In Service Of The King (Book 2)

by Steven Styles

  Hezekiah rode up on the other side of the carriage.

  “Ah, Lord Asher,” the Marshal said, genially. “Please, do not rise to greet us… we are but humble servants.”

  “Yes, you continue to rest, while the serfs work hard to protect this convoy…” Dunner put in, clearly enjoying himself. Closing the window curtain roughly, Joseph laid back on the pillows, glaring up at the ceiling of the carriage. A moment later a monk climbed into the carriage, bearing clean bandages.

  “My lord…” he said. “You will feel pain, but I must change your dressing,” the man said, candidly. Feeling the young lord’s forehead, the monk shook his head. “You fever is still high.” He saw the empty ale flask and nodded, well pleased. As the monk cleaned the wound with wine and honey, he had to press down on it; though he was gentle, pain shot down Joseph’s arm and chest, causing darkness to come upon him again.

  Delirium took him; he woke to the black shades of night. Angry shouts and the clanking of swords hung in the air. Groping blindly, Joseph reached his good arm out for his sword. Clutching it, he tried to stand but fell back against the pillows. Torches could be seen in the distance, and the whine of passing arrows sounded close by. The scene blurred before Joseph’s eyes and he slept again, his sword still in hand.

  Hours later, Joseph awoke to the sight of the friendly monk, hovering beside his cot. The man urged him to drink from a goblet. Sweet wine rolled down the young man’s parched throat. Joseph tried to rasp out inquiries of the night before, but the monk shook his head. A nearby groan of pain took the young lord’s attention from his own woes.

  Moving his head with difficulty, Joseph looked over to his right. Another cot had been made up in the spacious carriage and on it lay Hezekiah, his arm and side bandaged.

  “Let me up… let me up…” the older man croaked out, deliriously. “I’m Marshal Walters… I outrank all of you; let me up at once. I can fight…” The monk chuckled at the man’s ravings and attended the wounded marshal with water and wine.

  “I appear to be the last man standing,” came a familiar voice, from outside.

  Turning his head again Joseph glared out the carriage window at Dunner; the man rode alongside the carriage, his pipe lit and trailing smoke.

  “Oh, puff it out your blowhole….” Hezekiah called, from his sick-bed. “You salty old barnacle.” In spite of his pain, Joseph found himself smiling at the situation. Dunner, however, laughed loud and long at his old friend’s bad temperament. Joseph accepted another drink before sleeping again. He awoke once more in the dark to muffled voices and shouts; he saw torchlights again and heard familiar clangs of metal. Shaking with fever, he could not even lift his arm for his sword. In his daze, kind hands attended to him and gave him warm, delicious broth.

  It was full morning when Joseph awoke again. Feeling much clearer in his head, he slowly eased himself up into a sitting position. Looking over, he saw Hezekiah sleeping on a nearby cot, well covered by a woolen blanket. The noble soldier’s face appeared a bit pale and drawn with pain. A loud snore took his attention from the wounded marshal. Over his feet, Joseph saw a hammock had been strung up across the carriage. In it lay Dunner, fast asleep, his leg well-bandaged in linen. Loud snores emanated from the aging sailor’s open mouth. Joseph smiled a little, rubbing his head and looking out the windows.

  The snoring stopped for a moment; a low, vibrating sound echoed from the hammock.

  “Oh, not again!” Hezekiah groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “Hang your stomach, man! What a stench!” The smell left the carriage quickly but Dunner sat up awake, rubbing his eyes.

  “My apologies, brother,” the aging sailor said, grinning. “I did eat that goat stew last night…”

  “We are all painfully aware of this fact,” Hezekiah said, from under his blanket. “What will I tell the king when we bring back Joseph’s lifeless form to him? Oh your majesty, he died of gastric stench poisoning?!” Dunner laughed and looked over at Joseph.

  “Well, Lord Asher… you appear much improved today,” he said, nodding at Joseph. At this, Hezekiah peered out of the blanket and made to sit up as well, grimacing in pain.

  A monk swung up into the carriage; he helped the marshal sit up, with pillows at his back.

  “You’ve been sleeping these two days at least,” Hezekiah observed, accepting a mug of broth from the monk.

  “Had us worried with your fever, lad,” Dunner agreed, grimly. “But you’re a tough sort. Must have some sailor in you after all.”

  “It appears I did not dream the attacks on our convoy,” Joseph remarked. Dunner shook his head.

  “No, lad,” he said, also taking a mug of broth from the monk. Joseph accepted one as well, thanking the man with a nod. “Twice we were ambushed in the night. I know not how word leaked out where Sytel was, but they tried to set him free.”

  “Success eluded them,” Hezekiah put in, sipping the hot liquid.

  “How many of our men were killed?” Joseph asked, his brow drawn. Dunner grinned.

  “None,” he said, proudly. “We chased them back into the night and left bodies all along the road.”

  “How many wounded, then?” Joseph responded. The two men stayed silent at this. The monk attending them stood up, smiling.

  “Only two men were injured, sir, though not seriously….” the man said, cheerfully. “They rest here, in this carriage.” Hezekiah and Dunner both snorted, but stayed quiet until the monk left.

  Soon after their carriage slowed and jolted to a halt. Grabbing his sword, Joseph made to get out of bed.

  “Is it barbarians?” Dunner exclaimed, angrily, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from the hammock. “Let me at them… confound this blanket!” The clear, long note of a trumpet sounded in the air; at the sound of it, Dunner relaxed, exchanging a relieved look with Hezekiah.

  “Tis the horn of the Shamar,” the Marshal said, his face calm again. “Tyrus has come.”

  The gray-eyed captain of the king’s guard himself came by the carriage not many minutes after. Dismounting his horse, Tyrus stepped up to the monk who’d been caring for them. Speaking in low tones for a moment, the duke sent the monk away and opened the door of the carriage.

  “Greetings men of the King,” he said in his customary even tone. The men inside nodded and mumbled a reply back. Tyrus looked from Hezekiah on his cot up to Dunner in his swaying hammock. “It appears two of you have the great honor and distinction of being the only men among 503 soldiers to be injured along this journey.”

  Seeing Dunner’s face flush red, Joseph spoke up.

  “Have you news for us?” he asked. The Shamar captain smiled, a little.

  “Indeed I have Lord Asher,” said he. “Ithycor was arrested, by myself, not six days ago. Troops have been sent into the sectors of Benevolence in six more cities, to relieve the citizens and have arrested a score of priests and many priest guards have met their end; proof against two senators have also been found. All are charged with cruelty and crimes against Kingdom citizens.”

  The gray-eyed man looked over at Hezekiah. “You have caused much stirring among the aristocracy and senate by invading the fortress Morronai and arresting Sytel.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Such stirrings will be quelled once the king makes known the documents you’ve recovered, and those seized from Ithykor.”

  At these words, Joseph felt as if a large weight lifted from him. Hezekiah nodded, but did not look surprised at the turn of events.

  “My men will escort your prisoners and this convoy to the Kings City,” Tyrus continued. “Judging from your faint pallor, it is advisable that you rest before the Sentencing Day commences. I shall have some of these men travel with you to a fortified monastery not far from here; they possess a volcanic mineral spring which is said to speed healing.” The men in the carraige nodded at this, appearing relieved. Tyrus turned to go, then stopped and glanced back to the door.

  “One last thing, men… you have done a most excellent wor
k,” he said, smiling. “The king was delighted to know your injuries did not take your life.” This last part he spoke to Joseph. The men watched Tyrus mount his horse again and ride out of their sight.

  A FORTNIGHT passed.

  Satchel in hand, Joseph stepped out of the guest chamber. Setting the bag down, he used his free hand to close the wooden door behind him. Well-bound in a sling, his arm and injured shoulder were temporaily useless; despite the healing waters of this forest monastery, it would be some weeks until his wound healed completely.

  As he walked down the corridor Joseph heard no sound in the sourrounding rooms or halls, but that of the forest outside. Barely a soul could be seen as Joseph made his way down to the dining hall. Sun streamed through the windows and the faint calls of birds could be heard. Dunner and Hezekiah greeted him as he walked in.

  “Lord Asher….” Hezekiah called. He lifted a mug of ale to the young man. Dunner nodded at him as he packed his pipe with tobacco.

  “Marshal Walters… Admiral Dunner,” Joseph said, sitting down. “These springs have eased my wound greatly.”

  “Indeed,” Hezekiah agreed, resuming his breakfast. “Mine as well… I feel ten years younger.”

  Dunner lit his pipe, puffing smoke for a moment.

  “I feel no younger,” the aging sailor stated.

  “It only works with folks whom are less than one hundred years old,” Hezekiah told him with humor. Dunner snorted and leaned back in his chair. Smiling at the cheerful banter, Joseph accepted food from a nearby monk.

  “Do we make for the King’s city?” he asked, tearing a piece off the warm bread. Dunner nodded.

  “Should reach the Citadel afore nightfall,” he said. “Tyrus will want us to speak with us, most likely.”

  “Sytel and Ithykor, and the others, are to be brought up on charges tomorrow at the Citadel, at the third hour… in view of the people and province senators,” Hezekiah said, licking his thumb. “If convicted, he’ll be publicly executed along with his fellow conspirators… my, this berry preserve is delicious.” Chuckling at the man’s words, Joseph finished his meal.

  Belator seemed glad to see his master walking upright; Joseph rubbed the horses’ great black sides with the currycomb in one hand. He could see that his steed had been well-cared-for in his absence. Joseph got down the saddle with difficulty and began preparations to leave this restful place. Leading Belator out of the stables, he joined the other two Shamar in the yard.

  Hezekiah already sat on the ugly, brown and white mottled horse. Without a word Joseph swung up into the saddle, following his fellows onto the King’s highway.

  FIFTEEN

  The south entrance gate of the capital city teemed with activity.

  Weaving among the soldiers, merchants, carriages and citizens, the three gray-cloaked Shamar made their way through the gate and down the cobbled streets. After an hour, they reached a solitary dock on the Great Bay, one Joseph had seen before.

  At the end of the dock a skiff sat waiting with gray-cloaked men inside, with room for but three more. An aging Shamar took their horses and nodded at them with gravity. Joseph clasped hands with the man and followed Hezekiah and Dunner to the boat. The waters of the great bay rippled with reds and orange hues as the sun set behind the coastal mountains. Each man took an oar and rowed together towards the Citadel peninsula.

  They gained the hidden bay and docked, making their way by torchlight up the narrow trail in the rocks and to the secret door. One inside, the Shamar filed by the silent guards, walking down long, familiar stairs to the Shamar meeting place, the Hall of Illumination.

  Tyrus greeted them at the entrance.

  “Glad I am to see you recovered,” he said, nodding at each of them. “We have prepared chambers for you.”

  “Chambers are well and good…” Dunner said, puffing his pipe. “I’m wanting food. Where’s a spear?” Tyrus chuckled, beckoning to a portly monk behind a small counter. The monk brought over three spears; Joseph took one with a grin. He remembered the ritual well. He endured the well-meaning jibes from his fellows at this one-handed attempts at fishing. Soon, three fish roasted over the wide fireplace on spits; the men sat nearby at a table.

  Conversation was strangely absent; the trial on the morrow weighed on all of them as they ate. Of the many charges laid against the medley of accused priests and senators, none were light; the entire priestly order was stained with citizen blood.

  “Perhaps someone can explain to me a mystery I’ve long pondered, “ Dunner said, after he was done with his meal. “How can men renowned for their faith and study of the Holy Book suddenly cast off all for these pagan ways, even to eat their fellow man?”

  “It is simple,” Joseph said. “Sytel knew that grace through faith—not of ourselves—would never make him wealthy. Christ, Himself, took the role of bondservant. Thus, Sytel sought a new way—paved with pagan worship of gold—all the while keeping the appearance of civilization… a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

  “He did his work well, then,” Dunner said, puffing his pipe. “In mere decades he became rich enough to fund an army, and very nearly took over the Kingdom.”

  “No, brother,” Tyrus said, gravely. “He attempted to; he would never have succeeded.”

  The brethren talked late into the night, waiting for the early hour of judgment to arrive.

  BY THE third hour of morning, the enormous plaza in the Senator’s section of the city was crowded with citizens, soldiers, government officials and Shamar. In spite of the early hour, everyone in the city had turned out to witness the execution of thirty-one dissentious men.

  On the tall, stone wall between the plaza and the military section, thirty-one metal-topped, wooden platforms had been built, illuminated with torches; in the center of each platform was a tall, metal post; twenty-nine of the posts bore a condemned priest on his knees, tied securely; the first two platforms were occupied by the corrupted senators.

  The priests were arranged in order of rank, from least to greatest. Sytel knelt at the last platform on the left, closest to the castle. Drops of pitch on the crimson garb of the priests and senators’ robes glistened in the flickering torchlight.

  The king sat on a throne on the wall closest to his castle. From there, the plaza was well lit with the small torches, as well as the line of condemned men in front of them. Tyrus, Hezekiah, Dunner and Joseph stood soberly on the platform with the king. They did not speak but watched the scene in the darkness of the early morn.

  The king turned and nodded at the head herald. Lifting a silver trumpet, the herald began a series of blasts; a hundred more trumpeters from all along the wall did the same. The sound was enough to wake the entire city… indeed, to carry for many miles. The people gathered in the plaza, and all over the city turned towards the castle at the sound and began to hush their voices.

  As the last note died away, the king began to speak. His commanding voice echoed off the castle behind and was carried in the windless air well; to make certain the charges were heard, each square in the city had one herald to call out the charges as the King spoke them.

  “Hear me noblemen and Kingdom citizens alike…” the monarch proclaimed, “These thirty-one men before you stand guilty of the following crimes: conspiring against the most high God and his holy book for their own ends…. treason…. conspiring against the king…. aiding a foreign and hostile pagan enemy of the Kingdom… perversities which are shameful to even speak of… spreading damnable heresies…. eating the flesh of men… the kidnapping and murdering of Kingdom citizens… cruelty and fraud in the starving of Kingdom citizens under the guise of benevolences… inhibiting justice… bribery…. corruption, and the spreading of slanderous falsehoods.”

  The king paused, his words echoing over the plaza.

  “These men cloaked themselves in robes of righteousness, but fed their sheep to ravenous wolves for gain. Their evil conscience and corrupted ways have led not only to the destruction of themselves, but of those who
m perished by following their pernicious ways. The innocent lives taken by these men and those they commanded have yet to be fully numbered.”

  Not as single person spoke. The king had more to say.

  “These men are the most despicable sort of men upon the face of the earth. Such treachery must be dealt with swiftly and in the most public way that others may be terrified to even think of following the path of these men. The men before you are condemned by their own actions, and do not deserve to live among Kingdom citizens for one moment longer!”

  At this, the hundred trumpets blew again, joined by ten times that many; the piercing sound of the horns would be heard echoing across the huge Great Bay. Children covered their ears, crying at the frightening sound. Throughout the city, citizens in the squares blew on rams horns and warning horns to show concordance with the King’s words.

  In the midst of the crashing sound the king nodded at an archer standing ready on a nearby tower in the wall. The archer lit his arrow and aimed for Senator Reblyn. The lit arrow flew through the air between the wall and struck the man, igniting him immediately on fire. The screams were drowned by the noise of the trumpets. More arrows were fired as one by one, the condemned men set ablaze.

  There was no moon, nor did the stars appear bright; the line of burning execution fires along the top of the wall could be seen clearly, even to ships sailing far across the Great Bay. In the ten major cites of the Kingdom, trumpets blew loudly at the third hour, and the names of the men were read aloud by herald in every square along with the charges; other men in each city arrested in connection with the condemned priests and senators were executed as well. The people stayed and watched the fires burn themselves out. The pitch burned hot and fierce; piles of ashes formed at the bases of the posts. As the sun rose at dawn, the wind began to blow, scattering the ashes far from the castle and city.