The Road To The King (Book 1)

by Steven Styles

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  The Road to the King Copyright 2012 Steven Styles. All Rights Reserved.

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  ONE

  Sprawled under the shade of trees a band of soldiers rested by the side of The King’s Highway, out of the midday sun.

  The unit of twenty men encountered little in the way of travelers during their routine patrol, two day’s journey outside the capital city. The thick forest spread in every direction for a hundred leagues from the highway. Under the very edge of its vast, green canopy the soldiers enjoyed a rare moment of leisure as they broke their fast.

  Lieutenant John Asher stood leaning against a tree, half-watching the road up ahead. The only nearby human enclave was a small lumber village, located fairly close by through the trees. Asher had been there but once; the villagers led a peaceful, undisturbed life in a green meadow, protected from the wind by the ancient trees. The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder at their horses, clustered in the shade nearby. Knee-deep in lush grass his stallion, Pike, grazed contentedly.

  Suddenly the horse lifted its head; a bit of grass dangled from its lip. Asher stood straight--his eyes back on the road--one hand on the hilt of his sword. Over the edge of the knoll a magnificent horse burst into sight at a dead run, a gray-cloaked man clinging to its back. Wary of their sudden appearance, Asher noted the stranger’s expression nonetheless; he seemed intently relieved to find so large a group of the king’s soldiers.

  Checking his steed, the stranger cantered over to Asher. He dismounted with practiced swiftness. A few of Asher’s men stood to their feet as the cloaked man approached.

  “I saw a great plume of smoke from the road!” the newcomer called. He pointed to the trees behind Asher’s men. “Not three leagues away, if that! It is black, as if structures are burning... trees and fields put off brown smoke. I have heard there is a village nearby.”

  Asher tensed at the man’s words. He peered into the trees, beyond the road.

  “There is a village,” the lieutenant returned. “Woodcutters.” His gaze moved to the stranger’s horse as he spoke; its chestnut sides heaved and bits of foam flecked the coat. It had been running for some minutes, full tilt. “Quick lads!” Asher called out to his men. “The lumber villagers may need a hand! Ride light, but take your weapons.”

  Galvanized by the mere mention of fire, Asher’s men quickly gathered their horses. They left their heavy packs and provisions in the grove. The stranger mounted his steed once more without a word. Asher caught Pike and did likewise.

  “If you wish to accompany us, ride by me,” he advised the man. “The village is close; if fire has indeed broken out, more hands will be of use.” The stranger nodded and stirred his horse to follow.

  Turning onto a forest path Asher led the way towards the woodcutter’s village, moving forward as quickly as the trail allowed. The rock-studded earthen road wound back among ancient trees, its middle deeply rutted by the wheels of heavily-laden lumber wagons. Dense ferns--bunched between the wide forest trunks--closed in around the soldiers and the highway was lost from sight. Thins streams of sunlight filtered down through the thick canopy overhead as they rode.

  Asher could neither see nor smell smoke. The quiet air felt cool and pleasant, smelling of woodsy vines, mosses and the small flowers growing here and there on the forest floor. Trotting beside Pike, the stranger’s horse easily kept pace. Asher’s men followed them in a long, double line. As Pike picked his way along the track, the lieutenant ran over courses of action in his mind. He hoped the villagers had buckets or shovels; such tools were burdensome for highway patrols. The very idea of a fire spreading to the forest sent a cold shiver down Asher’s spine. If it did, he knew no effort of theirs could stop such a blaze from reaching his own town, and then countless others... perhaps even the King’s City.

  Their slow pace allowed Asher time to study the gray-cloaked stranger by his side. His graying hair--speckled with black strands--gave him a fatherly manner. The man’s cloak looked rough and common, like a monks, but Asher could see the edges of a fine linen shirt underneath and tooled leather riding breeches, and well-made boots. Tanned, weathered skin revealed a life of constant travel, or that of a lifelong sailor. As curious as he was about the man--and his reasons for traveling alone along this road--Asher kept his questions to himself.

  The fire revealed itself by scent long before sight. Ahead, the forest thinned considerably. Bright light pierced the canopy as the soldiers rode towards the woodcutter’s meadow; large and covered in high grasses, it sloped down from the tree-line at a lazy angle. The small lumber village sat a quarter mile away, right next to a narrow creek flowing out of the main forest; the pale brown waters bisected the meadow. A narrow footbridge crossed the creek, not twenty paces from the first hut. Behind the village the forest sloped upwards and up over another ridge. Haze hung in the air around the village and smoke rose up thick and black in an ominous cloud from the village center. Asher felt a brief sense of relief fall over him; the fire seemed contained to the center of the village and not spread to the trees, yet.

  Entering the meadow the stranger seemed affected by the smoke; he slowed his pace and stopped. Smelling the air, he turned to Asher.

  “The air smells awry, Lieutenant,” he called out,but Asher did not halt. His eyes took in the fire, his mind concentrated on containment. He urged Pike onward with his men, towards the smoke-filled village. Warily, the stranger followed. With narrowed gaze he glanced at the tree line, circling the meadow.

  The village appeared deserted. Asher’s men grouped about him,some calling out in distress at the sight of the fire. Turning to his men, the lieutenant barked out orders.

  “Dismount at the creek! Use what you can to stem the blaze! Form a line at the water... look for buckets or pots in the outer huts. We must keep the flames from catching the forest alight!” His men spurred their horses, galloping down the slope to the creek. The cloaked stranger rode behind Asher.

  Thick drifts of black smoke drifted in between the huts as the men crossed the narrow footbridge. Bright tongues of flame could be seen darting somewhere through the haze. As Asher had directed, some of the men lined up at the creek. A few rush baskets lay nearby. Filling the improvised buckets, the men began to pass them along up tow
ards the village. Standing on the far bank, Asher tried peering through the smoke into the village; he found the stranger at his side once again.

  “The homes aren’t burning,” the man called, above the crackling of the fire. “’Tis in the square!” At that moment, one of Asher’s men came running from the village.

  “Lieutenant!” the young soldier cried out; oily, black soot streaking his horrified face. “The fire! It is bodies! A great pile of them, burning in the square!”

  All at once, a roar of voices rose from all around the village. Whirling around Asher beheld scores of men running out from the forest. No kingsmen, nor townsfolk were these; their ragged furs and long, filthy hair marked them as barbarian warriors, a race from a distant northerly island. Yet, here they were--on Kingdom soil--hurtling toward Asher and his men. Shouting bloodcurdling screams, they advanced across the meadow. The racket caused the soldier’s horses to scatter. Turning, to shout orders to his men Asher’s eyes fell upon a line of barbarian archers pulling back arrows--in his direction--from across the creek.

  In the blink of an eye, the gray-cloaked stranger hurled himself into the lieutenant, knocking him over, down into the long meadow grass. Disoriented for but a moment, the lieutenant rolled over and saw the stranger lying by his side; two arrows protruded from the man’s back. For a moment, the older man did not stir. A small amount of blood began trickling from one corner of this mouth, ruby red drops upon the course gray material of his cloak. Leaning over him a little, Asher perceived that the man still breathed. Finally, the stranger’s eyes flew open and he struggled to move.

  “Lay still man,” Asher told him, moving to peer above the tall grass. “You’re gravely wounded.”

  Thick haze surrounded them. Asher’s eyes stung as the smoke-tinged air filled his lungs. He forced himself to keep from coughing as he drew his sword from its scabbard. The sounds of deathly struggle, cries and metallic clangs rang out from all sides. Something touched the lieutenant’s arm. The stranger held up an oilskin pouch message pouch up to him. His eyes took on a desperate look.

  “Take it,” he whispered. “Take it to the King!”

  His thoughts clouded by the noise, the smoke and his men, Asher didn’t understand what the man was trying to say at first.

  “The King?” he repeated, baffled. The stranger held up his hand in front of Asher’s face. On one finger was a plain, silver ring. Turning his hand over the stranger let the lieutenant see the ring’s crest, hidden in his palm. Staring, Asher recognized the seal of the King’s guard, the Shamar.

  “Take the message... third gate.” The wounded man’s voice grew more hoarse. “Show them this.” He slipped off the ring and put it into the pouch. “Go. Take it... quickly. Report all you’ve seen, here, to the King.” Every word the man spoke seemed an extraordinary effort.

  “Northern barbarians,” Asher growled, his eyes darting about them. “Who would let them this far inland?” The stranger coughed.

  “Rhunes,” he said, his voice dropping. “The ones who read the rhunes have done this. Ride now! Your men... will be slaughtered. They mean... to invade us.”

  Crouching low to the ground Asher left the dying stranger, slipping the ring and pouch into his tunic. The creek water already ran red with blood. Floating bodies choked the bank as Asher half-crawled, half waded across. His stomach turned as he crept between motionless bodies of his dead men. Figures and shapes darted through the haze around him; swords clashed in the din. Gritting his teeth the lieutenant moved forward, one hand over the pouch in his tunic, the other clutching the hilt of his sword.

  Above the noise, high-pitched cries of the scattered horses reached Asher’s ears. Whistling for Pike, he pushed forward, towards the tree-line that they’d come from. Pike’s whinny answered him at once. Soon, the large roan trampled the grass beside him. Mounting quickly, Asher made for the safety of the trees. Just as he gained the shadowy trunks, however, a searing pain nearly knocked him off his horse. Lower down, towards his right side it burned like a hot knife. More arrows flew around him and his horse. Doubled over in pain, Asher urged Pike to a gallop.

  The lieutenant did not look back, nor did he need to. In his mind he could see the massive carnage laid out in the meadow, the dead forms laying in the grass and water. In between painful breaths Asher made a silent oath--heard by none but God--to deliver the message at all costs. The king would rain down wrath on the invaders unkempt hides, he thought. Somehow he would exact vengeance for his slain soldiers. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Asher let his horse have all the rein he wanted. Pike abandoned the rutted trail and wove his way quickly between trunks, leaping over fallen logs.

  No more barbarians did the horse and rider encounter. In comparison to the meadow, the forest seemed eerily calm. The words of the Shamar rang in Asher’s ears. As they gained the highway once more he spurred Pike eastward, towards the King’s City. Blood trickled down his back from the wound; Asher ignored it. There was no time to stop and try to reach the arrow shaft, or even attempt to dress the wound. Any moment, he expected to hear hundreds of hoof-beats behind him, hot on his heels. Asher did not check his horse’s pace, though every jostle and jolt sent pain searing up his back and down his legs. The clamoring hooves of his horse--beating relentlessly against the paving stones--brought the message one second closer to the King.

  An eerie calm settled over the meadow. Their blood-lust sated, barbarian warriors dragged all the dead--friend or foe--towards the still-burning village fire. Bodies were thrown into the flames without ceremony. Fallen weapons and arrows were found and collected. Amid the gruesome activity a solitary figure strode. His long, fine cloak differentiated him from the horde of dirty warriors moving around him; the edge of a crimson-dyed robe peeped out from under the its hem. The cloaked man glanced at each still form on the ground before it was moved, his aged brow furrowed in concentration.

  He stopped at the sight of the dead Shamar. The gray-cloaked man still lay in the mangled grass where Asher had left him. Eyes closed, his face seemed almost peaceful, even amid the violence wrought all around him. Prodding the King’s guard with a gold-tipped staff, the cloaked newcomer beckoned to a nearby warrior.

  “Search him,” he ordered. Squatting down, the blood-spattered barbarian man searched the Shamar for several moments before standing up, empty handed.

  A pair of the invading warriors ran up--speaking in their strange tongue--pointing excitedly at the forest. Listening, the cloaked man looked across the meadow, towards the trees where Asher had disappeared.

  “If he is wounded,” he mused aloud, “then he should be easy to find.”

  THE EARLY hours of the morning found the wounded lieutenant and his horse just outside the small town of Rishown. Pike knew the route home. Turning down a certain cobbled street and passing a public well crowded with chattering women, the horse stopped in front of a small, thatched cottage, sandwiched in with other homes. A woman--washing clothes in front of the home--turned at the sound of the aproching hooves. Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the slumped rider.

  “John!” she cried out, rushing to his side. All color drained from her face, seeing the arrow protruding from her husband’s back.

  A ten-year-old boy ran out of the house. Without a word he helped his mother take Lieutenant Asher down from the saddle. The women from the well flocked around them, talking all at once. Asher groaned in pain as his wife and son half-carried, half-dragged him into his house.

  TWO

  Lying face-down on his own table, Asher slowly came to. His wife hovered by his side, but he couldn’t make out her words.

  Slowly, Asher opened his eyes. His son--Joseph--stood close by the table, his young eyes searching his father for signs of life. Asher shivered; he felt cold seeping into him from his very feet. His wife spread a blanket over him, crying and talking at once. Her voice grew more clear telling him that the captain of the village fort was on his way. She smoothed his hair with her hand. Asher heard her
send a neighbor for the doctor; the door opened and shut. All he could see were his son’s eyes... they looked warm and brown and innocent. John Asher watched them until a dreamless sleep overcame him.

  Pain jolted him from unconsciousness. Unable to move, he grew aware of several voices around him. His son stared at him from across the room. Asher recognized the doctor’s voice, telling him too be still; they were removing the arrow. Once more the tearing sensation and then it was over. The arrow clattered to the floor as the doctor applied tonics and bandages. Struggling to listen, Asher tilted his head a little to one side.

  “It’s blood-poisoning,” the doctor told her. “Give him this powder, mixed with water; it will dull the pain, but... soon the fever will set in. He has but a few hours more.”

  Asher’s wife sobbed aloud, covering her face with her hands. A neighbor woman--hovering by the door--comforted her with low, soothing sounds; together the women saw the doctor out of the house.

  Left alone with his son, Asher summoned his remaining strength. Opening his eyes he slowly moistening his dry lips.

  “Joseph.” His voice held no more volume than a strained whisper. “Come here.” The boy obeyed, once again putting his face close to his father’s. “I have... a task... for you,” Asher told him. “Can you do it, son?” His son nodded. “Take this pouch. There’s a ring inside... and a message for the King. I need you ... to take this... to the King’s castle. Do you know where that is?”

  “The capital city, by the Great Bay,” the boy whispered back.

  Asher closed his eyes and nodded. Pain shot up his back; the lieutenant ignored it.

  “The castle... has three gates. Right of the inner court, past the second gate is a third, somewhere. I have never seen it; you’ll have to find it. Go as quick as you can and don’t be seen. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going... not even your mother.”