Before the captain could answer, another officer broke into the room. “This is not a public house!” the General yelled out, irritated at the interruption. “State your business quickly!”
“Sir,” the newly-arrived officer said. “Joseph of Rishown’s horse has been found here, sir. Tied to the outer fence. By the brand, Sir, it’s a military horse but not one of ours.” The General put up his hand.
“Enough. Take the captain here to the infirmary, and you, stable the horse next to mine by my quarters. Leave.”
When the soldiers were gone, the General walked over to where Joseph stood; he looked out the window with the young man. “It seems I have more questions for you; did you hear the accusations against you?” Hays asked.
“I did, sir,” Joseph said.
“This is what is on my table,” the General said. “There are two officers who have brought an accusation against you for stealing and attacking them; this is punishable by death. Whether they lie or not, they are officers and you are seen as a peasant. I cannot take the word of a peasant over officers; I would lose the respect of my men. Therefore you must be hung after three days.” Joseph said nothing. “However,” Hays continued, “There is a small house on the edge of town I use occasionally for hunting. I will detain you there with a guard at the door for three days. If you are an innocent man, you will stay and be hung, but if you are guilty you’ll escape and leave this place, never to return.”
Joseph turned to face the General.
“Sir, what you do here you do before God,” he said, matching Hay’s gaze with an unflinching stare. “I am not answerable for your decisions. I will not be hung for a crime I didn’t commit, neither will I run like a guilty man.” He pulled out a thin, rolled parchment from his tunic and handing it to the general. Hays took it from him. Unrolling it, the general recognized them as honorable discharge papers.
“You were in the King’s army six years?” he asked, surprised. Joseph nodded. “It says here you went to Palmadore Academy...” Hays continued. The young man standing in his office rolled up his sleeve. The Palmadore Academy tattoo had not faded all that much.
“The last three years I served in the army was as an officer,” Joseph told him. “My last ranking was Captain. I finished my six years term with honors, fought in the Battle of Munitio and was discharged at Fort Rabak last year.”
Listening to all this with a straight face, the General looked over the scroll Joseph handed him. The delicate scrollwork around the rank word ‘captain’ arrested his eye. Hays met Joseph’s gaze once more.
“Do you have witnesses for your character still in the military?” he asked.
“Admiral Dunner of the Southern Fleet, and Marshall Walters of the Southern Regiment.”
The names were impressive but General Hays was not yet convinced.
“How do you know these men?” he asked.
“Now that I have named my witnesses, under military regulations you must ask them your questions.” Joseph replied, speaking politely. Hays nodded, going back to his table.
“You are correct. I will dispatch requests by courier immediately, asking for documents corroborating your story,” the general said, looking grave. “If they arrive, then a proper trial will be conducted. Until then, you will stay in my personal brig here...” Hays pointed to a barred room off to one side of the main room. “That way I can make sure you are well-treated.” Nodding, Joseph picked up a clean scroll.
“May I have the use of this and some ink, sir?” he asked. The General handed him his own inkwell and walked him over to the brig himself. Shutting the barred door behind the young man, Hays locked the door and put the key in his pocket; he went back to his table to write the dispatches.
The cell was not unpleasant. A neat cot sat within along with a small table with a candle on it. Sitting at the table, Joseph pulled out the small, gold cross Elizabeth had given him. Smiling to himself, he fell to work on a letter to her. The letter proved lengthy; in its pages he wrote of his childhood and the strange manner of his father’s death, his meeting with the king, and of his education. Writing such things down gave Joseph a sharp sense of release and he continued, describing some of his many experiences, sparing her the more gory details. Though his ability with the pen was by no means poor, Joseph found it difficult to express on paper his own feelings for Elizabeth. After thinking several moments, Joseph managed to write down a few lines. The few words spoke of a deep regard and a serious attachment; though it was not poetic, the words the young man wrote were like the man himself, simple and honest, heartfelt with honorable intentions. The letter left no doubt of his intent to marry the young woman and make a home with her someday. It occurred to Joseph that such a thing seemed very far away at the moment, sitting here in her father’s brig.
Several hours went by. Nearly complete with his letter Joseph heard a commotion at the door, and then a flurry of voices drifted over to him from near the General’s table.
“Sir!” shouted one. “The blacksmith! Smith Grier! He’s been murdered!”
“What?!” Hays exclaimed. Joseph heard the general’s chair screech as the man stood up.
“Sir...” one breathless voice stated. “He was in the market; several vendors told us he was buying clothes and other things. Three men, in hooded cloaks appeared and each shot the smith with an arrow straight to the chest!”
“Three men just appeared?” the General asked.
“Yes, sir, from what the merchants say, and they disappeared. We can’t find traces of three archers anywhere in the town... but we are still searching. Also, this was found in the Smith’s hand.”
Standing at the barred door Joseph heard what sounded like a bag of coins drop onto the General’s desk.
“This is Von Curtis’ money bag,” Hays said, thoughtfully. “I recognize his family crest.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said.
“Keep looking for the archers,” Hays instructed. “Bring the body to the doctor for examination.”
“Yes, sir. Harold, your steward, has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”
“Send him in,” Hays said. When the door closed, the General came over to the brig.
“I suppose you heard all that,” Hays said, grimly. Nodding, Joseph came over to the door.
“Sir?” Joseph said, quietly. “I must tell you that the new shoes I made for your horses are all in the forge still, marked with your name. Since you have already paid for them I worry if they will not be there much longer. Once Grier’s family hears of his death they will go at once to the forge to get anything of value there. I recommend that Harold learn from me their location and he can go fetch them for you.”
“You are right!” the General said, his forehead wrinkling. “I would be losing a score of silvers if they got their hands on my shoes.” Looking over at Joseph Hays studied him a moment. “Bribery won’t help you, son,” he admonished. A smile crept into the General face. “But, this is just... courtesy.” Joseph nodded.
Harold did not seem shocked to see Joseph in the brig. The steward looked around the cell with a slight smile.
“Your situation has improved, sir,” he said. Joseph looked at him curiously. “It does not cost you a silver a day to stay here,” Harold continued. With a small snort of laughter, Joseph quickly signed his name to the letter. Slipping it between the bars to Harold, he watched the steward quickly put it beneath his tunic. “I’ll see that she gets it tonight, sir,” the man whispered.
“The General’s shoes are in the wooden crate by the far left of the forge,” Joseph said, loud enough for the general to hear.
“Yes, get there quickly, Harold,” Hays put in. “I don’t want to find my horseshoes stolen by greedy relatives.”
LATE IN the afternoon of the third day of his imprisonment, while Joseph was asleep, a knock came at the General’s door.
“Come,” Hays called out. An officer came in.
“Sir...” the young man said. “Two couriers have arri
ved and beg audience with you.”
“Send them in,” Hays said, nodding towards the door. Two gray-cloaked men in rich tunics, bearing swords came in. Hays looked up at them; without a word, one of the men placed a sealed scroll before the General. The seal of the King stared up at Hays from the scroll as he looked at it in amazement.
“But, this is the seal of the...”
“Hold your peace,” one of the couriers instructed. “This is a secret matter, to be discussed by no one. Read the missive.” Dutifully, Hays broke it open and read the message thereon to himself:
“By order of the King, Joseph Asher of Rishown, son of Lieutenant John Asher, is to be released unharmed immediately, along with all his possessions and all charges against him dropped. Those responsible for the accusations brought against him are to be dishonorably discharged from the Army immediately. Speak to no one of this matter, and fail not in carrying out these orders.” The missive ended with the King’s seal again, pressed into a sweet-smelling wax.
Hays got up hurriedly from his chair, taking the key to the brig from his pocket; he nearly tripped over the leg of his desk as he rushed over to Joseph’s cell. At the sound of the key--turning in the lock--Joseph awoke. He rose from the cot, ready to defend himself.
“Son, you’re being released,” Hays explained quickly. “Let me get you your sword; your horse will be ready to leave in a few moments.” Dumbfounded, Joseph automatically put on his cloak and boots, moving as if in a daze. Stepping out of the brig, he saw the two cloaked men standing there.
“Are you Joseph Asher? Son of Lieutenant John Asher?” one of them asked.
“I am sir,” Joseph answered him.
The man questioning him held out his fist towards Joseph. He recognized the ring of the Shamar and nodded his understanding.
“By the authority of the King’s seal you are to go to the capital city,” the Shamar told him; the solemnity of his low voice caused a curling thread of doubt to steal into Joseph’s mind. Had he displeased the king? The Shamar was not finished. “There--by the highway--find the Lyone Inn, near the southern gate. Stay there one night. Be ready to receive further instructions.” Joseph merely nodded in response.
The door opened again. General Hays walked in and handed Joseph his sword without another word.
THIRTEEN
Belator’s lead firmly in hand, Joseph made his way towards the Southern Gate through the crowded streets of the King’s City.
The bustle of people and throngs of livestock made travel slow. It was dark by time he reached the gate. Lyone Inn stood by the King’s highway--as the Shamar had told him--an ancient, stone building flanked by large oak trees. Joseph saw Belator bedded down for the night in the adjacent stables, with plenty to eat. The inn’s main room was crowded, but there was room for a solitary traveler on the floor in the corner. He saw no gray cloaked men among the guests. Used to sleeping on the ground, Joseph did not find it difficult to sleep.
Before dawn, he awoke and gathered his things. Stepping out the Inn door Joseph looked around the dark, deserted street before heading to the stables. It was surprisingly quiet, but the roosters were not awake yet. Walking down the alleyway to the stable, Joseph heard the sound of a single footstep; about to turn, he saw three shadowy figures in the darkness of the alley, about 15 feet in front of him.
Another footstep sounded from behind, making the hair on Joseph’s neck lift. Turning, he looked over his shoulder. Three more figures stood motionless behind him, less than twenty feet away. Out of habit, Joseph’s hand went to his sword, but remembered he had left it with Belator, hidden in the hay. A chuckle, low and full of mirth came from one of the dark figures by the stable.
“War has a way of training the hand,” the voice said. “The sword becomes like part of the arm for a true solider.” Keeping a wary eye on both groups Joseph watched them for a moment. They did not act like guards of the priests; they were too quiet for barbarians;. He could not make out the color of their clothing in the darkness.
“You seem to know about me,” Joseph said, quietly addressing the man who’d spoke to him; the lamplight of the stable was blocked by a wall and he could not see the speaker. “What do you want of me?”
One figure stepped forward, tall and well-covered by a dark cloak.
“The King requests your presence, Joseph Asher,” he stated. “The council of the Shamar is called.”
“Allow me to get my horse,” Joseph said, after a moment. The speaker nodded and stepped back, allowing Joseph to pass, but kept stride next to him. In the low light of the street-lamp, Joseph got a better look at the men behind and next to him. The gray cloaks and near silent steps seemed familiar to him.
Belator was asleep. He awoke with a start as Joseph approached his stall. The sword was where he’d left it. Joseph buckled on the sheath and grabbed his pack. Leading his horse quietly Joseph left a few coins in the stall and walked out to the group of Shamar. Here, the lamplight shown more directly on the tall leader’s face. His dark hair and gray eyes had not changed since Joseph followed him through the tunnels underneath the King’s City palace, nor had his calm expression.
“Tyrus,” Joseph murmured; the low tone of his voice carried in the still pre-dawn air. The cloaked man smiled and nodded.
“It is I,” Tyrus said, motioning for Joseph to follow him. The Shamar’s horses stood tied to a hitching post, not far away. The men mounted quickly. Tyrus rode next to Joseph, leading the way through the streets.
After a few minutes, Tyrus spoke up.
“I take it you remember the great hall?” he said, looking sideways at Joseph.
“I can still catch my own lunch,” Joseph returned, smiling. Tyrus chuckled again.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Though this time it will not be necessary.”
“Why has the King asked to see me?” Joseph’s steady voice belied his concern.
“No one knows the mind of the King,” Tyrus said, calmly. “You will be able to ask him yourself.” Joseph rode on with him in silence.
To his surprise they did not go towards the first gate of the citadel, but to the very edge of the bay, outside the city. There--on a lone dock--a longboat floated on the calm waters.
“Leave your horse,” Tyrus instructed as he dismounted. “He will be in good hands.” Two more Shamar appeared and took the reins of the horses. There were shacks nearby used by fishermen. The party that had collected Joseph got into the longboat; Joseph got in and took up an oar with the rest.
A little glow began to fill the sky behind the city--off towards the mountains--as the sun rose. Pulling the oar hard in rhythm with the others, Joseph watched the sky grow lighter around the city, the light gradually flowing towards them. Peering over his shoulder, Joseph saw the Citadel peninsula approaching quickly. The boat headed for a small outcropping of rock, some distance from the shore. As they neared it Joseph saw what appeared to be the side of the mountain was really an outcropping of rock that jutted out parallel to the mountain itself, going up several hundred feet. Even in broad daylight it would be invisible to outsiders, unless one sailed this close to it. The sensation of being watched fell over him. Joseph had no doubt that there were several Shamar watching them from the rocks as they drew near. Heading around the outcropping the rowers drew in their oars. Inside the tall group of rocks there formed a small, protected bay carved into the mountain; a small crowd of boats lay moored wherever there was room. A staircase rose from the water--twisting along the surface of the mountain-- so well crafted it was barely distinguishable from the rocks around it.
Tyrus led the way up the long stairs. Trudging upwards behind him, Joseph glanced often at the brightening sky. Drawing Elizabeth’s small cross from his pocket he glanced at it, wondering if he’d see her again. He put the cross away, securely in his cloak’s inner pocket. The stairs ended at what looked to be a solid boulder with a shelf of rock jutting out around the bottom. A cloaked guard stood on either side of the giant rock. They insp
ected Tyrus’ ring then stepped back.
Joseph heard a grinding sound, coming from inside the mountain. A crack showed down the middle of the rock and in halves the boulder swung back, the crack growing wide enough to slip through into a dark passage beyond. Filing through, the party shuffled down the narrow tunnel. The grinding noise continued, ending only when the entrance door thudded back into place. Here and there burned a small torch mounted to the wall. The men passed prison doors, cut into the rock. Joseph swallowed. Imprisonment in such a place would be a living horror. Uncertainty clouded his mind and he as he walked he prepared--in his mind--any and all defense arguments he could muster, to clear his name of all accusations.
After some minutes of walking the tunnel slowly slanted upward. It came out in a dimly lit cavern. Several more tunnels branched off here, though none were marked with any kind of sign or symbol. Tyrus seemed to know where he was going and kept the group going at a quick pace. Ancient rock made up the sides and roof of their way, hold a decided odor of decaying minerals. Every few turns Tyrus would open a door and usher everyone through it. Joseph half expected to see prisoners at every turn, but no one was behind the wooden doors they went through, just more tunnels.
Finally, they walked up to a huge set of arched doors. Polished and solid, they stood impressively in the dim light, fitted with wrought iron handles and riveted hinges. No guards could be seen. Tyrus stood at the door and knocked, hard. The sound of a sliding lock reached Joseph’s ears, and the door creaked open. Blinding light came pouring through the door. Joseph winced and close his eyes against the brightness. A hand gripped his arm, leading him forward into the light. After a moment Joseph’s eyes started to adjust and he peered around him, blinking rapidly. A long, wide hallway greeted his eye, one with a high ceiling of glass wherein poured the sun in a golden shower. The floor comprised pure, white stone which reflecting the light into every corner of the hall. Two guards closed the door behind them and Joseph followed Tyrus forward.
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 17