A Lord's Duty

by J. S. Crews

  Eyes wide with terror, Jonas attempted to regain his feet, cursing himself for not reacting quicker. Every lesson he had ever been taught in the yard, fighting with wooden swords, had been clear about the necessity of getting back on your feet immediately if you wanted to survive any kind of fight. It didn’t matter how badly you were hurt—getting up had to be a man’s first and strongest instinctive reaction, but he had failed in that.

  And now the wolf was on him again, closing the distance with a speed the boy would have thought impossible considering its wound. In that instant, he somehow understood he was not going to make it to a standing position before the beast bowled him over again, and there was simply no way he would be lucky enough for its jaws to close on anything other than his flesh. That kind of luck could not hold twice.

  But an odd thing happened. In that instant, Jonas knew with dread certainty he was about to die, and yet all fear seemed to flee. He was utterly calm amidst the sea of havoc roiling about him, no longer even able to hear the screams of dying animals and men that had been so loud. It was as if their little pocket of the world had slowed again somehow, just like when they’d clumsily charged down the hill moments before. Could that have been only moments ago?, he asked himself.

  He watched the animal come, still trying to regain his feet, and somehow taking note of the beauty of the creature even in that moment. It was lean and as gray as smoke, and its eyes were a startling green flecked with silver.

  It was magnificent.

  And it was coming to end him.

  The beast leapt, yellowed fangs bared and dripping with saliva, and Jonas knew it would all soon be over. Unable to make it all the way to his feet and startled by the sudden leap, he fell backward, instinctively bringing the point of the spear around. He felt the weapon bite hard, but the weight of the animal completed the process of taking him back to the ground, and he sprawled on his back with the beast over him. He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the hot pain of fangs ripping into his flesh.

  The pain did not come, however; he felt only the hard ground beneath him and the wolf’s warmth enveloping him like a heavy blanket. It whined softly amidst heavy panting and shuddered before going still. He opened his eyes to find he had driven his spear clean through the creature, the gore-covered blade protruding from its back. Rolling the creature off him and coming up on one knee, he looked around and saw Alastar nearby, breathing heavily and wiping blood from the blade of his shortsword.

  The Prince-turned-Squire from Glendon shook the cobwebs from his mind, realizing his spear would be no more use, and fumbled to draw his own blade. The need was more than apparent, since the fighting was far from done. More human bodies littered the clearing now along with those of several wolves, their bright blood a glaring contrast against white and gray fur.

  The few men remaining, including Sir Eadred and Sergeant Hammid, knotted together to better defend against the remaining wolves. They were greatly outnumbered, and the wolves were now slowly stalking them. Jonas and Al joined them, but the older boy had a terrible feeling that none would survive the next charge. The beasts were too many and they too few; it was only a matter of time before they were surrounded and pulled down in turn. The men stood grimly as the wolves stalked slowly forward, muzzles held low and eyes never leaving their prey. Saliva dripped from yellowed fangs.

  In that moment, though, Jonas felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms standing on end. Surprised and unsure what was occurring, he looked around and noticed he wasn’t alone. Others had sensed the same thing. As it intensified, the feeling became almost like a deep vibration that grew stronger and stronger, until he felt as if something were crawling over his skin and had to force himself not to scratch. Continuing to look around in awe and confusion, it was then he noticed the old man Baram walking calmly toward them.

  He had apparently come down the hill unseen, and he approached now with the relaxed gait of a man simply taking a stroll. He seemed completely untroubled by the crowd of vicious wolves, though he was clearly intent on them. Jonas noticed he was again rubbing that odd pendant almost obsessively between thumb and forefinger, and strangely his lips seemed to be moving, but he was too far away to make out any words.

  Almost before he could wonder what in the world was happening, he was surprised when the wolves began to whine. It started with just one, suddenly seeming to rethink stalking forward with its pack mates. It faltered, looking from side to side as though confused. Over the course of just a few seconds, the same behavior spread to all of the beasts, until the whole lot were whining and swiveling their heads back-and-forth as if unsure whether to attack or flee.

  Jonas was rapt. He had no idea what could cause such a rapid change in the animal’s behavior; and yet Baram, seeming more fatigued than just a moment ago, was still rubbing his pendant and muttering to himself. His thoughts were cut short by the piteous sounds of several wolves being felled by arrows, which seemed to decide things for the remaining pack members. They broke and fled into the greenwood in the same instant that Jonas noticed the archers standing atop the hillside, obviously part of the group Baram had been with.

  This was Lieutenant Teagan’s group, his familiar face—clearly tortured by concern—being the next thing Jonas registered. The officer bounded down the steep incline in one swift, unbroken movement and ran toward the boys, looking both of them over thoroughly and placing a hand on the shoulder of Sergeant Hammid. He nodded in greeting, at least some of his immediate concern seeming to have faded, and spoke to Sir Eadred: "We heard the sounds o’ fightin’ an’ came as quick as we could."

  Sir Eadred said nothing, nodding to acknowledge the report. He moved off and Teagan returned his attention to his Sergeant, but Jonas never heard Hammid’s report. Looking past the Lieutenant, he saw the old man Baram again, teetering as though unsteady on his feet. Before he could say a word, the old man’s knees buckled and he slumped to the forest floor. Without really thinking, Jonas was moving before he hit the ground, snatching a waterskin from a passing soldier and coming to Baram’s side almost before he landed.

  He put the waterskin to the old man’s lips, noticing that he still held his pendant and he appeared to be bleeding from the nose. Alastar joined him, just an instant behind, helping to steady the old man in a sitting position. Baram took a long pull from the skin, then said, "Good lads. Thank ya."

  "Speaking of lads, where are those boys who are supposed to be helping you? I’ll have their hides!"

  The old man patted Jonas’s hand in an almost grandfatherly gesture, saying, "Don’t be harsh with ‘em. They’re jus’ superstitious an’ afraid. They can’t help what they’ve been taught."

  It wasn’t until that moment Jonas remembered all the talk about this old man being some sort of woods witch. He must have unconsciously let it show in his face, because the old man laughed somewhat feebly and added, "They ain’t t’only ones with superstitions, looks like."

  Jonas felt ashamed. He did not wish to offend, but he wasn’t really sure what to say that wouldn’t make it worse by being disingenuous, so he chose simply to let it go. In place of a reply, the boy instead ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and began dabbing the blood away from the old man’s nose. Whatever else he might be, Jonas could not help but feel like somehow he had saved them.

  Made bold by feeling ill-used, he chose to come right out and say what he was thinking. "You did something. To the wolves. You made them hesitate, like they were afraid. And why is your nose bleeding?" Poor Al’s mouth fell open in shock. He was torn between surprise at his friend being so brazen as well as dreading the answer from a man he figured was some sort of demon’s confidant. The moment hung in the air, pregnant with suspense.

  Baram turned his sharp gray eyes on the boy as though considering his reply. Several moments passed before he answered and when he did it was simply to say, "If I done anythin’ at’all, my Prince, it was done t’help. As fer this blood... the kinda help I’m talkin’ ‘bo
ut always costs. Now, if you’ll please help me t’my feet."

  He had not really answered the question, but Jonas felt it best not to push. He waved Alastar away when the younger Squire raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders behind Baram’s back, and they simply helped him up and sent him on his way. He knew in his soul that he had just witnessed something magical, whether the old man would admit to it or not; and, as Baram had said, whatever had occurred had helped. In fact, it had probably saved lives.

  Yet, he still could not help but feel a shiver of fear thinking about having encountered someone likely in touch with dark powers. If he’s evil, then why would he help us?, he also couldn’t help but ask himself, especially since it obviously hurt him to do so? That’s what he was talking about, wasn’t it? The cost? In the end, Jonas was intelligent enough to realize such questions were better left to philosophers. Even as he decided to put such thoughts aside, however, he was struck by one last thing that sent another chill down his back: How did he know I am a prince?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The Warchief”

  Vytaus arrived at the clearing in front of the gatehouse just as Belios and the scouts galloped through. They reined-in so abruptly that their horses reared up on their hind legs, and Belios dismounted almost before the animal came to rest. “They’re coming, Father!” he said, never breaking stride.

  “How many?”

  “A lot,” he answered as a slave handed him a waterskin.

  “How far?”

  “Close.” He was gasping as he replied, having drank until he was out of air.

  Worry got the better of Vytaus and his frustration exploded onto the surface as he said, “Damnit, boy! I taught you better than to be so vague! Now, tell me what you know!”

  The youngster apparently understood the frustration, or perhaps he expected his father’s response, because he returned none of the anger. Instead, he simply paused to catch his breath, then began, “Hundreds, maybe thousands. The woods are full of them. They’ll be within sight of the walls by dusk tomorrow at the latest. Maybe before.”

  That was ill news. A gaggle of fleeing farmers had carried the news to them that morning that a force was approaching, burning as they came. Vytaus had feared there would be a reckoning, but violence between two clans of the Kulti Nation was unheard of. Uslan had stepped over a dangerous line.

  Regardless, there was only one way to respond: force must needs be met with force, at least until he had the chance to try to talk some sense into the fool. Even then, the destruction of farmsteads and the killing of Vytaus’s clansmen required an answer. Whether through paying blood-price restitution to surviving family members or through more blood being spilled, this must be set right.

  What he was not going to do was fail to act, while there was still time to prepare. “Horgas!”

  “Aye, lord,” came the answer from nearby.

  “Take my other son and some men and ride stead to stead. Two men in each direction. Warn our people. Every man who can fight is to come here to the fort. Everybody else to the high pastures,” he said. Then he quickly added, “By noon tomorrow, that valley below is to be empty of our people.”

  “Aye, lord!”

  Turning back toward Belios, he found him seeming to have regained his wind. “Father, what can he be thinking?”

  Vytaus had no answer for that. War amongst Wodonni clans was nothing strange. In fact, there were clans that remained perpetually at war, surviving by raiding others, hated by neighbors who would kill them on sight. The People of the Elk and The People of the Hawk, on the other hand, were both member clans of a federation which existed specifically to prevent just what was occurring. The Kulti Nation promoted free trade between its member clans as well as mutual defense, making them all stronger because attacking one was considered an attack against them all. The Elders would not stand for what Uslan had done.

  Still, Vytaus too had broken custom. Member clans were expected to respect each other’s rule, an edict he was violating by harboring Uslan’s fugitive wife and son and some of his people. He fully understood why Uslan might have felt wronged, but a violent invasion was hardly the way supposed allies worked out their differences.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he is bewitched or crazed, at the least. All we can do now is react as we must.” That said, he patted his eldest on the back and said, “Go and eat. Find me when you’re done. There is much we must do to get ready.”

  The boy nodded and they parted, Vytaus heading to the walls to see to the defense of his clan.

  * * * * *

  Belios had been correct. The enemy had arrived before sundown the following day, filing out of the forest into the valley in their hundreds and thousands. Vytaus watched them from the walls of the hillfort as they arrayed themselves on his people’s land and cut timber from his people’s woods for their fires. He grew more and more angry with each passing moment.

  Still, he knew he must contain his emotions, if there was to be any hope of a peaceful settlement. He wanted nothing more than to react in a welter of crazed bloodletting for this affront to his people. Indeed, he would make sure Uslan paid in one way or another; honor demanded as much. He knew, though, that all-out war would hurt his people just as much as Uslan’s, and so he hoped to contain things before they went too far.

  Having arrived with most of the day already gone, they did not attack that night. That was as expected. War rarely happened at night, unless whoever was in charge was a fool who didn’t mind his own forces falling all over themselves in the dark.

  They did not attack with the dawn either. That was a surprise. Vytaus had his warriors ready even for the possibility of a pre-dawn assault, trying to catch them unawares, but it did not come. Instead, and in defiance of all logic, their camp simply seemed to enjoy a lazy morning, the smells of cooking to break their fasts wafting on the breeze.

  It was not until nearly noon that increased activity in the valley warned them something was happening. Strangely, even then, it was a lone figure who approached the gates, having taken an unbearably long time in such a tense situation to negotiate the steep switchback up the hill on foot. As he made it to the top, obviously out of breath from the climb, Vytaus could see he carried no weapon, only a shield turned upside-down as a signal of parley.

  From his position on the fighting platform atop the gate, Vytaus greeted him by yelling down, “Tell your master I said next time he should give you a horse, so I don’t have to wait so long.”

  The man—really more a boy—simply nodded, still trying to regain his wind and probably hoping to ignore Vytaus’s jibe to keep from angering either chieftain. Once he could breathe well enough to yell back, he said, “My lord wishes to talk, lord. To you. In person.”

  Vytaus grinned. “Then why didn’t he come himself?”

  For his part, the boy grinned back at the joke, nodding his head. “He bid me invite you to a neutral meeting in the center of the valley, between our lines.”

  “Neutral?!” Vytaus couldn’t help but exclaim. “That valley is anything but neutral! It’s mine! You and yours are trespassing!”

  Intelligent enough not to engage in such an argument, the boy simply asked, “Will you come, lord?”

  Vytaus thought for a moment. That was a show, of course; a bit of mummery. Of course, he would attend the meeting. Talking to Uslan was something he wanted very much. He needed to converse with him in person, in order to get a read on what was causing all this madness. After enough time had elapsed for the boy to take notice enough to tell Uslan he had hesitated, he said, “Tell your master I will come. Will it be just he and I alone?”

  The boy nodded. “He bid me say you can bring two seconds, lord.”

  Vytaus smiled but without humor. Such precise wording was Uslan’s clever way of deflecting his own cowardice onto Vytaus. He would be bringing men to keep Vytaus from ringing his neck like a chicken as soon as they met, but he could now say it was only because he had given Vytaus permission to do t
he same and didn’t want to be outnumbered if things went badly.

  ”Tell him me and mine will be there presently.“

  At that, the messenger shook his head. “Not yet, lord. He bid me say he would meet you in two hours time.“

  That was another surprise. It was already the noon hour with the sun high in the sky. Waiting around so long before even having the meeting wouldn’t leave much daylight on the other side. There could still be a few hours, sure, depending on how long it took for them to talk. Simple logic dictated that Uslan would want to at least have the option of attacking before darkfall, if the talk didn’t go well. The thing was it would take time for his troops to ready themselves and get into formation after having sat around all day. He ran the risk of wasting the entire day. Of course, Vytaus thought to himself, that’s his problem and not mine. Still, it was curious.

  He acknowledged the messenger’s words, dispatching him home with a gesture and set about his own preparations. At the appointed time, Vytaus signaled for the gates to be opened and rode forth, making a great show of things. He was arrayed like a god of war, carrying his finest weapons and with his steel breastplate shined to a gleam. Hanging from his horse were dried skulls, trophies of war signifying slaves who would serve him in the afterlife. This was a typical affectation for a Wodonni warrior, but the sheer number of skulls was impressive, marking their owner as a maker of many widows.

  He had chosen Horgas and his younger son Brandr to accompany him. As expected, that drew complaints from his elder boy, but he would not risk the lives of both his sons. Granted, it was doubtful there would be trouble, but there was always the small possibility of an ambush. In such an event, it would be disastrous for their people to lose both their chieftain and his heir. Belios understood but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.