Stoc (A New Druids Series Book 3)

by Donald D. Allan

  The Admiral was ready for them and opened fire. In moments, the main fight was over. Steve looked up to the sun and determined it had only been three hours of fighting. Franky stopped by and they talked quickly. Franky had seen what the Baron had done. They agreed to finish the job and meet up before nightfall.

  Hours later the Baron had full control of the city. The few enemy that remained had been flushed out and dealt with. Bodies were piled high in the city common and carts were lined up to carry them clear of the city and dumped them into the sea. Citizens were grieving and pulling their loved ones out of the mass of bodies. Soldiers from the Baron's army were helping them as best they could. Their guilt was evident and often times anger would erupt into words and skirmishes. Steve had his crew standing by to break up the fights and tension was thick in the air.

  The garrison survivors had been released and sworn allegiance to the Baron. Now they patrolled the streets and manned the gates. They had thought themselves doomed and thankfully returned to their duty. All the officers and senior rates were killed in the parade square. The more seasoned had received field promotions by the Baron's officers and put in charge of cleaning up the streets.

  The Baron sent a messenger asking for Steve to present himself down at the harbour and he grabbed Franky and made his way down the steep streets. As they approached, the docks they spotted the Admiral standing talking to the Baron. The mayor of Jergen was seated nearby and seemed to be overwhelmed with all the activity and destruction. A longboat was moored nearby and sailors held it ready to depart. The Admiral was in his working uniform with his hat cocked at an angle on his head. He saw them approaching and his wild pointed beard turned up in a smile.

  The Baron spotted them approaching. "Ah, Steve and Franky. I would like to introduce you to my good friend, Admiral Charles Kingsmill."

  Steve shook his hand with enthusiasm. "Thank you, Admiral, for the timely cannon fire. You cut down the numbers and saved us a great deal of combat in the streets," he said and let Franky move up to shake his hand with her right hand. The Admiral smiled at her and accommodated her awkward shake.

  "It was my pleasure," he replied. "I've heard from the Baron's men all about your crew here in Jergen. You've saved a great many lives. Sadly, I lost a great many sailors today and two of my fastest frigates. Good men and women, all of them. They will be missed."

  "You have my condolences, sir," answered Franky.

  "Thank you, miss," he said and turned to the Baron. "Tell me Andrew, how many did you lose in all this?" Steve looked askance at the familiar tone.

  The Baron looked embarrassed. "I'm not sure to tell the truth."

  Steve scowled and beckoned to one of the Baron's senior officers who came over uncertain. "Major Sibbald, how many did you lose?"

  The major stepped forward and looked to his Lord for forgiveness before he spoke. "Combined with the garrison we lost ninety-six men, sir. Another eighty-five are wounded. Fifteen are not expected to survive the night. The chirurgeons are tending to them now. We have set up a triage in the common."

  Steve thanked the major and the man saluted the Baron and Admiral and left. "There you have it, Admiral. The enemy was formidable. Their style is not like anything I've ever seen. I lost twelve of my men and women. These men and women were some of my most skilled in sword work. With this battle, we have information that will help—we know their fighting style. I've passed that detail over to the Baron's senior officers. They will insure your people receive training." Franky looked strangely at Steve.

  The Admiral looked long and hard at the Baron who seemed to wilt under the scrutiny. "This is serious business, Andrew. I've just received word from a courier ship that Munsten has welcomed more of the enemy. They are embedded with the Army and Guard. Our self-proclaimed president has handed the capital to the enemy."

  The Baron spluttered. "President?"

  "Yes, it seems our Lord Protector has declared Belkin a republic and named himself President."

  "That's ludicrous!"

  "That's Healy. Nothing he does should surprise anyone anymore."

  Steve cleared his throat. "How is it, Admiral that you are not fighting alongside this enemy?"

  The Baron went red in the face. "How Dare You!"

  The Admiral laid a hand on the Baron's arm to calm him. "Relax, Andrew. It is a fair question. I have never sided with Healy. I have been a close friend of Knight General Frederick Bairstow for many, many years. He had been investigating Healy for the past little while. Not a very good secret, I'm afraid. Healy moved to arrest all those associated with the Bairstow brothers. He placed a lowly major as the head of the military. A cousin or some such nonsense. A Major Gillespie.

  "I was at sea on manoeuvres when it happened. The timing was fortuitous. I've intelligent men in my Navy, sir. The ships with me chose not to return to port. I've been on manoeuvres for months now. Ha! The rest of the ships were seized alongside in Munsten. No idea about the crews or officers. I fear the worst.

  "Andrew here has been kind enough to allow me to re-provision here. My fleet is just outside Portsmouth. I came here to meet with the Baron. He asked me to come, you see. We sighted the enemy ships some leagues out to sea. I sent in a small brig, the BNS Crescent, to see what they were about. They boarded her, killed everyone and left her to drift. I've been following them ever since. Chased them under high pursuit all the way here to Jergen. I was losing the race until this morning. That wind favoured us. Plus, I don't think the men who sailed those ships were very experienced.

  "A terrible thing losing BNS Swift and BNS Sure. They were captained by two good friends of mine. Seasoned men. Losing their ships and their lives to fire...that was terrible."

  The Admiral grew quiet. Steve grew annoyed at the expression on the Baron's face. He had no empathy for the man's grief. His eyes darted and it was clear he wanted to be elsewhere.

  "How many ships do you Command, sir?" asked Franky seeing Steve glaring at the Baron.

  "I had five yesterday. Now only three remain. I have two barques remaining outside Portsmouth. BNS Invincible and BNS Illustrious. No cannons though. We never had time to refit those ships. Wonderful inventions these cannons. Changes sea warfare. Devastating when used properly. I trust you saw the exchange?"

  Franky nodded.

  The Admiral looked where her arm should be. "If I may, miss. How did you lose the arm?"

  Franky looked surprised. Steve knew that no one ever openly mentioned it to her. Franky spared a glance at Steve before answering. "I lost a sword fight. Took the arm clean off above the elbow. Lost the rest up to the shoulder due to infection and what-not."

  "Good for you keeping up the profession," replied the Admiral with respect in his voice. "Don't look so surprised. Sailors lose all sorts of limbs in duty to the sea. I imagine it's worse for you land lot. Nothing wrong with someone with one arm."

  "Thank you, sir," murmured Franky and Steve was surprised to see some colour in her cheeks.

  "What now, Andrew," said the Admiral, turning to the Baron.

  "I'm not certain. I have most of my men. I still mean to march on Munsten, but I don't think I have the strength of arms."

  "Conscript the battalion. They don't care who they fight for. Give them weapons, surround them with your own men and force the march. That will bring your numbers up to about six hundred. You are next in line for the throne, right? Ha! Order them!"

  Steve found himself nodding. "Great idea. You'll leave the city undefended though. I'd spend time here first. Build up the garrison with willing city folk. Train them. Then march."

  The Admiral turned his attention to Steve. "Hmm. That has merit. I don't think Healy will leave Munsten anytime soon. Some risk acceptance there to sit here though. Still, the best course of action, I think. We need to strike at the centre of gravity and that's Munsten. Not many options here and I believe all roads lead to Munsten, pardon the pun. But to attack Munsten you will need strength. You don't have that, Andrew. Not sure what you pl
an once you get there."

  "The Baron will need able officers to control the garrison conscripts. It will be a tough army to coordinate."

  "Are you not going with him?" asked the Admiral raising one of his shaggy eyebrows.

  "No, I most certainly am not," replied Steve.

  The Baron jerked as if struck. "What? You cannot. You have an oath to me."

  "Null and void as far as I am concerned. I cannot fight for a man that kills women and children in his lust to strike at an enemy. You have no honour. You broke the oath." Steve was visibly shaking with fury now that he addressed what was eating him. He forced the words out one at a time. With each word the Baron grew redder and angrier. "I swore all those years ago to defend Belkin against those that would cause it harm. You have demonstrated today that you are not only capable, but willing to do harm. I am done. I am returning to the farm. Will needs me."

  Steve turned and took Franky's hand. He nodded to the Admiral. "Good day, sir. It was my pleasure."

  The Admiral gave Steve an appraising look before nodding and touching his hat. "Good luck, Steve. If Andrew won't say it I will: well done here. Jergen owes you a debt."

  Steve smiled and strolled away with Franky humming happily beside him. They continued to hear the bellows from the Baron until they turned the first corner. Behind him his crew filled in the ranks. They marched through the streets and word spread ahead of them. The streets were soon lined with the citizens of Jergen. They reached out and touched the crew as they walked past giving thanks.

  "That felt good," whispered Steve.

  "About time, you idiot," chastised Franky.

  Fourteen

  Munsten - The Dungeons - June 901 A.C.

  VICAR MARTIN JORDAN waited outside the gaol cell and thanked the turnkey when he unlocked the door. The dungeon was an affront to his senses, and he fought to keep down his supper. He kept his head lowered and ignored the jeering from the adjoining cells. He carried a small bucket of water and a clean cloth. It was all he was allowed. He knew who occupied the cells on this floor and the two others above it. The castle in Munsten was talking of nothing else. The rounding up of all the former General's trusted men had been swift and brutal. Those loyal to the President were now in positions of authority within the Army and the Guard. The arrival of Mushir Adham from the strange lands to the East did not bode well for the Realm and his men were now integrating throughout the city.

  Of immediate concern to Martin was that the Church was in disarray. To add insult, Martin had been placed in a position far above his comfort levels. The President had asked him to advise him on matters of the church and this had not gone over well with the bishops. Martin had asked that an advisor be nominated from the bishops but the President had laughed and refused. Martin knew better than to swim against the current and had accepted and then met with the sequestered bishops. They were not happy but understood the awkward position he found himself in. They found a truce of sorts and now a vicar was to advise the President on the souls of the Realm. He prayed daily for guidance but so far God was not answering.

  Now he was tasked with giving dire news to the occupant of the cell in front of him. The President thought it fitting that a man of the cloth tell one of his believers that his time was up. The President had laughed and reminded him he was one of those who had led to his capture and that he should be cautious.

  The door to the cell swung inward. The turnkey stepped away and spoke to Martin. "A'm ainlie suppose tae gie ye five minutes. Bit vicar, ah will nae mynd th' time. In ye gang. Shout whin ye'r guin tae leave. He's a guid man. Pity aboot this."

  Martin struggled to understand the thick brogue and then nodded and entered the cell. The door was pulled closed behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock. The turnkey called in. "Ah will juist be doon th' hall a wee bit."

  He looked about the cell and noticed at once the dried blood on the floor at his feet. He heard a moan and looked toward the source on the thin pallet. Brent Bairstow was curled up on his side in the shadow holding his stomach. He was naked and covered in cuts and bruises. There wasn't a part of his exposed skin that was not sliced. Puss leaked from the wounds and his skin was an angry red. Infection had set in badly and the smell hinted at gangrene.

  The man no longer controlled his bowels, and he lay in urine and excrement. The strength of it burned Martin's eyes and they watered.

  Martin moved to Brent's side, careful where he placed his sandaled feet, and put the bucket down beside him. He dipped the cloth in the water and started to wipe gently at the crusted blood and puss from the arm closest to him. He heard a hiss from Brent and stopped a moment before continuing.

  "You are in bad shape, my son," said Martin. He saw his cloth was already soaked in blood and pus and he squeezed it out onto the floor and dipped it back in the bucket. "I've news for you."

  Brent moved a little on the pallet and tilted his head to the side to peer up at him with eyes that were yellow and caked with blood and dirt. "Vicar Martin. What news?"

  "News, yes, none of it good I'm afraid," he paused a moment and used the cloth to wipe the blood from Brent's eyes. Brent blinked and focused on him. "You are to be executed at dawn."

  "And when is that?"

  Martin didn't understand for a moment and then realised Brent had lost track of time. "Tomorrow morning. It is just past seven at night. Eleven hours from now."

  "I see. I should probably get dressed."

  Martin heard the quaver in Brent's voice. It was not fear but sickness. He was wracked with illness. "You look terrible. I think what you wear is the least of your worries."

  "Depends on the audience."

  "Your execution will be witnessed by all. Including the Army of Mushir Adham."

  "Who?"

  "The Realm has been joined by the leader and army of a land far to the East. The castle gossip say Jergen has seen a second army join their forces."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "President Healy has opened the Realm to a foreign army. He says it is to secure the land from enemy forces from within. Including those loyal to your brother. And you. You've been declared a traitor. Posters are up all over the city announcing your execution."

  Brent lay silent.

  "He also mentioned the druids. Painted them as demons using evil magic to sway the will of man away from good and justice."

  "You know that isn't true. Any of it."

  "It seems your brother was investigating the President while he was the Lord Protector. Making up evidence. He was about to attempt a coup and seize control of the capital."

  "Well, that much is true except he didn't make up anything. The man's a tyrant."

  Martin continued to clean the wounds. His bucket of water was now red, and he felt he was painting Brent's body with it. It was a futile act but this small act of kindness was all he had to offer. "Perhaps. It is not my place to question the authority of the man. My work lies with God."

  Brent laughed softly and then winced. "Would you believe me if I told you that this was my work as well?"

  Martin stopped and gazed down at Brent. "Do you pray?"

  "I never stop."

  "Ah, yes. Good. So do I. I pray for guidance. To be shown the way to greater salvation for all. What do you pray for?"

  "Not my release, if that is what you mean. I pray for justice. I pray that God delivers to me the means to avenge the deaths that lay at that man's feet."

  "Do you think that a wise use of prayer?"

  "Yes, I do. God is not kind, Martin. He never has been. He is vindictive and swift in his judgement. I ask to merely be his tool."

  Martin sighed. "I can find no words to that. God is loving. Not vindictive."

  "We will need to disagree on that," Brent paused. "My men, how are they?"

  "You mean the others in the cells? Far better than you. They have been left alone. Mostly it is a lack of food that ails them. Their spirits are shattered. It is only you that the President punishes."r />
  "Hmm. This is the work of that new Sect leader, Kevin Balfour, not Healy. At least not directly. It is his blade that leaves my skin so. Do you think he asks for me to beg forgiveness from God?"

  Martin said nothing. He had not known that the Sect leader had done this damage. The torture was evil. No man deserved this treatment.

  "They ask me the same thing over and over. Where's the gold?" Brent laughed softly. "Where's the gold?"

  "What gold?"

  "The gold that Bill Redgrave stole from Healy after he had his wife and children killed in front of him. Bill had been investigating Healy, too."

  "Gold? All this for gold?"

  "Of course, what else drives the hearts of men to do the things they do? Power and wealth. Gold is power."

  Martin sighed and continued to administer to the wounds.

  "Any word from James?"

  "I'm sorry, Brent. He was killed in Portsmouth. Drowned by Gillespie."

  Brent choked back a sob and threw an arm up and over his eyes. Martin was shocked to see only the forefingers and thumbs remained on the hands. Martin saw his lips moving and leaned down to hear Brent praying. Knowing not what else to do he joined him and prayed for a swift end to the man's pain.

  After a moment, Brent withdrew his arm and glared up at him. "Gillespie is twice damned. He killed my brother in front of me right here in my cell. And he has killed my best friend. I am God's sword and I will be his justice. Thank you, Martin, for your compassion. I will right these wrongs and see the Church returned to its rightful glory in the hearts of men and women. Munsten is rotten to its core. It needs someone to exorcise its demons."

  For a moment, Martin could see the righteous truth in Brent's eyes. He spoke from a conviction of faith that he had searched for his entire life. He felt a surge of awe in the strength of this man. He lay broken, dying, and facing an execution in mere hours. And yet, he still held true to his beliefs. Martin envied him in that moment and then felt the crushing sense of defeat knowing this man could accomplish nothing.