The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  The most surprising thing to Don was the speed and economy of effort with which the troop could move, even laden with supplies. All provisions were carried on pack horses, all as strong and fleet as the mounts of the troopers. Fully armed and equipped, a fifty–mile ride in a long day was not unusual for men and horses hardened to the trail.

  Even training exercises were at times a source of pleasure. He had never experienced the powerful feeling and the exhilaration of feeling an alert and powerful animal beneath him, the wind in his face and the sense of oneness with his fellow troopers. The hauntingly beautiful bugle calls were almost as familiar to his mount as to him. In fact, Don found Hardtack anticipating his rein and leg signals, particularly when the “Charge” was blown. Don had the feeling that the horses enjoyed the breakneck race as much as the men.

  The freeholders had finished haying, potatoes were being dug, and leaves were drifting on the breeze as Don’s fifth patrol left the barracks. Only a small scouting party, the force totaled six young scouts and eight troopers.

  Their mission was to ride northward along the main trade route until they topped the divide overlooking the treeless northern plains, then to sweep westward through the rolling, broken foothill area east of the mountains and return. They traveled light, with only four day’s supplies on one pack horse, javelins instead of war spears, no horse armor and no water. All had their bows, and the troopers their normal arms. The scouts wore their light armor, which consisted of only a helm and a short mail shirt reaching to the hips. In contrast to the kite shields of the troopers, they bore only a small round target. Their bows were their main weapons, backed up by a short-sword. Their saddles were smaller and lighter, also, being designed for speed rather than mounted battle.

  Besides oilskins, they all took their woolen cloaks and fur-lined gloves, as the air had a bite to it. Gray John had briefed him in the armory, just before their departure because Don was to lead the patrol. “Donald, I have every reason to trust your good sense,” he began. “But do not neglect the years of experience that these younger troopers have. Seek their counsel before you decide what actions to take.”

  “Do not be drawn into battle by any force near to your size, even if you think them easy prey. Use your head, of course. If you see a group of obvious rabble looting a caravan, and the circumstances warrant it, deal with them and report it later. But your job is to inspect the area. Blend in as much as possible. Light no fires. Report back everything you see. Your scouts should do most of your work for you. You and the troopers are along only in case you should have to fight your way out.”

  “You should be back in three days. If you are later than that, be aware that I will be riding with a full patrol to see what is amiss. Don’t put me to that trouble for a light reason. I will not take it kindly if you delay.”

  “No, sir,” returned Don, trying to hide his pleasure at the assignment. “I know that the men are sound and experienced. I am far from thinking that I don’t need advice. We will ride hard, look sharp, and return on time.”

  “Good! Well said!” responded the older man, smiling. “Sometimes you surprise me, Lore-man. You sounded just like an old soldier.”

  Don returned the smile, then saluted and strode out to meet the rest of his small patrol. Not a full patrol of three troops yet, he thought. But perhaps someday … Who knows? He swung up onto Hardtack and accepted his javelin from one of the troopers standing there. The shaft had a strip of blue cloth tied near the head, symbolizing his gallantry award. The armorer must have done that for him. Don was pleased.

  In fact, Don was swelled with no little pride as he led the patrol at a fast trot down the lane and up the well-beaten road to the north. The red axe banner fluttered bravely on a war spear as they faced a down-slope breeze. The first rays of the morning sun caressed the western wall, capped with the white of an early snow.

  As they trotted past Westerly, Don tried to think of an excuse to ride by and see Rachel for a moment. He would like her to see him now—but perhaps another time would be better. There would be plenty of time later, he decided. In this, he was quite mistaken.

  He was suddenly struck by the fact that they were, in effect, taking the road back to Castle Goldstone. How surprised his father would be if he suddenly arrived, riding on a trained war house, dressed in full armor and with men under his command. How much greater would be the surprise of Lord John! Don chuckled to himself, but became sober again as they passed the ford where he had almost lost his life.

  At noon, the patrol stopped to eat a midday meal on a high ridge overlooking the road and giving a good view of a narrow valley to the east. It was a fine place to watch for movement. The horses were hobbled, and with loosened cinches, left to graze. The scouts had all reported in within the hour, but nothing unusual had been sighted. There had been two long ox trains on the road that morning, both containing about twenty wagons. Apparently, travelers were joining together in larger groups for safety. Two troopers cut their lunch short to ride down and intercept a lone rider coming from the north. When they returned, however, they reported him to be apparently harmless. He had told them that he had seen no Raiders or anything suspicious.

  The patrol remounted and scouted the hills to the east of the road, working their way constantly toward the north. The day passed without further incident and they made good time. They camped in the lee of a small hill and ate a cold meal. If the first day was uneventful, the second was not. In fact, it was a day forever burned into Don’s memory, haunting him in dreams at night and festering in his waking mind. But the morning gave no premonition, as they swung into their saddles and headed northwest, the scouts screening before them.

  At midmorning, they reached the divide, and began to pick their way down a winding, westward-leading trail. They saw movement ahead. Daniel had doubled back to meet them. Even before he spoke, Don knew that he had seen something. The horse’s chest was black with sweat, and flanks specked with white, and the rider was tense with excitement.

  “Don! Don!” Daniel gasped, urgently spurring to the lore-man’s side. “We spotted four horsemen moving from the northeast on the far side of the next ridge. I don’t think they have seen us.”

  “Which way are they going?” asked Don, his mind racing. “They could be a small band of Raiders, perhaps—Or perhaps cattle thieves?”

  “Perhaps,” came the noncommittal answer. “I am sure they are not friendly. They have small ponies and red and black shields. They appear to be heading directly for Stonegate.”

  Don turned in the saddle and addressed the patrol. “You all heard Daniel. What is our best course of action?”

  Neil the Red, the oldest of the troopers, sat and thought a moment, twirling his long mustache. Finally, he replied: “I suggest we move parallel to them, one ridge away and let the scouts keep them in sight. If we should be spotted, let’s try to run them down. Otherwise, we can bide our time. They for sure can’t be honest men.” The others nodded agreement.

  It sounded sensible to Don, but a small alarm bell rang in his mind. “Are we overlooking something?” he asked.

  “Not that I can see,” answered Neil. “So long as we protect ourselves and keep them in sight, we will be doing all right.”

  Convinced, Don ordered Daniel to pass the word to the other scouts. They should avoid being seen, if possible. The heavy troopers would ride parallel, one ridge away. Daniel galloped off, and the plan was launched. Don and the heavy horse troopers galloped parallel to the Raider’s route. The plan seemed to work well at first, but finally one of the scouts must have been seen.

  Don learned from a hurried report that the riders had reversed course and were now in full retreat. Instinctively, Don decided to give chase. He led his troopers directly over the screening ridge and north up the valley floor at a reckless gallop. The Raiders had a long lead, but they could see them near the north end of th
e valley, starting over the ridge to the northwest.

  Don’s troopers were on fast horses, but they were hampered by the weight of arms and armor and could not gain on the tough little ponies of the Raiders. There now appeared to be six of them. The race continued for several miles. One Stonegate scout finally got within bowshot and traded arrows with the Raiders for a few minutes. He finally hit one horse, which threw its rider in falling. The unhorsed Raider rode double with a comrade for perhaps another mile, but when the mount began to lag, he dismounted, strung his bow and prepared to gain time for the others. This he did. The foeman was quickly killed, which Don regretted since he would have like to have questioned him. But even so the other Raiders gained precious minutes. The trooper’s horses were blowing hard, and since there was little chance of catching the enemy, Don called off the pursuit. The chase had cost them valuable time, and the afternoon was going fast.

  Don turned south, retracing their tracks back to the planned patrol route. The scouts forged on ahead to continue their search pattern. The shadows grew longer. Don had a feeling of oppression hang on him like a dark blanket. He could not shake the gloomy feeling.

  It was late afternoon when one of the older scouts, Evan the Small, cantered up. His horse was hot and had evidently been ridden hard.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Don.

  “I … I’ve some bad news,” began the scout, his face flushed.

  “Well, what is it?” returned Don, irritably.

  “I found the tracks of a large force, perhaps two hundred, perhaps more, all mounted, heading south.”

  Don could not speak for a long second. It could not be true! The Raiders were not that bold, to attack in broad daylight, not for many years, at least. Even worse, they would be able to strike without warning! They had evaded Don’s patrol, he realized, and his stomach churned.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, dreading the answer. “How do you know they are enemy?”

  “Positive! Most of the horses are unshod, and are smaller than ours. They tricked us! The Raiders we saw were only their scouts.”

  “Who drew us off long enough for the main body to get by,” finished Neil the Red, sadly.

  Don looked at the other troopers. They did not meet his eyes. He felt trapped. What should he do? It had to be fast!

  “Well, “ spat Don, “Now what should we do?”

  “How much lead do they have?” asked Neil, anxiously.

  “Perhaps three to four hours, and they seem to be traveling the most direct route,” came Evan’s answer.

  “Don,” said Neil, spurring closer. “They must have planned it so they would hit the farmsteads and maybe even the town of Westerly at dusk and then escape in the darkness. We can’t outride them if they have that much of a lead.”

  Don sat silent, failure clinging to him like crows to a corpse. “Well, we can’t stay here. Let’s head south as fast as we can,” he ordered, finally. “We may still be able to help. Are you sure that a scout cannot get through?”

  “My horse has been ridden hard,” came Evan’s answer. “But if I had a fresh mount, I’d be willing to try.”

  Don looked at the other’s horse. A tall, stout buckskin it was, flecked with foam, but still it looked strong. “Could your horse carry me and keep up with the troopers?” Don asked.

  “Probably,” said the scout. “He has been ridden by troopers many times and is as tough as a buffalo bull. Though he is not the fastest mount for scouting.”

  “Take Hardtack, then,” said Don, as he dismounted. “I’ve not ridden him hard today. Give the alarm as you go, but bring back the troopers.”

  Without waiting for agreement, he quickly unsaddled. The scout shed his mail shirt, threw it on the pack horse and re-saddled the big red. Without a word he swung aboard, raised his arm in salute and was gone.

  Don re-saddled as well, and galloped south, his heavy troopers at his heels. The scouts led the way, a half-mile to their front. Soon they hit the broad trail of horse tracks, and followed as fast as they could.

  Two hours of hard riding brought them out of the broken foothills to the edge of the farmland. A plume of smoke told them that they were too late. A freehold was on fire, and the only sign of life was several stragglers, looting. The patrol cut them down without mercy, Don’s sword as eager as the rest.

  The torn bodies of the farm family told them that they could do no more. Dusk was fast approaching as they continued their drive south.

  Don’s heart hung rock-heavy in his chest as he and his men passed the ford. More smoke columns hung in the sky ahead of them from near Westerly. One came from the direction of Lord Edward’s farmstead. Don yanked his reins in despair, guiding his mount down the lane that he and Rachel had ridden so many times.

  The smoke should have been alarm enough. Nevertheless, Don sent one scout, Tom, at a gallop toward Stonegate—still ten miles away—just in case Evan did not make it.

  A riderless, shaggy pony ran through a field to their left, dragging his reins, as they approached the stockade. The gate was broken down, and the main buildings were a roaring furnace.

  Perhaps twenty horsemen rode to meet them, blades as red as the flames.

  Battle-lust came over Don like a madness. “Stonegate!” he shouted and spurred to meet them. He thrust his javelin into one shieldless man as he smashed into their line, then drew his sword and hewed before him in a red rage. The months of training now bore their fruit. The parries of the leather-clad men with their red and black shields seemed slow and clumsy. He and his mailed troopers clove the mob like a steel wedge, then reformed, reversed, and clove them again. Horses and men alike screamed in agony. Steel rang out over hoarse grunts. Don glanced over his shoulder to see his four scouts, bows drawn, methodically shooting enemy and shaggy mounts alike. Just then, Don’s horse went down, but he managed to step clear. A mounted spearman charged him, but he managed to step clear, and hamstrung the horse as it went by. It actually seemed easy, easier than his training had been. His mind was clear, but his heart was frozen.

  Then his troopers were around him, and he was able to remount. His horse had only slipped and fallen, and seemed unhurt. But the enemy was in full flight. A dozen Raiders lay dead or dying among the carcasses of half as many horses, some still thrashing. It was hard to see far into the dusk since only a red glow lit the western sky.

  A Stonegate horn sounded nearby, and hoofbeats approached. He could see a Red Charger banner and about thirty troopers.

  “Hail Stonegate!” shouted Neil.

  “Hail, yourself!” came the reply. “Are any Raiders about? Which way did they go?”

  “To the west!” they shouted together, then turned, weapons ready, to face more hoofbeats coming up the lane behind them. The red light of fire and sunset brought out the sign of the Red Axe banner in bold relief. It was Gray John and the rest of the troop. Next to him rode Tom and Evan on a fresh horse. Gray John took charge without a moment’s lost motion. He ordered Don’s patrol to dismount. Then he sent three dozen troopers under Karl the Long to join the pursuit and ordered the rest to give aid to the nearby farmsteads. Dismounting himself, he pulled Don aside, his scar flashing livid on his face.

  “How could a Stonegate patrol allow two hundred enemy to slip by like this?” he barked, their faces inches apart.

  Don’s voice was weak and hollow. “We were decoyed. I should have been smart enough to see through it.”

  “Your own mouth condemns you! By all that’s holy, I thought you at least had some brains,” came the angry retort. “You can see what this day has cost.” He waved his arms at the flames.

  Don could say nothing. He could only stand there wishing that the spearman’s thrust had been better aimed. He glanced around, but no-one would meet his eyes, not even Daniel. Then a voice interrupted them.

  “Gray John!
” A group of troopers with an unarmored boy strode toward them. “Lord Edward is dead in battle, and his wife and most of the servants were butchered. Several of the young women were taken, including his daughter. Young Howard, here, was just returning and saw them being carried away. Being unarmed, he could do nothing!”

  Don stood alone, sick with shame. Gray John walked over and clasped the youth in his burly arms. Howard stood stiffly, his face white and frozen. A quirt was in his right hand, and his clothes were caked with sweat and dust. After a moment, Howard’s eyes met Don’s. Howard strode over to him, the whiteness of his face turning to beet red. Don started to say some word of sympathy, when, without warning, Howard quirted him across the face, twice. His helm and nasal protected his eyes, but Don still flinched and threw up his forearms. There was a shout and several men grabbed Howard and pulled him back.

  “You’re no better than a killer!” shouted Howard, struggling, his voice breaking. “You as good as killed my mother and father. Rachel would be better dead. I hope you carry that thought to your grave. And may that be not long delayed!”

  Then the tears came. Howard sobbed chokingly. “Let me go!” he gasped. Hands cautiously loosed him, and he threw the quirt to the ground. Gray John led him away a few paces. Don stood where he was, rubbing at the blood from the welt on his upper lip with a gloved hand.

  A few minutes later, Gray John came back. “Howard has ordered you off his farm, as is his right, now. He warns you never to return. Now go! Get out of my sight. Go somewhere—GO BACK TO YOUR BOOKS!”

  Without a word, Don mounted and rode off alone. No one cared to bid him farewell.

  †

  The evening sun struck glancing sparks off the Western wall, but the newly-fallen snow was more purple than white. The hunched form of a hooded rider entered the city just as a gust of frigid air stirred the cloak of the watch. Indian summer had vanished and winter’s icy grasp clutched at the lonely guard who raised his hand in a silent salute. Steel-shod hooves rang a hollow note on stone as the shrouded figure tied his mount at the tavern stable He walked hurriedly across the street.