Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  Larson stood as though to leave, collecting his coat from the hook.

  “A moment,” Alexander said, pouring himself another drink. “Were you finished for the evening?”

  “Almost, sir,” Samuel said. “Sunset is upon us again.”

  “Then, please, sit, talk with me a while,” Alexander offered. “You’d be surprised at how few visitors I get back here.”

  Samuel scoured the Regent’s eyes for a hint of an ulterior motive, but found none. He returned his coat to the hook and took his seat at Alexander’s side, emptying his glass so that Alexander could pour him another.

  VI

  The following morning, as it had on every morning of their trip, the rain was again beating holes into the muddy ground with such ferocity that it could have feasibly been rocks and not water falling from the sky. Alexander shook his head as he left his trailer, his hair and clothing soaked in an instant, asking himself again why he was putting himself through this. It had all seemed so clear to him, back in the palace, so simplistic and almost compulsory, but as each day passed and they got further along, he had found his spirit wavering.

  He had tried planning what he was going to say to them, but the words were not forthcoming. He had known days in advance of how he would tell them of the death of the Regent, how he would fire up their spirits into this war with the south, but today, the words were lost to him. He had considered waiting, watching, planning until he knew how to turn them back around, but as each hour passed, he lost more of them, into the woodland beside the Great Road or back the way that they had come.

  No, he had to speak now, go to them and show that he was a man of the people, suffering the same hardships that they were facing, but still focused on their common goal. It had to be him, only him.

  Members of his personal guard saluted him as he left the trailer, parting the crowd of weary-looking soldiers who stood, waiting for his words. His messengers had gone out into the crowds early that morning, telling people to wait, to hold off the march for just a few hours until he had spoken to them all. The news had spread like wildfire so that soon even those at the back of the convoy knew what was coming.

  He moved in silence through the line of soldiers, the splashing of his boots barely audible above the driving rain, before taking his seat on the throne-like chair that had been prepared for him. As he made himself comfortable, eight of his most trusted personal guards lifted the throne high upon their shoulders, raising him above the crowd so that everyone could marvel at his greatness. He had seen such visions in his dreams, thousands of people beneath him as far as the eye could see, waiting only to hear his word.

  The throne was carried slowly back along the road, back towards his people. The military would follow him without question, it was their duty, but it was the people he needed to convince to follow him again. The soldiers followed him anyway, weapons held proudly against their chests, marching in unison behind their leader as a regimental ocean flowing towards the growing crowds.

  The people had moved forwards to hear him, spilling over from the road onto the dirt and grassland beside it, and before long, he was as close to being in the centre of them as he could be. It mattered not. His message would travel from one to the other as quickly as he spoke it.

  It was time.

  He stood, cleared his throat, and wished beyond hope that the words would not escape him.

  “Friends,” he began, “it has been too long since I last spoke to you. I know that our journey has been arduous, and we still have such a long way to go. I know that you, like me, understand the great importance of why we are here, of what we have to do. I lie there at night, unable to sleep, the face of our Regent, Cotran II, alive in my head, speaking to me, guiding me, telling me what we have to do. I know that if he were here today, he would be the one standing here, leading our people to greatness, to victory over oppression.

  “I need you to do something for me, all of you. Look deep within yourself, deep down, and find an image of the Regent inside you, such as the image that speaks to me, and then cast it aside and remember why we are here. He was a great man, perhaps the greatest of men, and they took him from us. They are making themselves stronger and us weaker as they have done so many times before, beating us down into submission. We cannot allow them to do this to us, not again.”

  The people who could hear him were held by his every word, the others understanding the theme of his speech by the grandiose gestures that he was performing on the makeshift stage. And as he spoke, something marvellous happened. For the first time in a week, a single sliver of sunlight broke through the clouds, then another, and another, breaking up the rain clouds like a golden sword. As each of them looked inside themselves, the rain had almost stopped completely, replaced by blinding sun, seemingly shining down on him directly.

  He stood there, arms aloft, relishing in its glory. “Are you with me?” he shouted. “Are you with me?”

  The guards extended their arms, raising the throne as high above the crowd as they could manage, taking him closer to the golden light that was bathing their leader.

  “This is our time,” he told them. “Our place, so tell me, are you with me?”

  There was a cry of elation from the crowd, spreading outwards from the centre, rippling through the crowd like a mighty ocean.

  “Onwards to victory!” he shouted and “Victory!” came back the reply, chanted over and over until the sound was almost deafening.

  Peter and Catrina stood near the outskirts of the crowd, but not far enough away to avoid almost being crushed as the crowd surged forwards. Peter couldn’t believe what he was seeing. On the previous night, as he had returned to his fire from their secret rendezvous, he had heard many hushed tones about leaving, returning home, and even a breath of outright revolt. But now, with a matter of a few words and an amazingly coincidental change in the weather, the people were more dedicated than they ever had been, and that wasn’t the end of it.

  “My people,” Alexander continued, “I have something for you. I was going to wait until we were nearer, but now I ask myself why. If we are to think as one, act as one, we should look as one, a mighty community, a family. A soldier is a soldier because of his heart and his uniform. I see now that your hearts are already in the right place, so now you must look the part.”

  As he spoke, crates were opened and their contents thrown amongst the crowds. They were plain green tunics and nothing more, no stripes, no medals, but they were all the same, and that was what mattered. There would never be enough to go around, but that didn’t matter. Those who had one would be happy, and those who didn’t would know someone who did, someone they could march beside, wherever he told them to go.

  Maybe it had all been the rain. As he felt the warmth of the sun upon his face, Alexander felt his spirit rise, and he felt good about himself again. It was his time and his cause was just. There would be no stopping him now.

  VII

  The good spell of weather lasted for less than an hour, but it had done perhaps more than his words ever could. The people were behind him again and the army had recommenced its long journey south.

  Alexander stood in the second Road Train, discussing more of the forthcoming plans with General Boshtok.

  “That was quite something out there, Regent, quite something indeed,” Boshtok said, rolling up one tactical map before unfurling another.

  “Perhaps, General, perhaps,” Alexander agreed. “You know as well as I do though that we need them. Our intelligence reports suggest that the bulk of the Draxian army is to be found to the south, and the advance troops may have had some successes, but without the conscripts, we don’t have the forces to succeed. I have no intention to stop at Draxis, as you well know.”

  “It was still impressive though, my Liege,” Boshtok said.

  “It was nothing really, General,” Alexander told him. “I could blame the Southern Baronies for this awful weather and those mindless peasants would probably believe me.”
>
  “Too true, my Lord, too true,” Boshtok laughed, raising his glass high and downing the contents in one hearty gulp.

  Slowly, they completed their discussion, their voices raised to be heard above the incessant drumming of the rain on the trailer's roof, directing strategies and troop movements. Boshtok agreed without question as Alexander detailed the changes he had decided to make to the plan.

  Alexander preferred it that way. It was the way it should be, those below him following his directions to the letter. To allow himself to become close to these people, if perhaps one day he lost his mind and found himself wanting to, he could not allow them to question his judgements, his plans, or it all could fall apart. He was their leader; he had taken what he had wanted, and that was the role he would play until the end.

  He intended to enjoy each and every minute of it.

  VIII

  They met again the following night, Peter, Catrina, and the others, crouched in a huddle beside the wagon, trying in vain to shelter themselves from the driving rain.

  “Did you get that guy, yesterday I mean?” Simon asked. “That chair and all. Who does he think he is?” Simon was obviously angered by what had occurred, his voice hurried and perhaps louder than it should have been.

  “He’s the Regent,” was all Peter said, his face betraying his inner worry at the events unfolding around him. The citizens of Island City were no longer the people he had served under, or led, or even arrested only a matter of weeks before. Whatever had driven Alexander to do what he had done was obviously contagious, and they all had it now, a wanton bloodlust for anyone of southern descent. His friends would all have to be on their guard.

  “But that trick with the sunlight,” Conrad asked. “How could he do something like that?”

  “He couldn’t,” Peter told them. “It was luck; coincidence and nothing more. Don’t let yourself think otherwise, or you might as well be fighting for his side, spreading his words, his propaganda.”

  “Come on, Pete, there’s no need for that,” Conrad said, hurt by the accusation.

  “No, it's true,” Peter continued. “Those people out there already believe he’s more than he is, leading them on a noble cause, and I doubt now if any words from us could convince them otherwise. I was hoping we could succeed without resorting to violence, but after that stunt yesterday, there’s no way we could ever convince enough of them of the truth. You need to keep that truth in your head though, focus on it, because if you start to believe in anything this Regent says, we’ve already lost.”

  “Okay, we get your point,” Simon agreed. “You got a plan?”

  “No, but I was hoping that maybe you would,” Peter said.

  “Maybe,” Donald said. “Maybe.”

  “So, spit it out,” Conrad suggested.

  “Well,” Donald told them, “there’s no way we’d have a chance near the front of the convoy, they’d be all over us in a second, but there’s wagons, near the back, loaded up with foodstuffs and looks like some liquor too. After the soldiers are done distributing the food, it’s left almost unguarded. I was just thinking, if we could get close enough, a lot of that stuff would probably burn. It’s not much I know, but once the food runs out, it’ll definitely start to slow the armies down, and if the people aren’t being fed, they’re less likely to hang around, right?”

  “It sounds good in principle, Don,” Peter agreed. “A start at least. You think we can pull it off?”

  “Yes, I do,” Donald said. “You in?”

  They all nodded except Catrina, though they all knew that she’d agree to anything that involved harming the invaders. Peter wasn’t even sure that she had heard any of the conversation so far until she demanded to be the one who lit the fire.

  “I’m not sure, Catrina. Are you up to it?” Peter asked.

  “Yes,” she replied in her monotonous voice.

  “Then I’ll be with you all the way,” Peter insisted. Catrina didn't reply, but held his gaze like a hawk.

  “So that’s decided then,” Donald said, trying to raise the tone to something above sombre. “When do we do it?”

  “I don’t know about you, but my evening’s pretty free tonight. What do you say?” Conrad said.

  “Okay,” Peter said, “but we can’t all go. If we all get captured together, it’s all over. Catrina and I will go, Donald too, to show us exactly where this is, but I want you two guys as far away from there as possible. If something does go wrong, I don’t want there to be any way that they could trace us back to you, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Sarge,” Conrad replied with a mock salute, but no one was laughing.

  As they went their separate ways, they agreed to meet again the following night, to relish in their victory or seek comfort in their failure. If there was any time they needed a victory, this was it. Only success could bring them what they the needed most: a glimmer of hope.

  By the time the wagon was in sight, night had been upon them for nearly an hour and people had left the road to the campfires and temporary shelters beside them.

  Donald had been right. There was no one guarding the wagon as far as any of them could see, but there were guards and soldiers everywhere they looked, sharing in the food and conversation at the campfires, or huddled in small groups against the cold, sharing tales of past victories.

  The rain clouds were obscuring the minimal moonlight that could betray their presence, but the light from the campfires was still enough to cast shadows against the dim backdrop of the Great Road.

  Catrina was set to charge straight in, throwing caution to the wind, but Peter was intent on holding her back, forcibly if he had to, until they had a working plan set out before them. Setting the wagons alight would be their best strategy, doing significant damage to the contents to render them useless, but an arguable accident should the need arise. All that remained was the how.

  Peter led the assault, Catrina closely at his side, taking cover behind an empty wagon, its precious cargo already consumed during the previous week. They were out of sight of most of the surrounding campfires, but if a patrol were to walk past, they were as exposed as if it had been high noon on the sunniest day of the year.

  Donald held back, the lookout, a selection of prearranged animal calls at his disposal to warn them of an approach. The thought never crossed their minds that if he could see them, so could any of the passing soldiers, but at that stage it was already too late to matter.

  The rain became worse as they broke cover, mixed with hail, beating hard against the ground, stinging their cold and tired faces. An arc of lightning split the sky as they moved from the relative safety of the empty wagon, momentarily betraying their position to anyone who happened to be looking in their direction, followed closely by a boom of rolling thunder. It was impossible for them to tell if they had been seen, but the water was already running into their eyes, obscuring their vision, so it was safe to assume that it was having the same effect on all those around them.

  The nearer they came to the second wagon, the target, the worse the rain became. They could see blurs of movement from the corners of their eyes as the people at the surrounding campfires scrambled for shelter. By the time they had reached their objective, Peter noted that most of the campfires had been doused by the sudden flurry of water, leaving nothing but exaggerated hisses and seemingly endless plumes of smoke. The night was suddenly at its darkest, their eyes denied any natural or unnatural light, a mixed blessing for the task that lay ahead.

  Peter retrieved his prize from the confines of his jacket, one of the green tunics Alexander had distributed to the masses the day before, and handed it hurriedly to Catrina. “Try and keep it dry,” he whispered as he fed his hand up through the gaps in the side of the wagon. “Hold it here, underneath the cart.”

  Catrina did as she was told, holding the garment out of reach of the relentless rain, ignoring her hair, which was plastered against her face.

  Peter could barely feel his fingers as he searched thr
ough the contents of the wagon as best he could. The temperature had dropped rapidly around them and Peter was close to shivering. Catrina had already begun to do so.

  “Got it,” he hissed as he pulled the bottle of liquor from its place within the wagon, dislodging a small sack of flour in the process. There was some noise, but barely enough to hear above the weather.

  The bottle was still full, at least for a moment. Peter uncorked the top and poured a healthy quantity over the tunic, soaking it and Catrina’s hands in the process. He then proceeded to force the tunic into the bottle as far as it would go, leaving a sufficient quantity on the outside to light.

  He had originally planned to leave it under the wagon, hidden in shadows, but close up he was unsure as to how effective it would be. Instead, he forced it back into the side of the wagon, underneath the bag of flour, the taper hanging out over the edge.

  The fumes from the tunic were intoxicating in their vapours, so he was sure that he could get them to light. He removed the tinderbox from his pocket and flicked at the lever vigorously, trying in vain to shield it from the elements. Catrina became more aware of what was happening around her and cupped her hands over the anticipated flame, willing it to light with the strength of her gaze.

  A second bolt of lightning coincided with the winning spark, the combination of shadows across Catrina’s face offering an impromptu vision of her troubled soul, a barren picture of emptiness and death, of fear and loneliness.

  Peter found himself again wondering what he could do to help this woman. He had promised Matthew that he would keep her safe from harm, but he could see that he needed to do so much more. He had tried not to let himself feel responsible for what his people had done to her, taking her life and destroying it before her very eyes, but he was born of the same world as those around him. Nights were the worst, when he was left alone with only his thoughts. Sleep had been a rarity since leaving the relative safety of his old life.