The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “He mostly hit me when I had to come between the two of you! You provoke him, and I’m tired of having to suffer because of you.”

  Garran gritted his teeth and looked over his shoulder at Cyril. “I’m the king’s property now, right, so you have to protect me as such?”

  Cyril ducked his head. “That’s right, to a point.”

  “Good.”

  Garran reached back, plucked the dagger hanging from Cyril’s belt, and flung it at Dwight. The weapon tumbled end over end before sinking to the hilt in Dwight’s thigh. Dwight’s eyes flew open wide, and he released a howl of pain that quickly succumbed to rage. He lurched toward Garran, hands extended to throttle the boy, money be damned. He would gladly give it back to kill the whelp. Two soldiers stepped between him and Garran with drawn blades.

  “That’s the king’s property, and I cannot allow you to cause it harm.” Cyril glanced at the knife sticking out of Dwight’s leg. “That there is my property, and I’ll be wanting it back.”

  Dwight stood before the tips of the soldiers’ blades, his mouth agape and desperately trying to form words which refused to come. He cast his eyes down at the hilt protruding from his thigh, gripped it with both hands, and pulled it out with a strangled cry.

  Cyril took back his dagger, wiped the blade clean on his trouser leg, and slipped it home in its sheath. The boy’s reaction was not unexpected if a bit more extreme than most. Young men’s first reaction was often to run or hurl themselves at the ones who sold them. Cyril considered himself a good judge of character. It was one reason he had survived long enough to retire from the regular army and command one of the labor camps. He knew within seconds that Garran was going to cause a fuss. Even so, the boy managed to take his dagger. Had he a mind to, Cyril had no doubt he could have plunged it into him instead of his stepfather. He had never seen someone move so fast in his almost thirty years of service. This one required some watching.

  “Are we done here?” Garran asked. “The stench of failure and betrayal is making me sick.”

  Cyril nodded, and he and his men escorted Garran toward the edge of town. A wagon and several mounted soldiers stood waiting on the road leading out of Wooder’s Bend. Two men occupied the wagon’s bench, and five more sat in the bed. Given the men’s roughshod appearance, Garran took them as indentured as well. One of the soldiers shoved a stuffed burlap sack into his arms.

  “It’s your clothes,” the man said when Garran looked at him with arched eyebrows.

  Garran did not know when his mother had taken the time to pack a bag, but it was obvious she and Dwight had laid out this plan of theirs some time ago. It explained Dwight’s ominous warning. The bitterness of betrayal filled him like no emotion ever had, but as the wagon pulled away and his small town slowly receded, he felt a sense of relief and even anticipation at finally doing something other than filching booze, chopping down trees, and sullying bored girls. The last one he would miss, but the world was full of loose women. It should not be difficult to find them.

  The only true regret he felt was when Matt broke from the trees lining the narrow road and waved. Matt had endured his abrasive and often selfish personality like no one else. He had been his best friend, and now Garran had to leave. Replacing Matt was certainly going to be a much greater challenge than finding a new source of getting drunk and laid.

  The youngest man in the wagon, perhaps a year Garran’s junior, was the first to speak. His clothes were poor even by Garran’s modest standards, but he had a quick, friendly, guileless smile.

  “Hi, my name’s Colin Atterly.”

  Garran shook the proffered hand. “Garran Holt.”

  “What are you in for?”

  “I may have knocked up the mayor’s daughter. You?”

  Colin laughed. “Nice. I’m guilty of being poor in a very large family. When you have six brothers and four sisters, I guess selling a few of them off makes sense.”

  “Ah, it’s probably good I’m an only child, or they would have had to bring extra wagons. I’m sure my mother would have sold the lot of us.”

  “You’re an only child and your family sold you to the work camps? Ouch.”

  “To hell with them. It’s a free ride out of town as far as I’m concerned.”

  One of the older men said, “Likely to be a free trip to your own unmarked grave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Guild has hired mercenaries to attack the camps to disrupt the building of the king’s road. I’ve heard they killed nearly a third of the workers over the last year. That’s why they started indenturing free folks by paying families to sign over custodial rights like they done to you and Colin.”

  “What brings you to the camps? I thought it was voluntary even for prisoners?”

  “Not anymore, but I volunteered to get out of my cell. Better to die in the open than live in a cage. I was a member of the Free Traders. The Guild had me arrested and charged with conspiracy against the crown. It only took a few dinarins to have the court find me guilty. The name’s Frank, Frank Kamis if you feel inclined to carve my headstone.”

  Frank seemed a decent enough fellow, but Colin was his age and there by similar circumstance. It was easy to spark and maintain conversations with him to pass the hours and days-long travel. The other men were real convicts, guilty of robbery, murder, and everything in between. Garran was not indisposed to talking with them, but neither was he quick to attempt to make friends. They spoke amongst themselves, apparently preferring to keep to their own kind just as Garran did.

  Three days out of Wooder’s Bend, their small retinue met up with a larger contingent near a crossroads leading to the various small mountain communities scattered throughout the region. Garran counted close to a hundred men including the two score of soldiers tasked with guarding them. The biggest surprise was the nearly dozen women occupying two wagons. It was obvious that their guards maintained a higher vigilance on them, not to keep them from running off but to maintain a barrier between them and the men. One group of women worked at cauldrons set over fire pits cooking meals while a second group scrubbed and mended clothing.

  Cyril climbed atop the kitchen wagon. “Listen up. We have one more recruiting group out, but I’m going to make my speech anyway. I’ll repeat it when they get here so you hard-headed louts can hear it twice and get it into your thick skulls. This is a work camp. That means you will work. You will do what you’re told when you’re told to do it. You see all this food these ladies have cooked up? Smells good, don’t it? If you want to eat, you will work. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Pretty damn simple, isn’t it? Cause my men or me problems and you don’t eat. Are you seeing a pattern? Good. If you forget, your bellies will surely remind you. Cause violence to my men or your fellow workers and you won’t eat, and you will feel the sting of the lash across your backs. Are there any questions?”

  Garran raised his hand. “What was the second thing again?”

  Cyril grinned. “There’s always a clever one in the bunch. I had a hunch it would be you. Clever boys tend to go hungry. Best you remember that. I’m sure you have all heard about the attacks on some of the other camps. Working the road is a dangerous job, and I won’t lie by telling you it ain’t. Men get injured and killed during the job without the help of these raiders. It’s the duty of every man here to stay vigilant and defend the camp if it comes to it. Maybe you don’t have the kind of spirit or integrity of a soldier fighting for a cause, but I have to think even the lowest of you will fight for your own life, and you might just have to do it.”

  The camp commander pointed to a man standing in front of a wagon with a boxed-in carriage bed. “That man is Henri Pasternak, my quartermaster. All you new recruits line up so he can issue you your bedrolls and tents. Once you set up your camp, we’ll serve chow.”

  Garran got in line, taking a step forward every few seconds as the men received their basic issue and picked out an open plot of ground to set up camp. The quartermaster shoved a
bundle into Garran's arms without a word. He carried his burden to a spot beneath a tree, unrolled the parcel wrapped in canvas, and inventoried its contents.

  Colin trudged up next to him and held up a trapezoidal section of oiled canvas. “This doesn't look big enough to make a tent.”

  “It's a shelter half,” Garran answered. “You lace it together with someone else's half. It cuts down on the load each man must carry. My old logging crew used them sometimes.”

  “Good idea. So, you want to bunk up?”

  “Sure. We'll set up here beneath this tree.”

  Colin looked at the ground. “We're on a bit of a slope.”

  “You want to be. It's going to rain tonight. We'll dig a shallow trench around the tent so the water will channel off downhill. Those idiots set up in the low ground near the wagons are going to be soaked come morning.”

  “Should we tell them?”

  Garran shook his head. “Most won't listen, and the ones who do will just crowd us. I'd rather not sleep next to a bunch of murderers and rapists.”

  Frank and another man approached as Garran and Colin set up their tent and began digging a gutter around it.

  “I see you boys have some experience living outdoors,” Frank said.

  “Garran does,” Colin answered. “I would have set up down there with the others.”

  Frank nodded at the trench. “You think it's going to rain?”

  “There are clouds gathering just beyond the eastern range. You can smell the moisture in the air. I also have a sensitive inner ear, and I can feel the pressure building.”

  “I've had a few men like you on my caravans. They saved us from getting wet a few times.” He tilted his head at the other man. “This is Wilton. He's another Free Trader set up by The Guild. We'll pitch our tent over there so we don't crowd you. You look like the type who likes his space.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Garran and Colin finished setting up and headed toward the chow wagon. There was already a line formed. Looking at the haphazard layout of most of the camp, Garran was not surprised to find so many men ahead of them. Most of these workers were criminals, and like most criminals, they were city-born. They knew nothing of the hardships of outdoor survival, and Garran had no inclination to educate them. Nature would be a far better teacher than he would.

  He took a tin plate from a stack on a table. The line split into three just past the table where one woman passed out bread while the others scooped stew from cauldrons suspended over cookfires. Garran and Colin chose one at random and shuffled onward. The young woman dug deep into the cauldron with her ladle and smiled at Garran as she dropped a generous helping of stew onto his plate.

  She was fetching but not beautiful and a few years older than him. Garran smiled back at her and made to walk on but stopped short when the man in front of him failed to move. He looked up into the scowling face of a large, ugly man with a grizzled face and several missing teeth.

  “What the hell is this?” the man demanded. “You’re gonna trade plates with me!”

  Garran’s brows nearly collided as he scowled back at him. “The hell I am.”

  “It weren’t a request, and you’ll give me that plate if you know what’s good for you.”

  The serving girl dunked her ladle into the pot and brought up another scoop. “Please, I’m sorry, here’s more.”

  “Hey, one serving per man!” someone shouted just behind Garran.

  “Mind your own damn business!” the thug snapped.

  Cyril pushed through the bodies that were about to become a mob. “What is the problem here?”

  The ugly man sneered at the serving girl. “That whore gave this whelp three pieces of meat and me only one. It ain’t fair.”

  “Dominic Mercier, isn’t it?” The man nodded and grunted. “That’s the way it works out sometimes. Take your plate and move out.”

  “I’m a big man, and I need more than watered vegetables!”

  Dominic lunged at Garran and tried to grab his plate. Garran leapt back, and Cyril put his dagger between him and the angry man.

  “If you don’t like your dinner then don’t eat it, but you’re holding up the line for other hungry men.”

  As with most stupid people, the man’s anger overruled his sense, and he hurled his plate at the camp commander. “If you like it, then you can eat it!”

  Cyril calmly plucked the solitary chunk of beef caught in the neck of his shirt and dropped it onto Garran’s plate. “It looks like you have four pieces now, Mr. Holt.” He turned back to the gap-toothed convict. “As for you, your little tantrum just cost you your breakfast as well. Perhaps your empty belly will prove to be a better decision-maker than that ugly gob on your neck.”

  The man looked ready to strike him, but Cyril waggled his blade and he thought better of it.

  “You best watch your back, boy. You both best watch your backs.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Mercier? Threats to me or my men will get you whipped. If you’re foolish enough to try and make good on it, I’ll stretch your neck from one of these trees and feed you to my dogs. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dominic scowled, spun around, shoved through some onlookers, and stalked off. The commander casually flicked chunks of vegetables from his leather jerkin. The man’s cool demeanor impressed Garran. Most people he knew would be enraged and use their authority to severely punish such an affront.

  “Mr. Holt,” Cyril said, “you are holding up my line. Take your food and go, or join Mr. Mercier in hunger.”

  Garran looked at the serving girl, who gave him an apologetic smile, and walked in the opposite direction of Dominic. He had no doubt the man would make good on his threat, at least to him, if given the chance. Colin hastened beside him.

  “I thought that man was going to kill you.”

  “The day’s not over.”

  “Do you think he’ll try something?”

  Garran shrugged. “I would, and I’m not a criminal. Not a real one.”

  Colin looked around, eyes wide and searching as if Dominic might spring from the bushes at any moment. “What are you going to do?”

  “Not much to do until it happens.”

  “You don’t seem afraid. I would be crapping my pants if that monster wanted to kill me.”

  “I’ve seen people waste a lot of time and energy on fear, and not once did I see it do any good or change the outcome. My mother always said there was something wrong with me. Maybe she was right.”

  Colin stared into his half-eaten plate of food. “I still can’t believe our parents sold us into bondage. Do you think they knew how dangerous it was, that bandits are attacking the work camps and killing everyone?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it mattered to them. I for one am not going to wait around for death to come. Not from Dominic and not from bandits.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get the hell out of here, what you think I’m going to do?”

  “There are like fifty soldiers on horseback, and they have dogs!”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably need your help.”

  “The commander said he whips anyone who tries to run off!”

  “Would you rather some bandit cuts you down? I don’t know about you, but I’ll take a whipping over death any day. Then again, I’ve probably received a lot more whippings than you and am used to them by now.” Garran saw the shadow of doubt hanging over Colin. “Look, it’s not going to be today or even tomorrow. I need to watch them, see how they move and react, before I can even begin to form a plan. It’s all about the three shuns.”

  “The three shuns?”

  “Inspiration, information, and preparation. With them, a man can do almost anything or anyone. There’s a fourth one, fornication, but I don’t think it will be necessary. If it does, that’s where you become a key component in our escape.”

  Colin’s mouth twitched. “W-what? How does that involve me?”

  “If I�
��m unable to come up with another way to distract the guards, it may become necessary to find out which ones are partial to fancy boys and take advantage of it. See, information...and possibly fornication.”

  “And I’m supposed to play the fancy boy?”

  “Well I can’t do it. I’m much too rugged. You, on the other hand, are perfect for the part.”

  “I don’t want to be a fancy boy! I like girls!”

  “Stretched out in a coffin or bent over a barrel, it’s your choice.”

  Colin’s mouth turned down into a sour grimace. “My choices suck.”

  “You found a third option. See, inspiration. That’s the spirit.”

  “I think you might be the devil.”

  “Now you really sound like my mother.”

  Colin groaned. “I’m going to bed.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Dominic crawled out of the small tent he shared with another man and paused long enough to consider killing him in his sleep just to silence his awful snoring. Maybe another time. Tonight, he would take care of the little shit that humiliated and caused him to forfeit two meals. The high-and-mighty commander would get his due as well, but that was dangerous, and it would take some planning. To fail meant his certain death.

  “Hey, where are you going?” one of the inner perimeter guards challenged.

  “I’m going to have a piss. Do you want to hold it for me? You look like a sword polisher.”

  The soldier glared. “Fine, but if you wander far, I’ll put the dogs on you.”

  Dominic growled unintelligibly and strode toward the woodline. Upon reaching the trees, he crept in the direction where he had seen the kid set up his tent. He approached the tent from the rear and pulled out the length of wire he had scavenged. Deep breathing sounded from inside the canvas shelter and helped to mask his footsteps. He undid the laces at the uphill side of the tent, knowing that was where their heads would point.