The Noble Warrior (The Empire of the North Book 1)

by Brendan DuBois

Randall laughed. “Since when is stealing a kiss or a cuddle considered mistreatment? And do you really think she’s going to make a complaint? Do you?”

  Armand was close enough to smell Randall’s cologne. “You truly are a foul person, Randall de la Bourbon. And pathetic, as well. You can only get a woman’s attention by using your father’s influence, and nothing else. That’s true for a servant girl, and that’s true for my sister.”

  Randall brushed his hands against the front of his tunic. “What’s true is that I’m someone who’s descended from centuries of nobility. You, however, are descended from farmers and crap collectors. Someone who expresses false consideration for servants… for you know why they serve us. Because we nobles are better than they are, and we deserve everything and anything we want. So if you feel any differently, confess your sins the next time you go to Mass. Unless you have something better to say, my father wants me to say good evening to the Emperor, so you may piss off.”

  Randall pushed by him and Armand stuck out a foot. Randall stumbled and caught his balance, glared back at him. “If I wasn’t already late, Armand…”

  “Nice excuse, Randall. Any time, any place. Especially on the ice rink. Or the fencing arena.”

  “I’ll remember that, Armand. You can count on it.”

  “Good,” Armand said. “Next time I’ll do it in front of your servants, so they can see you cry for a change.”

  Randall watched the athletic, confident figure of Armand stroll away in the other direction, hate and anger lancing through him. Twice tonight the de la Couture family had fouled his plans; Michele by grabbing Randall before he could use that special knife, and Armand himself, pulling him away from that servant girl before he could have stolen enough kisses.

  And that was the anger. The hate was something else, for Armand had been right, and deep inside, Randall knew what was true: all he had, all he called his own, was due to his father’s influence, and from nothing he had ever done.

  But that would change, soon enough, right after he removed Armand from the scene.

  One way or another, that young snot would not keep him from his destiny.

  Chapter Nine

  On the coach ride home, Jeannette slumped up against the side of the coach, gently snoring. Mother and Michelle, however, went on and on about who saw what, who was better dressed, whose marriage was in trouble, who had gotten to spend more time with the Emperor than anyone else. Armand sat quietly, not liking the way the evening had ended with that run-in with Randall de la Bourbon. Father nudged Armand’s his foot with his own. “The joys of governing, eh? Sometimes I envy those who aren’t in Court. They don’t have to waste their evenings on foolish events.”

  Despite being engaged with her older daughter, Mother turned and said sharply. “Don’t say that Roland. These evenings are important. Quite important. If you want your children to prosper in the years ahead, it’s the contacts, friends and marriages --–“ and with that last word, she stared right at Armand “—- that will keep this family line prospering.”

  Armand could tell Father was too tired to disagree with Mother, so he just said, “Absolutely, Henrietta,” and left it at that.

  With the coach now approaching their home, Armand gently shook Jeannette’s shoulder and woke her up. She yawned. “I wasn’t sleeping. Honest, I wasn’t!”

  “You bet squirt,” Armand said, putting an arm around her. “You bet.”

  From the coach they entered Maison de la Couture, their servants lined up to greet them, and Armand went upstairs, Martel at his heels, and he bathed and changed into a nightshirt. Feeling jumpy and uneasy, he wasn’t ready to sleep. So he took a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, and stepped out on the balcony, to once again look at the unlit stretch of the horizon that marked the far and dark shores of Lake Ontario.

  He shivered. He recalled what Henri had said earlier, about their taboo trip across the lake, and all that had happened to them.

  Even with the blanket around his shoulders, he felt so very cold.

  And remembered again.

  Last year, Henri and Armand had gone sailing on a perfect late summer day with hardly a cloud in the sky, and a good steady breeze off to the south. They had made their way out to the further reaches of Lake Ontario, to an old Imperial Navy floating base called Defence Island that was now a destination for day sailors. After lunch and as the day lazed about, Henri turned to Armand and said, “Let’s go for a long trip. Make a real day out of it. Let’s go south. All the way.”

  Armand’s hand grew moist on the tiller. “That’s not allowed, and you know it. The forbidden lands.”

  “So what? Haven’t you ever wanted to see York for yourself, see what it’s like over there?”

  “Sure I have,” Armand snapped back. “But the risk is too great. The Coast Guard will intercept us. We’ll get into trouble.”

  Henri laughed. “Your father in the Ministry of Trade, my father on the General Staff… we tell them who we are, tell them we got lost, and that’s it. They’ll point us north and send us on our way.”

  “Henri…”

  “C’mon, Armand. A nice day, steady breeze, good weather in the forecast. We could be there and back to Defence Island before the sun sets.”

  “The Coast Guard,” Armand began again, but Henri cut him off. “Look around, friend. Do you see any Coast Guard vessels? Come on… it’ll be an adventure!”

  So Armand had looked at that eager face, and not particularly knowing why, he moved the tiller, came about, and started tacking to the south. Henri stretched out his legs. “There, that’s more like it,” but Armand kept quiet, looking at the slowly disappearing horizon that was as familiar to him as his own quarters, and then, nothing. Open water.

  “Well,” Henri said. “That was quick. How soon before we see the forbidden lands?”

  Armand shifted in his seat, wiped one sweaty palm and then another on his shirt. “I don’t know. It’s some distance… look, Henri, we go until I say we’re running out of time, and then we head back. Agreed?”

  Henri folded his arms. “Agreed. But don’t rush us… I want to see those lands, see if the old stories are true.”

  Armand kept an eye on the tell-tales dangling from the sails, the water, the few clouds rising up on the southern horizon, and, of course, the compass. With nothing about them save the empty and swelling waters of the Lake Ontario, Armand felt uneasy, like the first time he had played hooky from prep school, convinced he was going to get caught in five minutes. The sky was still clear and the breeze was steady, but it wouldn’t take much for an unexpected squall to come up. And suppose the breeze died? The sailboat didn’t have an electric outboard, and if they did get into trouble, there was also no wireless on board. Oh, they had emergency flares but with these empty waters about them, who would see any flares?

  The afternoon dragged on. From handling the lines and from grasping the tiller so tight, Armand’s hands were getting sore. He was going to tell Henri that enough was enough, when his chum said simply, “Land.”

  Armand looked up. A line of trees, stretching from left to right. “Fine. We’ve reached the forbidden shores. We should turn around. It’s getting late.”

  Henri practically jumped from his seat, he was so excited. “Are you kidding? We’re finally here and you want to leave?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Armand said, his voice rising. “We have a good breeze now, Henri, but it’d be easy to lose it. And if we leave now, we might make it back to the Defence Island by dusk… if we’re lucky.”

  Henri wouldn’t let it go. “Armand… we’re not leaving right now. Look, we get a bit closer, have a look-see, and then we leave. Promise.”

  Armand hesitated but looked at Henri’s strong and commanding face and thought, oh, what the hell. Maybe Henri was right. They had come this far… “All right. One quick look-see and then we’re gone. Start looking for shoals or rocks… who the hell knows what’s out here.”

  “All right, I’ll keep a loo
k out,” Henri said.

  “And be sharp,” Armand added. “There are no harbormasters or tow boats out here.”

  The closer they got, the more the tree-lined shore came into focus. There were ruins there, of houses, of larger buildings, all collapsed and overgrown with ivy and brush. There were the sounds of birds and the crashing waves, and not much else. Staring at the approaching scenery, Armand had the oddest feeling of loss and regret, like he had come much too late for an important engagement, that instead of seeing something grand and glorious, all he was seeing were just the old crumbs of a great and dead empire.

  Henri’s face was alight with excitement. “This is something we’ll tell everyone back at school, and you know it.”

  “If we live long enough,” Armand muttered, but despite the fear and apprehension, there was also something else coursing through him: curiosity about what lay beyond this strip of forests and ruins, and what might still be living there, and a thrilling sense of defiance. For years, Father and Mother and the professors at prep school had warned him and others about crossing the borders.

  For the lands to the south, he and Henri were warned, was a place of haunts, of demons, of burnt cities, ruins, and barbaric peoples. The long border between their empire and the lands to the south were made of water in some places –-- like Lake Ontario --– and in long stretches of land to the west, of stone and moat and wire. Places as well where bridges had been destroyed, roads dug up, and stories were told of the battles and ---

  Henri’s voice was shrill. “What in God’s name is that?”

  Armand saw where he was pointing, felt his hands and feet tingle with fear. They had rounded a small point of land and were now before a cove. In the cove, battered and rusting on its side, was the hull of the largest ship Armand had ever seen. It was easily three or four times larger than the freighters that worked the shores at Lake Ontario, and centuries ago, it must have run aground here. It was rust red, sagging, with cranes frozen silently at one end, and as they drifted by, Henri whispered, “My God, look at what the old ones could do. Look at the size of that beast!”

  Armand was looking, and he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. In the shadow of that enormous ship, they were the size of a field mouse before a packhorse. Waves now were crashing against some exposed rocks, and shifting the tiller, he said, “We’re leaving now, Henri. Light will be failing before you know it.”

  Henri turned to Armand and said, sheepishly, “We need to go ashore.”

  “The hell we do!” Armand said. “We’re leaving, right now!”

  Henri was embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Armand… we have to go to shore. I need to use the toilet, if you know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately, he did know. His little sailboat was designed for quick day trips, and had no bathroom facilities.

  “No, we’re not stopping,” Armand said. “If you have to, stand up and stick your member and point it downwind. We’re not going ashore.”

  His friend grimaced. “Armand… it’s not that simple. I’ve got cramps, awful cramps. I had hoped they would go away… but they’re getting worse. Armand, please. Look ahead. There’s a bit of a sandy beach there. We beach, I go out, do my business, and leave. I promise.”

  Armand saw the pain in his face, looked to where his friend was pointing. There was a small bit of hilly land jutting out into the waters, and there was a sandy beach before it, about eight or ten meters wide. Armand said, “You’ll be quick, right?’

  “Please, Armand, I’m practically crapping my pants as it is. Can we hurry up?”

  “All right,” he said, “help me lower the main sail. We’ll use the jib to get us in.”

  The flapping fabric slapped at their face and hands but they secured it fair enough. Armand tugged on a rope at his feet, raising up the centerboard so it wouldn’t snap or run aground. With the jib now guiding them in, they moved fairly slow, and Henri stood up in the bow, rope in hand.

  There was a jar, and a grinding noise, as the prow moved onto the sand. Henri jumped out. The bow snapped up with the absence of Henri’s weight and he used that to his advantage, pulling the sailboat onto shore. He looped the forward line on the thick roots of an exposed tree. “I’ll be back, real quick! Whatever’s in my gut wants to come out in the worse way!”

  He disappeared into a stand of bushes and Armand waited, the movement of the lake causing the boat to rock back and forth. His mouth was dry and his heart was thumping something awful. They had made it… made it to the forbidden shores. Then, despite his fear, Armand got an attack of the giggles. Yes, he thought, we intrepid explorers had made it, and to commemorate the occasion, my friend is taking a dump on the unexplored lands.

  Movement in the brush, and Henri appeared, wiping at his brow. “Sweet God, it feels good to be cleaned out. Armand, come over here. There’s a path, goes up this small hill. Let’s see where it goes.”

  Armand shouted, “Are you out of your damn mind?”

  But by the time he said that, Henri was gone.

  Armand waited, frightened and angry. Damn that Henri! Armand decided to wait on the boat until Henri came back, but after a couple of minutes dragged slowly by, Armand knew he would have to fetch him. Henri being Henri, being so fearless and stupid, he would no doubt explore some more, not caring that time was slipping away.

  He finally went forward, jumped over the side and swayed for a moment, as he stood on dry land. He sniffed the air. There was something about the air that just smelled old. He couldn’t explain it. Just… old. Armand walked up to the tree roots, made sure the line was tied tight. Last year he had moored at Thomson Island, back near the city, had done a lousy job at tying off the sailboat and had to swim out to fetch it. He didn’t want to repeat the same mistake today.

  He went to the bushes and saw the path Henri had discovered, leading up the hill. Armand went up the path, a steady uphill climb that didn’t look so bad, and he got to the top and –--

  Something grabbed him.

  Armand screamed.

  Henri was there, holding onto his arm so tight it hurt, harshly whispering, “Shut up, you fool! Just shut the hell up!”

  Armand broke free. “Who are you calling a fool, you --– oh my dear God.”

  It was like the ground had softened and reformed itself about his feet, holding him fast. In front them was a clear area, of dirt and pounded grass, and there were firepits, and scorched rocks, and bones.

  Lots of bones.

  Off at the far end, there were three crosses, made of dressed lumber, and… shapes, forms, hung from the crosses. Decayed bodies. Impossible to see if they were men or women. The wind whispered through the rags, making them flutter. Henri’s voice was hoarse. “I… I looked at one of the firepits. The bones there… Armand, they looked human. And some of them were cracked open, like… like something was trying to get at the marrow…”

  That’s when they heard the shouts, the voices, saw movement in the trees and brush on the other side of the hilltop, and as one, they turned and scrambled back down the hill.

  Armand ran first, Henri behind him, breathing hard, moaning. As he ran down the hillside, his feet slipping in the dirt, Armand had a thought, please God, whatever’s out there, please let it get Henri, not me, Henri, not me. I’m only fourteen, damn it!

  Henri shouted, fell against him, and they tumbled together on the bottom of the hill. Armand got up and Henri’s lower lip was bleeding. Armand yelled, “Move, move, damn it, let’s go!”

  They both ran out onto the beach. Armand shouted, “To the bow! Get ready to push off!”

  Armand ran to the exposed roots, started fumbling with the knot. Henri stood in the water up to his ankles, face white with fear, holding onto the bow. “Armand, hurry! Damn it, what’s taking you so long?’

  His fingers felt thick and clumsy, the knot as tight as dressed stone. Armand tore a fingernail and finally got the rope undone and ---

  Henri screamed, “Something’s coming! Something�
��s coming! Something’s coming!”

  Armand drew the rope free, pulled it back and ran to the sailboat, feet splashing in the cold water, tossing himself over the open cockpit. He called out, “Now! Push us off now!”

  Henri dug in and pushed the sailboat off the beach and then he jumped in, splashing water over Armand. They wallowed in the swells and Armand drew up the mainsail, which flapped in the unsteady breeze.

  Henri panted, stared at him. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t we moving?”

  “Damn wind has died down, that’s what,” Armand said. “Here, hold the tiller.”

  He bent down and moved forward to the open cockpit, found a wooden paddle, drew it back up. Henri said, “Hell, Armand, are you going to paddle us all the way back to Toronto?”

  “No, you damn fool,” Armand said, leaning over the starboard side, paddling fiercely. “I’m trying to get us out away from shore, catch a breeze.”

  “Armand, I think –--“

  “Shut up, will you? You’re so damn smart, so smug, if we ever get out of here --– oh, crap.”

  No wonder they were wallowing about. Armand had forgotten to drop the centerboard. He bent over, pulled up the centerboard line, and there was a satisfying thump as the centerboard dropped into place.

  Like a miracle, a steady breeze came up. The mainsail flapped and filled, the sailboat heeled over with a movement that made Armand shout with joy, and he tossed the paddle back into the forward cabin. Tiller and main line in hand, he leaned back against the gunwale and looked to his friend.

  Henri’s face was pale, his lower lip still bleeding. “That… that was close.”

  “It sure as hell was.”

  He turned. “There are people there. On the beach. Look.”

  They had made enough distance by then that Armand could make out moving shapes on the beach where they had just been, but they were indistinct, fuzzy.

  “I don’t care,” Armand said.

  Henri was quiet, and said, “Neither do I.”