In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

  Moments later, two horsemen rode away from the darkened forge—towards the highway… black sillouettes heading east against the dark blue sky.

  FOUR

  For two days the men rode East around the Great Bay and then inland, along Fehale Highway; finally, they stopped at the small town of Hoggen, just an hour outside the sprawling merchant city of Fehale. Stabling their horses at the town’s one inn, the two Shamar made their way to the public house’s entrance.

  Outside the inn door, Tyrus paused and turned to Joseph.

  “We will seek out the town magistrate, regarding a prisoner named Finch,” the head of the Shamar explained, in hushed tones; he glanced around as he spoke. No one stirred along the dark street; most citizens were in bed at this hour. “He is a peasant, recently incarcerated in the jail house,” Tyrus continued. “We know him to be present at the attack on Marshall Redsen, and we believe he has information about who gave the order to kill the Marshall.”

  Joseph glanced up at the inn.

  “I assume the magistrate frequents this place?” he murmured. Tyrus shook his head, slightly.

  “No. But his son does. The magistrate is no friend of the king… that much we do know.” Turning, Tyrus opened the door of the Inn.

  The dim interior of the main room boasted a few tables—with barrels for stools. A dozen men sat upon these, most near to the crackling fire. Some drank deep droughts from ale mugs; other spoke and laughed with their fellows. Joseph hung back in the shadows by the door as Tyrus approached the counter. The proprietor shot him a suspicious glare, but answered his greeting with a short nod. Tyrus slipped off his cloak and his knightly demeanor, slipping into the common brogue with a tired remark about the long roads and high tolls.

  “Only thing that makes me travels worthwhile is the fine brew at th’ end of the way,” he lisped. He laid a piece of silver down on the bar. The innkeeper gave him a friendly smile and drew him a pint. Soon the men were engaged in pleasantly mutual complains about taxes.

  Slipping away from the door ,Joseph headed around the tables, toward the fireplace. Taking off his gloves, he warmed his hands, looking around the room. Amid the unfamiliar faces—seated at the tables in the low light—only one caught his eye: a man in his late twenties, half-slumped over a worn table surface, halfheartedly drinking from his mug. As the man wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the fire’s glow lit up one side of his face more clearly, and the long, straight scar that split his skin, from his chin to his ear. The man stared moodily at the wall in front of him, breaking off now and then to speak with one of a group of men seated nearby. Joseph turned away from the fire, making his way back to the counter.

  Tyrus still stood at the counter, taking a drink of his ale. Joseph stood a little ways from him, and ordered a pint as well. While the proprietor’s back was turned, Joseph glanced around. Seeing no one watching, he leaned toward Tyrus and discreetly handed him the Shamar ring—as well as his sword—still in its sheath.

  “Try not kill any one,” Tyrus told him, under his breath. A brief half-smile was all the answer he got.

  His mug of ale in hand Joseph walked deliberately over to a table next to that at which the scarred man sat. Taking a sip of the bitter liquid Joseph turned to look as a raucous bout of laughter burst from a group behind him.

  “… of course she wouldn’t marry you, Petersen. What, with a big scar like that on your face,” one of the men said, making the others at the table laugh. “Magistrate’s boy or not…

  The man with the scar stood up—a little shakily—facing the speaker with ire on his brow.

  “You laugh, Rob,” he retorted, loudly. “But, I beat the man who did this to me… cut him into a thousand pieces! A filthy barbarian who ambushed us! He jumped out and I thrust him through!” He stabbed out into the air with his mug of ale, spilling some out onto the floor. The other men laughed harder, pointing; this seemed to be the nightly spectacle. “The coward cut me; a lucky strike!” Petersen continued, touching his scar. “But, I buried his lifeless corpse!”

  At this, Joseph laughed… loudly. Whipping around, the scarred man glowered at him.

  “Stranger!” Petersen called out.“It is foolish to laugh at the son of the Magistrate!”

  “It is foolish to tell outlandish tales in the presence of honest folk,” Joseph returned, coolly. “That scar is straight. Barbarians carry curved blades.”

  A murmur of approval rose up from the group’s table at this. Some of the men sat up a little, trying to get a better look at the scar. Petersen’s face took on wrathful look.

  “I’ll show you what I did, you ignorant peasant! I was an officer in the King’s army!”

  “No great feat,” Joseph returned, sipping his ale. He met the scarred man’s angry gaze. “I still say you’re a liar.”

  Petersen threw down his mug and pulled a dagger from his belt, taking a step closer to the stranger. His fellows got to their feet, a strange eagerness present in their features. Joseph slowly stood well; glancing at the counter, he found Tyrus watching him. Taking a step towards Petersen Joseph pushed back his hood, letting the flickering firelight light his face.

  Petersen’s eyes grew wide with recognition. Clenching his jaw, the man gripped the dagger’s hilt until his knuckles showed white.

  “Wretched blacksmith!” he screamed, hurling the dagger towards Joseph. His aim was wide, and the dagger clattered on the wooden floor. Joseph shoved the table forward, catching Petersen in the stomach; the drunken man stumbled forward and only to be felled by Joseph’s right fist. He sank like a stone between the tables and lay motionless on the floor. In a body the other men rushed forward to assist.

  Outside the Inn Tyrus strolled towards the town square in the darkness, calling out loudly:

  “Help! There’s a fight in the Inn! Where is the Magistrate? Riot at the Inn!” As lanterns began to light in the nearby windows, Tyrus heard a voice behind him.

  “A riot? I have not seen a good riot since… well, when was I last in Paludosus?”

  Tyrus turned towards two cloaked figures, standing a few feet away.

  “Well,” came another voice, more gruff than the other, “I’m impressed with the lad. Been in town less than five minutes and he’s got a decent fight going.” As he spoke, the Inn’s front window casement smashed out. A man lay still on the ground amid the pieces of glass and wood-bracing.

  “Can we go in and assist?” Dunner asked, eagerly cracking his knuckles. The door crashed open, as a man flew out through the air head over heels. He landed in the dust a few feet away.

  “Perhaps it would be wise to let him just… soldier on,” Hezekiah remarked, watching as the man on the ground groaned and tried to get up. A few more blows sounded out before the shouts and noise within the Inn ceased.

  Joseph appeared in the doorway. Spying Tyrus and the others, he walked up to them.

  “Dunner, Hezekiah,” he greeted, with a nod. The men nodded back and stood—in the quiet night air—for a moment. “It’s a clear night,” Joseph said, at last, plaintively rubbing his knuckles.

  “Superb,” Hezekiah responded. His grin showed white in the weak lamplight. Joseph glanced back at the inn door; no one emerged.

  “I’m ready to be taken to the magistrate, now,” he said, turning back to his fellows. Dunner chuckled.

  “I think they’ll be delighted to meet ya, lad.”

  A few moments later, the Magistrate’s guards ran up to the Inn, with torches blazing and swords drawn.

  “Over here!” Hezekiah called out, “We have apprehended the villainous rogue! Citizen’s arrest!” The magistrate’s men jogged up to them; a round-bellied man in front appeared to be their leader. His coat had been buttoned over his nightshirt.

  Pausing for breath, he looked at each stranger in the face and looked at the two men, lying on the ground nearby. One of his men went over and shook them, one by one, looking relieved at the answering groans.

  “I am Wesley Chamberlain,” the leader panted,
addressing Hezekiah. “Head of the Magistrate’s Guard. What happened here?!” Curious townsfolk began slowly filtering through their doors, lanterns in hand.

  “Oh good sir,” Hezekiah replied, bowing his head slightly. “Although I am a humble tinker, I—and my fellow craftsmen—did indeed witness the horrible melee that has taken place in this fine inn. That man…” He stabbed a finger at Joseph. “… why he called the priest here a pigheaded fool! Several men of the town—slightly inebriated as they were—jumped to clear the good charitable priest’s name… and this young bull, this raging madman, made short work of them and danced on the tabletop in some strange barbaric way, saying something about the magistrate’s mother being born in the swamps. The Magistrates own son was among the battered, I believe. I was so upset I could hardly drink my ale!”

  The head of the guard looked at Joseph with uncertainty. “Oh yes, he is quite insane,” Hezekiah went on, grimly. “Don’t let his calm facade fool you. Take him to jail, good men of Hoggen! Give him the lash; draw and quarter him… but you may want to wait until morning as not to wake the Magistrate or the priest. Oh, take this troublemaker at once and lock him up to await judgment!” Joseph stepped away from the group, towards the wary guardsmen. Swords drawn on the villain, they led him away, towards the keep a hundred yards away, at the end of the street. Seeing the sport was at an end, the townspeople slipped back into their homes.

  Chamberlain smiled broadly at the three witnesses.

  “Citizens, here, are not encouraged to arrest violent criminals,” he told them. “But, you have done Hoggen a great service. If you stay this night, the priest will surely bless you at morning services.”

  “You are most nobly kind,” Hezekiah told him with another bow. “It is reward enough to see the blaggard pays for his lunatic antics.”

  “Have no fear, he will. Good evening, tinker.” Chamberlain nodded at the group and walked quickly after his men.

  Unseen by him, nor the townsfolk, the three ‘witnesses’ followed the head of the guard closely, walking in the shadows of the street. Far ahead, the posse of guards led Joseph into a low, simple building of stone set against a large, rocky hill. As the thick wooden door swung closed behind them, he prisoner observed holding cells—lined up against one wall—barred with iron doors. All were empty.

  A gray-haired man in a faded, red guard uniform—with a ring of keys in his belt—approached the group. He looked at Joseph, then at Chamberlain.

  “What do we do with him?” he asked, simply. Chamberlain smiled; his smile was not one of mirth.

  “He tried to kill the Magistrate’s son. I say down to the caves with him; he’s strong enough. We might get five years out of him.” The man with the keys looked surprised.

  “Sir,” he protested. “We do not know who he is…”

  “The Magistrate will say the same as me come morning. He’s a peasant; no one ever comes looking for the peasants,” the head of the guard returned. He pushed Joseph forward, keeping his sword-tip close to Joseph’s back. They led Joseph past the cells, through an iron gate and down a short passage with one window, high up on the wall; passing under the window, Joseph saw it was open.

  “I get to plead my case with the Magistrate!” he yelled out, surprising the guards. “You cannot sentence me without a trial! Mercy! Do not take me to the caves! I am a citizen of the Kingdom!”

  Amidst these cries Chamberlain strove to strike Joseph, attempting to silence him. Finally, a guard managed to smite the prisoner with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t say another word, peasant!” Chamberlain hissed. “We can carry you down there, if we must.” He pushed Joseph into the last empty cell; it possessed nothing but a wide wooden box along one wall, for sleeping. Chamberlain walked to the simple bed and lifted the top of it, like the lid of a coffin. To Joseph’s wonder, the head of Hoggen’s Magistrate guards climbed into the box and began descending down some hidden stair, going underground. Joseph felt the prodding of a dagger at his back. He followed.

  Cut right out of rock, the narrow stairs looked black and steep. No torches burned here. Feeling his way with his foot, Joseph felt the dagger cut into his back, slightly and moved forward more quickly.

  Crouching outside the tiny window of the jail house, a short, cloaked figure stood and crept quietly away from wall into the night. Still in view of the keep, the man joined two others in the adjacent alley.

  “I heard the lad saying he wanted a trial, and not to send him to the caves,” Dunner told the others, hurriedly. “I say we go in and get him!” He lifted his curved sword a little ways out of its scabbard. A cart rattled over paving stones near the keep entrance; the sound made the three watchers hush their speech. The cart stopped at the keep door; two men came out, holding a third man between them; the two threw the third form unceremoniously in the back of the cart.

  “Did you see whom they had?” Tyrus asked, taking a step toward the street.

  “I could not tell if it was Joseph,” Hezekiah answered,

  “Maybe they are taking him to these caves, wherever they are,” Dunner put in. “I say we inspect that cart.”

  “I agree with Dunner,” Tyrus said, turning toward the others. “Quickly!”

  The Shamar ran to the keep courtyard, just as the cart began to drive away.

  DESCENDING THE dark steps in front of him, Joseph’s arms scraped the narrow passage walls on both sides.

  Briefly, he thought of throwing himself back and knocking a few of his attackers down, but the guard behind him kept the dagger at his back constantly. Several minutes of silent, downward travel passed before a faint glimmer of light could be seen, far below. A strong smell of burning spice drifted up into Joseph’s face and the air grew warmer the further they descended.

  The silent procession emerged into a small room. Blinking in the light, Joseph looked around for his bearings. They had made no turns; he guessed they were a hundred feet below the town, going back into the mountain. The room in which they stood was hewn from the rock. A fireplace had been cut out as well, with a shaft to let out the smoke. Torches lined the walls, fashioned with to burn some sort of strong incense; the powerful smell stung Joseph’s nostrils, making his eyes water. In the center of the far chamber wall stood a wooden table, behind which sat a fat guard. Above the man’s grizzled beard, dull eyes regarded Joseph with a rheumy gaze. A wooden trunk, an ale barrel and a sleeping cot completed the room’s contents.

  Chamberlain spoke first.

  “We brought a strong one,” he said. The guard looked up at Joseph from the table.

  “Off with his vest and shirt,” he guard said; his voice carried no inflection at all. “He’ll not need them again. Does he have a knife?”

  “None. He’s just a peasant.”

  “Aren’t they all,” the guard at the table said,opening a scroll onto the table. Joseph removed his vest and shirt, wondering if his fellow Shamar had heard him shouting. One of the guards wadded up Joseph’s clothes and stowed them away in the trunk.

  Chamberlain brought a set of iron shackles from his pouch and clasped them around Joseph’s wrists. The guard at the table addressed him again.

  “Does this prisoner have a name?” The grizzled man held a pen, poised above the dingy scroll.

  “Joseph of Rishown,” Joseph answered. The guard wrote it down and nodded toward the far wall.

  “Down with him, then.”

  The Magistrate’s guards led their prisoner forward. An opening had been carved out of the rock wall, and a stone door fitted almost precisely into it. As they neared it Joseph beheld a strange symbol, carved into the rock above the door. As he gazed at it, a feeling of foreboding struck him… like an arrow sinking into his flesh. Taking hold of two, large metal rings embedded in the door, two of the guards strained as they pulled back. Slowly the stone shifted and groaned, scraping as it swung open.

  A rush of hot, foul air came through the door like wind. The unmistakable acrid odor of death met Joseph as he was
pushed forward, through the door. A circular stair leading downward lay beyond, one cut directly out of the rock.

  “Never get used to the smell,” Chamberlain said to one of his men. “Well, down with him. Gazal will be happy to see fresh blood.” Taking a lit torch from the wall the magistrate led the way, down the winding stair.

  Joseph eyes and nose stung from the pungent smell of rot in the air; he felt it settling on his face and arms. His stomach turned within him. With an effort, he kept his face set. The group descended the stair a long time. Joseph lost count of the times they’d gone around before the stairs ended at a small landing, and a wooden door.

  Winded, Chamberlain caught his breath for a moment then rapped on the door. After some time it opened slightly; a man in a crimson, hooded cloak spoke quietly with Chamberlain for several moments. Joseph could not make out what they were saying. The cloaked man stepped back and moved out of sight.

  Chamberlain turned to Joseph.

  “Bring him forward,” he ordered. His sickly smile made Joseph want to smack him. The point of a dagger pressed slightly into Joseph’s back. He unwillingly walked forward—through the open doorway—into a dimly-lit room. The door closed with a thud behind him. No longer feeling the dagger, Joseph glanced behind him. Neither Chamberlain—nor the guards—were anywhere to be seen. The air around him felt completely still and silent.

  Turning back around Joseph found himself in the midst of a small, underground cavern. In the center of the room—some thirty feet away—stood a priest. He stood shorter than Joseph, and looked considerably older. The man’s graying beard was meticulously cut; his spotless crimson robe flowed out onto the stone floor. His attendant in the cloak stood agains the far wall, watching the new prisoner in silence.

  The priest stood next to brilliantly-white attar filled with clear water, quietly washing his hands. He didn’t seem to notice Joseph but continued his ablutions. Joseph studied him, and the cloaked man warily for a moment before glancing around for his bearings. The cavern he stood in appeared to be about fifty feet across, from his reckoning. Stalactites studded the rock ceiling overhead, pointing down like the teeth of some huge beast. At the far end of the space—opposite the wooden door—stood an open, dark archway, leading into some other room. Light, heat and noise emanated through the archway; in the swirl of muted sounds Joseph detected clinking of hammers, metal, steam and crackling fires… the sound of industry. Under the heavy odor of death lay more familiar things: wisps of smoke and the sharp, mineral scent of metal smelting.