With his caution abandoned, it was no wonder he was so soon discovered. Jeremy and Peter had already infiltrated the local garrison and were being housed in the recruit portion of the barracks. They had been out that night providing eyes for Dennis when the random patrol had caught Dennis exiting the house by the rear. It had been a rookie mistake and it had led to a sad comedy of errors — one after the other. The traitor, at least had been killed, but far too cleanly to repay his crimes. Dennis had escaped over the wall as planned and Peter and Jeremy had been relieved, thinking their companion safe. They were to meet up a few days later but, unbelievably, the Reeve had returned only a few hours later dragging the remains of their companion behind him like a common criminal. At the time, it had been all Peter could do not to run out onto the street and strike down the Reeve. Afterward, once he could think clearly, he reasoned Dennis had underestimated the man. No man should have been able to follow the Knife that night and, somehow, the Reeve had done so and planted an arrow in his eye. Their grief had been unbearable and prayer hadn't seemed to help.
They had prepared to act to seek vengeance but then they had fallen gravely ill. And, later, after they had miraculously recovered — thanks be to God — they heard the garrison captain bragging to one of the senior rates about the young herb gatherer who had been involved in the death of Dennis. It had been the boy they had seen enter town the day after the murder. Peter had felt something wrong but hadn't put it together with the boy. Young men the age of the Target were never in their power and he hadn't expected to find a demon. He admonished himself now — years of inactivity had dulled his instincts. He had failed the Sect and he added an extra twenty lashings to his nightly ritual — his self-flagellation was the path to righteousness. With each stroke, he released his sins.
After the funeral for the Wordsmith they had spied on the boy and watched as he caused flowers to spring from the soil. Peter had recognised him for what he was. Jeremy had argued against it, but Peter knew. He could see it in the boy. He had seen the same look, the same far-off stare that sometimes filled their faces; the look they had when they were using their foul magycs. Oh yes, this was the Target. For over a decade they had searched high and low. Most thought him dead. Seth never did and neither had the Knife, thought Peter with satisfaction. His only concern had been Jeremy. He was talented, but he had never been on the Hunt. He didn't appreciate the danger the demons presented. There was nothing he could do. Peter was alone with Jeremy. The two of them would have to be enough until Seth could join them.
None of this was coincidence, Peter knew, the Lord had put this all in motion. He turned his attention back to the present and as he turned the corner he spotted the Target disappear over the next rise. He could see the road was too open and he turned to the tree line and sprinted forward, knowing Jeremy would follow. His black boots muffled all noise as he ran swiftly to the next copse of trees and disappeared behind them. Jeremy waited a moment and followed behind him.
I hadn't bothered to check behind me for days now and, as Laketown drew closer, I felt a strange stirring in my gut to raise my level of caution. It was an odd feeling and not one that I had felt in a long time. My old fears of capture returned and with them the memory of my promise to my mother to always stay safe. I had the feeling someone was watching me and it was getting stronger and closer.
The number of travellers coming out of Laketown had trickled to none, and, when the last caravan passed, I stole a long glance behind me. From where I was I could see some good distance down the road, and, with relief, saw nobody approaching either behind or ahead. But still the feeling of being followed persisted.
I watched as the caravan dipped below a rise and disappeared, and, in turning back on my way, caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Being careful not to stare, I probed with my senses and there, hidden behind the trees, I felt the presence of two men. They were crouched down, hiding, and I knew they were focused on me.
An oily feeling came over me, and something about these men seemed familiar. In a flash of recognition, I remembered the two guards from Jaipers and knew, without a doubt, that these were the same men and it was me they hunted.
The Reeve had been right all along.
My heart nearly burst as panic overcame me, and I turned and ran as fast as I could toward Laketown. All I knew was I had to reach the town and find safety inside its walls. My eyes searched the road ahead for any sign of help, but the road was empty. Soon all my senses were focused on the sound of my feet pounding the road and of my breath rasping in my throat. With every bounce of my stride, my backpack straps would dig deep into my shoulders. My clothes were soon soaked through with sweat. The muscles of my legs screamed at me to stop but the fear pushed the pain aside. The heat of the day was at its highest and I knew, with rising horror, there was no way I could reach the town before they caught me. But I had to try. And so I ran down the dusty road stealing feverish glances behind me for any sign of my pursuers. In my mind, they were right behind me reaching out with grasping fingers. With my senses, I felt some surprise from them, then anger, and I could feel them running behind me and I sped up.
The road shimmered in the heat and the sound of grasshoppers was a loud buzz in my ears. My world narrowed to the will required to keep myself running and tracking the two men behind me. On each rise of the road I hoped to see a caravan plodding along toward me, but the road remained empty. I stifled a scream and pushed my legs to obey and move faster. I thought once to drop my backpack but I couldn't do it. It was as much a part of me as anything else and I could not leave it behind. Salvation would come. I just had to keep running.
Twenty-Two
On the Road to Jaipers, 900 A.C.
GENERAL BRENT BAIRSTOW urged his horse to move to the side of the road and allowed the animal its head so it could graze at the grass that grew thick where the road, the stone bridge, and the river all met. He turned his head to watch his men slowly make their way along the road. His own men in the first cart nearest him were laughing at some jest and pointing to an Army regular who plodded along on his horse near them. The poor fellow had suffered miserably over the past week. His arse was a seething mass of blisters after the idiot had wiped himself with poison oak leaves. It had spread all up his hands, arms, and chest. Even from where he sat on his horse, Brent could see it creeping up the man's neck.
What's his bloody name? he thought furiously. I can't keep these Army types names straight in my head. Oh, right, Private William David, the man with two first names. Or, was it David Williams?
Brent watched as the man scratched furiously under his tunic and then turned his head to bark something at the men on the cart; which led to them laughing all the harder. The Army sergeant — Henson was his name, Brent remembered, pleased to recall it much more quickly this time — rode up hard beside the cart and, with excellent aim and timing, managed to whip one of the cart riders on the back of the head with his riding crop. Brent winced when the sound of the strike carried to him in the still air.
"Quit yer laughin', ya dunderhead!" barked the sergeant.
By now the poor fellow was visibly cursing and rubbing his head with a hand before peering at it for signs of blood. He held his hand out for the sergeant to see and so, no doubt, the sergeant had drawn blood. Brent clenched his teeth. That was abusive, he thought. I'll have to have words with the sergeant in private.
"Show yer mother the blood, I dinna care," spat the sergeant as he wheeled his horse back to the road. "One more word from you and its jacks detail for a week."
Brent could see the grimace on the face of the struck man but kept his expression clear. He was sorely disappointed in his Guard. They were too quick to quarrel with the Army men and both sergeants were having a hard time keeping them disciplined and off each other's throats. The past two weeks had been particularly difficult. Thank God, Frederick made me ride all those times. And then, thinking of his brother Frederick Bairstow, the Knight General of the Army of the Realm,
he once again wished he knew what difficulties he faced in the capital of Munsten and prayed to God he would be all right.
Brent waited and watched as the carts and men on horseback moved past him in line. A few of the men nodded in some semblance of respect to him but it was paltry. The Army major and the Army captain pulled off the road across from him and watched the men, horses, and carts pass with keen eyes. They represented his only officers on this trip. This task is routine for the Army regulars, thought Brent. A mere simple ride down the road for weeks on end — suits them no end. And that would be reason number twenty-three on the list of why I'm glad I volunteered for the Guard.
"Private David!" barked Captain James Dixon to the startled private. "You will put more of that ointment on you at the next rest break. Clear? You'll scratch yourself into one big blister at this rate!"
The private nodded meekly and stopped himself from scratching mid-scratch. Guardsman Corporal Oliver Waite, riding in a cart, laughed and the captain snapped his head over to stare at the culprit.
"Any more laughter from you, Waite, and you'll be the one to rub it on his ass, you hear?"
"Yes, sir," was Waite's meek reply. His partner on the cart bench, Army Corporal Peter Reid, smacked his leg and smirked sideways at him. Brent was pleased to see some camaraderie between Army and Guard and a glance at the captain proved he too had noticed and approved. The major was scowling as he was most often wont to do. There was simply no pleasing that man. Brent realised he was furrowing his eyebrows and forced his face to relax.
Brent could see his officers wanted a quiet word with him. The captain kept stealing looks at him to see if he had noticed. Brent ignored them both. He was too busy looking at the men's gear and tackle. One of the horses looked a little blown and, when he turned his head to observe it better as it passed him by, he saw the captain noticing his observation and seeming pleased. Ha! Thought Brent. I'm not clueless after all. With a start, he stopped the thought. What world have I landed in where the opinion of an Army captain matters to me? But still, I am pleased, I must admit. The Army knows horses better than anyone.
Captain Dixon was the only man he trusted on this road trip to Jaipers. Brent had been pleased to discover he had replaced their assigned Guard Captain who had fallen down some stairs and struck his head the morning they departed from Munsten. He hadn't regained consciousness, but was expected to fully recover. The Guard chirurgeon had informed Brent that morning, all the while wringing his hands in an annoying fashion. The blow hadn't been hard, he said and then looked quite pleased with himself. Brent thought naught about it until, later, Dixon quietly told him Knight General Frederick had assigned him to the detail in person. Dixon told him the Guard Captain had socialised in known circles with the Lord Protector and his cronies and the Knight General had arranged an accident. Brent smiled at the memory of finding out. My brother is looking after me even this many miles from home. If he trusts this man, then so do I.
"Corporal Gately!" yelled out Dixon to the guardsman riding the winded horse. "Once past the bridge, switch to one of the spare horses! Tonight you brush that horse till it shines and I want you apologising to her the entire time. You need to learn to read your horse better!"
"Her?" was the startled quick reply from the guardsman.
"Yes, her! It's no wonder the ladies want nothing to do with you. You can't tell a mare from a stallion."
Brent bit the inside of his cheek. Even the major seemed to be smiling. Or the sun was in his eyes. Hard to tell.
"Sorry, sir," Dixon said to Brent as the last cart passed them. "I should have noticed earlier. That's not a strong horse. Her mum was a weak one as well but the sire was strong. I had hoped for better. I recommend we sell her at the next town or outpost. She won't survive the journey with men in armour. Too big a strain on her heart. She can't take the weight. She'll do well for a farmer or the like."
Brent merely nodded and waited for the tethered spare horses to cross the bridge. The man watching them called for them to halt and Gately, now off his horse, moved over to select another.
Satisfied, Brent turned to his two officers. "Gentlemen, what's up?" Brent couldn't fail to notice the tightening of Gillespie's jaw. That man has more tells than anyone else I know. He waited as they crossed the road over to him. Dixon glanced over to where Gately was trying to select a horse. By the look he was giving the horses he still couldn't tell a workhorse from a riding horse.
"Have you given any thought to where we camp tonight?" said Gillespie. Brent waited. After a moment, Gillespie clenched his jaw a little harder before adding "Sir." He is getting closer to insubordination all the time, thought Brent. I doubt I'll finish this trip without having to discipline him.
"No, I have not. Somewhere along the road, I expect, major. Why?"
"It's just that I know a village a little ways outside what we normally cover in a day with this lot," he paused then added, "Sir." The insult was plain but not enough to take affront.
Brent waited in silence. With Gillespie, he had learned, it was easier to just sit in silence. The major was one of those people that needed to fill silences. The captain, on the other hand, could sit for days saying nothing at all. Brent admired him. James will be a fine senior officer one day.
Sure enough, after a few seconds of silence, the major elaborated. "I know the town. It has an inn that will house us and a large community room to house the men. Large enough stable for all the horses and it would be a welcome break. A chance to clean up and take stock. It's been a hard two weeks on the road for the guardsmen, sir."
Brent kept his eye on Dixon for the entire conversation. Dixon thought he was hiding it but Brent could see the surprise on his face. It was not lost on Brent that Gillespie had added a "sir" at the end to suck up to him. He wants this, but I don't know why. Brent could understand why Gillespie disliked him so much but not why he so openly displayed it. He's Army and I'm Guard, but that's not it, is it? He's the Protector's man — probably thinks it covers him. But his attitude is startling considering I'm a general and Gillespie is a little shit Army major. It would be smarter to be nicer.
Brent put a bored expression on his face before replying. "Just how far beyond our normal distance, major?"
"Only about two hours more, sir. We should still have sunlight on arrival. The road is fairly maintained and it has good visibility all round. We can travel fast."
"And you, captain? What's your opinion?"
The captain looked thoughtful and pretended to consider the question. Brent kept his face calm. He had no doubt the major had coerced the captain into agreeing with the idea and had planned this coordinated attack. Brent had no interest in the comfort of an inn. They were military men, not barons. He looked at the captain and watched as he exchanged a glance with Gillespie.
"Sir," he began slowly, no doubt making sure he had the prepared words right. "We're only two weeks on the road but the men have been working hard and improving their skills. Plus, honestly, the horses could use a night in the stables. A good cleaning, new shoes, oats. It would make a world of difference to them."
Brent nodded at the logic of what he said and had no doubt Dixon cared more for the welfare of the horses than the men. Perhaps I can convince myself one night under a roof again will improve morale. He looked thoughtfully at his officers. The major looked hopeful and maybe even a bit anxious about it, the captain more embarrassed than anything else. No doubt, word of his decision would reach the men faster than the flight of a sparrow.
He nodded and watched Gillespie smile. It was not a normal action for the man and it looked wrong. "Very well, make it so. I want it clear to the men that any problems in town will be dealt with harshly. I will not tolerate drunken or disorderly conduct. Does the town have a wall?"
Gillespie nodded still looking pleased.
"Very well, send our best rider on ahead to warn the garrison of our arrival and to arrange rooms in the inn and community room. Plus make sure the farrier is ready to r
eceive our horses on arrival. I want new shoes on all the horses with no delays come morning."
"Sir, yes sir!" replied Gillespie and started to turn his horse away.
"One more thing," added Brent and Gillespie quickly heeled his horse. "I want that weak horse replaced. Captain, see to that personally. I trust your judgment."
"Sir!" replied Dixon, saluting and turning back to the road. As he and Gillespie rode ahead to catch up to the train, Gately, still working on his new horse, grinned up at Brent and gave him a mock salute.
"Mind your manners, Gately, and get your fucking saddle on that horse. We won't wait for you. You'll want to gossip this latest news, fast, no? Earn an extra cup?"
Gately's eyes went round with the realisation of what this news could mean to him socially and he turned his attention to the saddle and reached under his horse for the dangling girth strap.
"That's not the strap, Gately. That's a stallion."
Brent could hear Dixon laughing up ahead and grinned to himself.
Major Gillespie looked around the stables at his men and waited. Intentionally absent from the gathering were the General, Captain Dixon, Corporal Gately, and Private David. A noise from the stable doors drew his glance and he watched Corporal Waite look up over the stall to give him a thumbs up before disappearing back outside to join Corporal Reid and stand guard. They would give warning should anyone approach.
"All right, let's make this quick," Gillespie said and the men nodded. "You've done a great job making the General believe you're all hating each other. Keep it up, but tone it down a bit."
Gillespie looked at Sergeant Henson who looked startled at being singled out.
Leaf and Branch (New Druids Series Vol 1 & 2) Page 37
