Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  Winter ... All I have to remember is winter and I’ll be a freeman before the first snow.

  Byrch yawned. “Come now. We’re late enough as it is. I need to get Shamus settled and see how Esther is doing.”

  Simon followed him toward the back of the camp. He noticed several young men his age, most in shabby, cast-off clothes, standing outside stitched and patched tents. Whispering among themselves, they watched his approach with cool, wary gazes he knew so well.

  It was clear; this was where the other slave boys slept, well away from the sons and daughters of nobles and freemen. So much for being all treated the same for once! Empty words, yet again, all of them.

  He felt stupid for even thinking such a fool thing. “There are more like me, Mister Byrch, and only a few guards. What prevents them from running away?”

  Mr. Byrch stopped in mid-stride, his eyes dull and bleak under their precipice of brows. Without a word of explanation, he turned down a twisting gully path that dipped into a foul-smelling, bubbling and seething marsh. He stopped at the edge and looked down at the murky water. Now and then, a bubble rose to the top and popped, releasing a vile, putrid stench of rotting flesh.

  The stench was overpowering now. Simon looked up, covering his nose and mouth. He choked back his screams and turned away, gagging.

  The decapitated, naked and bound, stick-thin bodies of eviscerated young men hung impaled on the branches of dead trees, their heads skewered on sticks like pikes in a circle. Great carrion birds picked and feasted on the entrails. Fragments of cream and bluish brain matter lay spattered across any random patch of ground, surrounded by split shards of yellowing human skulls.

  “Ah, lad. T’is true there are few guards and many boys just like you, Simon. All these poor young souls tried to make good their escapes from Twillingate and Ironfield, all thinking just the same way as you—that so few guards could not stop them.”

  Byrch looked back at Simon, a grimace across his reddened, stubbly face. “Do they look stopped to you, lad?”

  Simon struggled not to throw up the contents of his belly but there was no clear patch of ground to heave upon. He swallowed it back. “Yes, sir, Mister Byrch, sir.”

  Byrch paused a moment, quiet.

  “Well, you will understand now when I say I don’t much retain the stomach for it anymore?” Mr. Byrch didn’t look up. “But many still do. Aye, many do.”

  Simon could not stop the warm tears from running down his cheek. I’ll never give them the satisfaction. He wiped his face on his tunic sleeve. His eyes stung.

  He turned and hurried back up the path alone.

  Chapter 16

  A Merry Band

  After some time, Mr. Byrch returned to the caravan campfire.

  “I’m sorry, lad, I am. Hold to your promise and I give you my word you’ll never have to see a tree like that again.”

  Simon still trembled, though he stood near the flames. “I’m very fearful, sir. First the thing that attacked us in the woods, and now this. At least with the Pumbertons I always knew where I stood.”

  “You’ll find your footing. I promise, boy. It will take time and won’t be easy—but you will.”

  “How can you be sure?” Simon looked around at the furtive glances from the other young men and women. Guards approached and ordered them inside their tents.

  “Because the Holy Seer in her divine wisdom would not have chosen you unless she believed deep in her heart that you had something special. What it is, I don’t pretend to fathom—and I can’t say as I’ve seen it myself yet—but it’s something that’s needed to help choose the next King. And of that much, I’m certain, lad.”

  “But I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  Mr. Byrch placed his big hand on Simon’s shoulder. “You will though, once you arrive at Farrhaven. You’ve got a keen eye and you’re a fast learner. Remember, now; choose your friends well, never break their trust and they’ll not forsake you when you need them.”

  “But I... I haven’t got any friends, Mister Byrch. The masters don’t look kindly upon friendships between slaves. They prefer us to be suspicious and distrustful of each other. More often than not, a jealous slave bears false witness against another just to see him hang.”

  Mr. Byrch showed Simon the tent where he was to spend the night.

  “That’s as may be, lad, but your past lies more than twenty leagues behind you now. You can lay it to rest. It’s the distance you travel next that matters.” He yawned like a bear waking from its den. “Now get yourself inside. There’s a bedroll and food waiting, although it won’t be much because we’ve come too late.”

  “Aren’t you staying?”

  “I want to keep a watch on the horses and tend to Esther. Shamus is too tempting a prize for some. Besides, he gets cranky if I’m gone too long. I’ve business on behalf of Lord Lionsbury in a nearby town. We’ll meet again at Farrhaven. Good night, Simon, sleep well.”

  After what he’d seen that day, Simon wasn’t sure a good night’s sleep seemed likely.

  He wished Mr. Byrch a good rest all the same, then lifted the tent flap. He was about to step inside when he remembered one more question he needed to ask.

  Simon turned—but the big man had already sloped off into the night without making a sound. The rustle of a bedroll made him turn sharply.

  “Don’t just stand there letting the midges and flies in. Get in, if you are doing, or stay outside! One or the other.”

  Simon stepped inside and closed the flap.

  Two young men were lying prostrate in their bedrolls along one side of the tent. Two vacant rolls lay on the opposite side, while an old cider barrel stood in the center of the space with a plate of cheese and bread on top.

  A healthy-looking, auburn-haired young man with a surprisingly clean face and matching bedshirt sat up. “Are you Simon?”

  Simon nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Old man Rabek told us to keep a place and some food for you.” He stood and shook Simon’s hand. “I’m Marcus and that’s my youngest brother, Niall.”

  Niall, resembling a smaller version of his older brother, chewed his food with a smile and nodded his greeting.

  Simon was as puzzled by their highborn first names as he was to find two slave brothers still together at their age; most would have been sold apart years ago. Given their clean clothes and wholesome appearances, it stood to reason they were among the lucky few; evidently, they were so fortunate as to have a considerate master who didn’t treat his slaves like beasts of burden to be whipped and starved.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Simon looked at the empty bedrolls.

  “Thank you,” Simon said. “Likewise. So, does it matter where I sleep?”

  Marcus sat on his blanket. “Your choice. Help yourself to the food… and there’s some clove wine left to help you relax after a long day on horseback. At least that’s what they call it, but I wouldn’t recommend you go drinking more than a cupful. We’ve another long journey tomorrow. On too much of that stuff, you’ll be stopping at every tree to piss a river.”

  Simon chose the bedroll near the front.

  “Are you expecting someone else?”

  Niall lay on his side and farted, raising his leg to make a show of it.

  “No… Well, only Jack. He’s arriving in the morning before we leave but I bet Marcus he’ll be late for that too.”

  Simon chomped down on the soft, white and squishy bread, quite a pleasant change from the dried-up dark crusts he was used to. He broke off a hunk of yellow cheese.

  “You know him well, then?” he asked.

  Marcus lay on his back and chuckled. “As well as three brothers can know each other, I suppose, although there are many times I sorely wish we knew him less.” He waved his hand across his face and scrunched his nose. “I swear, Niall, if you do that again I’m going to leave the flaps open so the flies can bite at your stinking arse all night.”

  Niall giggled into his bla
nket.

  “Amazing! I’ve never met three brothers before. I mean three—you know…” Simon said, clearly astonished. He smiled and uncorked the wine bottle. “Must make your lives easier knowing you can depend on each other to share the burden. I’d give anything for that.”

  Marcus swatted a fly with his hand and watched as it wriggled on the top of his blanket, upside-down. “Hmm, not so sure about that. Have you any brothers and sisters, Simon?”

  Simon poured himself some wine into a pewter cup, right up to the brim.

  “No, at least none that I know of,” he said.

  “What about your parents?”

  Simon shook his head and drank the pungent wine.

  Niall turned over. “I’m sorry.”

  Simon shrugged. “Why? That’s just our lot in life, isn’t it? Thank your good fortune the three of you are allowed to stay together.” He finished the cup. “And don’t do anything foolish that will make them change their minds.” He poured himself another full cup. “None of us want to be seeing that tree again, do we?”

  Niall rubbed his sleepy eyes and yawned. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  Marcus sat up. “Yes. What tree?”

  Simon stared into the cup of thick, blood red wine. “Oh, right. I guess Mister Byrch wanted to make his point just so I’d tell the others. No matter. At least the two of you will be sleeping soundly tonight. Even if I won’t.”

  He drank the second cup of wine feeling already a little woozy.

  He reminded himself that if he did as he was told, he’d be a freeman by winter. That was all that mattered now. He stretched out on his bedroll.

  “Forgive me, friends, but weariness overcomes me.” He pulled the blanket high over his shoulders. “Good night, Marcus and Niall—and pleasant dreams to you both.”

  * * *

  The repeated clang of the morning bell reverberated in Simon’s ears. He rolled onto his side and squinted up at the brilliant sunlight stabbing through the slit between the door flaps. Simon sat up in his clothes, groggy and regretting that he’d woken in the middle of the night to finish the last of the heavy clove wine.

  Thankfully, it had proved enough to finally close his eyes and numb his body for a few hours of fitful sleep. And now he’d finally arrived at the day… That very same night, he’d be in Farrhaven! He’d never imagined making it this far! It was a fine day indeed.

  He looked around but Marcus and Niall were nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, a plate of brown bread, dried beef and radishes, a wood pitcher of fresh water, and a basin with a cloth for washing were all laid out ready to welcome him to the day.

  Simon splashed the cold water on his face and ran his fingers through his wet, black hair. He gobbled down mouthfuls of food and stuffed the rest into his trouser pockets as the incessant clanger persisted. He chugged directly from the pitcher as if it was a tankard, quenching his terrible thirst. He belched, then poured the rest of the cold water over his head to clear his senses and the last vestiges of his most unsettling dreams.

  Stepping out of the tent, Simon dried his head with the cloth and wished he’d been able to enjoy some peace and quiet just a bit longer; the entire camp was all a ruckus with clamor and commotion. The tents and equipment were being dismantled and stowed up high on the tops of ox carts. Several hay wagons, each hitched to a team of restless horses with a uniformed driver, stood in a processional line eager to depart.

  The armed King's Council guards oversaw the orderly group of young men and women stepping up into the wagons. The youngest looked similar in age to Niall and appeared four years or five years shy of just one score, while the eldest, like Marcus, might have been no more than one score and three.

  “Right, boy. Get a move on.” A husky-voiced guard tapped the back of Simon’s shin with the flat of his sword and pointed to a wagon in the middle of the line. “That’s yours unless you want to just march there with the cattle.”

  Simon spotted Niall and Marcus. The brothers smiled and waved at him to join them. Simon turned to the guard. “Have you seen Mister Byrch? He brought me here.”

  “Rude boy! It’s Mister Grimoric Kovoth to you or address me as sir. Anyhow, your business with Mister Byrch is done.” The guard spat at Simon’s feet. “Hurry along now, slave, before I bend you double and load you up like a pack mule.”

  He raised his sword a few inches.

  Simon lowered his gaze and nodded. “Yes, sir. At once sir. I’m sorry… sir, Mister Kov—” He hurried toward the wagon. Marcus offered his hand and helped him up. Simon wriggled into a cleft in the hay right next to a lanky, pock-marked boy who quickly shifted away, evidently not a great fan of social interaction.

  On the opposite side of the wagon, a somber, flaxen-haired young woman stared at Simon for a few moments.

  Appearing not overly impressed with what she was seeing, she looked away toward the trees. Simon noted her pleasing proportions but every slave knew full well how it was safer to appreciate from afar, at least if he hoped to gaze upon her unique beauty another day.

  Niall held out his hand to his brother.

  “See? Told you he wouldn’t make it on time,” he said. “You owe me a gold sovereign.”

  A what? Simon had never heard another slave say such a thing because he’d never known one to even own as much as a sovereign—or, indeed, anything of real worth. Simon laughed. “You’re joking, I trust. Where would you get a princely sum like that?”

  Niall looked puzzled. “Well, it’s mine of course. Didn’t steal it from anyone if that’s what you’re—”

  “Wait for me!” A young man’s voice beckoned from the camp.

  A plump woman adorned in a rich, highborn dress of purple and gold silk was hugging a fair-haired young man about Simon’s age, a youth ruddy-faced with embarrassment as he stood there receiving myriad sloppy kisses about his plump face. Only once before had Simon seen an owner displaying such affection in public.

  Now, here was a most tearful lady, obviously being forced by her horrid husband to sell her favorite slave for one pathetic, unjust reason or another. He’d also heard of others becoming quite attached to their personal servants and mourning their passing just as they would a cherished pet being given a garden burial.

  The wagon jerked forward. The young man tugged himself free from the woman’s embrace and dashed toward it. As he lunged for the wagon, Marcus’s voice kicked in. “C’mon! You can make it!” he shouted. The young man sprang forward again like a frolicking buck. He tossed a small bundle to Marcus and leapt into the wagon, sliding face first into the piled straw.

  Marcus laughed and patted him on the back.

  “Spectacular entrance as usual. Knew you wouldn’t let me down, Jack,” he said.

  Jack sat up and pulled pieces of straw stalks from his mouth. “Thought she’d never let me go. That’s why I’m late.”

  Niall frowned. “That’s because you’re her favorite.”

  “That’s not true, brother, and you know it. Mother loves us all the same. She has the same number of kisses on the cheek and smacks on the rump for all of us.”

  Simon blinked in astonishment. “That lady is your mother? So, you’re not—you’re not ... slaves?”

  Jack hooked a finger and picked something out of the back of his mouth. “Slaves? Not yet, but if destiny doesn’t favor us in the eyes of the Holy Seer, we might well find we’re picking the dirt out of our teeth for generations to come.”

  The three brothers smiled and waved, looking back at their sobbing mother. She raised a lace handkerchief to her red nose and blew. Her eyes looked distinctly puffy.

  Simon studied the boys as they teased and shoved each other in the hay. He vowed to choose all his words carefully from now on; it was clear he just never knew whose company he might be keeping.

  “I do apologize for my ignorance,” he said, “But why are you and your brothers riding in this wagon then... I mean, with the likes of me?”

  Jack sat back with hi
s brothers. “Well, why not? We’re all the same now until the new King is crowned.”

  “So, you and your family are freemen?”

  The brothers looked at each other and laughed. Marcus poked his finger deep in the straw, wriggling it about. “Our parents are very keen we should master a profession, more as a means of livelihood. You know… in case we do not prove ourselves worthy of continuing our uncle’s legacy. If we should stuff things up.”

  Simon was embarrassed by his social ignorance but disliked Lord Lionsbury and Mr. Byrch even more for not properly explaining the situation. “Sorry. I still don’t understand.”

  Jack shoved his bigger brother, Marcus. “Why didn’t you tell him? It’s no secret, is it?” Jack shook his head. “It is we who should apologize, Simon. My older brother should have properly introduced us. It’s the least the future King might do.”

  Jack offered his hand and shook Simon’s, a firm and steady handshake.

  “You know our first names but not our last. So, I’m Jack Evermere. And you’ve already met my less than honorable brothers.”

  Simon’s mouth went dry. “Evermere? Not the same as ... Oh, my most respected lords.” Simon bowed and kept his head low. “Forgive me, I beseech thee. I was told this was the slave camp. I do regret my careless mistake and humbly beg your Lordships’ forgiveness for entering your tent in such a rude—” His voice trailed off. This was an embarrassment indeed.

  Marcus shifted in the straw, a slight tinge of amusement on his face.

  “Hmm... What do you think, brothers? Shall I pronounce sentence on Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby for his most grievous transgression?”

  Niall snickered and whispered something into Marcus’s ear.

  Dizzy with fear, Simon’s insides churned. He fought the urge to lean over the side of the wagon and vomit. He always managed to say and do the wrong things.