A Lord's Duty (The Chronicles of Galennor Book 1)

by J. S. Crews

  He only had disjointed bits to turn over and over in his mind to try to discern their meaning, assuming there was any meaning at all. He recalled watching a beautiful sunset, resplendent in raucous colors, yet the sight of it left him anxious for some reason he could not understand. Then, a noise to his right caused him to turn, where he watched in horror as hills and valleys were consumed by a moving black mass that he suddenly realized was coming straight toward him.

  There were people milling all about, oblivious to the doom quickly approaching. He had tried and tried to warn them, screaming in their faces to run and sometimes bodily turning them to point out what was coming, but they had all ignored him. Looking back, he remembered feeling terrified at how much closer the approaching mass was than just seconds before, so close he could make out individual shapes.

  The doom coming inexorably toward him was made up of thousands of beasts, not true animals of the real world but rather some ravenous creatures born of his imagination. He could not remember details of the creatures themselves, except for their gaping, slavering maws and dagger-sharp teeth, and the understanding that they represented the end of all they touched. The land behind them was swept clean of life, and the horrifying proximity now made it possible for him to see that these creatures were being driven from behind by something even darker, which had chilled his very soul.

  The dream ended with him running to escape the wave of death that was growing closer and closer, awakening in a cold sweat. His bedclothes were soaked and his heart had been pounding so loudly that he could feel it in his ears. This day’s work—whatever it entailed—likely would not find him at his best.

  The Officer of the Watch station was a small anteroom off the gatehouse of the second bailey of the castle, where the barracks houses and stables were located. The furnishings were spartan, which was appropriate for soldier’s accoutrement: a small wooden desk with a simple stool behind and two more in front provided nominal seating; an iron brazier for burning charcoal provided warmth in winter; wooden shelves and cabinets held various equipment; and the stone walls were covered with maps as well as skins and tapestries to keep out the chill.

  Jonas and Alastar arrived to find the soldier manning the Officer of the Watch post—a man unknown to either of them—embroiled in some task that demanded his full attention. He was fairly young, probably only in his mid-twenties, with a dour face and wearing the single horizontal gold bar insignia which denoted his rank as second lieutenant. The impatient exchange taking place between he and a younger trooper with the two downward pointing gold chevrons of a corporal on his badge was nothing of interest to the boys, but it was apparently important enough to put the young officer in a state of consternation. This much was obvious by the curt way he motioned for the two young squires to wait.

  The wait, however, was not a long one, and once the corporal departed, the flustered lieutenant continued to show his aggravation. Flipping his hand impatiently toward the squires, he asked, "What’re you two supposed to be about?"

  The boys looked at each other, feeling the urge to needle the officer because of his attitude, yet unsure if it was wise to do so. In the end, Alastar simply cleared his throat and answered, "I’m fairly certain you’re supposed to tell us that, sir. We were told to report to the Officer of the Watch for assignment."

  Impatience flared anew in the officer’s eyes, and Jonas half-expected for a moment it might boil over. Instead, he nodded curtly and turned his attention to the papers before him. Jonas imagined the fleeting anger was probably directed inwardly as much as at them for allowing himself to be caught seemingly unaware. They had been sent to the man specifically, after all, so he should have had some idea they were coming and why, and thus been prepared. Instead, he had been made the butt of a joke.

  Jonas thought, perhaps, he had caught a hint of something a bit deeper than embarrassment in the officer’s demeanor, though. The momentary slip had been subtle, if in fact it hadn’t been a product of his imagination. Still, his perception had definitely snagged on something rough where there should have been only smooth military professionalism. He understood it had likely been a soldier’s natural distaste toward what he saw as those of high birth being groomed for command without having earned such respect. No matter how long a man lived in a world where those of noble birth were expected to be treated with deference, it was understandable to imagine that it often represented a source of frustration, so Jonas thought it best to simply ignore it.

  Locating the notation he had been searching for amongst his papers, the lieutenant looked up, still bent over the desk with his index finger resting on the words he had found. Eyeing the two of them, he said, "I’ve a directive here that you two are to report to Lieutenant Taegan this morning, but you don’t appear ready for duty."

  That surprised them, so much so that neither made any attempt to hide it. They were dressed as they always were in tunic and breeches, and were therefore at a loss as to what he meant. But, then again, they also had no idea what sort of duty lay ahead for the day.

  They were about to say as much, but he quieted them with a dismissive gesture and said, "No matter. That’s for the Lieutenant and you to worry about, not me. And you should also worry about being late, since my notes say you were supposed to report nearly a quarter-hour ago."

  "But... where are we to go? No one has told us a thing."

  Again, the Officer of the Watch shook his head in consternation and muttered something under his breath before pointing at the door and yelling, "The stables! Get you gone to the stables!"

  And so they went, fumbling at the door in a state of anxiety the likes of which can only be found in those who fear failing at something it’s their heart’s greatest desire to do well. Given a clear path now, they went single-mindedly and with purpose, weaving through the random throng of castle staff busy in the courtyard that time of the morning. Young muscles carried them quickly forward, and they rushed into the stables to find the area awash with activity.

  Amidst the crowd of soldiers moving to and fro in apparent chaos stood Lieutenant Teagan, whom Jonas and Alastar were acquainted with by sight but not association. He was a plain man but tall—lowborn but well-made—with dark hair and a demeanor that had seemed amiable when seated among the men at the tables below the dais in the Great Hall. Unfortunately, little of that affability was on display at the moment. It was quickly obvious that what had seemed to be anarchy was actually him overseeing a score of troopers in rearranging the items stored in the saddlebags of waiting horses.

  Spying them standing there gaping, his ire was suddenly upon them like a gale changing directions to waylay a ship at sea. "Well, it’s ‘bout damn time! I d’know where in the lower hells you two’ve been, but keep me waitin’ like this on patrol an’ see if yer not left t’walk home horseless! Well, what’re ya waitin’ fer? I hope you gentlefolk wasn’t expectin’ me t’saddle the beast fer ya. Git to it!"

  To say that Jonas and Alastar were at a loss in that moment would have been a monstrous understatement and, like before, it must have been written on their faces. The lieutenant jabbed a finger roughly towards where the remainder of the horses were still stabled, pointing out where they were supposed to be without wasting additional words. The thought was coming to them, though, that perhaps some mistake had been made. Jonas made ready to say just that, but Teagan cut him off with an abrupt gesture before he could begin.

  "Listen. Don’t speak," he began. "There’ll be time aplenty fer ya t’gab an’ weary me with yer questions, since I’m t’be yer tutor in all this, but best we keep all that fer later. This patrol has a schedule t’keep an’ I don’t enjoy runnin’ afoul o’ my own superiors by not gettin’ my work done as ordered. Fer now, jus’ keep yer mind on gettin’ y’rselfs ready, ‘cause there’s no time t’waste."

  Though the order to keep quiet had been clear enough, this was one situation where they could see no way around disobeying, since neither of them had any clue what was happening. Both
boys looked at one another, as though silently asking what to do, until finally Al had had enough. Shaking his head in frustration, he asked, "Ready for what, sir? We are to accompany you?"

  Lieutenant Teagan responded by gaping slack-jawed at the two of them with a shocked expression that was equal parts confusion and exasperation. "Tytos’s beard!" he exclaimed, invoking the name of the god of war. "Aye, ya are! Ain’t that what I jus’ said?! Nobody told ya you were leavin’ on a three day circuit?!"

  There was no need for them to answer. The confused, almost frantic look plastered over their faces told him all he needed to know, and so the young guard officer raised a hand to take pity and sooth his distressed charges. "Well, a’right then. Someone’s a fool, but you two can rejoice that it’s ‘pparently not you t’day." Seeing them begin to relax, he continued, "Knowin’ that does nought fer us, though, since yer late even if it weren’t yer own doin’ an’ we still got the same schedule t’keep. So git to it." He pointed again, though nowhere near as roughly this time. "See Sergeant Hammid there t’get y’rselves outfitted proper."

  They hurried to where he had indicated, drawn there as much by the look of the man who was presumably this Sergeant Hammid as by the officer’s gesture. Bull-necked and broad of shoulder, he wore the three downward-pointing gold chevrons of a guard sergeant on his badge. He had also turned when the Lieutenant uttered his name. Their assumption of identity was verified, in the space of just that fleeting moment, by the look that fell over the soldier’s face. Again, that look.

  No one enjoys additional work, but it was becoming obvious to Jonas that there was a deeper meaning behind these brief glimpses of negativity directed their way. Plainly, some believed time spent on he and Alastar was wasted on wealthy young men who would never amount to much from a military perspective. It was understandable, since surely there were those among the nobility who failed to take such things seriously, but it still bothered him. He made a promise to himself then and there to prove their assumptions wrong.

  It would not be the first time he had been faced with a need to earn respect. His birth alone guaranteed a certain deference, but the need to be worthy of such esteem was something he felt deeply within himself. Perhaps that feeling was strongest, because it had not always been there. Regardless of whether a person is born into the nobility or a family of cowherds, the commonalities of life are typically taken for granted, until they reach a certain age and begin to realize their place in things. It is how they behave after gaining such understanding that dictates what sort of person they are going to be. In Jonas’s case, he was ashamed to admit that—had it not been for stern correction at the right juncture—he might have become someone he would not himself have cared to know.

  His abrupt understanding of his own place in the world had come at the age of seven when something in his lessons had clicked in his mind and he had grasped just exactly who his father was and who he himself would one day be. He had known, of course, that his father was the Duke and had some vague notion that this was important. What had not sunk in before was that his father was one of the most powerful men in the entire nation, a status he would one day inherit. His father was already a larger-than-life figure, the master of both their castle and the surrounding city and lands. Suddenly, though, he understood the true extent of his power and importance and that he was himself a prince with royal blood flowing through his veins. As a result, young Jonas suddenly had a rather highly-inflated opinion of himself and how other lesser folk should react to his whims.

  He had taken it upon himself to behave as he felt one should as one of the masters of the universe. He no longer found it necessary to observe the courtesies taught to him as a young gentleman when dealing with the servants who looked after their household, not even sweet Lydda, his own wetnurse who was like a second mother to him. He had likewise been surly with the soldiers sworn to serve their family, barking orders for them to retrieve a ball he had kicked too far in youthful exuberance.

  What gave him perhaps the greatest flush of shame was that all of them had dutifully obeyed. They had humored his spoiled antics, either because he was the son of their lord or because they were genuinely fond of him as the child they had watched grow from an infant. He did not know which for certain, but the burden of his guilt always leaned toward the latter for the simple reason that no one told his mother or father how he was treating them. This was not discovered until it happened to be witnessed by none other than his father, who quickly put a stop to it.

  There had been times when his father had taken the lash to him for breaking some rule or another, yet his punishment on that day was worse than all of those put together, despite Duke Joran never laying a hand upon him. His father had been angry, but he had questioned some of the staff to understand what had been going on and then simply taken his son aside privately to explain to him the nature of honor and respect, how it must be earned and how difficult it is to regain once lost. He made him see how poorly he had behaved and how he had made everyone feel. By the time that conversation was over, he had been in tears with regret, and he had dutifully undertaken his father’s stern suggestion that he apologize to all of the servants and soldiers he encountered over the next few days. Remembering all of that made him more homesick than he had expected.

  Hammid, as a sergeant of Duke Valdimir’s garrison, was a non-commissioned officer—a common soldier who had risen up through the ranks. Minor nobles and wealthy merchants would sometimes purchase an officer’s commission for a younger son without standing to inherit with the restriction that, under normal circumstances, only the lowest ranks could be attained in such a way. This ensured the armies and navies of the kingdom were not commanded exclusively by the products of cronyism. In other words, a son of a wealthy family might have a billet given to him, but he would then have to earn promotions before commanding troops. It was also possible for common soldiers to rise to positions of authority, however, and that was through promotion to the non-commissioned officer ranks. These were men who held the respect both of their peers as well as their superiors. At the platoon level—which this patrol appeared to qualify as—overall command would normally fall to a 2nd lieutenant with a sergeant as his second in command.

  What seemed out of place was that Teagan wore the uniform insignia of a full lieutenant, an officer who would typically command four of these size detachments, not just the one. The unuttered question as to why had apparently been plastered across Jonas’s face, because the sergeant stopped him short with a sharp and authoritative gesture as soon as the two boys approached. "Y’re sure t’have questions ‘bout what’s expected, but let me say now best thing is just t’wait," he began in place of a greeting.

  "The Lieutenant’ll talk t’ya more once we’re out on the road, if I know what’s what, since it’s plain t’see you young gents wasn’t prepared by nobody. In fact, I’ll suggest it t’him m’self once we get goin’, but my job jus’ now is t’make sure you two’re kitted out proper, an’ yer job is t’listen an’ t’do whatever I say. Clear?"

  Both boys simply nodded in the affirmative and began absorbing the sergeant’s gruff but helpful instructions. He was a short and stocky man, perhaps thirty summers old, built solid and sturdily with what would no doubt be a low center of gravity. He kept what appeared to be blondish hair close-cropped and his face was clean-shaven. In short, Sergeant Hammid looked and sounded exactly like what one would expect of a soldier; yet, for all his gravely brusqueness, his every word and action carried an air of professionalism and a true interest in making sure the squires were prepared in the least amount of time possible.

  The process of donning armor and weapons identical to the other troopers and receiving saddle bags full of standard supplies occurred in a rush that left them unsettled and sincerely hoping they would not be required to remember specific details. Before they knew it, they were being hurried out of the stables and into the bailey courtyard. One of the soldiers, apparently noticing that both squires had
stopped dead, unsure of what to do next, gestured toward waiting grooms who stood by holding the reins of saddled horses.

  If an official order to mount up was given, Jonas missed it, but suddenly every member of the patrol—a full platoon of twenty-four cavalry troopers with one staff officer—were climbing into their saddles as though by mutual consent. They were joined quickly by two very green squires after only the briefest bewilderment. Settling in, their attention was suddenly drawn to where Lieutenant Taegan had whooped and raised his arm to indicate he was about to speak.

  "Here we go, boys! Look ‘round an’ say yer farewells t’hot meals, soft beds, ‘n’ milkmaid’s kisses fer the next three days! We’re ‘bout the Duke’s business, then home fer an equal three days liberty, an’ I’ll personally stand each o’ ya a pot o’ ale on our first night home!"

  All the troopers laughed and applauded. The Lieutenant signaled Sergeant Hammid, who in turn gestured silently to three troopers standing apart from the rest. These responded immediately to the silent order, demonstrating the smooth cohesion of their unit, by riding out ahead of the rest, apparently as advance scouts. That done, Hammid’s gruff voice bellowed above the din, "Platoon, on me! Standard patrol column, two-by-two! Let’s ride!"

  The order given, the Lieutenant led the way through the gatehouse with Sergeant Hammid on his right. Silently and fluidly, the remaining twenty troopers formed-up and followed them in a column of two men abreast. They observed an unspoken order of procession that neither of the squires understood, causing another moment of panic when they were not sure what to do, but luckily one of the men gestured that they should move out ahead of he and the man beside him; and so Jonas and Alastar made their way nervously through the gatehouse in the center of a cavalry column pointed toward their next set of lessons.