The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1

by Craig Halloran

  The brooding men wore worn black tunics over shirts of chain mail. Two women were there, appearing just as rugged in their garb. They all looked Abraham up and down with their heavy eyes. That’s when he realized that he was half naked, though he didn’t feel as though he had anything to be ashamed about. He held his sword in a defensive manner. Making a slow turn, he eyed the rest of the group. Each of them seemed sullen eyed or carried a deadpan stare.

  One woman spoke to him in foreign words. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back in twin ponytails. She had charm in a tomboyish sort of way. Her leather tunic was worn. She didn’t carry a big sword, but a bandolier of knives crossed over one side of her chest. A sword belt carrying daggers rested on her curvy hips.

  “What?” Abraham said.

  The woman looked at the faces of the others in the company. A couple of men shrugged. The other warriors started looking concerned. The husky bald man in the saddle and carrying a spear started to speak. He was huge and heavy shouldered. He spoke to the woman. He pointed in the direction of the tunnel from where Abraham had come.

  She nodded at the big warrior, and he, along with two others, rode for the tunnel and vanished out of sight. Then she dismounted. With her hands on the pommels of the daggers dressing her hips, she approached Abraham.

  He stuck his sword out. She froze in place. With wary eyes, she lifted her hands up to shoulder height. Judging by the looks of the group he couldn’t tell if they were some sort of fallen knights or misbegotten brigands he’d seen in fantasy movies.

  Not knowing what else to say, he said what someone would typically say: “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The half-decent-looking rogue warrior of a woman spoke at length. Years back, he’d had a friend that helped out with the baseball team. The man, Dougy, was deaf and always read lips. For some reason, Abraham picked up on it. He tilted his head and studied the woman’s thin lips. Once she stopped, he shrugged.

  He tapped himself on the chest and said, “Abraham. Abraham.”

  The rugged company exchanged concerned glances. Their hands and fingers toyed with their weapons.

  He was making them nervous, but as far as he could tell, they knew him. He stuck his sword tip into the ground. “Abraham. Abraham Jenkins.”

  “Who is Abraham Jenkins?” the woman who had been speaking asked, clear as a bell.

  Abraham gaped. He didn’t think she was speaking in English, but he did think that it was a language that he could understand. The wheels in his new mind started to turn. A vague familiarity came over him. “Say that again?”

  She looked at him and said slowly, “Who is Abraham Jenkins, Captain?”

  “Captain?” He laughed. “You think I’m your captain? That’s funny.” He looked around. “So if I’m the Captain, then who are you? My first mate?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. Her slender hands deftly fell back to the weapons on her hips. “Sticks,” she said.

  A funny feeling came over him as the name did seem to ring a bell. He wondered whether she was an imaginary version of Brandi or someone else. In case he was the company’s captain, in this imaginary world, he decided to play along. He rubbed the side of his head. Blood was caked on it where the strange man in the tunnel had clocked him upside the head with a rock. “The witch woman clubbed me.”

  “The witch woman?” Sticks said. “You mean the fright we are chasing down? She got to you, didn’t she? Iris, get down here and check the Captain out.” She scanned his body. “What happened to your belt and armor? Is the fright dead, or did she slip your fingers, Captain?”

  “She’s dead. Or it’s dead, rather.” He couldn’t get the terrifying image of the fiendish-eyed witchy woman out of his head.

  Looking at his blood-crusted sword, she asked, “Did you chop her head off with Black Bane?”

  “Oh, the sword, eh? No, well, yes,” he said, recalling the event in the tunnel. “I shot her then stabbed her.” He looked at the sword and twisted it left to right. “With Black Bane.”

  The husky woman, Iris, ambled over in well-worn forest-green robes. Her auburn hair was tied up in a bun on her head. Unlike the others, she didn’t carry armor or weapons but walked with a canelike cudgel. She had a leather satchel hanging on her shoulder. “Can I check that blow to your head, Captain? We want to make sure the hag didn’t leave any lingering trouble.”

  “Sure,” Abraham said in a language that he’d only moments ago somehow mastered. His memory was still in a fog.

  Iris ran her soft, pudgy fingers over his face. She smelled like wildflowers, and cheap wine was on her breath. She moved all around him, brushing her curvy body against his. Her fingers probed the hard muscles of his body. She got in front of him and rose on tiptoe. She peeled his eyes open with her fingers and looked deep into them. “The Captain is fine. I think he might need some salve for his noggin for the swelling, but I can apply it back at camp. The bump on his head must have rattled his gray matter. It will come back with some rest.”

  “Thanks, Iris,” Sticks said.

  “Always an honor to care for the Captain.”

  Abraham wanted to ask, “Captain who?” but decided going along with it would be best. After all, he might not have more of a name than that. Whatever imaginary world he’d fallen into, maybe that was just who he was. The Captain. Might as well stick with it. Perhaps I’ll dream myself up a better name later. Though I wish I’d wake up first.

  The three warriors returned. The big bald rider had the breastplate armor, crossbow, and sword belt over his lap. Frowning, he looked down at Sticks.

  “The Captain is coming around, Horace,” she said.

  “Aye.” He dropped the gear down on the ground. “The cave collapsed in the middle, but the fright is dead.” He frowned. “I thought you wanted her alive.”

  “Er... Why would I—” Abraham cut himself off, realizing the story clearly had more to it. “It didn’t work out that way.”

  Horace grunted. “Are we returning to camp, Captain?”

  Abraham felt all eyes on him. He was clearly in charge. All he could think to say was, “Aye.”

  12

  After a couple embarrassing attempts to get into his horse’s saddle, Abraham finally got on top. He’d never ridden a horse before but told himself that since it wasn’t real, he should just imagine he’d been doing it all his life. In moments, he had control of the black beauty and rode with ease in the saddle. Playing the role of the Captain while at the same time not having any idea where he was going, he ordered Horace to lead them back to camp. He rode back beside Sticks, stating that he still was under the weather. In truth, he felt better than he’d felt in years.

  The horse ride was long. The dreary party traversed the forest without any incident. Two hours into the journey, his backside started to burn, but his new body was made for it. Instead, he took advantage of soaking up his new surroundings. His heart pounded in his ears. His mind raced to find a shred of reality he could relate to. The grim forest fed his despair. His face brushed against the branches of the pines.

  No dream can be this real.

  Abraham’s mind backtracked through all the events that had happened over the last several hours. He was in his truck, feeling sick. Storms filled the skies. His head hurt as he drove into the tunnel. He saw a bright flash of light. That was when everything changed.

  He ran through every possible scenario he could think of to explain the madness he was in. Perhaps the light was another vehicle that had hit him head-on. He recalled the floodlight in the Big Walker Tunnel, which the army had used. Maybe he’d had an aneurysm. Possibly, he’d had an allergic reaction to the food he was served at Woody’s Grill and passed out from it.

  For all I know, I probably crash-landed the beer truck in a creek bed and have been left for dead.

  The longer the journey went on, the more real it became, beginning the moment a white mosquito the size of a slice of bread landed on his face.

  He smashed it with his hand and
wiped it on his legs. “Yecht.”

  The other odd thing was his backpack. He figured it would be a conversation piece, but no one had said a word to him about it. They didn’t even look at it. One thing was for sure—he wasn’t about to part with it. He was Abraham Jenkins, and it was keeping him attached to his world and not the fantasy one he’d somehow landed in.

  Finally, at dusk, the company made it to a clearing down by a wide creek. At least a score of men wearing brick-red tunics were milling about the camp. Small pup tents were set up, a campfire burned, and meat cooked on a spit. Men carried sticks and chopped wood and branches. Others fished in the waters. They moved with a military purpose but, for the most part, were very haggard looking.

  “Who are they?” he absentmindedly asked Sticks.

  “What do you mean? The Red Tunics are our retainers. You handpicked them all, the same as us. Perhaps you need more time with Iris tonight.”

  He looked back at Iris, who rode in the middle of the ranks. The husky woman had a welcoming look in her eye. She lifted her eyebrows at him.

  “Uh, I think I’ll be fine after some rest.”

  “I was only jesting, Captain,” Sticks said. “I hope you are feeling better tomorrow. You’ll need your wits about you for the return journey.”

  Without having any idea where he was, he fought down the urge to ask, “What journey?” or “Journey where?” even though not doing so was killing him.

  The company dismounted, and the Red Tunics took the horses away. As they did so, Abraham caught a glimpse of a group of two frights staring right at him.

  “Holy sheetrock!” he said. “What are they doing here?”

  Sticks looked at him as though he’d gone crazy. “They are our prisoners. We caught two but lost the other three, yours included. We are taking them back to the king to be executed. That’s why we are here. To take these infidels to Kingsland and make an example of their troubles.”

  Eyeing the frights, Abraham arched a brow. The witches’ hands and feet were bound with irons. That didn’t stop them from hissing at him.

  “How far is Kingsland?”

  Sticks grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away from the Henchmen working nearby giving him strange looks. She found seclusion near the creek, more than an earshot from all the others. “Captain, respectfully, please be mindful of what you are saying and who you say it in front of.” She crouched back and winced slightly as though he was going to strike her. “You are not yourself. On a journey like this, they can’t witness any weakness.”

  “Just refresh my memory. How long is this journey back to Kingsland?”

  “Roughly a thousand miles.”

  He spoke so loudly the entire camp could hear. “On horseback?”

  13

  One tent in the Henchmen encampment was bigger than the others. It wasn’t huge by any means but was the size of a family camping tent, more or less, big enough for about four to six people. It was made of heavy tan canvas with a flap for a door. Inside were fox-fur blankets stretched over cots. A woven carpet covered most of the floor, giving it a cozy homelike effect. A small table had a top made of wooden slats. Oil lanterns sat on each corner of the table. Some other supplies and dried food were neatly stacked in the corners.

  Abraham sat on the wooden folding chair with his elbows on the table. It seemed odd to him that the chair was collapsible, given his medieval-seeming situation. But he noticed the entire chair was intricately crafted with wooden parts, without metal pins or screws. He yawned. All that had happened in the past several hours had finally caught up with him. The rush was over.

  Once I sleep, I’d better wake back up in my reality.

  Sticks entered the room, still wearing her armor and weapons. Even though she was much smaller than Abraham, the bandolier of knives made her look as formidable as any man. The expressionless woman eased deeper inside with feline grace, sat down on one of the cots, undid her ponytails, and began stripping her gear off.

  They hadn’t spoken since Abraham’s outburst over the length of the journey. Sticks managed to respectfully guide him into the tent, and he’d been waiting for her inside ever since. Now, he watched her with a drying throat.

  The more Sticks took off, the more woman she became. She tugged her boots off and removed her bandolier and dagger belt. Gracefully, she wiggled out of her leather tunic and slid off her buckskin trousers. She was stripped down to a close-fitting white cotton jerkin that revealed she had a lot more to offer than her armor was hiding.

  Abraham swallowed. Sticks’s bare arms were taut with muscle. Her body was like a well-honed dancer’s. Her dark eyes locked on his. She walked over to him and ran her gentle fingers through his hair. He looked up with his face at her chest level, and his blood churned through his body.

  “We need to get you settled, Captain,” she said.

  “I, uh, what do you mean?”

  She hauled him up to his feet, turned to grab the fox and mink blankets, and tossed them onto the ground. With ginger fingers, the inviting chestnut-haired woman started undressing him.

  He stepped back.

  She grabbed him by the waist of his pants and reeled him in. Sticks was all woman, a woman who wouldn’t be denied. Thoughts about his wife, Jenny, and visions of Mandi raced through his mind. Absentmindedly, he shook his head.

  Okay, Abraham, this has to be a dream. You know every time a dream starts like this, you wake up. So what the heck? Go with it. It’s not real anyway.

  Abraham grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her up into his arms, and kissed her. Sticks didn’t engage at first, but as their bodies came together, their lips caught fire. Moments later, they were on the ground, unleashed in the throes of passion, which went on deeper into the night.

  Abraham was awoken by the sound of a wild rooster crowing. He rubbed his eyes and sat up on his elbows. Darkness surrounded him, so dark he could barely make out his surroundings. As his eyes focused, he began recollecting the intimate details of his dream. He rubbed his head. I’ve never dreamed anything so vivid before. He was ashamed to think it, but he thought it anyway: That was awesome. Now that I’m awake, let’s figure out where in the heck I am.

  A warm figure stirred beside him. A hand grazed his chest, and he felt a scar over the heart.

  He jumped up with a shout. Backing up, he bumped into a cot and fell over. His eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, and he quickly realized he was in the same tent where he’d been. Sticks scurried to one of the corners. An oil lantern’s flame created a soft glow inside the tent.

  She peered at Abraham and said, “Settle yourself. You are among friends.”

  Pulling on his trousers, he said, “You’re a friend, all right. Oh my, what have I done? What is going on?”

  Wearing only her open-necked cotton shirt, she approached him. “Keep your voice down. The Henchmen don’t want to hear weakness.”

  He tipped up the cot and sat down. Nodding his head vigorously, he said, “Oh, I’m sure they heard plenty of things last night. This is embarrassing.”

  “You are the Captain. Nothing embarrasses you.” She kneeled before him and put a hand on his thigh. “You are the leader of the King’s Henchmen, the boldest one of all.”

  He looked down her shirt. A king’s crown was branded over her heart. He noticed it last night. He rubbed his fingers on his mark. Why do we both have one of these? He looked her dead in the eye and said, “Lady, I am not the Captain, I am Abraham Jenkins.”

  Sticks looked deep into his eyes. “I know that you are different, Captain. A woman knows these things. I… believe you.”

  Taken aback, he said, “How come?”

  “Because… you’ve never kissed me before. Normally, you treat me like a tavern whore, but last night was… very different.” She gripped his hand in hers. “You were… gentle, at times. Inexperienced at others.”

  “Inexperienced?” Well, a long time has passed since I’ve been with anybody. “Listen to me, Sticks. I am not from this
world. The man, the Captain… Well, I took over his body.”

  She slapped her hand over his mouth. “Shush, you cannot say such things!” she said in a whisper. “You can be killed for it. If you want to live, you must be the Captain.”

  14

  The company broke camp without Abraham lifting a finger. The Red Tunics continued to move about their business in a very military fashion. None of the other Henchmen lifted a finger. Abraham, with Sticks’s help, got all his gear on, including a new pair of trousers and a shirt under his breastplate armor. He looked like a warrior and felt like one too. Subtly following Sticks’s lead, he got on his horse and followed after Horace, who led the company into the woodland.

  Oddly enough, the terrain seemed familiar to him, as though he’d been there before. The woodland was much the same as it was surrounding his small farm tucked away in the West Virginia hills. He’d used it as a hideaway after the accident with his family. They’d died in a place like this. He started to wonder if he’d died again and didn’t know it yet.

  In the meantime, he tried to get familiar with what was going on. Sticks had really freaked out when he mentioned he was someone other than the Captain. Her eyes grew to the size of plates, making him think of the Salem witch hunts, where women were burned at the stake because of their abnormal behavior. He read similar stories in medieval history books when he was in high school. The priests and royalty of those days didn’t tolerate the occult. He had a feeling he was in a place very much like that. The last thing he wanted was to wind up with his neck in a noose or exposed beneath a guillotine.

  Just play along. It has to end sometime. I can’t sleep forever.

  He started sorting through what had been revealed to him. According to Sticks, he was the leader of the King’s Henchmen. Very clearly, they served the king. In what capacity, he wasn’t certain. The group was anything but a bunch of knights in shining armor. They were more or less a group of durable adventurers or a host of brigands if one judged by first appearances. But it was a large group, like a caravan, with the Red Tunics serving the others, making for a basic pecking order. Horace led the way on horseback, but two other Henchmen rode out ahead, scouting. All of them were well equipped.