The Stonegate Sword

by Harry James Fox

  †

  The camp stood on a broad bench-land several hundred feet above a narrow valley where the ice-rimmed river ran. It was many day’s travel west of Stonegate. A rude stockade surrounded the squalid jumble of log buildings. The barricades were rectangular in plan, but the log hovels, roofed with earth, were as rude as they were foul-smelling. Smokes darkened the sky.

  The highest part of the camp was the southwest corner, separated from the rest by a somewhat lower internal palisade and guards. Built with square timbers and shingles, the buildings in this section were neat and orderly as though built for some person of importance.

  Philip was held in a stout wooden barn of a building in the lower part of the camp, along with about thirty other workers who slaved for the warriors. They hauled and cut wood, built fortifications, tended cattle and sheep and performed other hard or menial labors. Over a hundred camp followers lived just outside the stockade. The motley collection of peddlers, liquor dealers and bordellos was even more unsavory that the camp itself if that were possible.

  It was near midday. The cold had crept through the thick mat of rags bound around Philip’s feet and left his toes wood-numb. He was loading logs and branches into wagons, to be hauled back to camp. He had no gloves, but he felt no pain from the bruises and cuts on his hands because they were also numb with cold.

  He pried at a felled juniper log, frozen into a shallow snowdrift. His breath curled in the air before him like steam from a pot. His body was heavy with fatigue, but he was used to that. The skinny boy with him tried to help but slipped and fell into the snow, flat on his face. Several of the older workers chuckled in dry, mirthless grunts, yellow teeth grinning in sunken faces.

  The well-fed young guard let them enjoy the joke without rebuke and even snickered himself. It seemed to be a bit of a welcome diversion. He blustered up and thumped the boy across the ribs with the spear shaft. Shaken, the youngster could only make a choking noise in his throat as he scrambled to his feet.

  “No time for jokes, whelp!” snapped the guard, pushing the boy with the spear butt. The youngster slipped and fell sprawling again. “Do you want to be dog meat?” He put the honed tip of his war spear against the boy’s thin neck. The boy’s lips trembled, but he said nothing.

  “Answer me, scum,” the guard snarled. The grin left his face. No answer came save a rattle of teeth. The ligaments of the youngster’s thin neck were taut as a bowstring. A thin trickle of blood trickled down from the spear head.

  “N - n- n—” gasped the youngster. He grabbed the spear shaft with both hands and pushed it away.

  The guard laughed, then effortlessly wrenched the weapon free and thumped the boy with the shaft across the ribs. “Get to work, half-wit,” he said. “I wouldn’t dull my spear on you.” He turned to the others. “The rest of you! Get busy, too! I want them wagons loaded!”

  Philip jumped, turned back to the stubborn tree, and broke it free. He avoided eye contact with the guard. The other lad, Kyle by name, struggled to his feet, hands still shaking. As the guard walked on to supervise another group the other men made rude jokes under their breath, all at Kyle’s expense. That night in the barn, Kyle was again the butt of all the jokes. Sullen acceptance of slavery was expected, but abject terror was not. Many laughs resulted from their mocking demonstrations of Kyle and his fright. Kyle said nothing, but kept his eyes focused on the ground. That night, Philip heard him sob in the darkness.

  In the morning, he was gone. Philip heard that the guards had killed him when they found him near the stockade wall and had thrown his body on the putrid refuse heap with the other garbage. There was now another empty spot in Philip’s life. He regretted that he had not said a word to him or defended him. But he had kept silent. He was the one who was the weak sister, more than Kyle. In the dark that night, his body shook with spasms, but no tears would come.

  †

  Philip had been captured about three weeks after he had fled on Bishop Bruce’s horse. He had been helped by a party of riders who appeared to be Diné, a mysterious people living many day’s ride to the south. They had given him a package of dried meat and a water bottle, as well as a warm blanket. They had advised him where to travel to avoid the bishop’s men. They were obviously Christians and sent him off with a prayer of blessing.

  When he had left the Diné warriors that followed the Jesus way, he had ridden northeast, on the ridge south of the great river. He had been more astonished than frightened when two men with spears had blocked his path. When he had tried to turn his mount and flee, a grinning, bearded man, with arrogant ease, leapt forward and grabbed his horse’s bridle. A moment later, Philip had been ringed with spear points and mocking faces.

  He had sat silent. He had known with detached certainty that these were hired mercenaries, only one step above highwaymen. Their red and black shields had told the story. No doubt they would turn him around, take the horse back to the bishop, and he would dance on the end of a rope. He really did not care anymore.

  “Come off, squirt,” directed the tall leader. His hard eyes had glared out from under his black helm above the mocking grin. His black beard had bristled like the mane of an angry bear. Philip had been jerked, sprawling, to the ground, his spear clattering on the rocks. The leader had grabbed his little mare and lightly swung onto her back. He had galloped her up and down the trail, grinning as if he was proud of himself. He was a fairly good horseman.

  They had mocked Philip’s pitifully few things. He had little more than a tin cup, a blanket, a bag of oats, and the spear that he had stolen. The Diné warriors had given him some dried meat, but he had eaten that by the time he was captured. He had begun to have some faint hope when none of the men mentioned anything about Bishop Bruce or a horse thief. Perhaps he would not have to return to face his punishment.

  Philip had walked for the next three days, hands bound before him and had watched the black-bearded man abuse the little mare. He had taken an arrow and had jabbed her in the ribs when she tired of racing up and down the line of mounted men. He had sawed at her mouth with heavy hands. When they had reached the camp, and Philip had been handed over to the guards, he had never seen the mare again. He had hoped her end was quick and merciful, but had not expected it.

  They had finally topped a shrubby ridge overlooking a large bowl, and Philip had seen a large stockade below. It was not much different in concept than the stockade around his parent’s home, except that it covered an area one hundred times bigger. The fence was made of pine and spruce logs buried deep in the ground and pointed on the uppermost end. A large gate, flanked by two wooden watchtowers, was poised at the end of a wagon road. His party had made straight for the entrance. His captors had been cheerful and had picked up the pace. Clearly, this was their base.

  †

  The months in the camp were hard. Discipline among the Raiders, lax at best, seemed to grow steadily worse. Drunken soldiers sometimes abused the workers, for in actuality they were slaves. One young man was killed on the spot because he spilled a bowl of stew that he was serving in the mess hall. The leader of the Raiders, the same black-bearded man, simply clove his skull with an axe while the boisterous troops hooted and shouted. This was by no means an isolated incident. Often-times, the flat of a sword or a kick of heavy boots were the payment for faults, real or imagined.

  Even worse, for Philip and the few others his age, was that fact that the other slaves thought nothing of cuffing them around and trying to steal their food. Philip learned quickly that he had to bolt his meals. He would choke most of it down before he even left the feeding line. Not that the food was good. It was fetid swill, but he had to eat it or starve, and there was never enough.

  Large raiding parties, perhaps of one to two hundred men, left at irregular intervals. They would always return with a fierce hunger and thirst. Often they brought back wounded and sometimes they arrived with
captives. Some of the women captives were kept for the use of the Raiders, unless very young or very attractive. The latter were kept safe and were eventually sent west to the lands of the Black Prophet.

  The relationship between the Raiders and the Prophet was unclear. It was plain that they were acting on their own, yet they shared the spoils of war with the Western rulers. In turn, they received supplies of food and drink and some weapons of war. Clearly it served the Prophet’s purposes to have them raid the Eastern lands.

  While working on the hinges of the stockade’s main gate, one day, Philip noted that one raiding party came in with many empty saddles and a large number of wounded. He heard that the raid had been far to the east where the looting was good. They had five captives with them. Philip was able to get a good look at them when they came through the gate. All were young women of child-bearing age, and two were strikingly beautiful. At least one had blonde hair the color of oat straw. The raid’s leader, the same large, black-bearded man, took the captives immediately up to his cabin in the leader’s stockade.

  Philip did not look up for more than a quick glance, but his view of the blonde girl’s striking face, streaked with tears, affected him deeply. He realized that she was not much older than he was, himself. Her large eyes had looked up into his in a wordless appeal for an instant; then she was gone. Her face, though, remained in his memory all the rest of the day. That evening when they were being fed, he heard that the women would be held for the inspection of a high official of some sort. The camp chief would be well paid if any proved suitable as a “wife” of the Prophet—so the rumors went.

  Philip reflected that he was fortunate that his father was a blacksmith. When his captors found out that he had worked in a blacksmith’s shop and knew something of working metal he was promptly sent to the smithy. There he was drafted to be a worker with the smiths, even sleeping in the smithy at night. He was treated slightly better than before, but the hours were long and the forge hot, even in late fall. He worked every day until he swam in sweat, and his joints ached every night. Splashing in a cold horse trough in the mornings removed some of the soot, but he was constantly crusted black from the soot and smoke. His hands grew as hard and horny as rawhide.

  The camp chief, the day after the arrival of the five girls, came personally to the head smith and ordered that the holding cabin be made stronger. So the smiths immediately began to forge bars for the windows to supplement the iron-bound shutters. Philip began to forge new and stronger hinges for the two doors. He made them with special care, forging them on a large scale, each with a thick hinge pin. When he mounted them he used backing plates and fastened them with rivets. Even the taciturn head smith had a grunt of approval for his work. He ate better that night.

  The captive girls were mostly kept out of his sight, but he caught a glimpse of the one girl that had met his eyes, just before an elderly matron could shut an inner door. It was obvious that they were being well chaperoned and closely guarded. He wondered what he must look like to her, with his blackened hair and sooty face.

  †

  The next morning, the smithy fire put up a column of black smoke that hung in the air like a snake preparing to strike, hooded and ominous. Philip did not see a brown-clad man on a hilltop, a half-mile to the southwest. The man was middle-aged, short of stature, with brown hair and a beard that also matched his garb. A short sword hung at his waist and a crossbow lay at his side. His quick fingers sketched the plan of the fort and its outer defenses.

  “No sign of any patrols,” the man muttered scornfully. “They must feel very safe!” But he wrinkled his brow. “On the other hand, who would bother an armed camp here under the Prophet’s protection?”

  Easterners largely waged a defensive war, though he knew they patrolled the parklands to the west of the first range of mountains. But they had never patrolled this far west, not in generations. The towns in the valley of Kolaroo maintained an uneasy peace with the Raiders. No wonder Blackbeard and his knaves felt so safe!

  It was true that the two walled towns to the south of Glenwood, Ariel and Bethuel, resented having this armed camp so close to their peaceful fields. They were only about thirty-five miles away. That was far enough that they did not have to see the Raiders every day, but they always knew a wicked band was there. It was somewhat like living near a rabid dog—prudent to keep one’s distance. Still, Glenwood was the place that the Raiders and the townspeople from the south would sometimes meet. Mostly, there was an uneasy truce that was maintained by both sides.

  Sketch finished, the man on the hilltop picked up his crossbow and melted quietly into the fringes of the leafless chaparral and low evergreens on the northern crown of the hill. The crossbow gleamed dully with an oily sheen. It, like the man’s clothing, was colored brown. Even the light metal helm on his head was dull and treated to hold a brownish hue. One sleeve of his tunic was empty and pinned at the elbow. Wiggling out along the top of another ridge to the east of the camp, the man made more notes. A herd of horses moved along the river bottom to the south. The man carefully counted them and made a note on the sketch. Then he finished his outline of the western view of the camp. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, then rolled the parchment and put it in a pouch on his left hip. He retreated along the ridge until he was out of sight, then moved to the east, paralleling the great river. The fading sun cast the last ruddy beams of day across the valley and turned the eastern peaks scarlet. He had miles to go and would arrive home long after dark, but he was used to that.

  Chapter 12

  †

  The Rescue

  … saying to the prisoners: Come out, and to those who are in darkness: Show yourselves. They will feed along the pathways and their pastures will be on all the barren heights. Isaiah 49:9 HCSB

  The armory was cold and still, but a light could be seen coming from a back room. Abel and several young men were covering shields with rawhide. Don pulled Abel aside and asked him about the man with one arm. Abel looked surprised. “You must mean old Samuel,” he said. “I don’t know where he is, now. He has helped me on several occasions by doing some scouting and carrying messages. He often stays at Ariel with the dwarves.”

  Don learned that Ariel was a walled town, perhaps twenty miles to the south. When, in ancient days, dwarves, cripples and outcasts were driven out of the west by orders of the sires of the Prophet, they had fled to the House of Healing. They finally founded their own settlement, building high stone walls and workshops and foundries and making their living by metal-craft and trade.

  Near Ariel was another town called “Bethuel,” but the old name was “Gibeah.” This was a originally a Christian community made up of those who had fled persecution from East and West. Both towns were still mostly Christian, and both supported the other in time of need. Bethuel kept flocks and herds and was noted for their cheeses and hams.

  The smiths of Ariel had no equal throughout the land. Don had heard of the dwarf-smiths of the mountains, but it sounded so much like a legend that he had wondered if it was a real place. It was time to find out.

  The next morning, Don saddled Snap and set off for Ariel. He crossed the old bridge over the Kolaroo River and followed the wagon road up the side tributary, called the Roaring Fork. He had an early start and arrived in sight of the city gates by noon. Even from a distance, the city walls were impressive. Black and gray granite they were, a full forty feet high. Cleverly constructed, with high, round towers at the corners of the walls and at the gates, the city looked more like a fortress than anything else. And so it was. Constructed at the top of an elevation within the walls was the central keep, battlements staring majestically down the valley. The cold waters of the river were dammed to form an icy moat around the walls. A pair of pennants flew over the main gate and drawbridge. One flag was white with a red cross; the other was gold with a black hammer and anvil. The gates stood open and the drawbridge was dow
n.

  Snap’s hooves rang hollowly as he crossed the wooden beams bridging the moat. Don felt a chill as he crossed through the gate, under the gatehouse, and came out onto the main street of the town. Snap moved gingerly as if he did not like the close quarters.

  A man in full armor stepped out from an alcove and challenged him. “State your business,” he ordered brusquely.

  “I am a traveler seeking your works of iron and steel,” answered Don, as he had been taught to say.

  “Enter then, and welcome,” came the response. “Keep the peace here, and you will enjoy your stay. Break it at your peril!” He waved Don on.

  Don rode in. He saw immediately that dwarves were not an uncommon sight. But to his surprise, it seemed that most of the folk were of normal size. He took the street of the smiths and tied his mount before a sign marked with a flaming sword. The house that bore the sign was of granite, and inside the door was a shop filled with swords and knives of all descriptions. A gnarled little man sat in the rear of the shop, polishing a sword blade on a treadle-operated wheel.

  “Good day, sir,” said the dwarf, courteously. “How can I serve you?”

  “In two ways,” returned Don, with a smile. “You can let me look at these beautiful blades and you can tell me where I can find a man named Samuel with one arm.”