by I K Spencer
He smiled in spite of the circumstances. He remembered camping near the pool and feasting every meal on the creek’s seemingly endless supply of large brook trout, which he rolled in corn meal and fried to a golden color in his skillet. He had eaten many tasty fish in his travels, but the best were the fried brook trout he had pulled from this stream.
He gently laid the body of his fellow guardsman on the soft moss, dry and withered this time of year. He put down the lantern, took a small ax from his belt, and dropped to his knees. He raised the ax over his head and began to dig. Over and over again he swung the tool, hacking away clumps of earth. After loosening the packed soil, he put the ax down and scooped the clumps to the side with his big hands. He continued hacking and shoveling for some time, eventually disappearing inside a sizable hole.
Garrick's thoughts were not on his immediate task and his mind wandered back to the problem at hand. With more time to think, his guilt over killing a brother had lessened during the ride. Why hadn't the young guardsman attempted to arrest him? The guardsmen he knew would not execute an alleged traitor without at least some form of inquest. Also, why was the attempted assassination made to look like an accident and why did they send only one man? He might be well past his prime but not so far so as to warrant a single executioner.
He scooped a final armload of mud from the bottom of the hole and clambered up and out. He went over to the body and loosened the cloth from around the man's head. He reached for the lamp and held it above the man's face for a final look. He needed one more look at something else as well. He drew his dagger and cut the man's right forearm free of the wrapping.
The guardsman felt suddenly tense again, almost frantic, desperately hoping what he saw there earlier had been some sort of a mirage or perhaps a sorcerer's trick, anything to relieve his guilt. He held his breath as he moved the lantern near the exposed forearm but the glimmer of hope was quickly extinguished as he saw the unmistakable tattoo. There had been no mistake. Sighing, he cursed his foolishness for thinking otherwise and rolled the body over to the grave. He dropped the feet in first and laid the head down slowly as far as his arms would reach, then let go. He shivered as the head fell with a splash into the pool of icy water forming in the bottom of the makeshift grave.
He rose and stood at the end of the grave with his head down as if praying. His hands alternately clenched into fists and relaxed. After a considerable pause he spoke while looking down into the grave. "I do not know if you were an honorable man or not. If you truly were acting on orders from above, I am sorry. Had you identified yourself and tried to arrest me, I would not have resisted." He raised his head and looked around the small clearing, still a pleasant spot even before the spring growth that would soon add color and warmth. "This is good land, a good place to rest. That is one reason I brought you here. If your cause is righteous, you are worthy of such a fine resting-place. I must admit, though, that I have selfish reasons for burying you here. I guess that perchance if you rest here, with no final verdict between us, maybe I'll get to see this place again, even if it's just to show them where your bones are buried before my head rolls. Well, either friend or foe, rest in peace."
He tentatively pushed some dirt from the pile into the grave, hearing the clumps splash in the puddle below. The sound chilled him and he hurried to finish, shoving large piles into the hole with his entire upper body. In minutes the hole was filled and with the leftover soil, he formed a mound above the grave. He rested a moment but his task was not finished. From the shores of the stream he collected several large stones to cover and mark the grave.
After the last stone was placed Garrick picked up the lantern and brought it with him back to the edge of the stream. Breathing heavily from the strenuous task, he stooped and dipped his hands into the cold water to rinse away the dirt caked on his fingers. He rubbed his hands together vigorously beneath the surface until he could not stand the cold any longer. As the water settled, he studied his reflection. A tired, old man stared back at him. In that face he saw self-doubt and fear along with the expected exhaustion. With a growl he punched his fists into the reflection and splashed the frigid water up into his face. Sputtering from the shock of the freezing liquid, he climbed angrily to his feet.
"There. That's for all your sniveling you old craven," he muttered aloud. "I may be an old drunk but I'll ride straight into Dolonarian hell without a weapon before I start thinking like a cowering bootlicker."
He snatched up the lantern and stomped back down towards the lake. Moments later he emerged on the shoreline, pulling his cloak tight against the icy wind. He was about halfway up the shore when the moonlight suddenly flickered. His head instinctively jerked up at the passing shadow but he saw nothing. He quickly ducked into some bushes, blew out the lantern, and drew his dagger. He forced his breathing to slow so that he could hear better but could discern nothing beyond the wind in the trees.
The shadow that had passed overhead was too large for a bird, he knew, even a large one. A low cloud, perhaps, but he suspected something less innocent. The wary guardsman stayed behind the bushes for several minutes, scanning the heavens and straining to hear something out of the ordinary, but he saw and heard nothing. The full moon dominated the cloudless sky and he could hear only the wind above the steady rhythm of the waves.
Blaming his overactive imagination, Garrick continued up the shore, though with considerably more caution this time. He continued to watch and listen, breathing a sigh of relief when he at last reached tree cover on the path leading back up to the cliff top. The remainder of his hike proved uneventful and minutes later he was busy unloading gear from the back of his horse.
After pulling the saddle and bridle, he led the dark brown stallion, Lance, a short distance to a clearing in the tall pines. At the center, beside a patch of last season's withered grass, sat a rocky pool of water. Lance knew what to do, having been there several times before. While the horse put its head down to drink, its master dipped a pot in the spring-fed pool and took a long pull. The icy liquid burned his throat but the taste made up for it. He thought again, for the countless time, that he would like to pass his last few years here someday after turning in his sword. Now though, he realized that his retirement might be very short-lived. Forcing away the disturbing thought, he refilled the pot and walked back to where all his worldly possessions were piled on the ground. Lance glanced after his retreating master, then dropped his head to graze on the brown winter grass beside the spring.
Standing alone in the dark, he debated building a fire for tea to warm his stomach. The deliberation ended quickly; he was dead tired and not too keen on drawing any attention to his camp, especially after the strange incident on the shore. He settled for the spring water and a cold supper of traveling fare—dried meat and stale, crumbly biscuits.
While enduring the tasteless meal, the weary guardsman took stock of his situation. It might take him only a couple of days to reach Carael but how would he possibly get to see King Jamen alone? The royal quarters within the palace were thick with sentries and also a few of his guardsman brothers formed the king's personal guard unit, charged with protecting the royal family day and night. Approaching Jamen would be nearly impossible so he would need to think of something else, such as sending the king a private message somehow.
Tired to the bone, he decided it would be best to take up the problem again after some rest. He forced down the last piece of stale biscuit and followed it with a few more swallows of the icy spring water. He then rose to his feet with a grunt and trudged back by the spring for one final check on Lance before bedding down. After checking on the horse, he fixed his bed by the light of the moon, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. He raked the soft pine needles into a pile and spread his bedroll over them. He crawled inside and pulled a fur over as well; it was already nearly freezing and felt like snow. He slowly surveyed the perimeter one last time, then scanned the trees before closing his eyes, his hand grasping the handle of the sho
rt broadsword lying beside his head.
He slept fitfully. On several occasions he sat up quickly with his sword drawn, certain he had heard a howling noise above the wind. Once he fully awakened though, he heard only the rush of wind in the tall trees overhead. Finally, toward dawn, he did fall sound asleep and a bright sun had cleared the horizon by the time he rose. A wintry breeze greeted him as he climbed from the warm bed and he quickly pulled on his cloak. After rolling up his bedroll, he proceeded through the woods to the spring. Lance seemed genuinely glad to see him, which was rare, for although the highly trained animal quickly obeyed any command from its master, it habitually ignored him otherwise.
The guardsman stroked the horse's muzzle and murmured reassurances. "Spooked were you Lance m’lad? You're not the only one thankful for the light of day." He stooped and ripped up a handful of dried grass to feed the horse. "Eat up. We have another long ride today."
After a visit to the spring to drink his fill and wash the sleep from his face with a few icy splashes, he left Lance to his breakfast and went to see about his own. He went to his pack and pulled out a small bundle, handling the small, folded rag as though it contained a great treasure. He put it down and folded back the cloth, revealing a few small items—three tiny, curved pieces of metal, a block of polished wood with a well-worn groove around the center, and a loop of thin twine. He gazed at the ordinary-looking items as though they were riches and indeed, the special twine and hand-made fishhooks had cost enough to qualify as such.
He selected the smallest hook and tied it to the twine with a secure knot. He then went over to a particularly thick stand of small evergreens. On hands and knees, the stocky guardsman disappeared into the brush momentarily and returned with an armful of dry wood, kindling, and tinder from his private, hidden cache. Before long, he stood warming himself by a roaring campfire. Tempted by the penetrating heat of the blaze, he lingered there for a time, then scooped up his fishing gear and strode away in the direction of the lake.
On the shore the sun's rays could not overcome the chilly lake breeze, which further mussed his uncombed, thick mane. He paused for a moment to enjoy the view, though the waves on the lake were quite large for this early in the morning. In the summer calm, the lake surface would be as smooth as glass when he came down to bathe or fish this time of day. Today the dark blue water in the middle of the lake was a churning, frothing mass of waves. The lighter, gray-blue water closer to the shore was calmer though, and perhaps he could catch something for his breakfast.
Garrick's gaze rose to the peak on the opposite shore, close to a mile away. The water and ice-speckled cliffs facing him sparkled in the bright sunshine and made the huge gash in the earth appear fresh; as though some knife from the gods had just hacked the mountain in two and scraped away the half near him. The gentler side slopes were quilted with green patches of evergreens, gray patches of bare trees, and white patches of exposed snow. The vivid blue of the clear sky helped soften the textures of the mountain. He sighed with appreciation. This awesome sight had never disappointed him and today was no different.
Finding a familiar rock, he sat down and took out his hook and line. He pulled a sack of dried meat from his coat and selected a long, stringy piece, which he tied around the hook. He tied the other end around his left wrist and looped the twine into large coils. Holding the coils loosely with his left hand, he began to swing the meat-laden hook in gentle circles over his head with his right. He let out some line and the size of the arc grew. After a few more circles, he let go at the precise moment and the hook and line sailed out over the lake. The baited hook landed with a small splash and after waiting a few seconds, he began to slowly pull the line back in. He fished with methodical, well-rehearsed movements. From the distance, he appeared to be performing a slow, rhythmic dance, surprisingly graceful considering his bulk. He reached with alternating hands and with each slow pull, his hand made several jerky movements intended to make the hook dance along the bottom to attract the fish. Before each pull, he paused with the line between thumb and forefinger, anticipating the subtle tug of a nibble or the sharp snag of a strike. With each tug on the line he paused, waiting without excitement for further action. After just a few moments the pause would end, although the ensuing pulls would be slower and more tentative. When the hook finally emerged from the water the entire process began again.
The stoic guardsman's calm movements and look of concentration masked the inner torment he was experiencing. A feeling of dread had been growing inside him since waking. Something had gone terribly wrong and he felt a strong sense of foreboding that he would be sacrificed as a result. Thus, the lure to escape that fate and remain at his secret hideaway nearly overpowered him. It would take all his will to pack up and leave after the breakfast he had no business taking time for.
A strike suddenly and thankfully pulled his attention away from the inner battle. With quick reflexes for a man his age, he jerked the line taut and began to pull it in with steady movements that kept tension on the hooked fish, a good-sized catch from the fight it offered. About twenty feet out, he saw a light object flitting around beneath the wavy surface. After a few more pulls the shape took the form of a sizable perch and at the sight of the darting fish his grim face warmed a bit. Although perch was not his favorite, at least there would be fresh fish for breakfast. He pulled the squirming fish, about a foot and a half in length, from the water and pulled the precious hook from its gaping mouth.
After fighting off the urge to try for another, he made quick work of cleaning and halving the fish with his dagger and returned to his campsite among the tall trees. His fire had burned down to red coals and he used a stick to push half the embers to the center of a triangle of rocks. He filled his pot with fresh water and set it atop the rocks. The fish halves were speared to a stick resting on two taller rocks over the remaining coals. Ten minutes later he sat by the fire, savoring his breakfast of fresh fish and strong tea made from the clear spring water. He sat with his back to the lake breeze and cupped the mug between his large hands, enjoying the heat emanating from the liquid. He ate the fish quickly, taking large bites of the flaky meat from the skewer and spitting out tiny bones.
All too soon Garrick’s plate and mug were empty. He sat frozen, staring at the bottom of the empty cup. He knew he should be on his way but he did not seem to have the will to stand. He sensed only betrayal and death awaiting him and it was nearly too much to bear but after a few heartbeats the weathered face abruptly broke into a weak smile as he glimpsed the truth through the haze of fear. He had faced desperate situations in the past, including numerous battles, and knew the grip of panic well. Sometimes it was bad and sometimes not so bad. He hadn’t known terror this bad in many years but fortunately he wasn’t so old that he didn’t remember the remedy—just do something, anything actually. The "what” didn’t matter; activity itself seemed to be the key, he had learned. Get your hands busy with some task and after a while, the fog seemed to clear. It had always worked.
Remembering the invaluable lesson, he climbed to his feet with a sigh and began to pack up his gear. Minutes later Lance stood by, packed and waiting patiently for his master. Garrick paused to light his pipe, then kicked dirt over the remaining embers of the dying fire. Without looking back, he climbed into his saddle and rode down the path that led back to the road, and beyond.
Chapter 3
As Garrick left the lake, his pace slowed considerably compared to the frantic ride to the hideaway of the night before. No doubt a dead body would make most riders hasten but he knew it was more a case of shock than the proximity of a corpse that caused his rashness and the morning sun had returned his composure, at least temporarily. Also it being Sunday, the roads were filled with leisurely travelers so a galloping horse would stick out like a sore thumb. He did not resemble a typical Sunday traveler out for a day trip, but the intermittent groups he happened upon did offer him some cover. More important, the slower pace gave him time to accept the situ
ation and think more clearly. He knew he was lucky not to have made a serious mistake the day before, considering his mental state.
As he rode south, bundled against a chilly wind that kept the sun from providing much warmth, he pondered how a member of the Guard could have come to terms with killing a fellow guardsman. The most remote possibility to him was that the wagoneer-assassin had always been capable of murder or had turned evil. Guardsman training began at the academy when the candidates were just small boys and only a fraction of those that started actually ever became members of the Guard. Only the purest of heart could make it through the rigorous training and selection process, a program that emphasized mental and moral instruction as much as military and intelligence training. He had never heard of a rogue guardsman and so far as he knew, none had existed during the thousand-year reign of the corps.
The next possibility was that he’d been held responsible for some grievous act worthy of execution. Even though the idea seemed ridiculous, he thought carefully about the last few months to see if anything seemed suspicious in hindsight. Even reconsidering trivial incidents that appeared insignificant at the time, he came up with nothing. The sad truth was that he had found nothing to report since coming to Kaslow a couple of years before. There had been no situations when he was in danger, no incidents of treason, and no suspicious characters in his province, until now. A case of mistaken identity seemed the most probable answer. He was being blamed for a crime committed by another. It was, however, not a case of mistaken identity for the man sent to kill him; the mistake had been committed by those who ordered and convinced the young guardsman to execute one of his own.
