The Way of the Wilderking

by Jonathan Rogers

  “How many?” Errol asked.

  “Eighty, maybe ninety,” Clifford answered.

  A look of concern crossed Errol’s face. “Armed?” he asked.

  “You might say that,” Clifford answered. “Some have rusty old swords; some have clubs or staves.”

  “Horseback or on foot?”

  “On the march. I guess you’d call it marching,” Clifford answered. “Oh, I almost forgot. They’re wearing some kind of uniform. Green tunics and black hats with egret feathers.”

  “Oh no,” Aidan groaned. “Aidanites! They’ve found me!” Percy doubled over in a fit of laughter.

  “Come, men,” Errol urged. “Away from the tunnels. No sense letting our guests see where our hideout is.”

  The Aidanites were already in sight. They were tromping up either side of the braided stream—a good policy if they were trying to keep their boots dry, but a terrible policy if they needed to keep their location and movements secret. They left thousands of boot-prints that wouldn’t wash away until the next good creek rising.

  Aidan intercepted the men near the new washing pool, his comrades behind him. Just as he feared, they were Hustingreen Militia, led by Milum, the red-bearded Aidanite they met outside of Hustingreen. Milum stood at attention and popped his right hand over his heart in salute. The rest of the Aidanites saluted, too, though not very crisply. Milum dropped to one knee in front of Aidan. “Your Majesty, the Hustingreen Militia, reporting for training camp and at your service.”

  “Training camp?” Aidan barked. “This isn’t a training camp. It’s a hideout.” He looked over his green-clad followers. “Though it’s obviously not a very good hideout!” He waved the backs of his hands at them, the way he might shoo a dog. “Get on,” he shouted. “Go home!” He stomped a foot, but the Aidanites just stared vacantly at him.

  “But what about the other militias?” Milum asked. “We’re supposed to help get everything ready for them.”

  Aidan felt his stomach tighten. He struggled to speak calmly. “What other militias?”

  Milum chuckled at first, assuming that Aidan must be pulling his leg. Of course the Wilderking knew which militias. How could he not know? Soon he realized, however, his king in exile really didn’t know the plan. “Why, all the militias,” Milum said. “The Bluemoss Boys, the Middenmarsh Militia, the Eechihoolee Regulars, the Berrien Militia, the Mountain Screamers. And all the others. The rest of the Hustingreen force is only a couple of days behind us.”

  Aidan felt light-headed. “You can’t …” he began. “We can’t … You’ve got to go home.” He looked to his father for help.

  Errol pulled him aside. “Here’s the thing, Aidan,” he whispered. “These boys can cause us a lot more trouble back home than they can cause us here. At least here we can keep an eye on them. Let’s hear more from this Milum before we send them away.”

  Aidan turned back toward the Hustingreen Militia. “Men,” he intoned, “welcome to Sinking Canyons. You may fall out, pending further orders.” He turned to Milum. “Captain, a word with you, please.”

  Milum joined Aidan and Errol in the shade of an overhanging cliff. The three men squatted and sat on their heels, as Corenwalder men often did when speaking of serious matters.

  “Who told you there was an Aidanite training camp in Sinking Canyons?” Aidan asked.

  “Lynwood, Your Majesty. Who else?”

  “First,” said Aidan, “you’ve got to stop calling me ‘Your Majesty.’ I’m not king. I’m not even king in exile. I’m Aidan Errolson. You clear on that?”

  “Yes, Your Maj— Yes, Aidan.”

  “Good. Now, who’s this Lynwood?”

  The look on Milum’s face was one of pure astonishment. “Lynwood Wertenson.”

  “I should have guessed,” Errol mumbled. “That upstart merchant has never been a friend to Darrow.”

  “He’s the chair of the Committee,” Milum added by way of clarification, but that clarified nothing for Aidan.

  “What committee?” Aidan asked.

  “The Secret Committee for the Ascendancy of the Wilderking,” said Milum. “They’re the governing body for all the local Aidanite auxiliaries and militias.”

  “This Lynwood,” Aidan asked, “he’s sending all the Aidanite militias to Sinking Canyons?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many militiamen is that?”

  “Three thousand, maybe four.”

  “And how does this committee know I’m in Sinking Canyons?”

  Milum smiled. “Aidan, everybody in Corenwald knows you’re in Sinking Canyons. Everybody in Corenwald knows you come out of the Feechiefen in the company of a feechie. Every villager in Corenwald knows the Wilderking Chant by heart and can explain what every line of it has to do with Aidan Errolson.” He smiled. “Don’t you see, Aidan? Corenwald is waiting for you to claim the throne. King Darrow has lost his grip on the kingdom. Discipline has broken down in the army. Corenwald needs you, Aidan. No disrespect, but it looks like you and maybe King Darrow are the only people in Corenwald who don’t realize it.”

  Aidan could feel the blood rising to his face. He thought he saw the vein appear on his father’s forehead as well. Did anyone’s oath of loyalty to King Darrow count for anything? “That’s enough treasonous talk for now,” Aidan said sharply.

  “No disrespect, sir,” said Milum, realizing that the interview was over.

  A long silence prevailed between father and son after Milum left. “He’s right about King Darrow’s army,” Errol said at last. “You’ve heard it a hundred times from Ottis, Wimbric, Hamp, and all the soldiers who have been living with us in Sinking Canyons. They say what Milum said. Discipline has broken down completely.”

  Errol broke off and stared across the canyon at the militiamen who wandered around, not sure what to do next. “You can be sure the Pyrthens know how the army has frittered away resources and morale carrying out King Darrow’s worst impulses. The Pyrthens’ spies are everywhere. The amazing thing is they haven’t invaded already.” He pointed at the militiamen. “Three thousand men. Maybe four thousand. They want to be an army. We could train them into an army.”

  Aidan looked at his father with horror. Was he speaking treason too?

  “Aidan, don’t you understand? When the Pyrthens come again—and they will—those three thousand men may be the only army Corenwald has left. We couldn’t defeat the Pyrthens in a pitched battle. But we could make them sorry they came. Hit-and-run attacks. Rearward attacks on their supply train, horse rustling...”

  “Feechie warfare,” Aidan said, beginning to catch his father’s vision.

  “That’s right,” said Errol, with growing excitement. “I’m an old warhorse, and this wouldn’t normally be my style, but you make do with what you have. The Last Campers are the best archers I’ve ever seen. They can teach those villagers to shoot. Our twelve army scouts will make a good beginning to a reconnaissance force. And the miners can show the militiamen how to dig shelters for themselves in the canyon walls.”

  Errol put his hands on Aidan’s shoulders and looked intently into his eyes. “Bayard the Truthspeaker isn’t here, so I’ll tell you this myself: Live the life that unfolds before you. A small army is coming to Sinking Canyons. They want to follow you. That’s what is unfolding before you today. You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t seek it. You didn’t want it. But here it is. These men mean to follow you. They need to follow you. Will you lead them?”

  “I’m not their king,” Aidan said.

  The vein on Errol’s forehead appeared again. “Stop making excuses, Aidan!” The vehemence of his father’s response surprised Aidan. “I never said you were anybody’s king,” Errol continued. “I asked if you would lead these men. You’re not a boy anymore. You’re a man. Don’t make any more excuses. Just tell me whether or not you will lead these men.”

  In that moment of challenge, in that moment of seeming conflict, Aidan felt the blessing of his father pass to him. “Yes, Father,” he
said, “I will lead them.”

  Errol nodded, pleased with his son’s answer. “Good,” he said. “And just because you’re leading, that doesn’t mean you can’t follow too. Lord willing, you’ll lead these men to follow King Darrow.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A History Lesson

  Within a week all the militias had arrived at Sinking Canyons—thirty-six hundred men from every corner of Corenwald. Some had military experience. Many had fought the Pyrthens at the Battle of Bonifay Plain six years earlier. Some had actually been with King Darrow’s army at Last Camp when Aidan came out of the Feechiefen with Percy and Dobro.

  They came with stories of a kingdom in disarray. The army had fallen apart in the weeks since King Darrow abandoned his invasion of the Feechiefen. The king rode back to Tambluff alone, leaving no orders for his officers. The men just wandered back home to resume the lives they had left when they were forcibly drafted into the army. A few soldiers, in the absence of leadership, had taken to looting, highway robbery, and other crimes.

  Sinking Canyons could no longer be properly called a hideout. There was no way of concealing the presence of so many men, even in the maze of caves and crevices. It was unmistakably a military outpost. Aidan worked with his father, his brothers, and the noblemen, Aethelbert and Cleland, to organize the militias into more efficient fighting units. They worked on the basics of sword fighting and archery, drilled quite a bit on troop movements—flanking an enemy, orderly retreat, field signals. But most of their time was devoted to tasks that related specifically to the kind of battle they expected to be fighting. They studied the geography of Sinking Canyons, learning every crevice, every finger, every tower and chimney, every fold in the earth that might provide cover in combat. They reviewed plans for ambushes and for search-and-rescue operations. They worked on tracking techniques and habits of concealment—always walking up the braided stream whenever possible, sweeping away tracks with pine boughs after walking through soft sand. Dobro offered special seminars on feechie methods of camouflage.

  But more than anything, the new recruits spent their time digging. Under the miners’ guidance, they dug tunnel after tunnel for shelter and storage. They dug out hiding places; they dug out wells. On more than one occasion, they dug each other out after poorly dug tunnels caved in.

  The old-timers—the original band of Sinking Canyons outlaws—didn’t have as many tunnel-digging responsibilities as the new recruits. They maintained their interest in Jasper’s archaeological dig.

  One day, Arliss made a discovery at the diggings that set the whole camp abuzz. It had been days since anyone had found anything more interesting than splintered logs or pieces of broken crockery. Then Arliss noticed a small, shiny disc peeking out from a shovelful of sand he was about to toss on the discard heap. It was a silver coin in surprisingly good shape, considering it had been buried for many years. He immediately ran with it to Jasper, who was cataloguing their findings, seated at a small campaign table he had taken from his father’s cave.

  “Fascinating,” said Jasper, admiring the bright silver. Then his eyes grew wide as he made sense of the date on the coin. “Am I reading this right?” he marveled. “Is this coin three hundred years old?”

  Percy scrutinized the date, sure that Jasper must be mistaken. But it was plain enough; Percy scratched his head. “I don’t see how,” he said. “It was barely a hundred years ago when the first people got to this island.”

  “Humph!” Dobro grunted. “A long time before the civilizers showed up, there was plenty of folks on this here island—feechiefolks!”

  Aidan pointed at the silver coin. “Does that look like something a feechie would carry around?” he asked. “I’ve never seen a feechie with a money purse.”

  “’Course not!” Dobro said with some haughtiness. Even Chief Larbo’s band, when under the spell of cold-shiny knives, axes, and shovels, never had any use for cold-shiny money. “I was just makin’ a point,” Dobro continued. “Just because there ain’t no civilizers on a island don’t mean there ain’t no people.”

  “I take your point,” said Percy, somewhat chastened.

  Jasper was still studying the ancient coin. It must have been made from the purest silver, for it was hardly tarnished. The portrait on the front was still easy to make out—a thickset man with an enormous beard and a four-cornered hat or crown on his head. Jasper’s finger traced a pair of branching sticks that appeared to sprout from the figure’s head. “Are those supposed to be tree limbs behind his head?” he asked. “Is this some kind of forest king?”

  Errol took the coin from his son and examined it. “Those aren’t tree limbs,” he said. “Those are antlers.”

  “So this is …” Jasper began. His lips were parted in astonishment.

  Errol nodded. “I think it must be.”

  All twenty of the men at the diggings looked expectantly from Errol to Jasper and back again, waiting for an explanation. But the father and his studious son both fell silent, brows creased in perplexity.

  “This must be what?” asked Percy. “This must be who?”

  “King Halverd the Antlered,” said Aidan, the light finally dawning on him. “The first king of Halverdy.”

  Arliss and several of the other Greasy Cave boys looked blank. They were no scholars. “Where’s Halverdy?” Arliss asked.

  “It’s on the continent,” said Jasper. “Or used to be. Most of the first people to come to Corenwald …”

  “Most of the first civilizers,” Dobro corrected.

  “Right. Most of the first civilizers,” Jasper continued, acknowledging Dobro’s correction, “were Halverdens who left the continent when their kingdom finally fell to the Pyrthens in the middle of the last century. Our ancestors were Halverdens. Yours probably were, too, Arliss.”

  Jasper pointed to the face on the coin his father still held. “Halverdy got its name from this man—Halverd the Antlered. It was he who first united the warring tribes of the continent’s eastern plains and great forest into a single kingdom to fight the Pyrthen hordes that were sweeping in from the north and west.”

  But Arliss was only minimally interested in continental history. He wanted to know more about this Halverd. “But how in the world,” he asked, “did he get antlers?”

  Jasper laughed. “He probably just attached a pair to his helmet. His crown was decorated with antlers too. But he went down in the old lore as Halverd the Antlered, as if the antlers had sprouted from his head.”

  “Like Harvo Hornhead,” Dobro offered, as if everyone knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “Like who?” asked Arliss. Though Arliss famously had the “miner’s head” for finding his way underground, he had no head for history. He was already feeling overwhelmed by Jasper’s discourse, without adding feechie history to the mix.

  “You know, Chief Harvo, the first Feechie chief,” said Dobro, a little exasperated at the poor miner’s ignorance. “Head like a buck deer, body like a hefeechie.” Arliss still looked blank. Dobro continued. “Harvo was the one what caught six turkeys at one time. Put his head down and run through a flock of them. Skewered the rascals on his antlers. Then he roasted them. Just leaned out over the fire with them dangling from his antlers.”

  Everybody was listening, but to Dobro’s chagrin, only Aidan knew what he was talking about. “If you ain’t the ignorantest bunch of know-nothings I ever run into!” Dobro exclaimed. “What kind of history do they teach you people?”

  Aidan had heard the legends about Chief Harvo while he was living in the Feechiefen. But he had never before considered the similarities between Harvo and Halverd the Antlered.

  Errol was holding the coin at arm’s length, trying to focus enough to read the inscription on the back. “V-E-Z,” he struggled to read. He handed the coin to Brennus. “Your eyes are younger,” he said. “What does this say?”

  “It’s not just your eyes, Father,” Brennus said. “This is hard to read. V-E-Z-something-somethingsomething-N-D.�
�

  Aidan pointed to a blurred spot in the middle of the inscription. “Is that an L?”

  Percy squinted at the coin. “V-E-Z-something-Lsomething-N-D.”

  Errol shouted, “Veziland! Veziland! My grandfather used to sing ballads from the old country about Veziland.”

  “So this coin,” began Aidan, speaking slowly because he wanted to be sure he had it right. “This coin came from the place you call Veziland some three hundred years ago—two hundred years before the first civilizers came over from Halverdy.”

  “Looks that way,” Jasper answered.

  “But how did it get here?”

  “Maybe a coin collector dropped it?” Percy suggested, though not very confidently.

  Aidan looked around at the desolate landscape—an inhospitable environment for coin collectors. “Doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “Maybe this is an old feechie settlement,” said Brennus. “Maybe feechies traded with Vezilanders three hundred years ago, before any civilizers came over.”

  Dobro scoffed at the idea. “This ain’t no feechie settlement. Feechiefolks don’t cut down trees to make cabins.” He pointed at the corroded plowshare they had found earlier. “Feechiefolks don’t scratch up the ground with cold-shiny blades. And feechiefolks don’t live in holes in the ground!”

  Dobro had a point. Nothing they had found at this site suggested feechiefolk.

  “Maybe we’ve always had it wrong,” said Percy. “Maybe civilizers got here earlier than we thought.”

  “We haven’t been wrong about that,” Errol insisted. “All four of my grandparents came in the first flotilla from the continent. I know for a fact that there weren’t any civilizers on this island when they got here.”

  Aidan took the coin in his hand again and wondered if he would ever see through to its puzzling origins.

  * * *

  After morning drills a few days later, Errol took Aidan aside. “I think it’s time you went to see this Lynwood,” he said. “The chief of the Aidanites. The chair of the—what was it?—the Secret Committee for the Ascendancy of the Wilderking?”