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

by J. S. Crews

  To the little man he said, "I’ll not crowd yer master’s home with a full platoon o’ men. I’d sooner only bring in a few, but could I trouble ya fer some water fer the rest o’ m’lads?"

  "Aye, of course. I’ll see to their comfort in a moment," was the quick reply, his attitude still carrying with it a matter-of-fact quality, though he seemed much more agreeable now that the terms of their entry were decided.

  Taegan nodded his thanks, motioning for Jonas and Alastar to follow he and the Sergeant inside, an order they had to scramble to obey. They overcame their surprise and dismounted as quickly as they could, coming to stand meekly before the Lieutenant. He made no remark, but simply looked at them, as the Sergeant shook his head at the apparent sorriness of youngsters. Then the two veterans soldiers ducked inside the door past the little servant and the boys followed.

  The interior of the towerhouse was dreary. It was dark, every bit as much as peering into the open doorway had made it seem, and it took a few moments for Jonas’s eyes to adjust. It was smaller than he had expected, though one could fit several of the small cottages from the village below within its grey stone walls. The entryway opened into a cramped antechamber, where the stone floor was mostly covered in rugs of woven animal skins, and both of the young noblemen quickly mimicked the two soldiers wiping their boots.

  Doors exited the antechamber in virtually every direction. One, he could see, lead to a kitchen, unmistakable because of the iron pot clearly visible hanging above a hearth and a table sporting a cutting board and the leavings of hastily put aside vegetables. It was obvious their arrival had interrupted dinner preparations. Further that same way, he expected, would adjoin a small room that provided sleeping-space for household servants.

  Where some of the other doors lead was anyone’s guess, since they were closed, but it was toward the only other open doorway that the servingman guided them. Before even passing the threshold, Jonas could see that a cheery fire was burning from the dancing reflection of shadows and light spilling out of the room. That assumption held true as they were guided into a cozy parlor and introduced to the house’s lord.

  Sir Gottrey Wakefield was a large man, heavy of frame and probably of above average height, though it was impossible to be sure of the latter since Lieutenant Teagan quickly demurred his efforts to stand and greet them. He was also old, at least the same age as his servant, and he seemed to be in some discomfort with one leg raised up to rest on a cushioned stool. The rest of him was comfortably sunk into a plush armchair. It was clear immediately, though, that any frailty attributed to him would be strictly physical rather than of the mind. He was alert and interested, leaning forward in his chair with a quizzical expression even as he agreed to remain seated.

  "Welcome! All are welcome!" he announced, then craned his neck toward the doorway behind them and bellowed, "Crim! A drink of wine for our guests!"

  The answering call came from back toward the kitchen, muffled by distance and the sounds of leather and steel in motion as the four armed and armored visitors spread themselves out before their host. The fact that none of them had been able to fully make out the response was soon rendered immaterial, however, as the diminutive servingman reappeared mere seconds later. Expertly gliding into the room between the standing men, he presented each of them with a platter holding earthenware cups.

  Each contained a dark liquid and, following Teagan’s lead, they all accepted the hospitality. Jonas was pleased to discover that the wine was finer than expected, accents of oak and sweet fruits exploding about his tongue. After several days drinking only water and the sour red wine provided with soldiers rations, it was truly a delight. He decided he had swallowed the first gulp much too quickly, savoring the second by swirling it around in his mouth as he took in his surroundings.

  The parlor was very cozy. Small, of course, but it had a certain charm. It struck Jonas as being a very inviting space. The furniture, while old, spoke of comfort as did the fire burning steadily in the hearth, tamped down to provide little more than a cheery atmosphere on the pleasant spring day. Above the hearth hung an old shield and sword, the paint on the blazon faded and the blade of the weapon chipped and dull with age.

  Sir Gottrey seemed to be studying the men before him over the rim of his own cup. His subtle scrutiny passed over each in turn, Jonas averting his own gaze at the last instant to keep their eyes from meeting. "You honor us, Sir," said Lieutenant Teagan. "We’ve been in the field a few days, an’ we hadn’t expected such hospitality."

  The old man sat his own cup on a small table to his right, smiling graciously as he waved away the sentiment. "I had not thought to’ve seen a response to my alert so quickly from His Grace, elsewise we’d’ve had a meal ready for you. How is it you’ve mobilized so quickly? My messenger to Baron Reylie left here only two days ago. How many men have you brought?"

  In response to his flurry of questions, there came only silence. Then, haltingly and with some confusion, Teagan said, "Uhhhh. Sir, I’m not sure o’ what ya speak. We’re a patrol out o’ Newport, true, but a single light platoon on a regular circuit o’ the roads hereabouts. We’ve no mission that’s brought us here. We come callin’ on ya today just as a courtesy, ‘cause we’d spent the night with some o’ yer folk a few miles back who’re reportin’ wolves runnin’ loose an’ causin’ them trouble, an’ they’ve not seen yer soldiers patrollin’."

  "I told you."

  They all started at the sound of another gravely voice close by. None of them had noticed another old man sitting in the corner behind them, furthest from the fire and bathed in shadows. Jonas suddenly felt a chill climb up his back for, were he not worried the other men would think him foolish, he would have sworn the man had not been there just a moment before. He sat there, hunched over in the familiar plain threadbare woolen tunic and trousers worn by the common folk. He was absently rubbing something between his thumb and forefinger, but it was impossible to see what it was in such grim lighting.

  Their host ignored him, seeming confused at first and then angry. "So, no word of what’s happening here has reached Newport?"

  Teagan looked back and forth between the two older men, obviously feeling some of the same unsettling feelings as Jonas, but he was a professional soldier who knew his business and so it took him only an instant to give his full attention back to the knight. He shook his head in response. "Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir, but I can’t give ya an answer to that either way. My men an’ I left Newport three mornins’ past an’re headed back there now. What exactly is happenin’ here?"

  Sir Gottrey’s face was flushed, his jaw set in a stern repose. "The wolves are part of it, no doubt, but only a shadow of a greater threat. I’ve had two men killed recently, foresters in my service. One of them was wounded and died right outside my front door. Brave lad practically crawled home with his guts leaking out to warn us there’re cutthroats in the woods about the northern hills."

  That surprised everyone, and Jonas could see both of the soldiers’ stances and attitudes change immediately. He also instantly realized what had seemed so strange about the village as they approached: there had been no men or older boys around, only worried-looking women and children and old people.

  "In a moment, Sir, I’ll need ya t’try an’ remember everythin’ you were told," said the Lieutenant, seeming to take firm control of the situation after only the slightest hesitation, "but first, ya said ya sent word t’the Baron already, yes? And how many men-at-arms do ya ‘ave here?"

  "Aye," he replied, "my son Sir Percey, also an anointed knight, left here two days ago with all five men I feed and every man and tall boy from the village too. He was to dispatch one man-at-arms and two of the fastest boys to carry word to Baron Reylie’s castle, while he took the rest to where the bandits were last seen."

  "He was t’engage them in battle ‘afore help got here?"

  "To harry and track them only," was the reply, though Jonas thought he might have sensed some hesitation or perhaps regre
t underlying the old man’s words.

  "It was ‘is place t’go as yer representative, m’lord," put in the other old fellow in the corner. "Yer son, aye, but also a knight as ya said y’rself."

  "Yer name, friend?"

  It was Sir Gottrey who answered in his place. "This is Baram. He is... just a man from these parts. A maker of unguents and tonics. He... gives me comfort." For his own part, the man now known as Baram simply inclined his head in greeting, still rubbing whatever it was he held between his fingers.

  Lieutenant Teagan seemed to accept that with no further questions, returning the silent greeting and considering things quietly for a moment. Then, as though speaking his thoughts aloud to himself, he said, "Reylie’s castle isn’t hardly a full day in the saddle from here. If it’s been two days, that’s long enough help should be arrivin’ soon, but ya shoulda had scouts at yer door by this mornin’ already. That isn’t even speakin’ o’ the fact that yer own men woulda been turn’d right back home after somethin’ hot in their bellies t’let ya know how the Baron wanted things t’proceed ahead o’ his arrival. They’d’ve gotten here ‘afore darkfall last night."

  Then, as if Jonas’s thinking the old knight had seemed regretful had been somehow prophetic, the servant reentered the room and added to the conversation as though he had been listening all along. Completely ignoring the other men in the room, he looked directly at his master and, with a conspiratorial tone, said, "The boy mightn’t have listened, Sir Gottrey. You know that as well as I."

  "What’s this now?" asked the Lieutenant.

  Letting out a long and perturbed sigh and eyeing his servant with irritation, the old man answered, "Crim oversteps himself as usual in thinking he is both the appointed nursemaid and keeper of my family." It was obvious by their expressions that this was typical rapport between them, since the servingman forewent any reply but kept a look on his face that made it obvious he had one ready that would be biting, holding it back only because they had company just now.

  Sir Gottrey continued, "What he means, however, and he is not wrong, is that my son is willful. He is also strong and a good fighter, quick to anger, and he is often bored of our country life." He paused, not wishing to say more, but there wasn’t much choice with an audience waiting. With a great sigh, he admitted, "Percey was not pleased by my order to call for help from the Baron. There were short words between us, and he might well have decided to ignore what I’d said.

  "Either that or he did send them and they didn’t complete the journey, otherwise I should have had word by now as you said." He was making no effort now to hide his anxiety and contrition as he concluded, "We’ve heard nothing in all of these past two days. That’s why it was my assumption you men were a force sent to help."

  "Well, that wasn’t our charge, but it clearly is now," answered Lieutenant Taegan. "We’ll see if we can’t set things t’rights."

  The look of relief that washed over the old knight’s face was unmistakable, but all he managed to say was, "Thank you."

  Lieutenant Teagan, a clear mission now awakening his military mind, turned to Sergeant Hammid and began ordering him to go brief the men while he finished discussing things with Sir Gottrey. Suddenly, however, they were interrupted by the heavy wooden front door of the towerhouse slamming against the wall as a soldier entered unannounced. Without preamble, he rushed into the room, reporting, "Lieutenant, Corporal Dekin says t’tell ya armed men on horse approach!"

  "Help from Baron Reylie?" interjected a hopeful sounding Sir Gottrey, though it had been more a question than a statement of fact.

  "What banner d’they fly?"

  The young soldier, who looked to be only a few years older than Jonas and Alastar, took a deep breath and gulped nervously before answering, "No banner, Lieutenant."

  There was no reply. Lieutenant Teagan and Sergeant Hammid simply looked at one another and Sir Gottrey’s enthusiasm drained from his face as an unmistakable sense of dread suddenly fell over the once cozy little room.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The Warchief”

  Vytaus’s patience was running thin.

  The renegades were intent on haggling, and he simply wanted to be free of their presence. Normally, life in the Northlands made for an isolated existence, but there were occasionally opportunities for outside trade. Those amenable to risk in return for profit sometimes skirted around the patrols from the Galenni greenlander’s Fort Lookout and rowed ashore, or else such as these would sneak across the Long River in violation of their people’s laws.

  Those laws forbade open dealings with Vytaus’s people, because the simpering Galenni nobles feared the stronger Wodonni arming themselves with good steel. How else to maintain their advantage? Pronouncing such restrictions did little, however, because their own people lusted after the pale yellow-green garnet stones Northlanders dug from the earth more than they feared displeasing their own rulers. More proof of their weakness, he thought to himself.

  Vytaus could hardly tolerate them. As much as he thought of the southerners as weak, he still could not bring himself to respect men who would arm their own enemies just to satisfy greed. He also took offense at the way they gawked at his people. Perhaps visiting a Wodonni community was a novelty for them, but those of the northern clans were prideful. Unfortunately, necessity dictated the need for trade, especially now.

  Whether he agreed with it or not, the decision to invade the lands to the south had already been made. All that was left now was to plan and prepare. That preparation involved obtaining more and better weapons, hence the negotiation in which he and his eldest son were now embroiled. The clans could fashion their own iron weapons and tools, but those lacked the strength of the steel forged in the south, and if Vytaus was taking his warriors to war he would see them outfitted properly. Some, like he, already possessed steel taken off kingdom corpses they had made, but not everyone.

  Vytaus was also thinking strategically. As the preparations for war became more and more pressing, other chieftains would want these weapons for their warriors as well, and urgency would drive up their value. Unlike most, however, he had little interest in profiting personally; instead, he saw it as his way of gaining influence.

  The dirty-faced mercenary speaking for the Galenni renegades was suddenly pointing at Vytaus, drawing him out of his ruminations. He had lost interest in the posturing that went along with the haggling and allowed his mind to wander, largely because he was growing tired of hearing the man mangle the Wodonni language. Most in the Northlands spoke the Trade Tongue at least passingly well, but this fool apparently was not aware of that fact and insisted on trying to speak the northmen’s language. He was not good at it.

  “What is the fool asking now?”

  Belios looked sidelong at his father, surprised at the insult toward one with at least some understanding of their tongue. “Father,” he began, then hesitated. “I think he’s asking for your torque to be included in the deal.”

  As soon as he said those words, the other men standing as witnesses gasped and came to their feet in anger. The mercenaries responded in kind, clearly unsure what was happening but ready to defend themselves. Hands went to weapons, but no one bared a blade. Eyes darted back-and-forth nervously.

  Vytaus did not move. He simply stared at the Galenni mouthpiece across from him. He was trying to discern if this was some tactic to set him on his heels in the negotiation or if the man could truly be ignorant of the insult he had just offered.

  The torque worn around Vytaus’s neck was a ceremonial symbol of status. Every Wodonni chieftain wore one, passed down to him by his predecessor. Most were carved from amber or brass, but the more prosperous clans possessed torques of pure silver, which was why these fools wished to add it to their booty. They obviously thought it a mere bauble. It was a slight that could result in bloodletting.

  Never breaking eye contact, Vytaus raised his hand and those around him stopped their yammering almost instantly. He spoke as though he were talki
ng to his own men, but his words were for the Galenni renegade. “Stay calm,” he said, speaking slowly to make sure he was understood in spite of the language barrier. “Our friends meant no offense. They did not understand their insult.”

  The remainder of the negotiations went much more smoothly. The renegades were visibly spooked by their cultural misstep nearly resulting in violence, and so they proceeded much less aggressively. In return, Vytaus threw in an extra pouch of the garnets and some amber to help close the deal and soothe rankled pride.

  An hour later found him watching them depart much less haughtily than they had arrived. Without turning, he asked Belios, “Any word of your brother?”

  From his side as they stood atop the wooden gatehouse and stared down the switchback path at the departing kingdom renegades, his eldest son answered with a negative grunt. “You should have sent me,” he soon added. “He’s too young.”

  His father guffawed and started to laugh, drawing an annoyed look from his eldest. “He’s the same age you were barely a year ago,” Vytaus said. “How much would you have liked me saying that about you then?”

  Belios had no answer for that. It was clear, however, that he was still not pleased. Father and son unconsciously stared out toward the forest as if their vision could stretch to wherever the other youngster was at the moment. After a short time, Vytaus said, “He’s your brother and you worry. I understand. Do you think I don’t? I remember him in his swaddling clothes.”

  Seeing the elder boy’s expression soften, he continued, “Brandr is smart, probably smarter than both of us. He will never hear me say that, mind you. And he’s strong. Maybe not as much of a bull as you, but strong enough. He can look after himself, and besides I sent men with him. He’s not alone.”