Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  As Alexander watched, the flames died down a touch and then rose up again, larger than before, as though teasing the falling rainwater, mocking the clouds, daring them to rain more.

  It was a few more minutes before they reached the centre of the commotion, the three burning wagons somehow blending into one. He wiped his hand across his forehead and watched as the droplets fell to the ground, like precious stones in the artificial light of the blaze.

  “You there, Sergeant,” Alexander shouted at the man directing the other soldiers, his voice barely audible over the sounds of curses and exclamations from around the roaring fire.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, snapping instantly to attention, turning his back on the blaze to face his leader.

  The three men instinctively ducked and covered their faces as a remaining powder keg on the furthest wagon exploded, followed closely by the screams and cries of someone nearby.

  “Tell me what happened here,” Alexander demanded.

  “We’re still not entirely sure yet, sir,” the sergeant began, wincing as he watched Alexander’s face redden with anger. “But there was some shooting on the far side of the Great Road, lost two of my guys, one of them point blank through the face. Then the first munitions wagon went up. Best we can figure, they must have thrown whatever it was from up there,” he pointed, “amongst the underbrush. Whoever it was, must’ve had a good arm, is all I say.”

  Alexander was getting angrier by the minute, clenching his fists at his side, fighting back the desire to take his frustrations out on the foolish man before him. Instead, he grabbed at the sergeant’s tunic and pulled him close until they were face to face. “I don’t care how good you think the throw must have been,” he hissed. “All I want to hear from you is who did this and what you’re going to do about it.”

  “The… The first explosion caught the other two wagons beside it,” the sergeant stammered. “Caught my men off guard. Whoever did this made off back into the underbrush or maybe blended back into the crowd somehow.” He felt Alexander’s grip tighten. “But one of my guys said that he hit one of them, insists on it, he does.”

  The sergeant landed heavily on his backside as Alexander turned and pulled Samuel as close to his face as the sergeant had been moments before. “Tell Boshtok I want this fire out and him ready in my chambers within the hour.”

  VI

  “Just hold still for a minute, will you? I need to get a look at this,” Peter insisted as he inspected the graze on Conrad’s left shoulder.

  “Trust me, Pete, it’s just a flesh wound, barely got me at all. I’ll be fine,” Conrad replied as he tried once again to pull his sleeve down and cover the injury.

  “But you almost weren’t,” Peter insisted. “We have to be more careful. One more stunt like that…our luck's not going to hold out forever, you know.”

  Peter left the three men to marvel at their destruction and sat himself down beside Catrina. She shrank away from him as he did so.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied, stern faced as ever.

  “It’s just that, when that second soldier grabbed you like he did,” Peter persisted, “your face was so close to his when you fired. A muzzle flash can burn you real badly, you know.”

  “I’m fine,” she said again and turned fully away from him. Begrudgingly, he let her be.

  “We’ll stay here for a couple of hours,” Peter said as he interrupted the other men’s discussion about the heat and the beauty of the flames, “and sneak back into the convoy nearer the morning. I doubt they’ll send troops this deep into the woodland when it’s this dark, and if they did, they’d never find us, so I think we’ll be safe for now.” Peter sat in between them, nudging Simon to one side as he did so.

  “They’re not going to let this go, you know,” Peter continued, “not a second time. There are going to be troops everywhere after this, edgy and trigger happy, and one wrong move from any of us . . .”

  “Pete,” Donald interrupted, “just take your sergeant’s hat off for a minute, will you? We did it, and we’re okay, we’re all okay. So will you let us worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes?”

  Peter cast a sideways glance at the curled up figure of Catrina and sighed as he left them to take the first watch himself.

  VII

  “So, General, tell me how you explain this fiasco,” Alexander shouted as he pounded his fist hard against the desk in what had become the makeshift war room.

  “I’m not sure, Regent, but I’ll have those responsible in a matter of hours. They can’t get far,” General Boshtok replied, fiddling nervously with the lapel of his coat.

  It was still a few hours until morning, the only light in the room provided by the sparsely placed candles on the desk, casting eerie shadows about their faces.

  Boshtok stood at Alexander’s right and Samuel at his left, the remaining guards and advisers scattered about the room in nervous anticipation of what was to come.

  “They don’t have to get far,” Alexander continued. “There are thousands upon thousands of people out there and this annoying little saboteur could be any one of them. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you can find them by morning? Do you want to stake your life on that?”

  “No, no, my Liege,” Boshtok acquiesced.

  “Then start talking sense, man, and tell me what you are really going to do about it,” Alexander demanded.

  “I, we’ll increase the guards again,” Boshtok suggested. “They’ll never get near the weapons and munitions.”

  “Why am I surrounded by such fools!” Alexander shouted, each person taking an involuntary step back from the table as he did so. “We did that already and it didn’t work! What is your official title, Boshtok, go on, remind me.”

  “Commander of the Regent’s armies,” Boshtok mumbled under his breath.

  “Commander of the Regent’s armies,” Alexander announced. “My armies, if I understand that correctly. So that means that you tell them what to do, and I tell you what to tell them what to do, is that right?”

  The room was silent.

  “My mistake then,” Alexander said. “You were never expected to think for yourself. Now sit down and be silent until I order you to say something.”

  Boshtok lowered his head and shuffled away from the desk.

  “Now, you there,” Alexander continued, pointing towards a scrawny-looking individual at the back of the trailer. “What have you learned from the prisoner so far?”

  “Very little, my Liege,” he replied hurriedly, “but we are slowly wearing him down. We have still to try the Droca weed.”

  “Bring him before me. I will continue the interrogation personally,” Alexander demanded.

  “But, my Liege, we are not long finished with him,” the scrawny man said rapidly. “He is weakened and wounded; he may die if we continue so soon.”

  “So we had best hurry or we may miss what he has to say, do you not agree?” Alexander suggested. The room mumbled in approval as Alexander cast his gaze across them, inviting them to question him again. No one had spine enough left even to speak.

  With a smile more reptilian than human, Alexander dismissed them out into the night.

  They hurried towards the door, leaving their pride at the table, scurrying like a plague of rats leaving a sinking ship.

  “Wait, General,” Alexander called after them, his voice returning to the musical dreamlike tones of a successful politician. “One more point.”

  Boshtok stood apprehensively in the doorway, turning to face Alexander, but unable to meet his gaze.

  “Tell your men that anyone who brings me the heads of these saboteurs will be greatly rewarded,” Alexander informed him.

  “What should I tell them the reward will be?” Boshtok asked hesitantly.

  “Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Alexander considered, “but the position of Commander of the Reg
ent’s armies could well be vacant soon. Now get out of my sight.”

  Boshtok left without saying a word.

  VIII

  The prisoner was brought before Alexander shortly after, battered and beaten, barely alive beneath the bruises and dried blood. He was barely recognisable as Tom, the man Matthew had sent south a little more than a week before. He was unable to walk due to the displaced fracture in his left leg, cruelly manipulated during his interrogation until his limb was irreparably deformed.

  They had kept him awake since his capture, striking him swiftly about the face or head each time he dared lapse into sleep, though sadly, so far, none of the blows had been sufficient to knock him unconscious.

  He was thrown painfully into a chair by the two guards who had carried him from the neighbouring trailer, one of them kicking his broken leg before leaving him in the company of Alexander. He didn’t realise it yet, but his previous ordeals had been only the beginning of his interrogation.

  “It is often said,” Alexander began, “that if you want something done right, you should do it yourself. I believe that they are words to live by.” Alexander paced slowly, head held high, almost speaking to himself as he trod softly around the back of the man's head and then again into his field of vision.

  “We have been here before, I think?” he continued. “I recognised your face, or at least what’s left of it, the moment I saw you. You were brought before me at the palace, sat in a chair very similar to the one you take up now. You spoke to me then, do you remember? Pleading for your life, insisting that you had never killed anyone, crying about how it had all been a terrible mistake. Do you remember that, crying into your hands as you sat before me? I was lenient then, gentle and forgiving of your crimes. I could be that person again, you know, and you could still walk out of here.”

  Alexander chuckled to himself. “Well, maybe not walk,” he said, “but I’m sure you can grasp the sentiment. I will be asking you a series of questions, one after the other, nothing challenging, I assure you. All you have to do is answer them honestly, promptly of course, and then you can leave.”

  Tom said nothing, only strained to watch as Alexander moved about the trailer, fighting to keep his one good eye open and perhaps anticipate the next blow. He had long ago given up any thought of escape and now only wished for a quick death. They had threatened to kill him when he was captured, a bullet in his face, to string him up from the nearest tree, and he was sure that he would not see the light of dawn, but that had been three days ago now, and still he had not been allowed to die.

  He was battered and beaten, tired and weary, but broken only in body and never in spirit. He would never yield. Matthew had trusted him. As Alexander stopped directly in front of him, trying to meet the gaze of his one good eye, he kept the image of his mother in his head, singing him off to sleep with her sweetest lullaby.

  “We’ll start with an easy one, shall we?” Alexander asked. “What do they call you?”

  Tom was unsure whether he was still capable of speech, the dried blood that had sealed closed his right eye also binding together the corners of his mouth. He had been denied all but the merest sips of water since his capture and his tongue felt far too big inside his mouth to form even the most basic of words.

  Alexander took a step closer, stooping until his head was at the same level as his prisoner’s. “They assure me that they have left you with your tongue,” he said, “so I can only assume that you are unwilling to speak to me. I’m not asking you much, you know, only your name. You can at least tell me that. At least I’ll know you can speak and I’m not just standing here, wasting my time.”

  Tom fumbled as his tongue stuck first to the roof of his mouth and then to his bottom lip, only a barely audible hiss escaping his lips.

  “Yes, go on,” Alexander said, leaning in closer to make out the words. This time Tom was able to form his lips into position even though little sound escaped them.

  Alexander nodded his head slowly before standing to his full height. “I only hope your mother never hears you using language like that,” he said, “but then, I suppose she wouldn’t do now, would she, seeing as how I killed her.”

  With a swift and purposeful movement, Alexander turned and brought his heel down hard against Tom’s broken leg, the displaced fracture becoming compound as clean white bone tore through the skin, fresh blood trickling to a pool that collected around his foot. He had barely enough strength left to react to the assault, let alone cry out in pain. Instead, he focussed on his mother’s voice, soothing and peaceful, wishing him pleasant dreams.

  Alexander regained his posture and once again began to pace. Tom could no longer hold his head up long enough to follow his path.

  “Just your name, that was all I wanted,” Alexander continued. “Now look at what you've made me do, just for the price of your name. I’m sorry it came to this, really, I am, but I thought you understood. I will ask the questions and you will answer them, honestly and promptly, or you will be punished. Honestly and promptly, that’s all. I can’t emphasise those two words enough. We have only a little time left, you see, you and I, and I so didn’t want it to come to this. Honestly and promptly, that is all, so I will ask you again. Tell me your name.”

  Alexander stopped midstride and waited, straining to make out words from the sounds scraping their way from the boy’s throat, trying in vain to piece them together into that one word which could be described as his name. After a moment’s pause, he regained his stride.

  “They wanted to use the Droca weed, you know,” he continued. “Force you to speak to us, but I instructed them not to. I believed that you could be spoken to, reasoned with like before, and I still do. All you need is the proper persuasion.”

  Alexander stopped at the table and scanned its contents. Gone were the maps and plans, replaced by an assortment of curved and serrated blades, clamps, pliers, and chains, arranged neatly in a line. He picked up a piece and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it closely before returning it to the table and finding another.

  “It doesn’t really matter you know,” he said, “whether you answer my questions or not. We already know who the saboteurs are, by face if not by name, and it’s only a matter of time before they sit before me as you do now. You only harm yourself by not speaking to me, do you understand that? Harm yourself because there is nothing that you could tell me that I do not already know, apart from, of course, your name. If you would tell me only that, then I would ask you no more.”

  Again, Alexander waited for a sound, a whisper in the darkness, but as before nothing came. “I see, and I thank you,” Alexander said. “If you are not here to speak to me, then I must assume that you can only be here for my amusement, and my boy, I promise you I intend to have a lot of fun with you.”

  At long last, Alexander had decided on the instrument with which he would begin his games, and before the light of dawn could bring a glimmer of redemption, not even the soothing note of his mother’s lullaby could hold back the screaming from within Tom’s head.

  IX

  It was mid-morning before Alexander ordered the body of the prisoner removed from his trailer. He had eventually been allowed to pass out, but his heart was still beating and they would attend to his wounds. Though he had said nothing more, Alexander had resisted the urge to kill him, still intending on using him to learn the identity of the saboteurs.

  Alexander arranged to have his personal items moved to an adjacent trailer while his trailer was cleaned, though he doubted that anyone could ever fully get rid of the smell. The blood, he didn’t mind; it fuelled his passions during the proceedings, but the excrement was a different matter. He could never fully take his mind from it if he were to use the room for other reasons. He was a man of habit, a place for everything and everything in its place, and torture and death needed a room all to themselves.

  This second Road Train was very similar to the first, perhaps a little brighter in the décor, but fundamentally the same.
He had preserved his large table and that was enough to call it home. Besides, it wouldn’t be long before he had a new residence to call his own. These little setbacks had slowed him down, but they were still on track, and when the history books were written, who would remember a few lost days on the road? Before long, he had given the order to set off again and eventually they were under way.

  Peter and Catrina had hidden themselves away until the early hours of the morning, biding their time until it was safe to return. They had managed to insert themselves into a larger group camped on the west side of the road, offering to help gather up the tents as the sun rose. They were shocked to learn that the army had been ordered to hold position and would not be marching that day.

  They were concerned at the delay, as was everyone around them, but before long, the people were preparing breakfast and enjoying the reprieve from the constant exertion. The soldiers seemed to grow in number, but they still didn’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular.

  Conrad's wound was dressed and hidden below his overcoat. He had joined a group further north, Peter having advised them to spend the day separately. A suspicious wound could not be easily explained away and they couldn't risk being captured together.

  Peter was the only one that seemed to see it, to see how dangerous their plans were, how close they had come to being captured or killed. A flesh wound one day is a head shot the next, or worse, to be found alive and tortured until all of their secrets were revealed. He had tried to express his fears the night before, but the others wouldn't listen. They never listened. They would continue doing their own thing until it got them all killed, him along with them.

  It rained again later that day and night, a torrential downpour that soaked them to the skin, but the following morning was dry and fresh. A cool breeze from the east was enough to wake them, but not a wind to chill their bones. That morning there was anticipation, whispers of an announcement, mutterings of an event so important it was sufficient to shadow the tales of the fires and explosions. For the second morning in a row, the armies did not march.