“Yes, sir,” a thin, fair-haired boy said, nervously. “Some of us been trained.” Glancing at the beds, Joseph pointed to the soldier’s satchels, all laid out in a line down the center of the barracks.
“See you have food and water for a fortnight, and extra blankets for each of you,” he instructed.
“Sir,” began one thin young man, close to where Joseph was standing. “Have our orders changed? We were told to get ready for the new officer to lead us on an eight-day patrol, to Fort Rabak.”
“The orders are as you say,” Joseph replied, looking at each soldier. “However, a wise man expects trouble.” It was one of Brother Bernard’s favorite sayings; his old tutor’s words proved enough to quell any more opposition from the young soldiers. “Make sure your horses are well fed and bedded down before you go to sleep,” Joseph continued. “Get as much rest as you can; we leave at dawn.”
At the end of the barracks a curtain was hung, separating the men from the officer’s ‘quarters.’ Joseph retreated behind it and pulled the curtain shut. He stood for a moment, listening. The men quietly carried out his orders, going in groups of four to the supply wagons, and then to the stables. Either out of fear or uncertainty, they spoke little.
His ‘room’ comprised a small bed, a tiny wood stove, a chair and table with three candles on it and a separate entrance door. A map hung on the wall,however. Walking up to it, Joseph studied the lines thereon for a moment, and then took it carefully down. He placed it on the small table; going to the stove, he used a slender burning stick to light one of the candles.
He sat down a table, intent on pouring over the map. A soft knock came at his door, however. For a moment he thought he imagined it, but it came again. Going to the door Joseph opened it quickly. One of the soldiers he’d just been addressing stood outside, looking around him as if afraid of being seen.
“Sir, Private Richards, sorry to disturb you,” he said, in a hushed tone,shifting his weight from one foot, to the other. “My brother was sent on patrol last month, along the northern highway; he was supposed to come back in a week.”
“Yes?” Joseph asked, seeing sincerity in the young man’s face.
The soldier swallowed, hard.
“They have yet to come back, or to report to anyone, anywhere,” he said, his voice unsteady. “The captain said they deserted but James would never do that. The others say they heard of other scouting parties disappearing up there; no one ever investigates, and they never send more than a score of us along teat route.” The young man cleared his throat, his eyes misting over slightly. Joseph felt moved by the sadness in his voice.
“I appreciate the information, Richards,” he told the youth. “Hopefully we’ll run into some signs of where they went. Get some rest.” Richards seemed satisfied by this; he quickly saluted and crept away--through the dark--around to the front of the barracks again.
Closing the door Joseph bolted it and got out a rolled parcel of his own maps; he painstakingly compared them to the one that had been tacked to the wall. A day’s journey, away to the West, lay the start of a jagged peninsula oddly named ‘The Northern Isle. Joseph’s map depicted the presence of barbarian camps in the region at one point, but the newer maps showed nothing of the sort. Reasoning that the camps must have been long destroyed, Joseph noted it in his mind and kept searching the maps. Two hours passed before he put out the candles and bedded down.
The barracks were as quiet as a tomb, but Joseph found it difficult to sleep. His former promotion he knew was due mainly to Admiral Jacobs, but this transfer--by Jamieson’s own admission--was General Inermis’ idea. Joseph went to sleep thinking of Inermis’ last words to him, and his jovial attitude at his departure.
SEVEN
Dawn broke with a rooster cry.
The men woke to find their officer already dressed, making a fire for them in the barracks stove. Joseph placed a bucket of water on its top, as stove heated.
“Hurry and wash,” he directed in a solemn voice. “We report to the hall in a quarter hour.” Breakfast would be eaten on their ride, later, the men knew. Used to a soldier’s schedule Joseph hurried his men on with their satchels and cloaks and herded them out into the biting air.
A thin layer of snow covered the ground and more was falling, though lightly. At the hall’s entrance they were instructed to wait, grouped by the door, while the watch captain was called. The officer appeared a few minutes later--still in his nightclothes--with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“The general says keep to the northern highway,” the captain called out, clearly unhappy with the cold breeze whipping in through the door. “There have been complaints of a few thieves troubling the merchants, near the start of the northern isle. Take prisoners if you can, kill only if you must. The magistrates like to have live thieves to hang. Report to Fort Rabak in eight days. They will send an alternate patrol back, upon your arrival.” With this, he disappeared inside the warm hall once again.
A slight individual under Joseph--a corporal, named Telker--spoke up; he had a thin, sallow look him and tended to move in quick bursts.
“Eight days?” he sneered, after the hall door closed. “Ten is more like it. It’s snowing harder, and the winds up there blow right through you. One of us must have made the general angry to assign us the dreariest patrol of all.” Joseph did not address the corporal’s words, but swung expertly up onto his mount. His men followed suit, with the reluctant Telker bringing up the rear. and lead the way out the Fort’s gates. The men followed with Telker taking up the rear. As they left the fort, the snow stopped completely.
Passing by the city gates Joseph rode ahead of his men. Two horsemen emerged from the gates, going from the city at a quick canter; they rode alongside Joseph, move to each side of him. Hearing their approach, Joseph’s hand automatically went to the hilt of his sword. Catching sight of the gray cloaks and military bridles on the horses, however, he relaxed.
He felt only half-surprised when one of the men pushed back his hood and held out a rough, tanned hand towards him.
“How are you lad?” Dunner asked him, with a wide grin. Joseph clasped the man’s hand and nodded. “Good,” the captain said, glancing behind them. “I see you are heading up a small heard of lambs. Northern Patrol, I’ll wager.”
Joseph did not answer, though a small smile curled up one corner of his mouth.
Hmm,” Dunner continued, cracking a match with his thumbnail and lighting the ancient pipe. Joseph glanced back at his soldiers, hanging back with some uncertainty. Jerking his head forward, he signaled for his men to move up.
“Are they officers?” one of the young soldiers asked of his neighbor. “They look like monks...”
“Those are Kingdom horses, by the brand,” said the other. “War steeds, too.”
“Monks, by their dress,” Telker snorted. “Look at the cloaks. Most of the time they ride around on their missionary journeys along with the military.”
“So, why do they carry swords?” the first one asked.
“In case their scrolls are stolen,” Telker retorted, smirking. Those within earshot laughed along with the corporal’s joke.
Up ahead Dunner introduced his riding companion to Joseph.
“This here is an old friend of mine, name of Hezekiah,” the older man said genially.
Briefly taking the stranger’s offered hand, Joseph studied him, keeping an eye on his men at the same time. Dunner’s companion was taller than the aging sailor, though he seemed close in age. He rode a large horse--one almost grotesque in appearance--with ugly brown and gray spots. Joseph could barely see the tip of a sheathed, thin sword poking out from under the man’s gray cloak, by his ankle.
“I saw your hand go to your sword when you saw us,” Hezekiah mused aloud. He seemed to speak to no one in particular. “I often do that myself, just to see how it feels.”
Dunner laughed out loud the comment.
“Don’t be fooled by Hezekiah’s high-falutin’ gibberish,” Dunner sai
d, aside to Joseph. “He’s a good warrior... one to be counted on. We are riding up north ourselves, lad. Mind if we ride along for a while?”
“Not at all,” Joseph responded. “I am glad of your company.”
The highway lead down the mountain and skirted the coast. No one traveled along it but the column of soldiers and the two gray-cloaked men. On the one side the cliffs rose up, as if massive rocks had been split long ago by some giant and the pieces carried away, leaving the sheer face. The ocean rose placidly to the sand on the other side of the wide, flagstone highway. Appreciating the pure blue hue of the water--flecked with white foam--Joseph contentedly rode ahead of his men, flanked by soldiers of the King.
Hezekiah broke into Joseph’s reverie after a few minutes, clearing his throat with great vigor.
“I am a citizen from the Westerly South,” he said, as if beginning a speech, “from the great City of Angelo. I am a merchant, by trade... but I have never journeyed this far north. I find myself pleased with these stunning views and crisp climate... even the ale I’ve sampled here is somewhat decent.”
Dunner appeared to enjoy his friend’s words, until the last bit about ale.
“What nonsense are you spouting now?” he interrupted; he leaned forward and scowled at Hezekiah, over the neck of Joseph’s horse.
“I merely said--to my new acquaintance--that the ale here is better than in some others places I have been to recently,” was Hezekiah’s smooth reply.
“Don’t go speaking badly of the marsh ales, brother,” Dunner warned. “Folks with weak stomachs can’t handle those fine brews.”
Joseph smiled, guessing the southern swamps to be the sailor’s Dunner’s homeland. Thinking back to his insect-ridden ride through that hot, sticky region some years earlier, he found himself wondering how anything of that region could be considered “fine.”
“My dear friend,” began Hezekiah, calmly. “It is not a question of weak stomachs or stomachs of steel. Surely you must concede to the fact of the empirical importance of climate and the quality of the grain in order to produce a good, solid brew. Grain, mind you, not the sickly, moist spears of greasy weeds we passed in the fields of that damp, forsaken land, if it can be called land...to me it was a mere bog, tended by folk of feeble minds to stay in such a place.”
Dunner’s face grew redder as the man talked and finally interrupted.
“Bog?!” the aged sailor said, wrathfully, much to Joseph’s amusement, “The grain produced in the marshes is prized for its taste! Why, the King himself has partaken of our ale when he’s been in the region.”
“Ah,” Hezekiah said, nodding his head sagely, “So that explains his prolonged illness last summer...”
Joseph expected Dunner to leap from his saddle and tackle the bearded man. Instead, the old sailor threw back his head and laughed.
“Young Joseph,” Dunner said, when he had got his breath back, “Keep it in mind that a good friend knows how to rile you as well as watch your back. Some of us like nothing better than a debate, as my friend here calls it, especially about the ancient scrolls of scripture. Keeps the mind sharp.”
“The monks at my school used to stay up late discussing the scrolls,” Joseph said. “It was the only time their voices rose.” The young man ran over the scene in his mind. “Whoever pounded the table first was usually the winner.”
“Ha!” Dunner said, puffing on his pipe. “Good times.”
“Agreed,” Hezekiah said, looking as if he wished to be in a pub right now, with monks debating and a fire crackling nearby.
Turning to Dunner, Joseph drew out his monastery map.
“Up here,” he asked, quietly, “There are indications of old barbarian fishing camps. On here...” he gave Dunner the map from the barracks, “They are all gone. When were the camps taken out?”
“Hmm,” Dunner said, scrutinizing both maps closely. “Hezekiah is better at history than I am. Let him have a look.” The maps spread out over his ugly horse’s neck, Hezekiah ceremoniously put on a small pair of wire spectacles.
“Interesting,” he mumbled. “I see one is copied, handwriting of a young man, perhaps; the other was done by a learned man who was trying to hide something.”
“I copied one from a monastery map where I went to school,” Joseph explained, impressed by Hezekiah’s observations. “What do you mean by the one hiding something?”
Hezekiah held up the map from the barracks.
“First of all, the camps were destroyed decades ago,” the bearded man said. “Dunner can tell you about that, he was there. But... not so long ago, the great archbishop of that glorious religion approached the King with a plan of compassion; he wanted to let the some of what he called the more civilized barbarous tribes that occupy the islands north of here to settle the northern Isle, since no one else was living in it. His argument was they needed better farming land to survive and if we could win them over by our hospitality, they would prove grateful allies.”
Dunner made a gruff sound in his throat at this remark.
“The King, in all his wisdom,” continued Hezekiah, looking over the tops of his spectacles at Dunner, “Refused on the grounds that some of the tribes are vicious, a possible threat to his people. And, more importantly, these tribes had great faith in their ancient writing, also called Rhunes, which are more or less descriptions of their own barbarous rituals and animalistic gods. Rather than have these teaching pollute the land, the King told the archbishops to let the tribes stay where they were. He forbade interaction or trace with them, even.”
“We sailed frigates up to the Islands,” Dunner interjected, as if compelled to. “Most of the tribes were pretty docile when we showed up with weaponry they’d never even dreamed of; they were still rowing canoes and hunting with bone spears. Each island we came to we landed a patrol unit to scout out for a day to size up each tribe. The northernmost island, it’s called Zo, the patrol didn’t come back at sundown, or that night. Before daybreak, I was ordered to take two scouts and find where their trail went. We found it alright; right where the formation tracks ended were the inhabitants of the island, all around a huge bonfire, down in a recess.” Dunner paused and waited a moment before going on, a strange look on his face. “They had killed the patrol and were eating the dead, like some kind of evil victory feast.”
Joseph felt sickened at Dunner’s words. Hezekiah took off his spectacles and folded the maps.
“I heard rumors of such,” the bearded man said, gravely. “It was with grateful ears that servants of the King heard of his refusing the archbishops plans.” Clearing his throat, Dunner changed the subject to discussing the new type of battle frigates being built.
Three days of cold followed, but mercifully no more snow fell. At the base of the great peninsula the highway veered away from the coast and headed west to a three days journey to the northern city of Rabak. The peninsula, itself, was hidden from the road by snow-covered hills. They rose in gentle slopes, silently guarding the coast in their robes of dark green conifers. Halting the column right where the highway turned, Joseph consulted his map. Dunner rode up next to him and looked as well.
“Ahead, the map shows a narrow gorge down the road,” Joseph said, quietly. “High, rocky areas where the highway winds through. If ambushes are taking place, it would be there.”
“I have to agree, lad,” Dunner returned, his brow furrowed.
“The usual patrol route leads right through that gorge,” Joseph continued. “The thieves will expect us to follow that route.”
He looked over at the coastline. On closer inspection, he could discern a narrow goat-trail along the cliff-tops. “There,” Joseph said, pointing the trail out to Dunner. “We’ll go along the cliffs and around, hopefully catching the thieves unawares at their camp.” Joseph looked at Dunner and Hezekiah. “You may wish to camp out here a few days until we can make the arrests. Traveling ahead on the highway may not be safe for just two men. Or... you are welcome come with us.”
&nbs
p; The two gray-cloaked men exchanged a quick glance.
“We’ll ride along with you, lad,” Dunner said, quickly. “The company is good enough. Besides, we might get into a fatal argument if left alone with each other.”
Joseph’s men were not so happy about taking a new route, and murmured when their officer told them his orders.
“Sir, northern patrols are never to be varied,” Corporal Telker said, almost authoritatively, as Joseph spurred his horse towards the cliff-trail.
“Feel free to follow the normal route, corporal,” Joseph called back without turning around, gesturing off to the highway. “I’ll note your absence in the log.” Reluctantly, the men fell in behind Joseph and the monks, Telker bringing up the rear.
The highway was soon lost to view behind them. Hills and the forest overtook the men as they picked their way along the sparse trail, with the cliffs falling away to their right. Joseph kept his shield on his arm at the ready. His men followed his example; some even readied their bows and a subdued hush fell over the group. All eyes watched the trees to their left, ahead and behind, listening intently for any unusual sound.
The trail followed the cliffs around a huge bend in the land, going up and down the hills. Despite the thickening trees the sound of the ocean--crashing against the cliffs--did not fade. Four hours later, they slowly climbed the trail up a sloping ridge, clear of the forest. Reaching the top Joseph stopped his horse and dismounted. Ahead lay a small valley, sloping down to a wide, blue bay.
To his surprise Joseph beheld the ghostly shapes of two weathered ships, anchored in the dark water of the bay. In the distance--near the shore--thin smoke from a few campfires drifted up into the afternoon sky. Motioning for his men to stay back Joseph led his horse back over the crest of the ridge. He tethered Belator to a downed log and went over to Dunner and Hezekiah.
“What is it lad?” the aged soldier asked, puffing his pipe. Joseph looked uneasy then pointed at the ridge top.
“Come look,” he said. His men he told to rest and let the horses feed on the thawed, dead grass covering the ridge. “No fires,” he ordered. No one question him.
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 10
