Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  “Nothing’s right anymore, Don, nothing,” Pete replied, his face sombre and his gaze distant. Donald rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “We'll find her,” Donald continued. “We have to. Simon's meeting us tonight, after dark by the red crates, you remember?”

  Peter nodded and Donald gave his shoulder a last comforting squeeze before drifting back into the anonymity of the crowd.

  II

  General Boshtok carefully reviewed the map before answering, wary of angering the Regent. “I would place our position here, my Liege,” he said. “We should be within sight of Maleton in another two weeks.”

  Alexander moved around the table to get a better look at where he was indicating.

  “Any news from our scouts?” he asked, meeting the General’s gaze.

  “Reports from this morning suggest nothing out of the ordinary,” Boshtok informed him. “The route is clear for at least the next three days’ travel. There hasn't been any contact with the advance forces as yet, but I wouldn't expect to hear from them for another week at the earliest.”

  Alexander nodded. “And the troops?” he asked.

  “Morale appears good,” Boshtok said, “thanks to you my Liege. The weather isn't helping, but the celebration two nights ago certainly made a big difference. There have been the usual losses. Accidents, illness and the like, but no more than I would expect for an operation of this size.”

  Alexander smiled. There hadn't been an operation of this size for over a hundred years, and then it had ended with the armies of the Southern Baronies marching north in retaliation. This time would be different, though. He would not stop. There would be no treaty, no resolution.

  He would have his victory.

  He would have his revenge.

  “There have been very few reports of desertion,” Boshtok continued, “and those that have been found have been executed per your instructions. The conscripts are coming along nicely too, it seems. They should make a serviceable fighting force by the time we reach Draxis.”

  “And now you see, General,” Alexander informed him. “That is all it takes.”

  “I . . . I don't follow, my Liege?” Boshtok asked.

  “People, Boshtok, people?” Alexander said, exasperated. “They don't want to lead; they want to be led! Tell a man where to go, what to do, and how to do it, and he is happy. I am making our people happy, General, like a Regent should.”

  “Yes, of course, my Liege,” Boshtok agreed.

  General Boshtok was increasingly confused. Part of his mind knew that Alexander was mad, but he couldn't not listen to him, follow his instructions. He was scared of him and, of course, he should be. He had seen the southern boy, up close, before he was executed, but it was more than that, somehow. He wanted Alexander to be happy, he wanted to please him, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

  General Boshtok nodded and rolled the maps back into their tube. All of a sudden, he felt like he needed some fresh air.

  “I wasn't aware that we had finished?” Alexander asked, pulling Boshtok from his trance.

  “My apologies, my Liege,” Boshtok said quickly. “What would you have me do?”

  “You have yet to tell me of your progress with the interrogations,” Alexander continued. “Have you learned anything useful?”

  “So far, my officers have questioned a total of twenty-seven individuals, a mixture of conscripts and regular troops, as I understand it,” Boshtok informed him. “The southerner who confessed to the attack still refuses to give up his accomplices, though I assure you that I have my best men on it.”

  “And I am sure they are most capable, but perhaps it is time I should speak to him myself?” Alexander suggested.

  “Of course, my Liege,” Boshtok said. “I shall have him brought to you directly.”

  “And now you may go,” Alexander concluded with a wave of his hand. General Boshtok saluted and made for the rear of the carriage.

  “Ah, General,” Alexander added as Boshtok opened the door, “give me an hour. Perhaps I should eat before I question him.”

  III

  Matthew called them to a halt an hour or so after dark. They had seen no shelter as yet, but the light was poor and to press on was becoming increasingly risky. He called Carl over to review the map whilst Joe and Ben went to gather firewood.

  “I don't know how good this map is,” Matthew began, scrutinising the parchment in the low light. “Victor places his settlement here, which means we have been heading too far to the west. He thinks Garstang is here.” He pointed to another section of the map, close to the Great Road. “But that means we are way behind schedule.”

  “It's not your fault, boss,” Carl reassured him. “When we came out of the tunnels and into the boats, we could've landed anywhere on the northern coast. You did your best and led us south, which, considering that Ben didn't have much of an idea where he came from, was all anyone could have done.”

  “I don't know,” Matthew interrupted.

  “You've gotten us this far, and you'll get us home,” Carl finished, taking the map from Matthew and returning it to a pocket in his coat.

  Matthew nodded, but his body language betrayed him. He already felt that it was too late, that he had made the wrong decision, that he should never have let Catrina go off without him. His father had always been the leader, not him. What would he think of him now?

  Carl left Matthew to his thoughts and wandered over to the edge of the clearing where Arian and Safran were speaking.

  “Safran, come help me with this, will you? As soon as the fire is ready, I want to set it cooking,” Arian said, cutting pieces of meat and vegetables before adding them to the pot of water.

  “That is not my place. My father . . .” she began before Carl interrupted.

  “Your father taught you better,” he said, his voice stern. Safran scowled at him, but removed the knife from her belt and knelt beside Arian.

  “Arian, a word if you please,” Carl continued, gesturing Arian to follow him. She gave him a puzzled look and handed the remainder of the food to Safran to finish preparing.

  Once they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, Carl began, “I'm worried about him, Arian.”

  “Me too,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder at her husband-to-be. He hadn't moved since Carl had left him, staring off into the distance at the far away mountains.

  “The other morning,” she continued, “in Sanctuary, he woke in such good cheer. He was my Matthew again. But now, now he's so distant. He hardly sleeps, hardly eats. I'm scared, Carl.”

  Carl stopped and rested an arm on her shoulder. “We're all scared,” he said, “for our families, friends, but he's trying to take it all upon himself. I've tried to talk to him, but he won't open up to me. I was just hoping...”

  “He isn't talking to me either, not like he used to, but you're right, that's no reason not to try. You're a good man, Carl, I hope you realise,” she finished, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

  With the tinder that they had brought with them from Sanctuary, and the pieces of dry wood that had been gathered, they were able to start a small fire and warm through the stew that Arian and Safran had prepared. As he had on the two previous nights, Matthew sat a short way away from the rest of the group. Arian gathered two bowls and sat down next to him.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, taking the food from her with barely a glance. He made no move to eat it.

  Arian said nothing, following his gaze towards the distant mountains as she ate. They sat that way for ten minutes or more until the silence became unbearable.

  “I'm sorry,” she began. “I've failed you.”

  Matthew turned to her, startled. It was the last thing he expected her to say. Her face was awash with tears as she continued.

  “We are to be married,” she continued, “yet you can't bring yourself to talk to me. These last few weeks, after everything that's happened, and you're like a stranger. If you can't let me be
there for you during the worst times, there is no future for us, not as husband and wife.”

  She wasn't sure how much of it she really meant, but she had tried everything else to get him to talk to her. Matthew just stared at her, open mouthed.

  “No, I . . . it's me, I've failed you, all of you,” he stammered, casting his bowl aside and reaching for her. Arian pushed him away, not wanting to be held.

  “How . . . how did you fail us?” she demanded. “We agreed on the plan, all of us.”

  “No, it was my decision, my responsibility,” he informed her. “Now we're so late, so lost.”

  “Lost?” she asked, momentarily sidetracked.

  “Well, no, not really,” he clarified, “but we aren't where I wanted us to be, where we should be. It's all my fault Arian, you followed me and I failed you all.”

  Arian pulled him in close then, holding him tight as he cried with her. “We follow you because we believe in you, Matthew,” she told him. “We all believe in you; we always have.”

  She held him closer as he cried away his guilt, his anger, his fear.

  “I tried to save him, you know,” he said as the tears soaked into her clothes, “in the cell, Edward. He'd just lost so much blood, he was just . . . not even Catrina could help him.”

  “I know, Matthew,” she replied soothingly. “We were there, you did everything that you could. There was nothing that anyone could have done.”

  “And Adam, Daniel,” he continued. “They were so; they couldn't hurt anyone. Why? It's just so hard.” His sobs became louder, deeper, and she held him tighter as he allowed himself to grieve.

  “It wasn't you, Matthew,” she whispered. “You didn't hurt them, it's not your fault. I love you Matthew, I love you, and together we can get through this. Let me in, let me help you.”

  He said nothing more, yet she held him, comforted him, until he fell asleep in her arms.

  IV

  Conrad was strapped to a chair, bloodied and disorientated from the repeated beatings at the hands of General Boshtok's officers. Seven men had died in the explosion and subsequent blaze, several more injured, and the interrogators had made sure that Conrad had felt their pain. Most of his hair had been burned away and the left side of his chest was a mess of angry red flesh, but still, he wouldn't talk.

  Alexander entered the trailer attached to the first Road Train, Samuel Larson at his side. Neither of them were expecting the smell.

  “My, my, they have been busy haven't they? And you're still with us? Good,” Alexander said as he took a seat opposite Conrad. He realised that he was right to have swapped trailers. Though the remains of the last prisoner had been removed, there were still pieces of him on the walls and floor.

  Samuel hadn't been sure what to expect, but this wasn't it, not by a long way. He held back, near the door, struggling to keep his evening meal in his stomach.

  Conrad met his eyes as Alexander looked him up and down. “You are a tough one,” Alexander said. “I can tell. There aren't many who would survive this, let alone manage to keep silent. I'm impressed.”

  Conrad said nothing, steadying his breathing, focussing on controlling the pain.

  “I see that you gave your name as Conrad son-of-Thomas,” Alexander continued, “and you are a citizen of Draxis. I'd never met my father as a boy, didn't even know his name until I was a man.

  “And you claimed to be a survivor from the Road Trains,” he said after a moment’s pause, “escaped from the dungeons. Of course, my officers didn't believe you; they had seen all of the survivors executed, after all. But no need for secrets here.”

  Conrad cast his gaze at the young officer near the door.

  “Yes,” Alexander said, indicating Samuel. “Larson here, he has been of great service to me during these difficult times. I have high hopes for him, and you are to be another step in his training.”

  Samuel looked as surprised as Conrad did, shaking his head as Alexander continued to speak.

  “I can see that you are unlikely to talk,” he said. “You have already endured so much, but if you would just tell me the names of your conspirators, I can end it quickly for you. My men have already been on the lookout for your leader, Matthew, and the big one with the scar, but who else is here with you, hmm? Just give me a name and I can make all of the pain go away, here and now.”

  Conrad said nothing.

  “As I thought,” Alexander concluded. “No matter, there is still so much that you can teach us.”

  Alexander rose from his chair and gestured for Samuel to join him. After a moment’s hesitation, Samuel did as he was bid.

  “It is an art, Larson, the administration of pain, but one that can be taught,” Alexander began, pointing at the damage done to Conrad's body. “But pain is not always the most effective motivator, especially when delivered as crudely as this.”

  He pointed to the large burned area on Conrad's chest. “Burn too deeply,” he informed him, “and the prisoner may feel no pain at all, or beat them too severely and they fall unconscious, no longer suffering.”

  Samuel tried to look somewhere, anywhere away from the figure tied to the chair, but Alexander kept calling his gaze back.

  “So now we must decide,” Alexander told him, “do we try other methods? There are drugs that can encourage a man to speak, but they can just as easily kill him in the process. Deny a man sleep and eventually he will tell you anything, but it can take so long. Or do we continue as we are, assume that the pain has just not been sufficient enough, and redouble our efforts, hmm?”

  Samuel went green, losing his battle with his stomach, and staggered back towards the rear of the trailer. He was sick a few steps before the open door.

  Alexander smiled. Not everyone had the stomach for the work that needed doing, but he would learn. Alexander had come close to killing him, once he had leant of the plans, but Samuel had embraced his orders with enthusiasm. This was only a slight backwards step, but Samuel had shown such promise, a promise that should be nurtured and not destroyed.

  “Perhaps another time, Larson,” Alexander said as Samuel vomited a second time.

  “My Liege,” he tried to say, but Alexander stopped him with a gesture.

  “Do not worry yourself any further,” Alexander told him. “Leave us. I have everything I need.”

  Samuel cast a last look towards Conrad before leaving the trailer, his face pale as he staggered out into the night. Alexander shook his head and returned to the matter at hand.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked. “Ah, yes, the pain. I do not believe that my predecessors were able to deliver pain in sufficient quantities to loosen your tongue. I would like to test that theory, yes?”

  V

  Donald and Simon were already crouched beside the wagon when Peter arrived, moving from shadow to shadow to avoid detection. The number of trained solders at the rear of the convoy had increased in the last three days, but the bulk of the forces were still to be found near the front. The conscripts, as the civilians were being called, stuck to the campfires after dark, away from the wagons and stores.

  “Glad you made it,” Donald said as he knelt down beside them, giving Peter a hearty tap on the shoulder.

  “Me too,” Peter replied, casting another look over his shoulder. “There seem to be soldiers everywhere. I moved through the scrubland before cutting through here. I don't think I was seen.”

  “No, me either,” Simon added.

  “Any news on Catrina?” Donald asked.

  Peter shook his head. He had spent his day searching, just like the day before, but there was no sign of her.

  “I don't think the soldiers are looking for her,” Simon said, leaning in closer. “I heard two of them talking. They've been told to look out for Matthew from the descriptions they were given, Carl, too, I think, but they don't seem to know anything about us.”

  “So he gave himself up for nothing,” Donald said, shaking his head.

  “I don't know why he did it,” Simon
whispered, the anger clearly evident on his face. “I thought he was stronger than that.”

  Peter said nothing. Seeing the young man up on the stage, broken and helpless, he wanted to do anything to help him. He had sensed that Catrina did too, which was why she had struggled so much. He knew though, that Alexander wouldn't let the boy live, and he had been right, but it still didn't make him feel any better. If he could go back, he wasn't sure how he would react a second time.

  “He is strong,” Peter said at last, “or he would have told them about us.”

  Donald and Simon stared at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Pete," Simon replied, clearly taken aback. "I didn't mean anything by it."

  Peter said nothing more on the subject and brought them back to the problem at hand. "We need to find Catrina," he told them, the anguish evident in his voice. "I'm worried about what she might do. She seemed to close in on herself, after the execution, but then she was just gone."

  "We looked, Pete, today, both of us," Donald said, concern on his face, "but there was no sign of her. Do you think she was taken? The Regent said he knew who we were."

  "I don't believe him,” Peter told them. “I don't believe anything he said. You said it yourself; they're looking for Matthew and Carl, and they're miles away from here. I think they just know who escaped from the dungeon and it's only Matthew and Carl that they have a good description of. People knew them before all of this, so they should be easier to spot in the crowd."

  Donald and Simon took a moment to think over what Peter had said. If he was right, they were safe, for now.

  "We can't just run, though,” Simon said after some thought, “even if they did know who we are, not until we know what happened to Catrina."

  Peter and Donald nodded in unison.

  "Where do you think she'd go?" Donald asked.

  Peter had thought of nothing else for the last two days, but the only answer that made any sense to him was almost impossible to confirm. "She's not herself, not thinking straight. I don't think she would have run," he began and Donald nodded his head in agreement. "I think she wants revenge. It's the only thing that's making sense to her at the moment. I think she intends to go after the Regent."