by A J Callen
Simon hoped they wouldn’t stop there, and if they did it wouldn’t be for long. People outside the shops and market stalls had taken to whispering among themselves and pointing at Mr. Byrch.
A frightened girl clutched her mother’s frayed kirtle and hid behind the folds. “Look, Mother. It’s an ogre.”
Her mother sniffed. “Don’t worry dear. Mountain trolls only eat horses. That’s his supper he’s riding. Look at his fat belly! There’s yesterday’s horse fermenting in there.”
Several lengths ahead, Mr. Byrch rounded a corner on the King’s Road. He raised his hand signaling they should halt.
Simon brought Jesamine to a stop. She snorted and shook her head, flaring her nostrils as he patted her neck. “Sorry, girl. I promise I’ll make it up to you at supper tonight when we reach the caravan. Far away from this stench, I hope.”
Mr. Byrch lowered his hand and Shamus unleashed a spouting deluge of urine. This was followed closely by an avalanche of manure from the steed, splashing and sloshing with the mud on the road.
Those standing too close so they could gawk better at Mr. Byrch were splattered from head to toe. Even Jesamine was startled by her companion’s thunderous torrent and backed away. Byrch patted Shamus on the shoulder. He raised his hand again and they trotted out of town.
A league or more farther along, the road widened as it cut through a lush grassland allowing Simon to ride abreast of Byrch. They slowed their pace under the towering marble gaze of six cracked and crumbling but still majestic statues.
All Simon knew was that five of these eroded, vine entangled sculptures were tributes to the five patriarchs, the ancient heroes of Miradora.
Simon might have been told their names once but now he couldn’t remember. And why should he? It had never been demanded of him to do so. He had little interest in the old religion with its bloody tales of glory and conquest. If the faith of cruel, stupid people like the Pumbertons venerated these decaying idols then he, Simon Blackfyre, would never willingly bow his head and show reverence to any of them—not unless his very life depended on it.
Passing by the last statue, Simon noticed another shattered stone base. All that remained were the feet broken at the ankles, feet that appeared smaller and more feminine than the others. Byrch glanced at him. “What do you know of the history of our great Kingdom?” Byrch asked.
Simon shrugged. “I will confess, Mister Byrch. The old stories have never held me in their thrall as they do many.”
“Well, have you ever read them?”
“I’m sorry sir, but I can only grasp a few words on parchment. A slave’s life is a busy one and permits little leisure for the enjoyment of fine culture and books.”
“Aye, and that’s a shame, but that’s something else we can change. You speak well though, which conceals your deficit.”
“A person in my station, Mister Byrch, trains himself to listen patiently and closely to others.” Simon leveled his gaze. “It can mean the difference between life and death.”
They rode in silence for a long time, pushing their horses to cover as much distance as possible under the fading daylight. Rounding a bend, the road zig-zagged up a large, steep hill bounded on both sides by craggy cliffs strewn with boulders in each direction.
“Lundy’s Hill, lad. The only way to the top.” Byrch pulled on the reins and Shamus began clomping up the twisting road at a brisk gait.
As Simon rode toward the summit, he saw broken stone columns and arches snarled with thorny vines, all that remained of long-abandoned temples from the fabled Age of Heroes. He laughed to himself. Nothing but childish stories to scare the superstitious and feeble minded. Sometimes, I’m mighty glad I can’t read.
Reaching the hilltop, Byrch was waiting for him by the edge of the far slope as the setting sun cast ever deeper shadows across the creamy ruins.
“I’m still puzzled, lad, as to why you do not have at least a passing interest in the founding traditions of our great Kingdom. There is many a captivating story to be told and I can vouch that you will be surprised by what you hear if the truth of the tale be told well.”
Simon looked down the gentle incline. Feeling more than little apprehensive, he allowed his sore muscles and rumbling stomach to be comforted by what he saw waiting for them below, at the end of their long day’s ride. “What is the truth, sir, I cannot say, but I can say I never imagined to be riding a fine horse alongside a man such as yourself. It’s not every day that a slave is asked to join a freeman on his journey to help choose the next King.”
Mister Byrch smiled through his red bristles. “Tis not my own journey, lad, though how can you know where yours is headed if you don’t take the time to discover from where it began?” He pulled on the reins and Shamus galloped toward the campfires on the grassy plateau at the far side of Lundy’s Hill.
Where it began, my arse, thought Simon. Bloody fairytales and bedtime stories.
Chapter 15
Ropes and Quills
Mr. Byrch and Simon tethered their horses to an elm in a thicket by a softly-burbling stream. They fed and watered their tired horses, checking for any signs of distress or discomfort after the beasts’ long ride.
Byrch patted Shamus on the top of his head as the great horse happily munched its turnips. “Now, you stay close, lad and let me say what needs to be said. For the time being, ‘tis best you keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open.”
As he strode toward the first campfire, several armed men leapt to their feet, swords drawn. Byrch paused and folded his arms across his huge chest.
Simon didn’t know what to expect in those tense, unmoving seconds, for that was often all it took for a man’s fate to change forever. Say something you fool! He crouched behind the horses, his gaze darting about looking for the best means of escape. Across the stream and into the woods ... and then what?
Mr. Byrch stepped closer toward the flickering light of the fire.
A wide grin replaced the rigid fear on one man’s face. “Well I never did. Oswin Alasdair Byrch, ye great hairy feckin’ bastard. What do ye mean prowling around like that? We thought it was a bloody bear.”
“Then I hope you have clean breeches, Joren, because it looks like you just filled yours.”
Mr. Joren and the other men roared with laughter and gathered around their friend, slapping him on the back and saying how glad they were to see him again. Mr. Byrch towered over even the biggest of the group and they parted for him as he made his way toward the center of the camp.
“Simon! What are you doing hiding behind the bloody horses? Get over here, ye lily-livered boy!”
A young man with a smudged face and shorn brown hair ran up to them. “Mister Byrch, sir! How are you?”
“Ah, Brennus. Good to see you again, my friend. How are they treating you?”
“I’ve no complaints, sir. Farrhaven is a fine place and Mister Gellworth a good and patient master of the foundry. I’m already a striker with my own hammer!” he made the appropriate striking motion, a vast grin of pride swelling across his fresh, pink face.
“And a strong one you are, no doubt. The life obviously suits you. What brings you and Mister Gellworth to the caravan?”
“We’re returning from the works at Ironfield. I’m learning so much, Mister Byrch. Mister Gellworth promises I’ll be a proper apprentice soon.”
“Glad to hear it.” Byrch smiled warmly and put a big, friendly hand on the boy’s hair. “Brennus Paliter of Farrhaven, this is Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, a young man such as yourself. He’s one of our protectors, at least he will be soon if he does what he’s told.”
Brennus nodded in respect. “Pleased to meet you, Simon. You’re so lucky to be chosen. I pray every night that next king will make us all freemen. Do you think we will ever live to see that day?”
“If such a man exists, then I will do my part to see him crowned. Of that I give you my word.”
Simon and Brennus shook hands.
“May fortune
smile upon the both of you.” Brennus bowed and took his leave.
“Come, lad. We need to get you seen to good and proper before you meet the others.”
No one seemed to notice Simon trailing silently behind the hulking Byrch. He looked up at the crested flags and banners fluttering in the night wind and wondered which noble family they represented. A stag’s head sat resplendent on a grassy green background, a cunning gray wolf mounted on a silver crest, a ferocious bear rampant upon a golden standard, and a great eagle peering down from a sky-blue, shining shield. Simon imagined this might be the King’s insignia as a black and jeweled crown hovered atop the bird of prey’s head.
They passed other campfires, tents, and market tables. Apothecaries sold potions, powders, dried plants, and unusual animal parts. Others were offering ancient religious artifacts, some claiming them to be pieces of marble chipped from the very tombs of the patriarchs.
Judging by the variety of clothing, weaponry, and public demeanors, it appeared to Simon that people from every social station were on the very same journey to Farrhaven. He was surprised, though, to see so many young women his age. The women examined books, jewelry, fabrics, and other feminine ornamentation but always under the watchful eye of an armed gentleman.
The only women mingling freely were the exotic and alluring camp followers, enticing men inside a large circular tent.
A curvaceous, dark-haired beauty winked across at Simon. It had been many months since he’d risked his life to lie in a woman’s arms. The slave laws forbade such intimacy except for breeding purposes or their owner’s entertainment, so a man and woman who chanced being together could be beaten severely if discovered. The man could also be butchered into a eunuch and sold exclusively as a catamite to prevent any further transgressions.
Such laws, however, did not prevent slave owners from prodding and poking their property at any time or in any way they wished. To refuse those advances usually resulted in the kinds of punishment for which it was said that death would be a mercy.
“Excuse me, Mister Byrch, but are young women to train as protectors too?”
“Aye, lad, and what’s wrong with that? Don’t you enjoy their company?”
Simon was flustered. “No, sir. I mean, yes sir, I do. But I was just wondering if Farrhaven is a proper place for a lady.”
Byrch stopped and turned. “It will be a safe and decent place for all if you remember why you’re going in the first place and show each the respect she deserves. The Rites of Succession give no preference to noble over slave, or man over woman, though there be some who wish it were not so.”
Simon wasn’t sure that he had heard correctly. “Sorry, sir. I don’t understand. Are you saying we’re all to be treated the same now?”
Byrch marched toward a large tent with the large insignia of a brick fortress.
“This way. You have to be witnessed and accounted for.” Two guards stood on each side of the open entrance with their halberd blades extended in a cross. “Oswin Alasdair Byrch, Sergeant of the King’s Council Guard garrisoned at Farrhaven on the orders of Lord Lionsbury, here to present the novice, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby.”
The guards glanced up at Mr. Byrch then looked at each other and pulled their halberds back at the same moment. If they had not done so, Simon was certain that would not have prevented his minder from entering, welcomed or not. The colossal warrior ducked under the canvas and stepped inside.
An oil lamp on a high table lit the inside. On a tall stool behind the table sat a withered, bald man hunched over, writing with a quill pen in a parchment commonplace book.
Simon had never seen spectacles before but that’s what he supposed were oddly and precariously perched on the end of the man’s thin nose. The man puffed on a long hickory pipe poking out of the corner of his mouth. He didn’t look up as they approached.
Byrch cleared his throat. “Your Lordship?”
The old man paused and placed the pipe on the table. He dipped his quill in the inkwell. “I was beginning to think you were not going to join us, Mister Byrch.” He looked up at them and nudged the spectacles back up the bridge of his nose.
“Now why would you think a thing like that, my lord?”
“We had reports of uncommonly savage storm clouds crossing over the south. They caused several lightning fires before moving out to sea.”
“The skies darkened for a spell but that was the worst of it. Right lad?”
The brand on Simon’s chest stung his flesh anew. He rubbed the spot under his tunic. “Yes, sir, Mister Byrch.”
The old man studied Simon for a few moments. “I see.” He shifted his attention to Byrch. “I may trust, then, that your journey from Grimsby was an uneventful one?”
“If it please you, my lord, I ask that you mark his name in your journal and let me get him settled. Simon needs to eat a hot meal and get a good night’s sleep. He deserves it as well as the next man.”
“So sayeth the law,” said the old man as he narrowed his gaze on Simon. “But I must hear it first from his own ruby lips. What is your name, young man?”
“Si—Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, Lord,” he stuttered with more than a twinge of embarrassment.
His Lordship dipped the quill back into the inkwell. “I am Baron Johann Volin of Rabek, King’s Council Scrivener, and you will address me as befits my title at all times. I am sworn, under pain of death, to honor my vows as chronicler of these sacred events until the successor to the throne of Miradora is crowned.”
He turned a page and ran his long fingernail down the parchment. “When I enter your name in this hallowed book, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, you too shall be forever sworn to honor your vow, under pain of death, until the King is chosen. Do you understand these words that I have said to you?”
Simon’s heart stuck in this throat. He swallowed and opened his mouth but not a single yes was keen to emerge. His mouth opened and shut as if it had a will of its own and had been sworn to silence. Lord Rabek spoke clearly and eloquently, yet, with two powerful men staring down at him, Simon felt unnerved by the shameful burden of his inferior status in their presence.
“I repeat, do you understand these words?”
Lord Rabek gestured to the guards stationed by the entrance. They took a few steps toward Simon. “I will not ask a third time.”
Byrch flashed an uneasy smile at Simon and nudged him with his huge foot. Simon stumbled forward, almost crashing into the table. “Yes—yes sir, I mean, Lord Rabek. I understand all that you’ve said. Thank you, my lord.”
Lord Rabek made a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards returned to their posts. “Good. I was beginning to think that perhaps The Holy Seer had made a terrible mistake, for a minute.” He flicked the excess ink off the quill.
“But I shall make allowances. Young men, their mettle as yet untested, seldom have all their canny wits about them at the best of times, let alone after a long day on horseback. See that you gather your own wits up before you leave my tent. You will need all the cleverness that you possess… and more.” He jotted Simon’s name on the page.
“You may now eat and rest for the night. Mr. Byrch will show you to your tent.” He blew his breath onto the parchment. “Good evening, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, and welcome to your place in history.” Lord Rabek lit his pipe, lowered his gaze and hunched back over his journal.
Byrch untied the rolled burlap bag from his belt. He dropped it on the table next to the inkwell.
Lord Rabek looked up. “What’s this?”
“Don’t worry, my lord. It won’t bite.”
The old man opened the bag under the light of the oil lamp and squinted. He opened his mouth and the pipe fell out on the hard dirt. “Has anyone else seen this?”
“Only you, me, and the lad. And it was ready to jump and take a piece out of him before Gertie took care of it.”
“It was attacking the boy?”
“Yes, right from where I stood, my lord.”
“
Interesting. I shall be certain to include it in my entry.” Lord Rabek tied the bag. “I expect your full report, Mister Byrch. I will dispatch a representative from Farrhaven to present it at the next Council assembly in Avidene. Hopefully, Lord Delcarden should have returned from Kardi and ought to be in attendance. I am curious to hear his account of the strange rumors from the island.”
Byrch nodded. “Many thanks, Lord Rabek, and I’m sure you’ll want to explain in your book how it found its way here.”
The aged scribe didn’t look up again. “Good evening, Mister Byrch.”
Outside the tent, Byrch grabbed Simon by the scruff of his tunic and yanked him off the ground. The big man’s face bristled with rage. “By the name of all that is holy, did a demon snatch the fool tongue right out of your mouth? When a member of the King's Council asks you a question, you answer immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Byrch. I… I was scared. This is all so overwhelming to me. It won’t happen again, sir. I promise.”
Byrch exhaled and his anger yielded. “All right, lad.” He lowered Simon back on his feet. “Let’s get you settled for the night. You’ll be up early tomorrow with the bell.” They walked toward the tents and crackling campfires.
Simon grinned, not bothering to conceal the small taste of malicious excitement that tingled on his lips. “Did you see the look on the old man’s face?” Why was he so afraid of a dead bug?”
Byrch glared down at him. “Because they can run as fast as a dog and their bite will paralyze you before you can saw off your hand with your knife. And even if you’re quick enough to do that before the venom reaches your heart, the flesh around the bite is sure to fester and rot. A man is driven mad and keeps cutting until there isn’t a limb left to prune.”
Simon’s heart raced, sheer terror igniting the instinct to turn and run as fast as he could. Outrunning this lumbering ox or any in the camp wasn’t the problem. The issue would be the arrow sticking out of his back should he ever take such a deadly risk. He dug his fingers deep into his palms until they hurt.
