NO NAME
FOR THE
FREE
DEVIN HARBISON
NO NAME FOR THE FREE Copyright © 2020 by Devin Harbison
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, brands, places, events and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, organizations, brands, places, events and incidents is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher or author, except for brief quotations in an article or a book review.
For information please contact:
[email protected] or visit devinharbison.com
Original cover art: Lacy Bonner
Book and cover design: Mara Oudenes for PinkMoon Design
ISBN 979-8629147725
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For A Lost Friend
Let these words continue to help me come to terms while
within these pages, I finally take the chance to honor your memory
and fulfill the promise I made before you passed away.
~,~ʼ@
A Boy
In between the gulls and ravens that circle for scraps or to see what is happening, rain falls from the black clouds above as if the gods or the sky weep in sadness for the lost souls of the day, but, as the little, clear droplets plop down onto and around the nearby trees, their leaves, the stone before me, and into my hair and onto my face, I feel nothing, unfazed, even though similar tears, the ones that make us who we are and show where we've been, should be falling from my cheeks. Today, I stand among only a few men, all of whom I know well enough, and all of whom are gathered for the loss of another. My uncle, his friends, myself, my father's friends, and a dozen guards, all gathered because, this morning, our king passed silently in his sleep, feeling nothing for his people, their problems, and their daily losses as he too lost himself to a sickness that could not be stopped. Standing as quietly as I can while the priest mumbles a prayer and holds the root of oak hanging from his neck, I'm ashamed to call that king my father, who we are all here for today despite wanting nothing more than to go back to our business and try to reverse the damage he has done over the last few years to the lands we hold under our banner.
So, as soon as the body of my father, our king, has been lifted so ceremoniously onto a stack of logs on top of a row boat floating on the river that splits the mountains making up the realm we call home, the priest covers him first in the ashes of my mother, then with a satin cloth, and finally drenches that fabric in oil before he sets fire to it and lets the boat loose from the dock, so that it may float down the river, to the people living by the sea who barely have enough fish to eat, just to say that, on this day, someone who took almost every bit of gold from them is dead and will soon sink to the depths of the ocean, to never be seen again.
The sight of all this—the river moving at a turtle's pace, the two mountains it splits, and the sun that is half-risen where the rain has not yet reached and where fresh water meets the sea—is only interrupted by the sounds of iron, steel, cloth, and rags moving, as men of different importance walk off and leave but one, the son. I stare out towards the little boat as it floats farther and farther way, far longer than I should, and, eventually, it starts to hurt my eyes as the flames flying off of my father's corpse mix with the light and color of the sun, until both leave me pressing against my eyes to relieve the stress and set my vision straight.
Only then do I notice the weight on my body, not the loss of the last living member of my immediate family, but the weight of soaked leather and cloth, and the sword on my back that is so big that only I, among every other man who roams the halls of the castle, can carry it on my body or simply lift it off of the ground. And, because it and my clothes are the only two issues to bother me today, I'm half-tempted to throw everything on my body into the sea, for, while my father deserves no sympathy, I hate myself for feeling nothing, nothing but the annoyance of everything unrelated to his death pissing me off. So, before I lose what little I have left in this world in some asinine desire to be free of everything else that holds me down, I too make my way over to the steps that lead back up to the tip of the mountain for so long that it is a surprise my father, and a hundred other men, didn't die from falling off.
This difficulty and the fact that there are two dozen or more men walking to the top of the mountain together, none of which want to look like they are in a rush after the death of their king, is why I am able to catch up with the group that left me behind. The servants, as suspected, walk behind everyone else in such thin clothes that, with the weather, it'll be impossible for them not to catch a cold, and, when they sense me catching up to them on the steps, none of them put on a fake smile or hide their grimace, because they know what they share with me about their poor lives is safe in the back of my mind. Then, ahead of them, the guards, dressed up in more iron than any man should ever have to climb a mountain with, divide the poor from the rich, the servants from my uncle, his friends, and the priest who are all so old that, together, they are older than the men who built this castle to house themselves, the ancestors I know little of, but also old enough they soon will find a home under the dirt or ocean like the fathers that preceded us all.
And, as I have already said, the men of higher status move at the front, wearing steel and other metals they would never dare give up to the guards, mixed with fabric, different furs, capes and cloaks that they would never offer up to the serfs. I'm sure we will all have to stop once we enter the castle again, so that we can decide what we do from here now that my father is gone, but everyone after my uncle and his fellows only has to stop briefly, after we've passed the tree at the top of the path, crossed the dying grass, and slammed the wooden door to the castle so hard that, with such little light to keep the place alive or warm, the force of the doors shutting blows out a few candles more to join the rest that sit and hang unlit.
The scene that leaves is unsettling, eerie, as men and a few women continue to come and go throughout the main hall where, up an old, stained, and worn carpet that, long ago, held the color of blood, a throne that is nothing but an oversized, wooden chair sits alone, and, while everyone moves about as they do and makes room for those of us who return from the river, they put their feet to the ground as gently as they can and do something else as well. Slouching, walking slowly, their shoulders, those of guards, servants, and more-important men, seem to bear the same weight I had on mine, but not for the reason I did or for the reason I should have felt the way I did. Few of them will miss my father, and even fewer are bothered by the rain as they have returned, so, if I had to guess, it is the mood. The worry of what comes next, who will be next to sit on the throne, and who will starve next with what little food is given out to anyone deemed disposable. That is why, as I see my uncle and his fellows walk up to the high-seat at the back and make everyone else in the room halt as he passes, I do my best to slip off and down a nearby hall until I hear his weak voice gargle in my direction.
"Do not go anywhere yet, child."
Child, such a wonderful title when there are no children around, when I stand taller than them all, when I have a beard thicker than their thin strands, all because my father refused to breed or bastard any other kids, and because my uncle could never find a woman that would rather bend over for him than throw herself off of the nearest cliff. I get called as such because I am still the youngest and most-active royal while they sit, rot, and twiddle their thumbs until they are almost bone day in and day out. Yet, for a single reason, I feel compelled to turn away from the hall I had half a foot
in and start walking towards this man who seems so ready to sit on the throne that still hasn't had enough time, in my opinion, to grow cold and lonely without what little flesh my ailing father placed on it, for, if this man who I am supposed to consider family is actually talking to me, it must have some importance when both of us would rather never speak, ruined for the second time as I get close enough to him to force his friends to step aside and let him whisper.
"I shall rule until you have proven that you are ready to sit in your father's place."
I can appreciate that the man has enough respect, at least not on the day of his brother-in-law's death, to tell me what he must as quietly as he can and avoid any kind of scene, but talking about proving oneself is weird to hear from my uncle's lips too, when he's done nothing to prove himself besides that he knows how to stuff his face long enough to grow gray, as privileged as any man from our family is. These thoughts give me enough confidence to walk off and be on my way, and that is only interrupted when, with what little strength he has, my uncle reaches out to touch my hand and get my attention, just to ask something of me.
"But, I pray you would offer me some of your time today, as there are many issues our people bring that would be best if we both listen, after your father ignored them for so long."
I do not believe the death of our king has made him any better of a man, with no doubt in my mind, but what he asks of me is sincere and proper, if nothing else. So, for a few minutes at least, I stand next to him, as he sits, with nothing between us besides the arm of the chair and the board my father had fastened to it to help him eat, and, as the rest of the men my father and uncle brought into our castle set themselves behind us in a row, I make sure to rip that board off, as old and rusted as its bolts are, and don't get a single stare once I hold it in my hands while I do my best to cross them at my waist so I look respectable to an extent, as wet as my hair and armor is.
This works out well enough, for, like the representatives from the various villages were waiting nearby already as all of us returned from the funeral, they enter the castle behind a few guards, almost as fast as the servants still in the room can make themselves unseen and the rest of the guards can line the walls. What follows takes quite some time, and I stay to listen to their troubles and pleas far longer than I thought I would. You see, all of these elderly men, all of their problems, I have seen for myself too many times.
For half of his life, my father never cared about his people, leaving them starving and without protection, and it is a miracle that there are any villages that haven't yet sworn fealty to another king, one that was better than the despot my father was. Whether it was because they were too lazy to seek out another, too worthless to be wanted by another, too nervous to fly a banner of another color, or because I told them from time to time in the days I spent roaming outside of these walls that, one day, they would no longer have to live the way my father made them, I do not know, but there are enough men here today, all asking for what I would have given them before they arrived if the throne was already mine.
More than just scraps of the crops and animals they care for, and enough men or arms to outfit their own in order to protect what my father stole from them all and protect themselves from some monster in the valley on the side of this mountain that I have yet to see, and, after they have made what they would like clear, they look to me, because they know I agree with their demands. So, as I nod to ensure they are certain they have my support, I can only hope that my uncle is reasonable enough to only take a few seconds to decide what we must do to be fair to the people who have never done any wrong to us, and that seems likely until the sounds of shouting and banging can be heard from outside.
Like another riot waits beyond the wooden doors, we all stop immediately and remain silent until my uncle stares down the guard closest to him on his right, then looks to the door once he has the attention of his eyes under the helm and visor the captain wears, and, as many times as this has happened in the past, it takes mere seconds for the captain to stand in front of all of his men and give out his commands.
"At the ready! You twelve shall follow me. The rest of you shall stay here and reinforce the door in case anything goes wrong!"
And, as booming and proud his voice is under a helmet that covers his mouth, the twelve guards, those closest to the door, waste no time lining up behind their captain and then file out the right castle door, one by one, as he holds it open and follows only after their feet. The twelve men, half of which might have been the ones to stand there as my father was sent off, touch the grass and the dirt and get ready to disperse the mob that has gathered, so, while that is about to happen, I take the chance to disappear down a hall to my left, feeling sick that this would happen just after the death of my father and when these men with whatever weapons they could find and torches in hand were about to get exactly what they wanted in a peaceful manner, if they had just waited a little longer.
The cold stone of the hallway and the faint light from the candles hung about is enough to guide me as my hand props me up and my other hand holds the board my father used much like a child, and, once I reach my bedroom, the faint smell of salt water and the light coming through the two pieces of flapping wood that make up my window is enough to settle my nerves as I prepare myself to make sure no other men are to die today. This all begins as I throw that board onto my bed and slip the strap to my sheath, with the sword still in it, over my head and off of my shoulder so it can rest on a horizontal rack hammered into my wall. Next comes the clasps of my leather and chainmail armor, that meet under my arms, and, when the pieces are undone, the armor comes off like the opening of a casket. So, all that remains on my body is my pants made of leather and chainmail too, my bare chest and the couple dozen hairs that are stuck to the skin, and the necklace that is all I have left of my mother.
The chain is simple silver, but the charm it carries is like a sun, an open circle with fiery rays coming off of it, and that symbol is etched into my flesh today, due to the weight of my armor pushing its shape into my chest. Yet, before I have a chance to wipe off any of the wetness still on my body, I hear a shout so loud, born from the throat of many men, that it reaches in through my open window and down the halls of the castle, so, expecting a charge and clash to follow, I stop wasting time thinking about the past and pick up my shirt from the bottom of my hay mattress, to make sure I have something under my steel breastplate and the black cape waving from it that I hate so much. But, faster than I can even have my arms down the sleeves of the white cloth, I hear a sound worse than shouts that spells death, and makes me forget about everything but for my sword as the sheath meets my chest and my hand meets the hilt.
Without any of my armor, I invite death to take me in its grasp, but, once I hear the wood of our castle door splinter, I know it doesn't matter, so off I run, until I realize I am even too late to join what defense there may have been in the main hall. Down the path in front of me and off to the left in a corridor that runs parallel with the main hall, instead of perpendicular like the hall my room sits upon, I hear screaming for good and bad, clashing iron, the scraping of steel, and then the sound blood makes as it splashes against stone. So, no matter how fast I run, nothing seems to be enough, and that is only truer once I meet that hall running next to the one where the throne sits and come across a number of guards, some more wounded than the others, and shouting in my ear.
"FALL BACK! We must rejoin the rest!"
This voice comes from the throat of a man that is not the guard captain from before, so I can only assume the worst, but there is little time to think about what might have happened as that one guard moves past me and further back into the castle followed by four or five men and, going by the sounds of footsteps, chased by whoever was at our gates until a couple of them notice me standing off to their right in the hallway the rest of these men missed. So, as thin as the hallway is and as quick as they run, I need not worry yet about fighting more than one man at once, a
s cramped as the walls are, so, with the candles faintly showing the sweat on my shirt and chest and the sword in my hands big enough to split a man in two, a couple of these men rush at me and give me but a glimpse of who they are as the weapon of the first man gets pushed away upon my advance with a thrust that skewers not one, not two, but three men, and leaves them all dead before I can even pull my blade free.
The following silence gives me a chance to look at who they are, and doing so puts as many questions into my head as their sight gives answers. These are no invaders, no fighting men. They are men of these lands, peasants who wear rags worse than those of the servants in this castle, and their only weapons are pitchforks and whatever other farm equipment can kill a man. So, as I see three more rusted prongs shining in the dark while I left myself unfocused, I run once more instead of fighting and do not stop until I get back into my room, slam the wooden door shut, and lock it just in time for that same pitchfork to get stuck in the boards.
The difficulty the people outside have in getting it free gives me enough time to think, to try and come up with what I can do next, and the only thoughts that come are words.
"I do not wish to hurt you!"
My words are met with grunts, shouting, nothing that acknowledges me or my fears, and, so, I simply raise my voice so that someone, somewhere in this world, understands that this is not a death I deserve.
"I AM AS MUCH A MAN OF THIS KINGDOM AS YOU ARE, FOR I HAVE TRIED EVERY SINGLE DAY TO GET OUR KING TO CARE FOR YOU AS MUCH AS I DO!"
And, as loud as I am, I have no doubt that the peasants outside my door, the rest of the people still living in this castle, and anyone down by the sea watching this battle go on, or anyone simply focused on the fish they need to catch for the day, can hear what I say, so I am just as certain that, once these murderers finally pull the pitchfork free and slam into my door with enough force to get it open, everyone in this world, above or below, can hear my shouts as, within my tiny room, I get enough force going to cut the first man who rushes at me in half at the waist, dropping his hand axe to the floor, and grunt once the man with the pitchfork comes for my lungs again.
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