In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

  “Twould be I, sir” the man said, squinting. “I’ve not missed a target in ten years.” Joseph looked slightly amused at this but did not address it. He passed the archer Dunner’s spyglass.

  “The man with the warning horn… he must be dropped first. On my signal, do not let him draw breath.” The old archer nodded, handing the glass back.

  Slowly, Joseph moved back. Reaching his pack, he drew out his bow and untied a bundle of arrows. The other archers did likewise. Joseph looked over at the self-proclaimed keen-eyed archer.

  “I would know your name, archer,” he said, evenly. The man grinned.

  “I am called Luke, sir,” he said, nodding. “To my friends, at least. To my enemies, I’ve no name at all.” Joseph chuckled under his breath and motioned the other archers closer.

  “Once Luke fells the one with the warning horn, each of you pick a separate target and let fly. Do not let any back into the tunnel to spread warning. Once they are down, hold fire for our men to come forward. More enemies will assuredly come out to us.” The archers nodded as they returned to stringing their bows.

  A tall spire—of the fort—could be seen over the cliff; looking through the spyglass, Joseph’s eye caught a slight movement at a window in the spire. The small tower window opened, slowly; two hands emerged, holding a white pigeon.

  “Luke…” the young lord said, quietly. “Show me your skill.” He pointed at the spire as the hands released the pigeon. “Bring down the messenger bird.”

  The archer held up his bow, squinting at the flapping, white bird as it flew towards them. Just as it passed the mountain top, the archer let fly his arrow. The bird gave a small cry, it’s limp body falling to the earth above the pass. The priest guards at the tunnel did not show any sign that they’d seen the arrow.

  Joseph turned to the archer with a grin.

  “Your bragging is justified, master archer,” he said, looking pleased. “Now, each man pick his target.” The archers crept forward on the hill’s crest, moving slowly into position. Luke lined up his arrow to the priest guard with the horn hanging at his side.

  “The man with the horn, on my mark…” Joseph said, quietly. “Take your aim, archers… fire.”

  The archers fired into the sky up at a sharp angle; just as the arrows turned downward, Luke let his fly. The guard with the horn fell backwards, an arrow in his throat. The other guards stared at the fallen man in horror, just as a hail of arrows rained down on them. The archers picked off any whom survived. After a minute, nothing stirred in the glade by the tunnel entrance.

  “Hold,” Joseph said to his men.

  Dunner, Hezekiah and several of the men below approached the fallen guards. The archers had done their work well; Joseph watched as the Kingdom soldiers below took away the bodies of the fallen, throwing them down the goat trail. Once they’d cleared the glade, the Kingdom soldiers melted back into the rocks to hide, and wait. Another unit emerged after an hour, only to meet the same fate.

  Two hours after they’d arrived at the tunnel entrance, the sounds of the bombardment stopped.

  “Either they’ve breached the wall, or they’ve clean run out of boulders…” Luke the archer said, squinting at the fortress wall, just visible over the ridge.

  After a moment, a Kingdom messenger came running up the goat trail towards them; waiting soldiers moved aside and let him pass. Hezekiah met the messenger, himself. From the hilltop, Joseph could see the Marshal nodding and speaking a moment before sending the man running back down the trail. From Hezekiah’s pleased expression, it was clear that the fortress wall had been breached. Looking up the Marshal caught Joseph’s eye and pointed his sword towards the glade. Joseph nodded, calling his archers to be ready.

  A faint, whistling sound reached the ears of the Kingdom men; the archers cowered down and squinted upward fearfully. Many tiny little sticks appeared to be sailing to the sky towards them.

  “Volley!” Luke shouted down, warning the men in the glade. The sunlight darkened a little as hundred of arrows filled the sky. The archers were out in the open on the hilltop, but the arrows were not aimed at them. The Kingdom men in the glade scrambled for cover amid the rock outcroppings as the first arrows sank into the green grass of the small glade. Arrows clanked and splintered as they struck the rocks and boulders of the pass.

  “They’re firing from the fortress yard!” Luke said, pointing towards the fort spire. “They must know we’re here!” Using the spyglass, Joseph could just make out the edge of the inner fortress yard; he spied many archers within, bending bows in turn, firing up into the air in their direction; the arrows picked up speed in a deadly arch, pinning down the men in the glade.

  “Let’s send a volley back sir!” Luke said angrily, taking up his bow. “Draw their fire off our men!”Joseph looked over at the man.

  “Be certain,” he said, calmly. “There is no cover up here.” The aging archer nodded, curtly.

  “I’d rather be shot and take a few with me,” the man said, with conviction. “Our men are pinned down, there!” Joseph nodded and lifted up his bow, fitting an arrow to his bowstring.

  “Pick your target!” he ordered, lining up along the hilltop with his archers. “Aim for those in the center; make them scatter!” They let fly the arrows, immediately re-fitting another to the bowstring. The volley in the glade ceased momentarily; the Kingdom archers continued, unrelenting. The sky darkened again, in spite of their return fire. Three archers fell with cries of agony.

  Seeing their tall leader was not running away, the remaining archers stood and kept firing alongside Joseph.

  “You’re so a bad shot yourself, sir!” Luke called out to him. “You’ve taken four, so far, by my reckoning…” Smiling, Joseph let fly another arrow into the sky.

  “Sytel aims to clear us off!” he yelled out, turning a little towards his men. “He’ll be coming through soon! Keep firing!”

  As he spoke, a sharp pain seared into him, pushing him back; an arrow stuck deep into his left shoulder, just above his collar bone. The intense pain forced Joseph down on one knee; his arm suddenly was rendered too weak to lift the bow. Letting fall his bow and quiver, Joseph saw that most of the Kingdom archers nearby were dead or severely wounded. Arrows rained around them onto the ground; after a moment, they ceased altogether.

  A pair of hands found Joseph’s arm and helped him stand.

  “Sir!” came Luke’s voice. “They’re at the tunnel entrance!” Dazed with pain, Joseph shook his head to clear it. Looking down he saw the glade below was flooded with priest guards and barbarian mercenaries alike; more still were pushing out the tunnel entrance. The Kingdom men valiantly beat the masses back; the glade was a sea of moving blue, crimson and brown figures.

  “Break it,” Joseph told the archer. Without a word Luke drew out his dagger, scored the arrow shaft and snapped it off a few inches from the young lord’s shoulder.

  Turning, Joseph grasped his Shamar sword with his good arm and held it tightly; he began climbing down to the trail, his face set against the pain. Luke followed; the older archer watched as blood soaked through the young commander’s tunic at the base of the arrow’s head.

  The glade seethed with battle. Dunner swung his mace with bloodcurdling cries, using his scimitar in effective turns. Hezekiah was nearby, dodging blows and utilizing his great skill as a fencer with the thin, sharp foil. The piles of enemy bodies beside the duo mounted.

  “They’re pouring from the hill like ants!” Dunner shouted to his comrade. All around the pair, Kingdom soldiers fought alongside keeping their tenuous foothold in the glade. “Ye hairy rats from the underworld!” the old sailor bawled out, swinging at another unfortunate enemy. “Come an’ get me!”

  “No form at all,” Hezekiah yelled back, disdainfully. “The fighting skills represented are truly sub-par!”

  Three barbarians broke through the crowd at the tunnel entrance, their eyes fixed on Hezekiah. They rushed him in a body, screaming out as they came, their w
ild eyes flashing with murderous rage. One died instantly with Hezekiah’s blade through his heart; the Marshal plunged his dagger through the eye of the second, pulling back to face the third. The force of the enemy’s momentum knocked Hezekiah over, though he rolled out of the way of the mercenary’s axe.

  Reaching back to strike at the tall marshal again, the barbarian was instead hewn down by a strong downward blow from behind.

  “Many thanks Lord Asher!” Hezekiah called, getting up. As he spoke, the marshal spied the arrow in Joseph’s shoulder; he could not stop to assist him. The melee around them did not lessen.

  More mercenaries and priest guards rushed out the tunnel entrance in droves. The young Lord Aher had the fever of war in his eye and ran forward towards the enemy, striking out around him again and again; the amount of blood streaming down his shoulder and back slowly grew in volume. Joseph felt his strength ebbing but continued to strike at anyone nearby not wearing a Kingdom uniform. He stumbled once, and got back to his feet with difficulty; anger fueled him and with it the adrenaline of battle. Lord Asher thrust his sword through one priest guard as the man ran up to him; hearing noise behind him, Joseph swung around, lopping off the head of a crouching mercenary. Turning back towards the tunnel Joseph beheld a group of men rushing towards him; pulling back his good arm the young lord sliced across in a powerful blow; his blade caught the open necks of the men as they closed in; blood fountained into the air around Joseph, splashing over his face and armor.

  As they thinned out the advancing priest guards and mercenaries, Dunner stared at the scene Joseph had created; the young lord was flailing out with his sword in a strange manner… almost in a reckless abandon. Squinting, the aging sailor beheld Joseph slice one attacker’s throat with a swift movement of his Shamar sword, the dark-red blood spurting out into the air; the same blow came down, finishing another. Joseph’s face seemed oddly ashen, even doused in blood spatters; his eyes were almost wild. As Lord Asher swung back around to fend off more attackers, Dunner finally saw the arrow. Lord Asher’s back and shoulder were soaked with dark blood.

  The glade swam before Joseph’s eyes. Exhausted, he stepped back, stumbling over a fallen man. Trying to get up Joseph found he could not and fell across the lifeless body of a priest guard. Images floated before his face, of Dunner shaking him and yelling, of Hezekiah inspecting the broken arrow shaft and calling for a physician. He saw the pinched and wrathful face of Sytel from far away.

  Joseph felt as if he were being lifted into the air. The sky above appeared untouched by the battle on earth—hued deepest blue—with white clouds passing lazily along its surface. Blackness took him, and he remembered no more.

  FOURTEEN

  Strong morning light stung Joseph’s eyes as awoke.

  Blinking, the young lord recognized the neat, stone walls and narrow windows of the Angelo monastery. Lifting one arm a little Joseph felt surprised at the exhaustion still present in his limbs; his left shoulder throbbed with pain, his head feverish.

  The wooden chamber door swung open. A monk swept in and smiled at the wounded man on the bed.

  “Good to see you’re awake, my lord,” the man said amiably.

  “He’s awake?” came a gruff voice, from out in the corridor. Dunner strode in; smoke streamed from his pipe as he walked. The man’s mood brightened considerably at seeing Joseph trying to sit up. Motioning to the monk, they put a few pillows behind the young lord’s back to prop him up.

  “Well lad! Welcome back to the land of the living,” Dunner said, standing by the bedside. Joseph looked up at him tiredly, struggling to speak. Standing on the other side of the bed, the monk clipped away dressing on the young man’s wound. Dunner watched the process carefully. “Eh… it’s red; not stagnated,” he remarked. “I’ve seen worse. Perhaps we won’t have to cut off yer arm after all…”

  Joseph narrowed his eyes at the aging sailor; the man puffed his pipe, his eyes twinkling with humor. The monk uncorked a bottled of warm wine mixed with honey; using a cloth the man poured some of the heady liquid on the crudely stitched wound, pressing down a little here and there. Joseph clenched his teeth at the pain.

  “Sytel?” he asked, hoarsely. His throat felt dry.

  “In the brig,” Dunner informed him, smiling. “Came out eventually, like the rat he is. Do not worry, lad… he’s guarded at all times. You’ve been sleeping a good twenty hours. But, it is well-deserved… a fighting madman you were, in the glade!” He leaned over the wounded man, scrutinizing his face a bit. “You look no worse for the wear, but not much better either.” Joseph scared up the energy to snort, a little.

  “I need to piss…” he grumbled. Dunner threw back his head and laughed. The monk smiled as well at this, finishing wrapping Joseph’s shoulder with a clean dressing.

  Hezekiah strode quickly into the room.

  “The young lord will be fine,” Dunner told him, with humor. “Wants to relieve himself. He’ll need a drink and some food, too I’ll wager….” Hezekiah looked relieved at seeing Joseph sitting up. The monk gathered up the soiled bandages and ushered everyone out of the room that Lord Asher might have a minute of privacy.

  Rubar opened the wounded man’s door a few minutes later; Hezekiah stood by Joseph’s bedside, painting a picture of the hours that followed Sytel’s capture.

  “Once his men had surrendered, they pushed the Bishop out to us,” the marshal said, nodding. “Inside the fortress was truly a palace. My wife would have loved it. The finest of everything, but a treasure trove of documents. Some he’d managed to destroy, but his assistants fled before completing their task.”

  “Ungrateful minions…” Dunner put in, puffing his pipe. Chuckling, Hezekiah continued his story.

  “Maps of the barbarians encampments, and well-laid plans for the sectors of benevolences in each of the seven cities… the pompous fool documented everything in three languages.”

  “The best part was the weapon cache,” Dunner said, taking the pipe from his mouth. “Caverns filled with the things, all for building a rogue army.”

  Despite his exhaustion, Joseph absorbed this information with interest.

  “He was not… merely introducing… a pagan religion,” he said, with a great effort. Hezekiah shook his head, slowly.

  “He wished to be king,” the Marshal said, heavily. “We seized parchments with the king’s travel routes and details of his carriages and the best areas to ambush from.”

  “Aye,” Dunner said, darkly. “We’ve evidence enough to hang him ten times over. Though hangings too good for him, says I. Death by wolf-pack more like it…”

  “Peace, brother…” Rubar said, shivering a little. “He was once a man of the cloth.”

  Hezekiah glared at the floor.

  “Exactly,” he said, without mirth. “There does not exist a death painful enough for him. The King will decide what is to be done.” He looked at the wounded young lord sitting up in bed. “Tyrus responded via messenger bird,” he told Joseph. “He rides down with five-hundred Shamar to meet us as we travel north, also with our own men; we’ll have two companies. We leave within the hour.”

  “I will take good care of Lord Asher,” Rubar said, nodding. “Though this abbey is not as grand as the Castle of Stone Mountain, he will want for nothing.”

  Hearing this, Joseph suddenly felt more awake.

  “Do not… dare… leave me… behind,” the young lord said, firmly. “I will get out … and ride after you.” The bishop found the young man’s attitude disconcerting.

  “You’d best rest here, my lord,” the man said, soothingly. “You’re in no shape to ride.”

  “Death nearly claimed you, Lord Asher,” Hezekiah said, gravely. “Indeed, I saw your wound and thought you finished.”

  “Aye…” Dunner said, plaintively. “But what an exit! I looked over an’ there you were, whacking out with that great sword of yours, hewing heads and limbs as if your very soul were at stake…”

  “Listen to reason, young l
ord,” Rubar pleaded. “These men think only of preserving your life.” Joseph’s face did not soften but held the same, unyielding expression.

  “My life is in the hands of God,” he stated.

  Dunner looked from Joseph’s determined face over to the bishop.

  “It’s no use, brother Rubar…” the aging sailor said, sighing. “I’ve seen that look before. Lord Asher has a will of iron, but he comes by it honesty. We’d best fit that mongrel Sytel’s carriage with a bunk and take him along.” Joseph looked up at Dunner in mild surprise, and gratitude at the suggestion; sleep tugged at his eyes and he struggled to stay awake. A monk appeared in the doorway with a streaming mug of rich broth. Joseph accepted it with a grateful expression and took several deep drinks.

  “You took Sytel’s carriage?” he asked, at length, smiling a little. Dunner grinned.

  “Aye… how do you think we got you here, lad?”

  “It might be a boon to have the carriage along,” Hezekiah said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. Dunner chuckled.

  “Perhaps we’d want to ride along in it as well!” he mocked.

  The men laughed quietly at this for a moment. Looking over, the Shamar saw Lord Asher had fallen back asleep. The monk pulled the woolen blanket up around Joseph’s shoulders and left with the others.

  RHYTHMIC JOLTING woke Joseph from a deep sleep. The clattering sounds of multiple horse hooves upon flagstone met his ears. Looking up, Joseph saw he lay in a fine carriage, on a soft mattress of feathers and linen that spanned fully one half of facing carriage seats. Feeling the bedclothes bedside him, Joseph relaxed as his fingers touched the familiar scabbard of his sword.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Asher!” an amused voice called out from not far away; the carriage windows were open. Looking over, Joseph saw Dunner riding beside the carriage

  “Where’s my horse?” Joseph called out, tersely. Dunner chuckled.

  “That black beast of yours is tied yonder, behind the carriage,” the aging sailor told him. “His bad temper matches that of his master, methinks.” Joseph ignored this and looked around for some water. A stone bottle of ale lay on the seat within reach. Taking this, Joseph used his teeth to uncork the bottle and took a long drink. The bitter liquid quenched his burning throat.