by A J Allen
He looked directly at Simon and grinned. “If you can write, you should do so now.”
Lord Dowrick’s highborn, condescending gaze unnerved Simon. He edged closer to Rachel. “What should I do?” His voice was low and shaky.
Rachel jotted in her book. “Don’t worry. Just listen and I’ll write down anything that’s important. Keep practicing.”
Little Quinn Spargo peered over Simon’s shoulder. “That’s very good. I can’t even write a single letter. Maybe we can help each other.”
Overhead, a familiar screech pierced the studied calm. Esther swooped and soared as though taking simple pleasure in being able to fly again and leave the heavy-footed ones mired and trapped forever on the bogged-down, stinking earth.
“Quiet back there.” Lord Dowrick singled out Simon and Quinn. “This is not grammar school and I am not your village teacher. Be kind enough to keep quiet and allow those capable of actual learning and of using their talents to best serve our Kingdom in its time of need.” He craned his pointy head toward the sky. “Unless, of course, you have the magical ability to fly like Mister Byrch’s annoying bird, in which case we would very much like to see a demonstration now.”
And with his Lordship’s last word, a spatter of white bird droppings landed most respectfully on his noble brow.
Everyone laughed louder than before, falling on their sides, tears welling in their eyes.
“Silence, you disrespectful, ungrateful mob of worthless miscreants!” Lord Dowrick patted the top of his head with a white silk handkerchief, seemingly unconcerned—just as though a drop of rain had fallen.
“And this is just how I expect the illiterate, ill-bred slaves among you to behave. Are we to count our next King of Miradora from their same pathetic ranks?”
One by one, all fell silent. Many glared at Simon and he shrank back, burying his face in the empty parchment pages amid the snickers and whispered insults from Callor and his smirking companions.
Chapter 6
Wooden Swords
After Esther had brought Lord Dowrick’s boring lecture to an unexpected and amusing end, the protectors were jittery, many over-eager to prove their self-proclaimed prowess on the sparring field.
Dull wooden wasters, axes, shields, and poles banged, chipped, and splintered, causing more laughter than groans from the often-comical combatants.
The larger upended the smaller, but just occasionally, once humbled slaves such as Morwyn, Balasi, and Quinn swarmed their loftier opponents as cunning foxes would their cornered prey and battled each to the ground in laughing submission.
Women too, like Mildrith Pitcaster, never shied away from engaging any aggressive men swinging their wasters and showed an iron-willed determination in refusing to give ground to Jack and Niall.
On the other hand, the young noble ladies, Felicity Craverston and Solina Goncharov, as befitting their status, preferred archery with blunt arrows where Rachel, true to her own claim, reigned supreme.
All the Council members except for Lord Rabek stood near the great oak in the center of the field, observing this rambunctious scrimmaging with keen interest. They pointed at protectors who, to Simon’s eye, also exhibited impressive martial skills.
Simon moved around the field engaging in a tug of war contest with two Strathwald protectors, Jardani Phearson and Wulpher Nancombe. Later, he ax battled against Goran Velizar, losing only when he tripped and smashed his wooden shield.
Goran offered his hand and helped Simon to his feet. “You fight well, Blackfyre, but every warrior who wants to claim the field needs eyes in the back of his head as well as the front. Honor and courage alone will not prevent you from falling.”
“But they will always allow me to get back on my feet.”
Goran smiled in agreement and walked away seeking another challenger. Simon rested and studied the other protectors, searching for their strengths and weaknesses. If he watched them more than they watched him, he was sure he’d gain the upper hand in combat.
Callor proved capable with his chipped maple sword, fending off attacks from two Velizar protectors, Tanca Nakashian and Balasi Wendaru.
“Come at me again both of you.” Callor laughed and swung his fake sword, demonstrating the parrying skill commonly acquired through the training of young noblemen. “There is no harm to freeman or slave in striking me... if you can.”
Panting, the heavier, clumsier Tanca spat on the dirt and touched the corner of his bleeding lip. “I should very much like to, yet when these rites are over how do I know you won’t remember differently and have a change of heart?”
Callor raised his head, his haughty confidence girding his entire body with the superiority of his kind. “When I am crowned King, the only thing I will remember is who obeyed my commands during the rites and who did not. Now, which one will you be, Mister Nakashian?”
Tanca and Balasi exchanged worried glances. They raised their wooden wasters and charged, yelling at the top of their voices at the amused Callor.
Robert and Felicity stood back to back, spinning their oak poles like lances. They sent Skobb and Reutiger flying face first into the dirt while Marcus and Goran clashed, splintering their wood blades to a final draw.
If it was plain to Simon, then it was obvious to all that the homely and awkward Robert Strathwald had taken a strong fancy to the ravishing Felicity Craverston who was constantly surprising the men with her acquired fighting skills.
She and Robert freely touched each other on the arm and shoulder. Although it was permitted to greet this way in the spirit of camaraderie, it was forbidden to be intimate at all, although Simon wasn’t convinced the same rules applied to a possible King-in-waiting and his Queen-to-be as it did to the lowborn offspring of freemen and slaves.
Although the other young women were envious of Felicity’s talents and charms, Simon saw her as simply a practical young woman looking to improve her station in life, noble as it might be already. And there was nothing wrong with that. After all, wasn’t that the hope of all chosen for these rites, to become someone much better than they were before?
He didn’t know of her prior circumstances but had heard rumors of dwindling family wealth and a tarnished name in Avidene.
Fresh from pinning the larger Tiberion protector, Elric Skobb, into the dirt in a grappling match, Jack drank water from the ladle.
“I told you, Simon. You worry too much. This is all good, harmless fun to let off steam. All we have to do is follow their instructions. They mean us no harm.” He passed the ladle to Simon.
Simon dipped it in the water bucket. He considered that statement another fine thing for a young noble to say; the man had never seen the hanging tree back at camp. No! The worst that could happen to Jack Evermere was that he wouldn’t be called a lord anymore. That’d be sure to happen if some lurking fear—as yet unseen behind those massive walls—got the better of Jack, forcing him to make the fateful decision to flee.
Simon wiped the ladle with a clean cloth. “Lord Dowrick mentioned so many heroes and battles. My head spins just trying to remember any of it.”
“Remembering the old stories isn’t important. It’s the new one we write today out here in the field, that matters… here, where each of us will prove their worth and, ultimately, the King’s by default.”
Simon’s branding scar prickled under his tunic. Esther screeched overhead near the eastern tower and he looked up at a tall lancet window on the second floor of the women’s quarters. Had he just spied someone lurking there, behind the long drapes?
He rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. Nothing was there except a reflection of the sun setting on the crimson horizon.
Jack looked up at the tower. “I like Mister Byrch’s hawk but can see why some of the others don’t. I feel she’s always watching us, don’t you?” he said.
“Aye, that’s as maybe, but more likely the field is the best place to find a mouse.”
“I know nothing of falconry, though it’s said the Asmadu Voh
ra were the last great masters of the art,” Jack answered.
Simon exhaled and stretched. “And what good is it to know about the long dead warriors of old? Even Marcus said we could never be counted with them in the same breath.”
Jack shrugged. “Who knows? If destiny is favorable to our cause, perhaps some of their mystique and magic will rub off on us.”
He scuffed his boot in the dirt.
“We stand upon the same earth on which they once fought,” he said, reflecting.
And died, most likely, Simon was going to add but thought better of remarking on the most puzzling question never answered by Lord Dowrick.
When Rachel had asked what happened to the fabled warriors of legend, his Lordship simply answered: “It matters not to know the true account of their passing, for it is their legacy of selfless courage that serves our Kingdom and its people now.”
Others pressed him for a clearer answer but his Lordship dismissed all with a wave of his hand and quickly changed the subject.
Niall, his small wooden sword raised, rushed Jack. “Mystique and mystery, you say? The only thing that’s going to rub off on you is the dirt from my boot!”
He forced his older brother back with the surprise and sheer bravado of his accomplished swordplay. Niall parried and nicked Jack on the thigh. “Can’t wait to strike those Tiberion twits upon their backsides and watch their brains bleed.”
Jack recovered and pressed his advantage of increased size, strength, and speed. “Never underestimate a smaller adversary, Simon. He may be your last if he happens to skewer the target most easily within his striking range.”
Niall thrust straight toward Jack’s groin. “I thought it would enjoy having a rest... after all the abuse you inflict upon it.”
Jack laughed and pivoted as Niall pierced the empty air. Jack brought his larger wood sword down and knocked his little brother’s from his hand.
“Ouch!” Niall cupped one hand in the other. “You could have broken my finger!”
“Stop bawling like a baby.” Jack searched the field. “Where’s Marcus?”
“I’ll fetch him.” Simon sprinted across the field.
Quinn sidestepped, shifting his stance from one side to the other as he punched his fists at the late day shadows creeping along the stone walls. “If it comes to a fight, I may be small but I know where to hit. If I’m challenged, none of these young lords will be getting back up on their feet for supper until breakfast tomorrow morning. No offense intended, Marcus.”
“None taken.” Marcus was intrigued by Quinn’s exertions. “But what on earth are you doing?”
“You’ve never seen southern boxing? You have led a sheltered life. Melankomas of Caria taught me. Any slave who wants to hold his own knows how to throw a strong punch and dodge his opponent. Isn’t that right, Simon?”
“I would be lying if I said otherwise.” Simon had watched many bloody sparring contests where masters pitted their best fighters against each other, often to the death. Simon mimicked Quinn’s gestures and moves with his feet and fists.
“You’re a good fighter. Your footwork is excellent and I pity the one who receives your blows. Lean more with your shoulders. It will increase strength to your arms to make up for your reach.”
The horn sounded, ending the sparring session.
Quinn nodded. “Thank you and let us two enjoy a few rounds next time if they will allow it.”
The tired and bruised protectors plodded their way and assembled under their respective noble house banners fluttering on the tips of their flagpoles.
Lord Lionsbury strode to the center of the field. “Put away your sparring weapons and refresh yourselves. All must drink water to replenish their thirst, ready for the long walk ahead. We don’t want you collapsing before we arrive. Mister Joren and his guards will escort us deep into the Roamligor Forest where the initiation ceremony will take place. The Holy Seer and her monks wait for you there... as does your destiny and that of our Kingdom.”
Rumors and speculations buzzed around the yard like flies, biting everyone with questions no single answer could soothe.
Simon pulled a second arrow from the bullseye and handed it to Rachel. “What do you think will happen next?”
Rachel slid the arrow back in the quiver. “I don’t know but I’m certain no harm will come to us. We have to trust them, Simon.”
Simon pulled out the last arrow, wondering why the children of freemen and nobles were always so quick to trust those who ruled over their lives?
Simon asked the same of Marcus and Jack, yet all he received in reply were unsettled looks from those possibly more frightened than he. His mind continued trundling toward questions he couldn’t answer.
How were they all going to be initiated? Was it to be a real test of strength and ruthless cunning this time? Was that why they were putting on such a circus display in the courtyard for the Council members?
And worst of all, he wondered what would happen if he failed?
The guards lit their torches from the fire while others offered fresh buckets of water and ladles to the protectors.
Simon recognized one yellow-toothed guard, Grimoric Kovoth, the same one who had threatened him back at the caravan near Lundy’s Hill.
Simon looked away and ladled another mouthful of water. He hadn’t seen Mr. Byrch since yesterday and wished he were here now to make him feel less alone. He cast his eyes downward, fell in behind Rachel, and followed the others in a single trooping line toward the darkening woods.
Chapter 7
Danger in the Shadows
Deep in the vast, encircling gloom of Roamligor Forest, guards escorted protectors by flickering torchlight down a footpath twisting its way through the overgrown ruins of broken pillars and shattered arches.
Simon had only seen the temple ruins on Lundy’s Hill and did not expect to see what appeared to be the ancient, pillaged remains of a razed city. Lord Dowrick hadn’t mentioned this place. Why not?
The procession paused and the guards checked to make sure all were still present. Two stood with their torches next to a partially-destroyed stone column that rose toward the stars in the clear, windless night.
Simon pointed to the strange markings on its surface illuminated by the flames. “Do you know what that means?”
Rachel stepped beside him. “It’s an obelisk built by the people who used to live here thousands of years ago. I have no idea what it says. I don’t think anyone does.”
“Do you mean the people rescued by the five patriarchs?”
“Maybe, or their ancestors. I don’t know. At school we’re taught about the pagan forest people and how they disappeared without a trace leaving only ruins behind them. All this happened centuries before the patriarchs.” She tossed a pebble into a pond. “Some of their descendants still lead nomadic lives in the woods and on the plains.”
Many of the protectors acted giddy. They laughed and shoved each other in a playful mood as though sharing wine, yet nothing save water had been given out to drink.
Jack leaned against an oak, beaming. “Even the King’s scholars haven’t been able to decipher any of the tablets found scattered across the Kingdom. Not much is written about them except the locations of some ruins. I’m surprised Dowrick didn’t mention this one in his history lesson.”
Simon picked up a stone and pitched it at the obelisk. It ricocheted off into the ruins. “Then I should thank him for that. It would have made his speech twice as long and at least ten times as boring.”
Everyone laughed, yet, for some strange reason, Simon regretted throwing the stone. Something echoed in the back of his thoughts that he had disrespected a place that deserved his reverence and not his childish insults.
Lord Lionsbury held his torch high. “All right everyone, we’re almost there. Follow me, stay close, and watch your step.”
By the time they reached a small, grassy clearing near a cliff overlooking an expanse of rolling hills, all the protectors were behav
ing as drunken, wobbly-footed revelers at a wedding: laughing, hugging, singing, and crying with joy.
Callor stumbled, fell, and laughed, rolling over and over in the pine needles like an impish child. He lurched back on his feet.
“My dearest lords and ladies of Farrhaven... what miraculous elixir is this? I will write to my father and demand you send our family a wine barrel filled at once!”
Simon laughed at Callor as though he was a beloved friend. For the first time, he felt no suspicion, jealousy, or bad blood toward anyone present. If that was water, then he could drink from this well for the rest of his life.
It was a sleepy, warm sensation that wanted to wrap up a tired body and soothe it to sleep in a land of beautiful dreams where every wish would be granted.
Simon hugged Rachel and drew her close underneath the Evermere Royal Eagle crest nailed to a stout elm. Gazing dreamily into her enchanting face, he caught a fleeting glimpse of all his desires in the single glint of her perfect eyes. And what he felt could surely not be wrong? At least not if she felt it too.
“All right you two lovebirds.” Mr. Joren pushed them apart with a rough swipe. “Enough of that. Lord Rabek said this might happen but the rules still apply.”
He turned and addressed the other protectors who were having similar difficulty keeping their hands off each other, much to the consternation of all the guards trying to prevent any inappropriate contact.
“Everyone please keep your tunics and trousers buttoned or face the consequences. Assemble under your noble family banners and await your instructions.”
Rachel laughed and ran her cool fingers down Simon’s arm. “We’d better do as they say.”