes?”

  “What?” All the other three blurted, and stared at each other. “This had better be good, Lord Thomas,” gruffly said the scar-faced man.

  “When, and under what circumstances did your new lore-man enter the city?” asked Thomas, looking at the lore-master. “And why is he the only lore-man in living memory to join a horse troop?”

  “Did you plan his enlistment to meet the words of the song?” asked Thomas patiently, inexorably.

  “Of course not!” came the sharp retort. “No—no! Wait a moment,” continued the lore-master, holding his head. “Let me think. No! He could not have arranged all those incidents.”

  “And more than chance seems to be at work,” continued Thomas. “Your young man bears the watching of our brotherhood. Let us see how we can arrange it.” From around the table came slow nods of agreement.

  The alley door closed noiselessly. Had anyone cared to look and had the light been better, three men could have been seen to depart in different directions. However, since the lore-master’s penchant for gambling was well known, none would have thought anything amiss.

  †

  As the summer grew warmer, Don became more deeply involved in his researches of the many uncataloged books and manuscripts stacked in back corners of the lore-house. Lore-master Duncan encouraged him in this task, fortunately. Twice he uncovered volumes relating to ancient warfare, which he immediately turned over to the lore-master, who kept a separate collection of such material. As usual, pages dealing with the actual details of weapons or explosives manufacture had been carefully removed, probably in the period following the great turmoil.

  Also, on several occasions he ran across volumes of the sacred writings of the old religion. He hurriedly handed them to his superior, fully expecting him to immediately order their destruction as was his father’s custom. To Don’s surprise, he did not, but added them to his private collection, as well.

  Don had also been confused about the Raiders. He had assumed that they were members of the Prophet’s army. This was not true. The Prophet had a large army, to be sure. But the Raiders were really mercenaries, armed and paid by the Prophet, who brazenly insisted that they had nothing to do with him. Interrogations had repeatedly confirmed that his denials were lies. But looting, destroying and sowing terror was not his only aim
. Gray John was sure that the main reasons for the raids were to spy out weaknesses and report on Stonegate defenses and tactics.

  Whenever he was asked to go out on short patrols with the troop, Don half-expected the lore-master to refuse. But when he asked permission, the old man, unexpectedly, was always willing, even though Don lost much time from his duties. During the warm summer months, Don rode on three sweeps of the western park on the far side of the blue mountains with the Red Axe troop. Largely uneventful, the patrols turned out to be mainly training exercises. One scout was killed from ambush, which galvanized the entire patrol. The three Raiders responsible were quickly run down and dispatched.

  The only other incident was on the second patrol, in late July. The smoking ruins of a caravan met their gaze not far from where Don had been attacked. But the fresh trail did them no good, and they were unable to catch up to the fleeing Raiders.

  Eight drovers had been killed and everything of value stolen. The patrol gave the remains decent burial, but could do no more. Don gradually toughened to the saddle. His leg muscles gained tone and calluses took the place of blisters. His saddle leathers and boots gradually conformed to fit his body, and he learned the small tricks of shifting his weight in the saddle to make the long miles endurable. Best of all was Hardtack, who was spirited and fast enough to start the day with energy, and keep any pace set, yet sensible and reliable as well. Slowly he began to become a good horseman, more by example than precept. His teachers were his fellow troopers, many of whom had sat a horse from boyhood.