The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  “Here, squirt,” he said to Philip, handing him the hat. “I found this behind the seat. You need to keep the sun off that peeled nose of yours.”

  He got a weak grin and a small “Thanks.” as the hat settled quickly on the boy’s head. From then on, it seemed that the hat had grown there. He rarely took it off.

  Bobby strolled up and grinned at Philip. “You are starting to look like a Bethuel trader, for sure,” he joked.

  “Have you been to the city of the dwarves?” asked Philip. “I have always wanted to see them.”

  “Ha! There is really no city of dwarves.” answered Eric. “I don’t know how that story got started. A few dwarves do live in Ariel, and some are famous weapon-smiths. Where are you from, anyway?”

  “I lived across the river from Granvely. My father had a small farm and a blacksmith shop.”

  “Is your father living?”

  Philip ducked his head and shrugged his shoulders. He did not answer.

  Abel came around the wagon. “We will drive right by Granvely. It would be an easy thing for us to take the riding horses and go over to your parent’s place. But would it be safe? For you, I mean.”

  Philip wrinkled his brow and looked from one face to another. “Maybe I could hide in a wagon when we get to Granvely. Then we could ride over in the dark. Then it should be safe enough. Everyone in town would know me, though.”

  “What then?” asked Don. “Word would get out. The tax collectors will come back. The Prophet’s arm is long.”

  “If I can just get home, my father will know what to do. I will hide for awhile, probably. We talked about moving upcountry.”

  “You are right, Philip,” said Abel, with a note of authority. “It is correct to let your father decide what to do. One of us will take you home. Your parents must know that you are still alive. They are grieving, certainly.”

  “If I had not been so stupid!” groaned Philip, wiping his face.

  Don awkwardly patted him on his back. “Maybe it was for the best.”

  “Yes,” put in Abel. “You will see that this is all part of a great plan—there is a plan for your life. The thing is, you must fit into it.”

  Philip stared at him. “So you are believers, then,” he whispered. “I thought so, but I could not imagine that you could be so open.”

  “Of course we can be open,” laughed Abel. “Have you not heard that Ariel and Bethuel are free? But our lore-man, Donald, is not yet one of us though the Spirit is moving within him.”

  It was Don’s turn to stare. Whatever did that mean? He knew nothing of the movement of sprits. Yet it was true that some impulse had moved him to help a total stranger. He could not remember ever doing that before. “Your beliefs seem less strange, somehow, Abel. I must agree to that,” he said, finally.

  Philip seemed to open up. “Well, as for our family, it was an open secret that we are believers. Our neighbors all knew and respected us … Except for the bishop’s people. They called us Gentiles or even worse—Fundies. Of course, if you were not with the bishop, you were a Gentile, but the Fundies were their sworn enemies, or so they thought.”

  Don was a bit shocked. He had heard the “Fundie” word before, but it was not used in polite conversation, and it was never spoken aloud in Goldstone. He had never heard it in Stonegate, for that matter. But if it had been hurled at Philip, it explained much.

  †

  Granvely turned out to be a small, un-walled village to the right of the main road. Some old brick buildings stood there, obviously dating back to the days of the Empire. The ebb and flow of battles that had swept up and down the valley had left this town almost untouched. A bridge could be seen, to the left, arching over the river and leading to the south. This town was not actually in the Prophet’s lands, but many in the area were loyal to him. Tax collectors even came this far up the river, but no farther.

  They pulled into the stable on the east edge of town. Philip crouched out of sight behind the seat. Two young boys pranced out waving their arms. “Mister Abel! Mister Abel! Do you have candy for us?” they cried. The road was slushy with melting snow, but they did not seem to notice.

  “Whoa, now!” shouted Abel with a laugh. “You’re scaring the horses. Let us get to the barn, then we’ll see.”

  “Candy! Candy!” they shouted all the louder. But when they tried to climb up onto the wagon, Abel shooed them back with his whip.

  “Why can’t we ride?” they shouted.

  “Because you did not do what I said,” returned Abel. “Now stay back, you scamps!”

  His laugh belied the words. The two boys ran back to Eric and Bobby who let them climb into the second wagon. Their squeals were soon muffled as though they had something in their mouths.

  The wagons were soon backed under an open-fronted shed and the horses turned into a corral, up to their ears in hay. It was a good place and neatly kept. The stable owner promised to guard the wagons well and seemed almost insulted when Eric stayed behind. The others walked into town, on a direct path to the inn. Philip stayed quiet under a sheet of canvas in the back of Abel’s wagon. The two boys, mouths full of Bethuel candy, tagged along, and soon a crowd of children’s squeals could be heard. But Abel had enough for all.

  After supper, Abel came back and told the stable-keeper that he had to take a message to the smith across the river. No one waited more anxiously for an answer than Philip. The smith was his father. But the news that finally came was not good. The Prophet’s men had come some weeks earlier and had taken them away downriver, and they had not been heard from since.

  †

  Despite the “tax collectors” that freely operated up the river for another forty miles, the boundary of the Prophet’s land was reckoned to be at the mouth of the lower canyon where the ancient bridge crossed the river. Where the bridge ended, a toll gate crouched. Fifty paces away there was a guard house, built of stone. The road was wider there, to allow wagons to turn around and depart, if necessary.

  Abel drove up to the barrier—a pole with counterweight that swung up when admission was granted. After a few minutes, a stout man sauntered down the guard house steps and strolled over to the gate. He carried a slate tablet and wore a piece of chalk over his ear. His beard was cut square below his chin in the Western style, and it was as black as it was thick. He wore a narrow-brimmed felt hat, faded to a russet-tan color. A short sword hung from his belt. Two young men in leather jerkins stepped out onto the guardhouse porch, displaying strung crossbows, and posing in what they apparently believed was a menacing fashion.

  “So it’s you,” sneered the toll collector, laying his hand on the wagon wheel on Don’s side, gazing across toward Abel. “What are you peddling this time?”

  Abel kept his voice level. “As usual. Medicine, dried beef, wheels of cheese, farm tools, canvas, raincoats, knives, sweaters, knives and a marble statue. Oh, some shoes.”

  The toll collector made some marks on his slate. “What’s the statue for?”

  “Special order—some rich man in Junction.”

  “For me?”

  “A tub of apple butter and a ham from Bethuel.”

  “Only one ham? You’re tight as a tick? But let’s have a look.”

  He waved to a fat man wearing an apron who had wandered out of the guard house. Don and Abel got down from the wagon and walked to the rear. They opened the tail gate, and removed the apple butter and ham. The portly man scooped them up with a slight smile and retired.

  “Let me see the knives,” ordered the toll collector. “You know that weapons can be sold only to the Protectors.”

  “Of course,” answered Abel. “How many times have you told me this?”

  “Don’t get smart. How can I remember who I told what, and I don’t try to.”

  “Well, anyway, they are just kitchen
knives. But very good ones. The steel is excellent, but they are only fit for slicing ham.”

  The portly official inspected the knives. He ordered both wagons to be partly unloaded, then, apparently satisfied, he made some final calculations on the slate. Two more wagons had pulled up behind them in the meantime.

  He noticed Don’s crossbow and quarrels. “I will want to see that you still have all of these when you return,” he ordered. “Those are for defense only, and cannot be sold!”

  Don and Abel solemnly agreed. Then he set the toll at six silver pieces per wagon and allowed them to reload. Abel went inside the guard house and returned shortly with a paper ticket. One of the crossbow men raised the gate and they were allowed to proceed. They were now in the Prophet’s land. The sensation was something like entering a jail. Perhaps it was easier to get in than out.

  “Maybe we should have left the knives at home,” said, Don. “It made him suspicious.”

  “No,” answered Abel. “If we had nothing from Ariel he might have found that strange. He looks fat and stupid but he is not—not stupid, that is. He is a dangerous man. And he has connections, or he would not be a toll collector.”

  The wagons rolled on. “We’re through!” exclaimed Don, letting out a breath that he had been holding. “That was not too bad.”

  “Don’t relax just yet,” returned Abel, looking back at the receding toll gate. “They are not necessarily convinced that we are harmless.”

  “But … but they let us through,” said Don, in confusion. “If they had suspected us, why let us enter their land?”

  “Why not? They can easily catch up with us whenever they want. They may just be letting us get deeper in—farther from help. They may just want to watch us and see who we talk to. They can always put us in chains.”

  “So we don’t know if we are under suspicion or not?”

  “That is so—not that they trust any Easterner.”

  “Well, I will be glad to see Ariel again,” whispered Don, half to himself.

  “If we see it again I will also be glad!”

  That said, they fell silent as the iron-bound wheels ground out the remaining six miles to the crossroads settlement, a few miles north of Junction. A town of some size, Junction had no wall but boasted a large market every weekend that drew farmers and traders from miles around. Abel’s plan was simplicity itself. Go to the inn at the crossroads and get rooms there. Then drive into Junction, deliver the statue, and find out the latest news. Later, they would spend a day at the market, just as traders should.

  Then they would decide what to do next, depending on the news. They would probably take a small load of goods to Benson, the next town to the west and trade at the weekend market there. They would try to sell what they had, buy things in short supply upriver, and then return to Ariel. It was the kind of trip that Abel had made many times before.

  Don cast a worried look at Philip. He had said nothing when they told him the bad news about his parent’s abduction. They had tried to comfort him by pointing out that they were alive, at least. But he had merely sat as if he were frozen. He had said almost nothing since, and when he did respond it was mostly a word or a shrug. Don turned his attention back to Abel.

  “What, exactly, are we looking for?” asked Don, looking over his shoulder again at the empty road behind.

  “If the Prophet is mobilizing as I suspect, he will not be able to hide it,” returned Abel. “In fact, reports from the Gray Pilgrims will already have made it pretty clear, in all likelihood.”

  “What!” exclaimed Don, surprised again. “If that is true, then why should we go on?”

  “The Pilgrims are healers. The House of Healing is not concerned about anything except threats to the Healers or to their headquarters. They most likely would not try to hide information. None of us would expect that. But they only let their allies see a summary of the reports that come in.”

  “But even the summary would be enough to tell if the Prophet is preparing for all-out war, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably. But it may not be enough to convince our towns to prepare our defenses until it is too late.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By the time the reports from the Pilgrims have filtered down and they have been studied to death someone may well decide that we are in danger. But only first-hand testimony will convince the leaders of Bethuel and Ariel. They won’t be able to talk to the Pilgrims.”

  “I see,” murmured Don. “So our trip is more about speeding up the defenses. And nothing will convince the three towns to start serious preparation but—”

  “You have it. It will take first-hand information, backed up by the Pilgrim’s reports and hard analysis. That is why we must see with our own eyes. Even then, it will be hard to convince them until the Prophet’s army marches up to the town walls.”

  “Why would they be hard to convince? The Prophet sent armies up the river before, didn’t he?”

  “That was the old Prophet. This Prophet was a boy then. Many think it would be unlikely to happen again. I might believe that too, but it all depends on what we see.”

  “What do you expect to see?”

  “Think about it for a moment. We won’t be able to get near their military camps. But we can see how many young men are on the street—in the fields, and at the market. We can see if the blacksmiths have weapons for sale—or anything for sale, for that matter.”

  “Why would they not have anything for sale?”

  “If they have been conscripted to make swords and spears for an army, then they won’t have time to make shovels and hoes. So, if our farm tools sell at a high price, that will tell us something the merchants of Bethuel will be able to understand. They know about supply and demand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we also need to keep our ears open in the common room of the inn. And question the Pilgrims closely, of course.”

  “Pilgrims? How do you know that we will see any?”

  “Oh, we will see some. Most of the medicines that we carry are for them. We should see several in the next few days.”

  “I see what you mean, then. But the Pilgrims make regular reports to the House of Healing, anyway. I don’t see why talking to them would add much more. If they saw something important, they would already have reported it. And they can send reports very fast, as you showed me. It will be many days before we can make a report.”

  “Your questions are good. And that is the point. We can ask the Pilgrims questions—things that they may not know are important. If there has been a good harvest, but wheat is in short supply, I would find that interesting. They may think nothing of it. So, they probably don’t know what they know. They are not military men, but they can go places that we can’t. They can even go into armed camps to treat the injured. If we can get a picture of what is going on farther west, in the Prophet’s heartland, we should be able to make some conclusions.”

  They both fell silent and watched the last miles roll away behind their wheels. Few other travelers were to be seen.

  Chapter 19

  †

  Storm Clouds

  The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away , none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come. Isaiah 57: 1 KJV

  They did not actually stay in Junction. They went to the crossroad settlement, called “Clarion,” a few miles to the north. Abel had often stayed at an inn there before. The food was plain but good, and the rooms were clean. The horses had good hay and oats, besides. They all had a pleasant evening, except Bobby, who slept in one of the wagons. Abel insisted on a twenty-four hour guard over the trade goods, particularly in the Prophet’s land.

  The next day was spent running errands. Bobby and Abel took one wagon into town to deliver the stone statue.
Philip remained at the stable to watch the other wagon and mend some harness. Don and Eric took the two saddle horses and went for a ride. They wanted to scout the area, though Abel told them to stay on the main roads. They had gone to the northwest, following a road next to an irrigation canal.

  Philip watched them go with a bit of a flutter in his stomach and sweaty palms. Despite an idea that he was nurturing about going on to Junction by himself, he had no idea how he would do it. Even being left alone in the stable was bad enough although the stable hands were friendly.

  He looked over at the other two men. They both looked ancient to him, gaunt and white haired. They seemed to be in no hurry as they cleaned the barn with pitchforks and a rickety wheelbarrow. Their voices came to him in a dull murmur. Though one of them glanced his way as though they were mildly curious, they did not seem to be overly interested in him.

  Abel had shown him how to use needles and thread to stitch several places on the teams’ harness where the old thread was broken and the leather was separating. He had given him an awl, some beeswax, thread and several needles. Philip began to work, enlarging the old holes with the awl, then, using two needles, he began re-sewing the leather. He was slow at first, but as the morning progressed, he began to fall into the rhythm of the work and made good progress.

  He had plenty of time to think as he worked. A few good meals had made a great change. Though he was still thin, he had made his way out of the dull, passive mental fog that had been his companion. When he had finally stumbled out of the hills and reached the road, he had hit a wall. His capacity to plan or reason had been nearly gone. When the stranger had walked up to him and invited him to eat, he had at first not understood a word. It was not his accent, though Philip could tell that he was not from the valley. He simply had not been able to focus on what the stranger had been saying.