A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  "A baby might pick up someone else’s toy and play with it, but he is not stealing it. A baby does not yet understand such notions as ownership, and he cannot yet tell right from wrong. He knows only his own wants and needs, and must be taught the rest. It would not be right to punish him the same as you punish an older child, who has already learned such things."

  He paused, plainly mulling over in his mind what it was he wished to say, then continued, "That fellow down below. He’s an old man. He knew right from wrong once, but now? He seems to me as if his mind has been wiped every bit as clean as a baby, so I will not have him treated the same as any criminal who might have done what he did while knowing they were doing wrong."

  And Duke Joran was true to his word. That old man, whose actual name no one ever learned, might have resided in a castle dungeon but he was never mistreated. A basic military cot had been placed within the cell, topped with warm blankets that the Duke insisted on having replaced regularly, even as the deranged occupant soiled them and rended them to pieces. Likewise, his cell was kept as clean as possible, and meals were brought to him several times each day, whether he chose to eat them or use them to paint the walls with his ancient and gnarled fingers.

  Jonas and Alastar knew all of this to be true, because the next several weeks represented a youthful indulgence of their morbid fascination. Never during that brief period did more than two nights pass without them conspiring to slink down to the dungeons, where they sometimes wasted hours they should have been sleeping or studying observing the morose behavior of the nameless creature and attempting to keep clear of Jonas’s father’s guards. One such night nearly ended in disaster, in fact, as they almost blundered into the clutches of Lord Joran himself.

  As it happened, that was the only time they saw him there themselves, though once was sufficient to ensure they were much more careful from that point forward. There were whispers that the lord of the castle had made other visits and some ill-spoken theories made their rounds as to why he had been inclined to be merciful, having supposedly had a grandsire or an uncle who had gone mad himself. The boys never encountered him again during their covert nocturnal wanderings, however, and the more maligning and slanderous rumor-mongers kept themselves well clear of Jonas until the whole thing was over and faded into memory.

  As for their part in the whole affair, the boys were fascinated by the ravings of such an unusual person. The taboo nature of his affliction only served to heighten their obsession. There were times when it seemed the endless, inane gibbering coming from the cell would never end and others when it would grow so deathly quiet among the damp stones that they would watch for signs of his breathing to make sure he was alive. Throughout this period, which seemed longer in his memory despite spanning less than a single full turning of the silver moon, the creature’s eyes would often exhibit the same wild, darting, animalistic appearance dredged up recently after witnessing the same in Sir Eadred. At such times, the old man would stalk to and fro, mumbling to himself and even crying pitiably at times. There were other times, however, when those eyes held a quality Jonas could only think of as utterly empty, possessing an eerie vacantness. Thinking about it could still raise gooseflesh on his arms, even after all this time.

  That strange episode, so memorable in the mind of a young boy, had eventually come to a surprisingly sad end. Sneaking down from the room they shared one night as the castle slumbered, the boys found the cell empty. They learned the next morning that the poor old fool had died waiting for the priests to come escort him to whatever life had awaited him in the faith’s custody. According to the gossipers, he had decided to actually eat his dinner rather than decorate the cell with it, and he had choked on a chicken bone.

  Realizing that the mindless old fool had died alone and friendless had stirred emotions in Jonas he had not expected. He had resolved simply to say a prayer to ask his goddess to reunite the lost soul with the spirit of the daughter. The things he had seen in the person of that old man would never leave him, not even if he were to survive to be an old graybeard himself—things the like of which he had seen again now recently. The difference being that the one exhibiting such behavior now was not a feeble old man, but rather a knight in his physical prime, trained to kill in war with sword and mace and shield. Still, what was to be done? Something was definitely off with respect to Sir Eadred of Aggladane, but was it fair to judge a man simply on the basis of a fleeting look you saw in his eyes?

  No, Jonas knew. It would be the height of arrogance to believe they had the true measure of this man after only meeting him a few weeks past. This is simply another bit of intrigue that has caught Alastar’s fancy. He’ll have forgotten it in a week in favor of something else, so I need only outlast his whimsy, he thought. And so he drew the subject of their conversation onto other matters, until the both of them were soon ready to retire to their bedrolls to rest aching muscles ahead of what would, no doubt, be another grueling day beginning at first light.

  Chapter Nine

  “The Common Man”

  Uarvoos was reaching her zenith in the sky, and Ansel said a silent prayer of thanks to Iadara. The silver moon was said to be a gift from his goddess to the world. The temple priests told of a time when this, the brightest of the three moons, did not exist, leaving the world largely at the mercy of Thagraen, the blind god of the night, when his twin sister Thalem, goddess of the day, was at rest.

  As the story went, Iadara heard the frightened prayers of those into whom she had breathed life, and hung the silver moon in the night sky as her answer. Ansel chose to interpret the extra light as a good omen. As a practical consideration, it also made it less likely he would turn an ankle, trudging through the overgrown field he and Allet were using as a shortcut. It felt good nonetheless to sense the goddess was with him.

  Soon the middle moon Teathyr would also reach her highest point. Ansel’s mood grew more apprehensive at thought of this, however, and his gaze shifted warily to where the smaller blue orb hung low on the horizon. His hand moved involuntarily to the carved amulet of his goddess that he wore around his neck. The blue moon was the font of prophesy, and that thought was chilling.

  Teathyr was said to have been a beautiful soul, taken as an unwilling concubine by blind Thagraen, god of the night, winter, dreams, and prophecy. The blue moon was believed to be the embodiment of her imprisoned spirit. Her vengeance, what little she was able to take, manifested as an act of guile and defiance: she took advantage of the god’s blindness to spill some of the contents of his Cup of Prophesy into the world a few drops at a time. In this way, it was she who was responsible for people’s dreams, especially those where the drops of prophecy soaked through the veil and revealed things to the dreamer.

  It was this that caused Ansel unease, because his dreams lately had been full of darkness. In truth, his dreams were rarely pleasant since returning from the fighting he had seen on the northern border, but Kaeti had slowly quieted much of that. Such thoughts plagued him now only on occasion, even if those occasions did occur more often than he let her know. Lately, though, he had found himself visited almost nightly by terrible visions, and these did not center around past sins committed by a soldier; rather, he was now dreaming about paying for those sins in the most awful ways.

  Over and over, the family he so treasured was taken from him in horrible visions of fire and blood. He rarely slept, adding to the toll his financial stress was already taking on him, and he could not be truthful with Kaeti—to do so would only trouble her sleep as well. As a man, it was his responsibility to provide for her and their son, and so he pushed forward, reminding himself that all would be better soon.

  Still, as the appointed time drew near, such a superstitious man as he could not proceed without ensuring his family was protected. That was why tonight, the night Uarvoos was full and Ansel was moving toward solving their problems, Kaeti and little Anders were with her parents at their cottage in Baedonton. He had made a fuss, claiming he didn’t fee
l right leaving her and the child alone overnight, while he and her brother acted as guards hired to protect a load of goods being transported to Sarton.

  This was a lie, of course, but it was a necessary and believable one. Former soldiers often hired on as mercenary caravan guards, and—despite her knowing he desired to be done with anything smacking of violence—he knew she wouldn’t argue against him taking the job. It was honest work, after all, and they always needed the extra money. Plus, such jobs rarely involved any actual fighting. The closer to the home of the leading nobleman in the area one traveled the safer the roads became, since the Earl could afford regular patrols and kept a standing army in his colors. All in all, it was as good a story as any, since he couldn’t tell her the truth even if he had known it himself. In the end, it accomplished his primary goal of getting them somewhere safe in case something went wrong, and for that he was thankful.

  Despite Allet having remained enamored, the Lyrounni Peacock (as Ansel still thought of him) and his companion had given him no reason to trust them. The only reason he was still involved at all was sheer necessity, but that did not preclude taking precautions. The tale he told Kaeti might even turn out to be closer to the truth than not. He had no idea what exactly he had gotten himself into, aside from the fact that it was clearly outside the law. There had to be a reason, though, that they were willing to pay extra for men with fighting experience.

  Ansel had promised himself that he was done with violence after coming back from his tour on the border, but a man must make sacrifices to care for his family. If the only way to do that was to go against his personal wishes for just one night, then so be it. He had the rest of his life to serve penance, and he would willingly do so on land that was free of Lord Wendel’s grasping schemes.

  Efforts to learn the true nature of this venture had thus far proven fruitless. The meeting Ansel had insisted upon at The Skinny Minstrel three nights previous had left him only with the understanding that the Peacock was but a minor player. His job was to recruit willing men for a later meeting with another who would provide details, and it was to that gathering they were headed, skulking under cover of night.

  Another part of Hunald’s job had apparently been bribing those who needed extra convincing. Perhaps it would more accurately be called demonstrating potential profits for participants rather than a bribe, but all that mattered was it had worked. Ansel was here, for good or ill. Even though his instincts were warning him off, none of that outweighed the proof that these people were adept at making money and unafraid even to throw some of it around, and money was what he desperately needed.

  Suddenly, Ansel heard voices in the distance and cursed himself quietly. He had been lost in thought and was lucky he hadn’t stumbled headlong into the gathering ahead. He placed a hand on Allet’s shoulder to slow the other man, bringing a finger to his lips to call for quiet and mentally admonishing himself to remember some of his soldier’s training regarding stealth.

  Moving now at a much slower pace, it soon became obvious the gathering they approached was made up of others who were about the same business as themselves. They stepped into a clearing in the trees next to the road to find a crowd of men speaking in hushed tones and standing around a solitary wagon. Some, Ansel realized almost immediately, were familiar to him by sight and nods of greeting were offered and returned. All about hung an air of nervous anticipation. No doubt all were excited about the prospect of profiting from whatever this venture would turn out to be, but these were also men who understood they were likely operating outside the bounds of the law in some way. As a result, voices were hushed and eyes were wary.

  Others unknown to Ansel ringed the clearing, a few holding shuttered lanterns and the rest watching the road. Unlike the farmers and tradesmen who had obviously been recruited from the surrounding community like Ansel, his training as a soldier did not fail him in recognizing that these others had the look of fighters. They seemed instinctually watchful like soldiers, though lacking discipline. Maybe they’re highwaymen an’ we’re ‘bout t’help ‘em rob some rich merchant, instead o’ protectin’ one, he thought.

  Sitting on the rear of the wagon with his feet dangling was the minstrel who had played the night of their meeting with Hunald. As before, his first thought was that the man was much more dangerous than his small frame might seem to an untrained eye. At first he was surprised seeing him here, but then he decided it made sense; traveling musicians were always in need of coin, likely no less than over-taxed farmers.

  As though he sensed being scrutinized, the minstrel suddenly met Ansel’s gaze. Each nodded in acknowledgement, but then both of their attentions were pulled away as one of the highwaymen—as Ansel now thought of them—pointed up the road and whispered a long string of speech to a nearby companion that was unintelligible from this distance. That man quickly alerted one of those with the lanterns, who rushed over and held the device aloft, raising the shutter in a pattern of one long blast of light followed by two short ones.

  A tiny point of light in the distance appeared, but in a pattern exactly opposite. This had apparently been the signal these men were awaiting, however, as the clearing was suddenly alive with activity. All of the men from the community were suddenly being urged into the waiting wagon with haste, even as voices were still kept low.

  All were urged to remain quiet and the lanterns were again shuttered, until the only light came from the silver moon and the only sounds were those of the horses and a few errant whispers of curious men. Ansel remained quiet, forcing down the sudden urge to jump from the wagon and disappear into the surrounding woods. He was fairly confident that, if he did so, none of those around would prove his match when it came to woodcraft.

  He could change his mind and get out of this—whatever it was—before it was too late. Go back and get Kaeti and Anders from her parents cottage and return home. Yet, how to explain Allet not returning alongside him? That seemed unlikely to occur, considering the boyish smile of excitement he wore. Allet was exactly where he wanted to be, likely dreaming about drowning himself in whores and wine with the money they were supposedly soon to make. He wasn’t going anywhere and neither was Ansel. Regardless of where this wagon was headed, it was his best hope of making the money he owed, so he forced himself to swallow his anxiety and keep his arse seated. Still, having experienced such a strong and sudden instinct to flee left him unsettled as he struggled to put it out of his mind.

  The wagon slowed slightly and he looked up to notice the Bear—the companion who had sat quietly alongside Hunald at The Skinny Minstrel during their meeting—on horseback, riding alongside. Apparently, some conversation was passing between he and the driver, and Ansel realized it was the first time he was aware of the big man speaking at all. Unfortunately, nothing of what was said could be heard from his position, and the big man still wore the same black cowl over his face.

  A short time later, the wagon pulled off the road and down into a gulley toward what appeared to be an abandoned barn. Ansel could see light emanating from within, however, as well as men loitering outside around two empty wagons. The wagon in which they were riding was pulled up directly next to these others, and they quickly found themselves being motioned to dismount and go to the barn.

  Ansel noticed several things. First, the gulley down which they had ridden left them and the barn in a natural depression, completely hidden by a thick copse of trees and the natural landscape from being seen by anyone traveling the road, which continued on past and above their position at an increasingly higher elevation. Whomever had chosen this spot had done well, because someone could be passing on the road and never even know they were here. Secondly, the presence of two additional wagons made it clear the number of men involved was to be considerable. There were also numerous horses tied together in a clearing just beyond the barn. Whatever he had gotten himself into was going to be of a larger scale than expected, and that deepened his worry even further. Lastly, he recognized one of the men loi
tering around the barn as Hunald. Allet noticed as well and called out to him as a friend, a gesture that drew the attention of all those nearby. Hunald returned none of the warmth, however, being far too concerned with the large pouch being handed over to him by the Bear.

  Having begun to amble over in that direction, Allet quickly found his way blocked by gruff men, motioning toward the barn. The poor fool simply stood there, unsure of what to do next, until Ansel took his arm and urged him along. He was still looking over his shoulder as the man he’d apparently truly thought of as his friend mounted a horse and rode off into the night, leaving all those he had recruited in the charge of these others.

  The barn’s interior was well-lit by torches and lanterns. The building itself was old and rotting with ragged holes where sections of the roof had given way. Through these, the stars were visible. The place smelled of moldy hay, wood smoke, the stink of men and animals, and something else Ansel could not quite label; not so much a smell as something more intangible that hung in the air.

  The men inside were quiet but for a steady and low whispering, equal parts excitement and apprehension. A few smiled nervously, passing japes with men known to them, trying to hide their unease. If that was the idea, it was failing, at least when appraised with an eye practiced in assessing other men’s poise and abilities when doing so mattered.

  Ansel had developed such an eye, since failing to do so could have left him in a cold grave in a dark northern forest of ancient hoary pines, and it was telling him the men herded in with him were not accustomed to bloodshed. They were farmers and millers, strong of back and arm and a few probably tough to handle in a tavern brawl. What they were not were men used to killing anything beyond sheep and oxen, despite their efforts to appear unshaken.

  Because they were shaken. That sense he’d had of something immaterial and yet heavy in the air that he couldn’t name now became obvious as a nervous fear, an instinct that something is amiss even in the absence of visible threats. Ansel believed in instinct as being the prodding of the gods, so his attention turned now to those herding the locals inside—men who, unlike the rabble of farmers and millers, he assessed as being dangerous.