Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  Chapter 6

  I

  “Cheer up, Ben, it could be worse,” Carl said as Ben trudged along at the back of the group, head held low as he tried to ignore the constant trickle of water dripping from the tip of his nose.

  “How?” Ben asked, smearing his hair back on his forehead for the umpteenth time.

  “Well,” Carl said, rubbing his chin, “we could, well, oh come on, give me a minute.”

  Carl was still trying to be cheerful, but everyone else was content being miserable and depressed. The stories of Carl’s many conquests had quickly ceased to get a laugh, and even rubbing at the fuzzy stubble on Carl’s scalp had all but lost its appeal.

  They were heading directly south now, Matthew still at the head of the group, forever the leader, with Arian clinging closely to his side. They could not have been worse prepared for the weather they encountered, from their clothes and shoes to the hunting and catching of food. Most of the creatures had the good sense to stay well hidden undercover or underground. The small supplies that they had brought with them from the farmhouse had lasted only a few days.

  “Go on then,” Ben said, reluctantly continuing the conversation, “you’ve had your minute.”

  “Well, I could still be carrying you,” Carl suggested. “I don’t know about you, but that’d make this journey worse for me.”

  “If you think that’s bad, just imagine if I ended up carrying you,” Ben said as he jabbed his elbow into Carl's waist.

  “That's it!” Carl replied as he grasped Ben’s head in a mock headlock and pulled him towards the ground, grinding his knuckles into Ben’s scalp and causing droplets of water to fly everywhere. Ben resisted, but for both men it was the most fun that they’d had in what seemed to be a very long time.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Matthew bellowed from the front of the group. They stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Matthew continued, “it’ll be getting dark soon and we need to find some shelter. And seeing as how you’ve both got so much energy, you can each take a watch tonight?”

  They both nodded as they tried to hold back the smirks from their faces. Ben wasn’t sure about how young people were educated in this world, but for him he felt like he was five again, getting caught talking at the back of the class.

  With that thought in his head, Ben rejoined the rest of the small group as they continued on their journey.

  II

  Peter and the others stood there, open-mouthed, their hearts beating in their throats as they got their first real view of the invading armies. Tom’s description hadn’t even begun to do it justice.

  From where they stood, they could see thousands of people moving together, like the flow of a river, as they began their trek on the Great Road southward. There were a few outliers, but the main throng of people moved as one along a road only forty metres wide, a huge crowd of people stretching southward as far as the eye could see.

  Interspersed throughout, they could see hundreds of carts and wagons, pulled by men or cattle, and loaded high with equipment and supplies. There looked to be enough to sustain the entire army for weeks or months, if need be.

  As Tom had described, there were soldiers intermixed throughout the civilians, but that looked to be more a matter of control than friendly interaction. Soldiers near the sides of the group seemed to be herding the people along like cattle, but the joy on the people’s faces suggested that they didn’t actually mind. The look on the soldiers’ faces suggested a slightly different opinion.

  The main bulk of the military could be seen nearer the front of the army, tides of dark green uniforms almost drowning out the ripples of civilian clothing that could be seen near the horizon. They were too far away to see what weapons they were carrying, but the carts at the front of the group didn’t look like they were loaded with food. Peter wasn’t sure, but the faint outline he could see through the beating rain suggested cannons at least and maybe a catapult or two for good measure.

  “Come on, before they spot us,” Peter said as he started down the rise towards the Great Road. They approached near the rear of the army, intending to duck into the throng before they were spotted. Unfortunately, they weren’t so lucky.

  “Hey, you there, where have you been?” someone shouted from behind them.

  A young soldier was running towards them along the side of the road, waving in an attempt to get their attention. The small group looked worriedly amongst themselves as he neared them, silenced with the fear that they may have lost everything at the first hurdle.

  “Just shut up and go along with anything I say,” Peter said under his breath as he took two steps towards the soldier who was almost on top of them.

  “I just saw you coming over the rise,” the soldier demanded. “Where have you been?”

  “I went to see my . . . my uncle,” Peter offered. “He’s got a farm not far from here, I thought maybe he’d want to tag along. He’s no love for those southerners, not after all they’ve done for him.”

  “Is that right?” the soldier asked. He was trying to give an impression of being professional and inquisitive, but the disinterested look on his face told a different story. He was already tired and fed up of being in charge of all the civilians, wandering off when they felt like it or just stopping when they were tired and felt like a rest. This was supposed to be a professional military operation; timing and precision were crucial and they couldn’t run the risk of blowing it all because a group of untrained, undisciplined hicks couldn’t be bothered to follow orders.

  He was about to say something to that effect when he realised that he didn’t really care. They could cope with losing a few here and there, they were only cannon fodder, after all. As long as he wasn’t the one who ended up getting shot at, he could probably learn to live with it for the next few weeks until they got to Draxis.

  “Yes, but they had already left. They’re probably already here, you know, somewhere,” Peter said, a sweeping gesture of his hand indicating the colossal crowd around them. A few people had already stopped at the side of the road to see what was going on, much to the young soldier’s disapproval.

  “Yes, probably. Well,” the soldier glanced at the soiled and torn stripes on Peter’s shoulders, “sergeant, you should know better than to wander off when you’ve been told to stay with your platoon. You can go look for your family later, but right now, you should keep moving. There’s still a lot of ground to cover before nightfall, and,” he turned to the small group that had gathered to watch, “that goes for the rest of you too. Come on, look lively.”

  Peter smiled at the soldier before the soldier turned and started back towards the rear of the army, shaking his head in disbelief. At that moment, he would have given almost anything to be at the front with his comrades, marching in perfect lines with his chest pushed out and his rifle balanced perfectly against his side.

  A few weeks, that was all, just a few, long weeks. Surely he could cope with it for that long, couldn’t he?

  Of course he could, he was a soldier, after all. But, for now, all he could do was shake his head.

  “That was close,” Donald said as the small crowd that started to gather around them slowly dispersed.

  Peter started to move south beside the rest of the group, indicating that the others should follow, but he kept them off the road for a while longer so that any conversation between them could not be overheard.

  “That was nothing, not really,” Peter began. “Everyone you meet is going to ask you something or other, and you can’t afford to mess it up.”

  “I know, Pete,” Donald replied in hushed tones. “It’s just that, you know, we didn’t expect it, not straight off like that. We weren’t ready, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Peter said, “but I think we should all split up, see what we can learn separately, and just take a moment to think about what you’re going to say before you say it. Watch your accents, they
’re a dead give away, and any trouble just make for the wastes, seems like the soldiers don't care too much about the odd straggler.”

  “Got it,” Simon said.

  “Right,” Peter told them. “We all meet up in two days, at sunset.”

  The three men nodded, but Catrina just continued to stare at the long line of people moving towards her homeland.

  “Catrina, meet up in two days, okay?” Peter said again.

  “Okay,” she replied, her voice, like her face, expressionless.

  “Right, where do we meet then?” Peter asked, trying to keep things running smoothly.

  “What about over there,” Conrad suggested, “by that wagon with the red labelled crates. They should be easy enough to spot from wherever we are.”

  “Good plan,” Peter acknowledged. “So are we agreed: two days, sunset, at the crates?”Again, all but Catrina nodded.

  “Well, let’s get back to the road then, shall we,” he suggested. “I don’t know about you, but I could do without that soldier coming and asking us any more awkward questions. I’m fresh out of answers this time.”

  They approached the road and blended easily with the crowds, nodding and smiling at everyone around them as though they had known each other all their lives, united by a hatred of a common enemy.

  They slowly separated, Conrad and Simon holding back near the rear of the group while Donald attempted to push his way forwards, intent on investigating the contents of the foremost wagons.

  Catrina made her own way forwards, forcibly pushing her way through the crowds of marching people, bringing her far more attention than she would have liked, had she been in the right frame of mind to care. Abiding by his promise, Peter stayed close to her, following her as she barged her way between throngs of people, attempting to pacify them as he passed.

  As night fell, the marching armies slowly disbanded from their lines and moved to the lands at the side of the road to start fires and prepare for the night’s rest. Soldiers collected sacks of food and supplies from the many wagons along the length of the road and distributed them fairly among the civilians, enough food to keep them all alive, but not so much so as to run into shortages later in the trip.

  Catrina found herself ushered into a small group surrounding one of the many barely burning fires. The damp conditions were making it hard on everyone, with dry wood being stockpiled at the head of the armies to fuel the advancing Road Trains. Each fire was barely hot enough to light the immediate space around it, so instead the people had to rely on the minimal light from the crescent moon shining overhead.

  A young man almost dragged her from the road as he attempted to impress her with his mindless banter and boyish grin.

  “Come sit by the fire with me,” he offered. “I can’t let one as sweet and innocent as you catch her death of cold from the rain.”

  “I’ll be fine over here,” Catrina responded, trying in vain to pull away from his grip. Had she really wanted to, she could have put him down and escaped, but until that was absolutely necessary, she was reluctant to draw the attention of the numerous soldiers all around them still distributing food.

  “No, it’s okay, really, I don’t mind,” he continued. “Besides, you’re not really dressed for this outdoor lark. I can see the icy bumps from here.”

  He reached down to stroke the rising goose flesh on her arm, but she pulled it violently away from him, shocking him into a momentary silence.

  “Okay,” he said slowly as his voice returned, the tone noticeably different as he began to realise that he was fighting a losing battle. “Fine, I get it, sure. You just go off and freeze to death. See if I care.”

  With his closing comment, he released his grip on her arm, muttering obscenity after obscenity under his breath as he met his friends around their fire. One of the older men laughed aloud as he approached, slapping him on the back as he passed. Helping himself to a mug of mead from a barrel on the food wagon, he sat at the fire with his friends and began to drown his sorrows.

  Peter had watched the scene from one of the neighbouring groups, along with those around him, though unlike his newfound comrades, he didn’t find the scene very amusing. It took all of his strength to resist intervening, to hold back and not beat the young man into the ground. He was glad for a moment that Carl or Matthew had not been around to see it, doubting that they would have been able to maintain a similar resolve.

  For a long while, Catrina sat by herself away from any of the fires, gazing up to the stars as she nibbled on a piece of salted meat that had been given to her by a passing soldier.

  All this time, while her gaze was directed skywards, the young man and his friends were slowly emptying the keg of ale with their gaze fixed solidly on her. It was not until they had almost surrounded her that she even knew they had moved from their place around the fire.

  “Hey, girl,” the older man who had slapped his friend on the back said, “what you got against my good friend here. He’s a nice lad, really, ain’t no reason for you to treat him so bad. He only wants to be your friend.”

  The other men around her emitted a guttural laughter as the older man said “friend.” Catrina tried to stand, but was pushed forcibly back to the ground with a thump.

  The men were obviously drunk, the smell of ale overwhelming as they staggered and swayed as they moved, but even though they knew what was likely to happen, most people at the surrounding campfires chose to ignore the ongoing situation rather than get involved themselves. Fortunately, Peter was not one of them.

  He was already to his feet as the men moved to surround her, hands clenched tightly at his sides as he tried to suppress the growing rage and carry himself in a more dignified and professional manner.

  “Come on, he ain’t going to hurt you, not really,” the older man continued.

  The young man lurched forwards, hand reaching out to stroke Catrina’s face in a gesture of lustful wanting, unbalanced but still able to stand. Unable to bear his touch for a second time, Catrina reached forwards and gripped his hand tightly, bending it painfully at the wrist. Before he was able to pull himself free, Catrina had already rolled backwards slightly onto the small of her back, freeing her legs from supporting her, and kicked him squarely in the groin with all the strength that she could muster.

  He went down in a heap, knees drawn up to his chest, his face a picture of contorted anger and pain.

  “Why, you bitch!” the older man shouted as he grasped Catrina by her clothing, wrenching her to her feet in one fluid motion. “You’re going to pay for that; you’re going to pay big time.”

  “Get your hands off of her!” Peter shouted as he broke into a sprint, closing the distance between them in an instant. “Get your hands off her before I make you wish you’d never been born.”

  Two of the other men turned around to intercept him, but as rumpled and dirty as it was, his uniform was still recognisable as that of a Watch officer, and a sergeant at that. The two men were barely able to stop themselves mid-strike.

  “I said let her go, now,” Peter continued, his voice calm and measured, his right hand hovering dangerously close to the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  The two men stood there, hesitant, turning to the older man for leadership, unsure of what to do. The shouting had drawn the attention of the surrounding camps and as they all knew, the surrounding soldiers and militia would soon be along to investigate.

  Knowing that time wasn’t on his side, the older man released his grip on Catrina and pushed her towards Peter, who guided her to stand behind him. It had been three to one against, and had Peter been wearing anything else, he would have ended up in a brutal fight. Fortunately, the men had realised that assaulting an officer of law, regardless of the state of his uniform, would not have looked good when the rest of the soldiers arrived.

  “This isn’t over,” the older man said, though they all knew that it probably was. He begrudgingly turned away, his two friends helping the young ma
n to his feet and half carrying him back towards their campfire where they sat him down, his hands still gripped tightly in his groin.

  Slowly, the people at the surrounding campfires turned back to their own business, leaving Peter and Catrina alone.

  “Catrina, Catrina, are you all right?” he asked as he escorted her towards the campfire where he had been sitting. “Catrina?”

  Peter was realising that she was far from all right, and had been for some time. He escorted her to the nearest friendly fire and sat her down, holding her tightly to both warm and reassure her, but for the most part it was in vain. She just sat there, staring up at the stars again, oblivious to his words, lost in a world which only she inhabited, a world of peace and happiness where she was no longer held in Peter’s arms, but in the loving embrace of her family.

  III

  “Ben, Ben, wake up,” Carl said, shaking him by the shoulders, his voice as loud as a whisper would allow.

  “What is it now,” Ben murmured, one hand drearily reaching for his blanket while the other attempted to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

  “It’s time to wake up,” Carl insisted. “Now come on before I drag you to your feet.”

  “Carl, come on, what’s going on, what time is it?” Ben asked.

  “Time for you to take over the watch,” Carl informed him. “Now come on before we wake the boss and get into a whole heap of trouble. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t stick doing this every night for the rest of the week.”

  Ben dragged himself out from under his makeshift bedding and dusted himself off before taking Carl’s place near the outskirts of the camp.

  “What's the deal, Carl? It's freezing,” Ben said, retrieving his blanket and wrapping it around him.

  “I know,” Carl agreed. “There's not enough dry wood to make a fire.”

  Carl wished him a good night and lay down in his spot in the camp. The tall trees of the forest gave little protection from the rain and everything was still damp to the touch.

  Ben shuffled from one foot to the other, beating his arms against his sides in an attempt to keep warm, blowing warm air into the hollow of his palms before rubbing his hands briskly together. He’d never known a night as cold as this, at least not one that he could remember, and just as he was thinking that at least the rain had stopped briefly, he felt the first drop of many trickle down his face. He sat whilst there was still a dry patch of ground to be found.

  “Carl, Carl you awake?” Ben whispered as he struggled to get comfortable. He didn’t want to get so comfortable as to fall asleep, but he needed to be comfortable enough to make it through the rest of the night.

  “Carl, are you awake?” he repeated, slightly louder this time and more agitated.

  “No,” came the mumbled and distinctly angered reply.

  Ben took the response as a “yes.” “Carl, it’s freezing,” Ben continued. “How did you cope?”

  “By shutting up and letting my friends get some sleep,” Carl replied, barely able to keep his voice to a whisper. Carl then proceeded to roll over, but Ben failed to get the message.

  “I bet there’s no food either,” Ben said. “I’m starving. You got anything left to eat, Carl?”

  “No,” Carl said, rolling back to face him, “but if you don’t shut up and let me sleep, you won’t be eating any solid foods ever again.”

  “Come on, there’s no need to be like that. I was just passing the time of day with you,” Ben replied with a grin.

  Ben pulled his blanket tightly around his shoulders while Carl tried to bury his head beneath his so as to drown out all of the irritating noises around him. It was almost a full minute before Ben spoke again.

  “Well, night,” Ben mumbled under his breath, but loud enough so that Carl would hear it. Foolishly, Carl took the bait.

  “Just what are you talking about now?” he demanded. “Why won’t you let me sleep!”

  “I said ‘passing the time of day with you,’ when I should have said ‘night’,” Ben informed him. “Passing the time of night with you, you see?”

  “Oh, I see, all right,” Carl said as he threw the blanket away from him and sat up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so clearly in my entire life.”

  By now, there were stirrings from other members of the group. People weren’t awake yet, but unless both of them were careful, they soon would be.

  “What’s it going to take, eh?” Carl asked. “What’s it going to take for you to let me get some sleep?”

  “Nothing,” Ben said sullenly. “Sorry, Carl, I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, carry on and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning. Please.”

  Carl was about to say something else, but then thought better of it and retrieved his blanket. This time it was almost a full five minutes and Carl was almost actually asleep when Ben spoke again.

  “You’re not asleep yet, Carl, are you?” Ben asked.

  “Son of a skeet, Ben,” Carl hissed. “If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to beat the talk out of you. What do you want?”

  “It’s just, well, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Ben replied. “Just something that’s been playing on my mind, you know?”

  “And if I tell you, you’ll let me sleep?” Carl asked.

  “Sure, yes, cross my heart and hope to die,” Ben said, doing the arm movements in time with the phrase.

  “Well, that’s a promise you’ll keep,” Carl replied.

  There was a momentary pause as neither man spoke, staring at each other through the dark.

  “Well, then?” Carl said, the agitation in his voice brewing into a rage.

  “Well, what?” Ben asked.

  “What is it you wanted to ask me?” Carl said angrily.

  “Oh, right,” Ben said. “I was just going to ask how you, you know, how you got that scar on your face, that’s all.”

  “Is that all,” Carl muttered. “There was me thinking you hadn’t noticed it.”

  “Well, it’s kind of hard to miss,” Ben pointed out.

  “Tell me about,” Carl said, his hand instinctively tracing the line of his scar as he replayed the events that caused it through his mind. With his face and scalp covered only in stubble, the scar seemed to have become more prominent, more alive, not wanting him to forget what happened, unforgiving.

  “So?” Ben said, dragging out the pronunciation of the word to a question.

  “A fight, Ben,” Carl told him. “It was a fight.”

  “Who with?” Ben fumbled, ignoring the small voice in his head that was telling him to shut his mouth, shut it and never open it again.

  “It was just a fight, Ben, a stupid, pointless fight,” Carl said bitterly. “That’s all you need to know. Now just shut up and let me sleep.”

  Carl rolled over for the final time that night, and though neither of them slept, not another word was spoken until morning.

  IV

  They met up as planned two days later, hiding in the shadows cast by the red-labelled crates in the light of the setting sun. The rain had started again with a vengeance, pooling in the ruts and potholes scattered along the Great Road. The wagon gave them little shelter from the elements, but the bad weather seemed apt to their mood.

  Peter was the first to arrive, Catrina reluctantly at his side. He was unsure as to whether the others would make it: Donald, Conrad, Simon. So much could have happened in the two days since they last spoke. It would have only taken another encounter like their first with the soldier to blow their cover and have them executed on the spot. He’d wait as long as he could, until he attracted the wrong kind of attention, and then he’d have to assume that they were gone, lost.

  Fortunately, Conrad and Simon arrived shortly after he did, and Donald five minutes later. They spoke hurriedly in hushed tones, unsure of how much time they had before they were discovered and had move to on. Donald insisted on going first.

  “Let me speak, Peter, you’ve really got to hear this
. You all do,” Donald insisted.

  Donald had made his way as close to the front of the army as he could, but there had been more soldiers in that direction, a lot more. The night before, he had gone against all sense and good judgement and sneaked wide around the soldiers to get a good look. Tom had prepared them for some of what they had seen, but to see with their own eyes the full scope of what was before them, it was hard to imagine what these five could do to change the course of the coming war.

  “You had to see it, Pete,” Donald began. “There were twenty, thirty cannons at the front of the army, the same again at least in catapults, and wagons piled high with crates. I couldn’t make out what they were; it was dark and they were covered in sheets, but they had to be weapons or explosives or something, had to be. Piled high they were, absolutely piled high.”

  “It’s no worse than we expected,” Peter pointed out. “Not really. We knew they’d been planning this for a while; they had to be well armed and well prepared.”

  “But that’s not the worst of it,” Conrad jumped in.

  “Why not?” Simon asked.

  “We’re all dead,” Conrad continued. “Me, you Catrina, Matthew, all of us. Shot or hung outside the Regent’s palace for all the world to see. I met one man who insisted he was at the front when it happened, telling me how he heard Matthew’s neck snap like a twig when they pulled the trip switch on the gallows.”

  “I heard that too,” Simon added. “He even did the sound effects for us, snap.”

  Peter felt a cold shiver run down his spine as Simon repeated the snapping noise for all of them to hear.

  “From what we were told, not one of us got out alive,” Conrad said.

  “But that’s, that’s impossible,” Peter insisted, stamping the fist on his right hand into his left palm. “I was sure, positive that everyone got out, everyone left alive. There couldn’t have been any of you left alive back there. You didn’t see…the bodies.”

  There was a tear in his eye as he relived that horrific moment beneath the palace, the crates piled high with the bodies of the men, women, and children that these people before him had called friends, some of them family.

  “Don’t, Pete,” Conrad said, trying to comfort him. “We know you did your best, we all do, and Catrina, Matthew, we know they’re not dead. It’s all another trick, a stunt this new Regent is pulling to turn people to his way of thinking. He just wanted to stir up trouble between north and south, just like in the old days, start us all off killing each other again, just to satisfy his own ends.”

  “Besides,” Simon added, “we were told that the prisoners’ heads were covered. Those people, they could’ve been anyone, even Alexander’s own men. Believe me, I doubt anything would be beyond him, if it meant that he got his own way in the end.”

  Peter held back the tear from his eye and looked over at Catrina, but she failed to express any of the emotions that he was feeling, even at the mention of her own dead sons. She continued to stare at them all, looking passively from one to the next as though waiting for the conversation to continue. Peter’s worry for the woman was increasing by the minute, but there was nothing he could do to help her. He would spend every free minute talking to her, comforting her, but only time and patience would heal a wound as great as hers, if it was possible to heal the wound at all.

  “I know you’re right,” Peter continued, “both of you. Carl and I, we checked all the cells that we came across, but when we were chased through the tunnels, I still had that worry that we’d left some of you behind. If only we’d had more time.”

  “We’d all have been dead meat,” Donald said matter-of-factly. It worked, bringing Peter’s mind back to the present, allowing him to focus again on the matter at hand.

  Their voices had risen slowly over the last couple of minutes, but luckily there was no one around to hear them.

  Conrad brought the tone down to a hushed whisper. “What’s the plan now then, Sarge?” he asked. “Are we going to start messing up their plans a bit?”

  “Not now, but soon,” Peter told him. “From what you’ve said about the forefront of the army, there’s no use attacking there. They’d be all over us in seconds. We’d never get close. We need to scout out some softer targets, weapons, livestock, even food if we have to. I won’t harm my own men, not unless we have to, but we need to slow this army down, even if it’s only by a day or two, to give Matthew and his team the chance to warn the others. Scout around, find something that we can hit, and get out before they capture us. We’ll meet back here in another two days, at sunset, and by then we’ll have a plan.”

  V

  Samuel stepped quietly into the front trailer of the foremost Road Train, brushing the hundreds of tiny drops of rainwater from the shoulders of his overcoat, though he was unable to brush away the burden of his newfound promotion.

  “Ah, Larson, I hear that you wanted to speak with me?” Alexander said, his face concealed in shadow as he sat on the sofa, a large glass of whiskey and a pile of half unfolded maps on the table in front of him. “Please, won’t you come join me.”

  Larson knew that it was an order, not and invitation, and did as he was told, hanging his sopping overcoat up before sitting down.

  “A drink?” Alexander offered.

  “Yes, please. Thank you, Regent,” Samuel replied.

  Alexander poured him a drink personally, as the two men were apparently alone in the trailer. He was purposely taking his time with the young officer, checking him over, trying to work out what had troubled him so that he would need to talk to the Regent personally. By all accounts, the man had all but insisted on it, irritating his seniors in the process. It was fortunate that the young Larson had already proved himself an invaluable aide, and so had earned himself a little leeway with Alexander.

  “So tell me,” Alexander said, sipping at his whiskey, though never taking his eyes from his guest for a second. “What is it that you can tell only me and no one else?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Samuel asked.

  “Of course,” Alexander replied with a smile.

  “I wasn’t sure who I could trust, sir,” Samuel continued. “Who knew of your, greater plan. I felt that you needed to know about this, sir, and I wasn’t sure which of them I could trust to tell you.”

  “I trust my personal guard and those closest to me to do what may be asked of them,” Alexander told him. “Please, continue.”

  “We’ve been marching for almost a week now,” Samuel told him, “and we’re still weeks from the Draxian border. I’ve heard rumours in the ranks, and it’s not just the civilians either, that the men are already growing weary. This weather doesn’t help. We’ve had barely an hour without rain all trip, and it’s sapping morale, sir. I hear tell that we’re already losing people at the wayside, and more follow them every hour. I’ve had the men severely punish any deserters that we find, as a lesson to the others, but they continue to leave. It’s these peasants, sir. They’re not accustomed to this way of life. They want to go back to their comfortable homes and their own way of life, sitting with their families in front of an open fire. They’re not soldiers, sir.”

  “No, and don’t I know it,” Alexander said as he rose from the sofa and began to pace. “But we need them, all of them, if we’re to have any hope of success.”

  “I understand, sir,” Larson said, carefully placing his drink down on the table, hoping against hope that the Regent didn’t think that he was speaking out of turn and have him executed on the spot. “And I have an idea, of sorts. There’s only one man who can turn the people around, and that’s you, sir, as you did before and at the executions. We need to fire up their spirit again, remind them of our, their goal, remind them why we’re here.”

  Alexander returned to his seat and drained the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Of course, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to become so complacent, so caught up in maps and strategies when victory will com
e not just with plans, but in sheer force and weight of numbers. These people are my strength, my greatest weapon, and I must nurture them, encourage them as a father would his child.”

  Alexander’s eyes glazed over momentarily as he mulled the matter over in his mind, before snapping his gaze back towards the young officer. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Larson,” he said. “It shall not be forgotten. There is something, an . . . acquisition, but no matter. I shall deal with it in the morning.”

  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 intell
igence 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 through 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.

  With the taper lit, they turned and ran, Donald close on their heels. They were unsure of how long they would have before the night was broken by the sound of their own thunder.

  Before he could realise what was happening, Catrina had already torn the tinderbox from his frozen hand and left him, turning back the way they had came. He turned to watch her figure race away from him, arm outstretched as though to grasp her, the other arm steadying him as he struggled to hold his balance on the slippery surface. She was already too far away from him to see her clearly, but he saw instantly what she had already seen. There was no faint glow from the other wagon, no burning taper, even the rain was against them that night.

  He gave chase, but by the time he had made his second step, there was already the sound of a voice and commotion from up ahead of him; a man’s voice, not Catrina’s.

  “Hey, you there, stop,” the soldier shouted as he pulled at the running Catrina by the arm. She hadn’t even seen him coming, barely able to hold her balance as he pulled her off course, dropping the tinderbox in the process.

  “Stop, I said,” the soldier said again.

  He was fumbling for the gun slung casually over his shoulder as he pulled her around to face him, stunned into momentary silence as a third bolt of lightning lit both of their faces. Unfortunately for him, that moment was all Catrina needed.

  Retrieving the knife from his belt, she drove it deeply into the side of his neck, retracted it, and forced it in a second time, deeper than the first. The hand that was holding her arm had already relaxed as the body fell to the ground before her, tied up in the straps of the rifle, her rage oblivious to the outstretched hand, a gesture of surrender. Even as the body fell, her fury tore the knife from his throat and drove it into his chest, over and over, the ground below them awash with a mixture of rain water and blood.

  Peter had already picked up his pace as best he could, firearm in hand, but it was already far too late by the time he reached them. The man was long since dead, but Catrina continued unabated, grunting with a degree of ecstasy with each blow from the knife.

  He pulled her from the bloodied corpse, tearing the knife from her hand in fear of retaliation against himself. She struggled in his grip as he dragged her back towards the empty wagon, abandoning their plan. It was a full minute or so before she relaxed in his grip and turned to run alongside him, past the wagon and back to their shelter at the edge of the woodland.

  Donald opened his mouth to speak as they dove into the underbrush beside him, shocked into silence by the sight of Catrina’s bloodied clothes and hands, unsure of where the blood was from, and from whom. When he eventually realised that that amount of blood could not possibly have come from them, he was still unable to find the words to express what he was thinking.

  Catrina didn’t need words; she just looked at the mess on her hands.

  It was the first time that Peter had seen her smile.