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

by J. S. Crews

  Somewhere in this torpor of neglect and lost time, just when Ansel was sure they were being starved to death in penance for some unknown sin, they were finally fed.

  Sapped of energy, the prisoners slept a great deal. Regardless of day or night, each would give out at some point and fade from consciousness. In all honesty, Ansel believed it a gift from the gods, a brief escape for their beleaguered souls. Then he felt himself being pulled from his exhaustion by a smell that he thought at first to be a dream. Extreme hunger made one dream of food it seemed, along with all of the other vivid and otherworldly things that played through the mind as the flesh suffered, so the idea of dreaming such a smell seemed not at all strange. Half awake by that time and not at all pleased, he attempted to wipe his mind clean of such tortures, even as his stomach began to rumble; he was suddenly yanked fully awake by the noise, coming to full consciousness amid the clamor of his fellow prisoners as a steaming cauldron was carried into view.

  The two carrying the pot walked sideways facing each other with their arms stretched taught by the weight. Heavy rags protected their hands from the considerable heat evidenced by the steam rising from within. This was the source of the smell and it was now setting Ansel’s mouth to watering like a hound in anticipation. The momentary shame of that was fleeting, his mind drawn fully into the intense expectancy of what was to come in a way he had never before experienced. Nearly trampling and falling over one another to reach for the small wooden bowls being handed through the bars by their captors, they were fed what was only a thin brown broth, yet the ferocity of sensations experienced was nearly indescribable. Ansel watched unabashed as grown men openly wept and licked their bowls, and it seemed like nothing strange for he was doing the same.

  They all begged for more, but were ignored; that was probably for the best, since none of them retained consciousness for very long after eating. Ansel remembered dreaming again afterwards, this time even more vividly than before, a strange dance of swirling colors and images that left him shaken and still tired when he came back to himself. I was nearly starved, he thought to himself later. Finally bein’ fed after so long musta been a shock t’my body.

  They received a ration of broth regularly from that point forward, slowly sheparded toward greater quantities to allow their bodies to remember processing food after being deprived for none of them knew how long. To Ansel’s surprise, his assumptions about the strange aftereffects proved false; they continued, even days later when he could feel a small measure of his strength returning. Quietly, somewhat trepidly, he began to enquire if Allet and Leffron had noticed the same. His thoughts were not fully formed, but he simply could not let go of a strange feeling. The others admitted to similar experiences, and that gave Ansel the confidence to slowly branch out among the greater group.

  What he learned, however, seemed only to open as many doors of confusion as it helped to close. It seemed most, if not all, experienced the same strange feelings; those not in agreement had simply refused to answer as though shaken. None remembered experiencing anything of the sort before the broth. Ansel thought it best not to push the quiet ones, hoping to keep them at least nominally part of the whispered conversations that pervaded their tiny prison after the oil lamps of the guards were extinguished each night thereafter. A few being recalcitrant to speak seemed in no way strange, for Ansel knew well that some may simply be less open with sharing things they had felt. There had been something strange in those hollow gazes, though, dancing unrevealed but alluringly at the edges of perception, and—whatever it was—he could not seem to shake the feeling that it was more than the fear and stress of captivity.

  These were only feelings: ghost tendrils of intuition of which he himself would not yet openly speak. He was a believer that half-formed misgivings and questions of the mind were best kept there until they took on substance, and so he kept them to himself. Soon, though, these fires of suspicion would be stoked as news of a fresh strangeness reached him. Many of the men being fascinated by his tales of travel, Leffron naturally spoke more often with the others. As a consequence, he had caught wind of odd stirrings coming from further down the trench.

  It took some coaxing, but some began to furtively admit—as though fearful of not being believed—to discovering injuries of which they had no recollection. Some felt and even looked as though they had been beaten, yet none could recall it actually occurring. That they might have been abused was not perplexing; they had all been maltreated. Each bore the evidence of that, but Ansel felt confident he could name each blow responsible for his pains. That others could not was peculiar, for certain, but what was truly inexplicable was that—in addition to the apparent holes in their memories—some had injuries more akin to having dealt out a beating rather than having taken one. These realizations infused their whispered after-hours discussions with a palpable trepidation. None of them understood what was happening or what might befall them next.

  Soon, unfortunately, the haunting sense of fatalism that struck them all began to be borne out in the cold glare of reality. More and more unremembered injuries and half-recalled dreams occured, eventually touching all of them. Yet, they still were denied the truth, left to wonder and wallow in an inexorably rising dread.

  Ansel harbored a suspicion, however, that would soon pull aside the veil of ignorance. In truth, he had made the connection almost immediately: the strangeness began only after they had started being fed. They had suffered terribly before that, but there had been no lost time or unexplained physical traumas. He had kept his suspicions to himself, because he needed to work things out, and he did not wish to cause needless worry. It was not long, though, before those bearing wounds would report having dreamt of fighting some wild thing. It was spoken of rarely, but such a coincidence was difficult to fathom. It haunted Ansel, especially since he was aware others might be dreaming the same things but lack the willingness to say so.

  Still, he hesitated to voice what he was thinking, mulling it over and over in his mind. It was not until he awoke one day with bruised and bleeding knuckles, remembering vague flashes of a harrowing dream in which he had fought for his life against a faceless thing of shadow, that his decision was made. Awakening in a panic, his heart had felt like it would beat out of his chest, but what frightened him most was seeing Allet staring back at him, trembling in fear. His face was a thing of misery, bruised and mauled, and his nose was obviously broken.

  He had no way of knowing if he was responsible, but even the possibility was chilling. He knew he needed to reach out to the others, but feared causing an uproar without more evidence, and so he waited until next they were fed and managed to quietly spill a portion of his broth unseen. Watching the brown liquid soak into the dirt between his knees, he wondered with no small trepidation what the results would be. He did not have to wait long.

  Having still ingested some of his ration, Ansel experienced a sensation not unlike being far too gone in his cups. He watched, though, and soon saw others fare far worse after consuming the entire serving. At first, they seemed to lapse into unconsciousness, but they were soon revealed to be fully coherent, yet somehow unaware. Whatever was in the soup seemed to make them increasingly aggressive, yet also strangely pliable, almost like hounds raised to fight who despise yet also fear and obey their masters. He watched in fascination, willing himself to remember everything, as two sets of men were pulled at random and forced to fight in turn for the amusement of their captors.

  The mercenaries formed a ring around them and cheered each blow, afterwards exchanging coins and goods to settle bets. Victor and vanquished alike were dumped unceremoniously back into the ditch, the woven thorn branch bars replaced as if nothing had occurred. It had been but chance that Ansel himself had not been chosen.

  Over the next several hours, he rolled the events back and forth in his mind, remaining quiet to avoid detection. In the end, he was forced to admit that knowing the truth did him little good. He knew now for certain what was happening, yet th
at knowledge brought with it no understanding as to why. The only clear decision he was able to make was that he must somehow tell the others, and he resolved to do so that very night after the guards had settled down to sleep.

  As the time approached, Ansel lie awake going over what he must say. He had always felt uncomfortable speaking in front of others, but he knew what he had learned was too important not to share. He was also painfully aware he would need to use the right words. This was too important for him not to do it well, and that knowledge did nothing to lessen his anxiety.

  He settled in to wait out the guards, knowing they would sleep soon enough. Ansel had known sellswords during his soldiering days, since they often passed through the forts to work as guards on the salt barges coming downriver and because the Border Barons sometimes hired extra swords for garrison duty in the winter. They were a mixed bag in his experience, some being as conscientious as regular soldiers while others were louts who did only so much as required to get their wages. He remembered his lieutenant’s advice not to trust the mercenaries to stay awake when it was their turn for guard duty, arranging things so that his men were paired with the hired swords so there would always be a dependable man on each rotation.

  He had been watching this lot for weaknesses to exploit if the situation presented itself. Thus far, that had been a disappointment. They seemed a well-managed crew, and he had lamented to himself that if their officers were a bit more lax with letting the bastards get drunk at night things would be much easier for the captives. Guards passed out from too much drink’d sure make this whisperin’ in the dark simpler, he thought. As it was, some of the men always fell asleep before it was safe for their exchange to begin, but the need to shake a few fellows awake was worth it to ensure they weren’t overheard.

  He tried to get as comfortable as possible. There was no telling how long it would be, and he was painfully aware that what passed for comfort in his current situation would mean finding a position that meant only a small backache in place of a terrible one. The corner occupied by he, Allet, and Leffron was as far as possible from the central latrine hole; this was small comfort, since it wasn’t nearly far enough removed to escape the smell. His thankfulness increased exponentially, however, whenever he had to make his way down to use the latrine. His lot was bad, but he wouldn’t trade with those poor souls.

  Those’ll be the first t’sicken, he knew. That was another lesson his service had taught him: filth breeds disease. That was why no army could stay long in one place without serious planning, and it was also why—when forced into the improvised gaol and shown where they would be forced to relieve themselves—he had half-dragged Allet toward the far end. The singer had noticed and followed, and Ansel made sure one of them stayed put at all times to hold their spot. Of course, they would all sicken if not moved soon. Whatever was going to happen to them couldn’t be far off, else they’d all be dying of fever. Already flies were becoming an issue.

  All this and more rumbled through Ansel’s troubled mind as he tried to find a position that didn’t feel like his shoulder was wedged between stones or have his back twisted like a coil. With Allet and Leffron so close, none of them could truly lie flat. All he could do was turn so he could rest his head, either with his chin on his chest or using his old cloak balled into a pillow against the earthen wall. All he could smell was human filth and the rankness of fear, and all he could hear was the breathing of those nearest, except for the few quietly weeping to themselves, and the quiet whisperings of the last guards still awake. It was the same every night.

  After a while, he could no longer hear voices and the light was low, nothing left but the single half-shuttered lantern the guards always kept burning. Still, he waited longer just to be safe, counting from zero to ten for each one of his fingers four times. When he had finished and still heard no stirrings in the night, he judged it safe and began nudging the others to get their attention and start them wakinging any who had nodded off.

  He had to roust Allet but Leffron was wide-eyed when he touched his shoulder, and he turned wordlessly to signal the next man in turn. It continued that way down the line, until eventually they would all be quietly awakened. Once they got started, information would pass the same way.

  Ansel did not wait to confirm everyone had been awakened before he spoke, trusting that his news would produce questions that must needs be answered. This would allow time for all to have joined the conversation before his tidings spread fully. Speaking to the gaggle of dirty faces nearest where he sat and knowing others would spread the word further down the line, he began, "Listen careful. I’ve figured out what’s happenin’ t’e’ryone. I dunno why or why we’re here at all, any more’n the rest o’ya, but I do know now why we’re beat up all the time."

  He told them what he had witnessed.

  His prediction concerning questions was borne out. How did he know this? What first made him suspect it had something to do with the food? He eventually had to throw his hands up to quiet them and start over at the beginning, explaining all of his reasoning step-by-step. The problem was that, as he was doing this, word was spreading further down the line and inciting more and more of a ruckus. Learning the truth and likely without the context Ansel could provide in his own words, reactions were mixed. Some doubted the truth of it. Others were aghast, allowing pent-up aggression and fear in a rush of exclamatory language.

  Ansel was in the middle of suggesting that others drink less of the soup next time, so they could witness for themselves, when the noise awoke the guards. Angered by hearing Ansel’s news, many of the prisoners reacted in rage when ordered to be quiet. This, of course, awakened even more of their captors and the situation eventually led to them being beaten again with the butts of spears, more than one left a bruised and bloody mess. One brave fool refused to be subjugated, no matter how bad they beat him, until some of his friends eventually threw themselves atop him—absorbing blows meant for him—and held him down with hands over his mouth to keep him quiet lest he get himself murdered.

  Through the ordeal, Ansel crouched as low as he could, ignoring the sharp jabs he took as the spear-butts crashed inward. Again, all he could feel was abject misery and frustration, knowing his clumsy effort to share what he knew was to blame for the pain, cuts, and bruises being dealt and having no clue where to go from there.

  * * * * *

  It had been brewing for a night and a day.

  Everything had changed since Ansel shared with the others what was being done to them all. There were always extra guards now. Understandable the way these blokes keep stabbin’ ‘em wit’ their eyes, he thought to himself, and that was the god’s truth; no love had ever existed between captors and captives, but once the men in the ditch understood they were being manipulated there had been an almost immediate shift from fear to a growing anger.

  All of that ire had been slowly simmering to the point where it was now verging on an openly rebellious contempt. To Ansel, it felt like just before a summer thunderstorm when all of the energy of the heavens is being gathered and building to an eminent release. You could almost feel it in your bones as a low, sonorous hum, just quiet enough to escape being heard.

  Ansel had felt its like before, and he knew the dam holding back all of that emotion would break eventually. What would happen then he could not say, but he intended not to be caught unawares. When he turned to speak to Allet and Leffron, he was pleased to see the singer had likewise picked up on the mood and was already paying wary attention to everything and everyone. The two nodded at one another in acknowledgment, as Ansel motioned to capture Allet’s attention and said—as though he were speaking to both of them—"Be ready t’follow m’ lead, whatever happens."

  Just then the volume of the whispering babble rose suddenly, and Jonas turned to see their hosts again approaching with the steaming cauldron. The difference between this and previous feedings could not have been more evident, however, since many who would have previously been nudging their w
ay to the front held back and jeered instead. Surprisingly, some acted like nothing had changed at all, openly anticipating the upcoming meal, despite what they now knew to be happening and ignoring those trying to reason with them. Is it they don’t believe or don’t care? Ansel asked himself, but he had no answer.

  Watching to see what would happen next, Ansel’s attention was suddenly averted as a booming voice from somewhere down the line yelled, "No!"

  This command, not to be ignored, was emanating from a large man whom Ansel had previously thought might be mute. In all of the late-night discussions, he could not remember having ever heard him speak. "No!" the big man bellowed yet again, and it was then that Ansel realized the outburst had frozen even their captors in their tracks.

  "No!" he roared again, his hands on the chests of two other men he was holding back, his gaze splintering that of the nearest sellsword without a hint of deference. And on the fourth "No!" in succession, he was no longer alone as others began to join in until—within seconds—every man within the trench was participating in a chorus of "No!" being repeated over and over.

  This defiance is what had been brewing and it was a glorious display that lasted not long. Seemingly drawn by all the noise, the apparent leader of these men—that very same one who had stood atop a barrel to speak to the crowd the first night—lurched angrily into view just long enough to bark a couple of orders that woke a few of his nearby men from their trance of inaction. These departed hastily to return a short time later in the company of two additional men, one obviously the servant of the other as he carried a large leather haversack while the other carried only himself.

  The sellsword leader reappeared and motioned his men into action, causing Ansel to lose sight of what was happening with the new arrivals. Two of their number were dragged up out of the trench. Neither came willingly, and their nearby compatriots seemed intent on not allowing them to be manhandled, but additional arrow tips being shoved in faces put a quick end to disobedience.