Feeling a bit lost in the throngs of strangers Joseph looked for some place to get his bearings among the tall buildings. Walking into a stone alleyway, he came out into a formal garden. An old man worked there, raking small white stones neatly around blooming rose bushes. Absorbed in his work the gardener did not notice the young boy walking quietly along the path behind him. The castle--visible again outside the busy fray of people and buildings--showed the way through the maze of wide, white streets and the seemingly-endless squares.
Darkness fell before Joseph gained the wall. He walked as quietly as possible along it, taking care to stay out of the circles of light thrown by the wall’s torches. Wall guards strolled the parapets above, their dark silhouettes moving quietly against the night sky. The clinking of amour and clomp of their boots sounded out in the evening calm. Joseph saw few children about, always in carriages... and fine clothes. Certainly none walked here, by the second wall.
At last the gate he sought appeared, well lit. Two sets of guards stood watch outside its massive, stone edifice. The sight of the guards’ weapons and stern demeanor made the young seeker shiver.
To the left of the gate--next to the wall--stood a covered stable building made of wood. Pausing outside, Joseph felt warm air coming through large crack in the wall. Pushing on a loose board, he squeezed through the crack. The horses within lifted their heads but didn’t find him threatening. No other human could be seen around. Finding a dark corner--filled with fresh hay--Joseph dug a little ways into it, crawled in and plugged the hole after him. The morning’s grief, the long ride, the excitement of the city, the beauty of the castle and the flurry of busy squares all came together in the form of exhaustion to the young boy. He slept dreamlessly, warm in his hiding place.
AS THE the sun rose, voices awoke Joseph in his hay burrow. Never having slept away from home before, he thought for a moment that it was his father calling him. The hay reminded him in time, however and he kept still and quiet, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
“These two are rested... you take those,” an irritated voice called out. “These will stay here. I have a delivery to make inside in a few minutes. If I am late they will be angry, for certain. Those castle barracks need more oil than I can produce!”
Joseph’s ears pricked at these words. The voices faded somewhat. Joseph peeped out of a small hole in the hay. Two soldiers were busy backing a horse into the next stall; it was not quite willing to go in. Crawling out of the hay, Joseph found the crack in the stable wall again. Outside, the dim light of dawn barely revealed wooden wheels of a large cargo wagon standing close by. His gaze darting first one way then another, Joseph crept out from the crack and up to the back of the wagon. An old stained canvas hung down, such as one would find on a sailing ship... brown with weather, dirt and oil. Lifting one end of the canvas, the boy crawled in among the clay oil jugs and nestled into the farthest corner from the end of the tarp.
Soon, voices came close. A horse whinnied and the wagon shifted. Clay oil jars all around Joseph jostled rhythmically as the steady clip-clop of horse hooves sounded on the stone-flagged road. Moments later, the wagon slowed and stopped. In the darkness of the canvass, Joseph could hear parchments being unfurled and guards talking to the merchant. The little boy was convinced that his heart was beating so loud that the guards would hear it; he quietly put both his hands over it. To his relief, the canvas was not inspected. Once more the rattling wagon moved ahead.
The road was even for some moments before gradually inclining upward, as if going uphill. His throat tight with both fear and anticipation, Joseph worked his way quietly to the side of the wagon. He peered out from under one edge of the canvass at the passing buildings. Low, flat white buildings--like those his father had taken him to see not long ago at Rishown’s fort--stood in rows quite close to the road. Soldiers in the dark blue uniforms, swirling capes and shiny, black boots stalked in and out of the barracks, sometimes pausing to talk to a fellow, or to look narrowly at the merchant’s wagon. Lying still, Joseph could hear the oil merchant’s voice through the cloth, calling out polite greetings to soldiers and officers alike. Few replies did he receive in return.
Looking out his peephole Joseph saw the palace wall ahead, up on the mountainside. Far to the right of the palace’s grand main entrance stood a small, square building, at the base of the wall. No windows did this structure possess, just a single door; a Shamar guard men stood on either side, cloaked in gray. A narrow staircase descended from the door--down the mountainside--to a small square, partially hidden behind the last barracks building. A low ivy-covered wall formed the square’s sides. Striking red roses wound around the posts of the single gate that marked its entrance.
Joseph saw no one anywhere near this square, nor the stairs. He was convinced this was the gate his father had spoken of. About twenty yards from the square some dense shrubs grew around its corner, by the road. As the wagon neared the shrubs Joseph wormed his way back to the loading area of the wagon and slipped out, keeping behind the wagon. The bushes drew nearer each second. Joseph prepared to dart over towards them and hide within.
To his horror, the wagon suddenly turned left--away from the barracks--leaving him in the open. Joseph sprinted to the bushes and dove into them, wildly hoping no one had seen him. The leaves covered him well enough and he looked out, judging the distance to the ivy square and the stairs. If he could gain the stairs, he surmised, he’d have a fair chance of out-running anyone up them.
Fingering the message oilskin Joseph untied the binding strings. Carefully, he drew out the heavy ring, his fingertips touching the carved ridges of its crest. Closing his fingers over the ring Joseph took in a long breath and set his gaze on the door at the top of the stairs. The two men still stood--unmoving--their gray cloaks rippling in the chilly morning breeze. Setting his jaw, Joseph prepared to make a run for it.
High above--on the castle wall--an archer casually watched the merchant’s wagon approach. He noticed a small figure slip from it and dart into the brush by the barracks building. Making a sharp motion with one hand, he signaled his fellow archers nearby and pointed downward. The men beside him quieted and readied their bows. The captain in charge walked over--from under his shady outpost--and inquired what was afoot.
“I saw figure come out of the oil wagon, sir. He ran into the bushes there, to the lee of the barracks. Too quick to get a good look at him, though.”
“You are certain?” the captain asked, squinting in the growing morning light.
“Absolutely, sir,” returned the archer. “I’ve been watching and he hasn’t come out.”
The captain gravely gave command to prepare to shoot down the intruder.
“It may be a beggar, or just a madman, but you know our orders,” he said. “Signal the archers on the south wall to be ready in case he doubles back. Tell them to wait for my signal.” A young archer by the captain’s side wrote his order down quickly and tied the note to an arrow, firing it soundlessly down to the south wall. Soon, two lines of archers--one above and one below--watched for any movement, their bows ready.
The archer--who’d first spied the figure--was not quite sure of what he’d seen. Death was the penalty for unauthorized entry to their sector. Even the soldiers down below in the myriad of barracks knew to keep far from the Ivy Square. Tense moments of silence followed.
Suddenly, the bushes rustled and from it darted the figure, heading straight to the forbidden square.
“Draw,” said the captain, his voice leaden. “Wait for it...” The archers obeyed, each held his arrow and trained it on the running figure. The captain looked harder at the square below; there was something odd about the darting form. “Luke,” he said to the archer at his side. “Is that a boy?”
Both men stared at the figure.
“I believe it is sir!” the archer replied, incredulously. “He can’t be more than nine or ten! Why the devil is he running to the ivy square?” The captain shook his head.
�
�Lower your bows!” he called out. “Who knows why a boy is running loose; maybe it’s some general’s son. I have young son myself... and I’m not going to be ordering a child shot down like some barbarian invader! Signal the south wall to stand down.”
“Sir, he’s entered the forbidden square!” Luke the archers told him. “He is heading for the stairs!”
The captain rubbed his chin with his palm.
“Let’s see how the Shamar guards handle him,” he said. “It’s their territory. Stand ready in case they need help.” The he smiled at the little form charging towards the long staircase. “Brave little man though wasn’t he?”
Hardly breathing, Joseph ran as fast as he ever had. The fear coursing through him seemed to give his feet speed. He prayed that it was still too early for the full watch to be on the wall. As he passed under the rose arch, he could hardly believe his good fortune; pushing himself forward, he streaked across the white square to the stairs. A shout behind him caused him to him balk, just for a moment.
“Hey... boy!” A soldier--walking to the barracks--saw him run under the arch. “Boy! Don’t go up there... you’ll be killed!” Joseph paid no heed. He ran up the white steps, expecting to hear feet stamping after him. No one followed him however. The soldier ran right up to the arch, but the orders of no trespass kept him from going after the boy. Two or three of his fellows ran up but the soldier stopped them.
“Let him go. You know we cannot enter this gate.” The group watched as the small boy ran resolutely up the stairs.
Joseph felt his lungs would burst as he ran higher. At last the building with no windows appeared over the top of the stairs, as well as the two guards. Out of breath, Joseph felt in his tunic for the message oilskin and clasped the ring tighter in his hand. Gaining the last step, the boy nearly tripped over it in his haste. The guards still hadn’t moved. In their gray cloaks and common clothing they looked to be peasants, not soldiers. Unable to speak, Joseph stumbled closer, trying to get his wind back.
A sharp metallic ring sounded out. The tips of two blades were at Joseph’s throat before he could take another step. Joseph had not even seen the guards move until they were right in front of him, swords drawn.
“I... a message!” Joseph squeaked out Fear gripped his throat as if he were being strangled. The palm of his hand fell open. A ray of morning light caught the dead Shamar’s ring, sending a silver streak into the guards’ faces. The seal of the King shone out brightly in the young boy’s hand. Glancing at each other, the guards of the gate drew back. Their swords no longer pointed at Joseph... nor did the men did not put away. One guard went to the stone door and knocked. After a minute another cloaked man came out. He stood taller than the others, with hair as black as night. Like the others, he wore a gray mantle and a serious expression. The guard who knocked spoke to the newcomer in low tones.
Still reeling from his sprint Joseph leaned over, breathing in short gasps. He kept one eye on the guards’ swords. They hadn’t taken the ring from him, nor the message.
“Boy,” said the tall, black-haired man. Joseph straightened up, trying to muster a bravery he did not feel. He hoped they’d just take the message and help him get back through the forbidden gate unharmed. Looking at the tall man in the eye he tried to calm his breathing. The man’s calm, gray eyes held a look of keen interest, rather than anger.
“Who gave you that ring?” the gray-eyed man asked him. His words struck Joseph as a question one would ask an equal, in lieu of a demand. He swallowed and kept the man’s gaze.
“My father, Lieutenant John Asher. He rode home wounded from his post... Fort Bellar. He died... two nights ago.” The words left his mouth with difficulty. His father’s strange expression and his dying words drifted back into the boy’s mind. “He said a man gave him the message--and this ring--to carry before he died. He spoke of invaders... and ordered me to bring the message and ring here--at once--to the King.”
The guards exchanged looks.
“Come,” the tall man told him. “You must tell us more of what you know.” The gray cloak swirled after as he walked over to the door and rapped upon its hard surface, twice. He stepped back as the door swung open, beckoning for Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed, but paused--for a moment--to turn and look back at the city.
It was a view few his age had ever seen. The three walls of the city appeared closer than they really were, laid out in rings beneath the castle. The main city looked like a huge pile of gray pearls flowing down from the mountains, past the peninsula citadel, into the valley where Kosti had brought him in the spice cart. Next to city, the senate and official’s areas behind the second wall looked like a sparkling pile of gems, with the colored squares and markets. Below him sat the neat rows of barracks buildings and the soldiers milling about in their blue cloaks.
“Come,” the tall man said again in the same, even voice.
Following him, Joseph heard the two guards sheath their swords as he passed through the door.
THREE
Torches staved off the dark of the windowless building. They burned some spice or incense, for the air inside smelled sweet.
Joseph jumped a little as the door closed behind them,with a deep thud. His hosts noted the boy’s discomfort; his gray eyes softened--as if he might smile--though he did not.
“I am called Tyrus,” said he. “You’ve entered a sacred place, boy.”
The man’s voice echoed as he spoke, as if the tiny stone building had suddenly become quite large. Joseph leaned a little to one side trying to see beyond his host. Instead of stairs going up to the castle--as he expected to see--a long, high tunnel had been cut out of rock. The way led downwards, into the mountain. More lit torches lined the stair. The man called Tyrus looked keenly at Joseph’s face. “Not afraid to be underground are you, boy?”
A sudden indignation arose in Joseph’s mind at being referred to as ‘boy’.
“My name is Joseph Asher, sir,” he said, trying to sound as grave as his host. This time the man’s smile carried from his eyes to his face. He turned towards the tunnel.
“Very well, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus told him, descending the steps. “Follow me, but mark your footing.” Joseph dared not ask where they were going, but kept his eyes on his feet as they descended. Cut out of the rock, the steep steps seemed worn by the soles of many boots. Coolness stole into the air the deeper they went. The tunnel seemed to lead straight down, for a while, but then it branched off into several other tunnels at different intervals. Walking quickly--to keep up with Tyrus’ long stride-Joseph noticed recesses here and there, cut into the sides of the tunnels. Wooden doors stood in them, carved with the same crest as that of the ring he carried.
Some of the doors stood ajar. Glancing into them as they passed, Joseph saw neat living quarters, like a barracks, clean and simply furnished. Once or twice he caught the sounds of voices. Not seeing any prisoners Joseph began to doubt this place was merely a dungeon.
Turning this way and that after Tyrus, Joseph felt completely lost. Hunger gripped his stomach; he could barely remember the meal of bread and an apple that Kosti had given him the day before. Soon the voices grew more collected and warmth crept back into the air... they were no longer alone in the tunnel. Here and there a gray-cloaked man stepped out of a door, greeting Tyrus with a respectful nod of the head. One door as they passed drew Joseph’s attention; a man stood inside, drawing on chain-mail tunic over a leathern shirt. Nearby, a long sword and scabbard lay on an adjacent cot.
“Is this another army?” Joseph ventured to ask.
“I am sure you have many questions,” Tyrus replied, not breaking his stride. “Some will be answered, shortly.” He looked down at his charge. “Are you hungry?” Joseph looked up at him and nodded. “Good. You need a bath... and clean clothes,” Tyrus went on. “If you’re going to see the King, that is.” Looking down at his hands, Joseph realized he was quite dirty. His mother would be appalled at his walking about the King’s castle in such a sta
te.
“Ease your mind,” his guide continued. “We don’t usually outfit such young guests, but we are prepared nonetheless.”
Tyrus stopped by an open door soon after, one like all the others. “Here is a room where you can wash and change.” He walked into the room and pointed to a large wooden tub of water, such as one would use for washing clothes. A wooden chair stood near the tub and a low bed sat--made up--against one wall. No other furniture was visible. On the bed lay clothes, a bit larger than Joseph’s size, but wearable nonetheless: a gray, linen shirt, outer tunic and fine, linen pants, stockings and a pair of worn leather boots.
“Best to wash quickly, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus said as he went out, closing the door behind him.
Cleaner--and wearing the nicest clothes he had ever owned--Joseph joined Tyrus outside the room some minutes later. His host nodded approvingly but lost no time in continuing their journey. The passage widened as they rounded a last corner; it ended in two large wooden doors, shaped as two halves of an arch. Two armed men in gray stood on either side; they nodded to Tyrus as he went up to the door. Joseph could hear the distant sound of falling water, like the stream that ran outside his village. Opening a smaller door--concealed in the large one--Tyrus waved Joseph through and then followed, himself.
All his life Joseph never forgot his first sight of the Shamar’s gathering hall. It’s brightness rivaled that of being outside in full daylight. Joseph’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light, but soon his eyes roved a huge cavern, sitting in the heart of the mountain. Four massive stone columns supported the high, curving roof. A circular shaft--cut the very center of the rock ceiling--drew Joseph’s eye immediately. A shimmering waterfall fell down from the shaft, chased by golden shafts of daylight from above. The water fell down into the largest pool Joseph had ever seen; its borders stood at least three feet off the cavern floor. Sitting between the support columns, the pool took up the entire center of the cavern. Joseph wanted to take a closer look at this wonder but Tyrus led him to a wide fireplace instead. Afire crackled in a n alcove, cut right into the cavern’s wall;smoke disappeared up a narrow shaft.
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 3