King's Champion

by Peter Grant

  “I hear you. Jayson, Simin, you got that?”

  The other two nodded. “I do, sir.” “Aye, I heard.”

  “Very well,” Owain concluded. “Let’s get the wagon team swapped over, then we’ll ride together to where the forest trail meets the Siricha road. We’ll part company there.”

  —————

  By mid-afternoon the two wagons and four riders were four leagues into the Wald. They were moving more slowly along the rutted, bumpy forest paths, much less smooth and accommodating than the post roads. The sun was shining in the sky above them, but it shed little light into the deep shadows cast by the thickly growing trees.

  Owain called a halt in a small clearing. “We’ll light a fire and cook our evening meal here. Use dry fuel, to make as little smoke as possible. We’ll ride on for a league or so before making camp for the night. We’ll light no fires after sunset, to make it as difficult as possible for others to find us, and in the morning, we’ll cover at least a league before cooking breakfast, for the same reason.”

  Their escorts got down from their horses, gathering dry twigs and branches. Owain told them, “While you’re at it, collect as much dry fuel as you can to fill the belly skins under the wagons. If we get any more rain, we’ll need it.” They nodded, and extended their search. The cowhide aprons were soon bulging with dry fuel, with some larger branches broken into convenient lengths and added to the freight in the wagon beds.

  Kimeta had earlier demonstrated his skill with a horse archer’s short, powerful composite bow by bringing down a small deer. They broiled cuts of its meat over the coals, eating them with the last of their fresh bread and washing down the meal with mugs of hot tea sweetened with honey.

  While Diava extinguished the fire and buried the ashes, making sure to leave as few traces as possible of their passing, Owen spoke to the others. “Before we move on, there’s something else to do. I asked the Major to sell me two wagon covers of dark canvas, as different as possible from the white tops we’ve got on the wagons at present. Let’s swap them now. Later in the trip we’ll do that again, and perhaps alternate one of them, so we’ll have one dark wagon and one light. We’ll also swap teams and individual horses from time to time. The idea is to make it difficult for anyone to follow us by looking for the same wagons day after day.”

  “I wondered why we’d brought them along,” Dort said with a grin. “They seemed a waste of space in our wagon bed when we already had one.”

  “Anything that’ll make it more difficult for our enemies is useful to us,” Owain assured him.

  “I can’t argue with that – especially not if it helps keep my pretty little head attached to my dainty little neck!”

  As the four escorts headed for their wagon, laughing, Diava held Owain back. “One thing’s puzzling me. Why did you ask the Major for a pack saddle, when we’ve got plenty of room for our supplies in both wagons?”

  “It’s a ‘just-in-case’, old friend. I hope we don’t need it, but if we do, it’s there. That’s why I brought a saddle for you, too. You may find it painful to ride, but if we have to abandon the wagons and run for our lives…”

  Diava nodded. “I understand. If we do, though, I’m taking that cushion with me. A saddle will be just as hard on my ancient arse as a wagon seat!”

  —————

  The following morning, they adopted the travel formation Owain planned to use for the rest of the journey. Two riders preceded the wagons, one armed with bow or arbalest, the other with a spear. Two more drove the wagons, weapons ready to hand, while the remaining two, again including an archer, followed behind the wagons, keeping a wary eye on their back trail.

  They found they could cover six to seven leagues each day. It was a much slower pace than would have been possible on better roads, but one the horses could keep up without difficulty. They rotated the teams on a three-day cycle. Each pulled one wagon the first day, the other the following day, then had a day without pulling any load, tethered to the rear of a wagon and following along behind it. They checked the horses’ hooves carefully each morning and afternoon, making sure the horseshoes were still tight and no stones had lodged beneath them, and fitted their harness and saddles carefully to avoid chafing.

  They settled into a routine of two meals a day, a big breakfast mid-morning followed by an early supper mid-afternoon. They refilled their water skins and barrel from streams they passed, and the archers hunted for meat. They ate deer or hog if the hunt had been successful, otherwise making do with dried meat and sausage. They boiled dried vegetables in a three-legged pot, chewed dried fruit, and made camp bread each afternoon – flour, salt, oil and water mixed, patted flat and thin, and baked in an iron skillet. The horses grazed on the sparse grass of the forest clearings while they ate, and were given a small ration of oats every second day to keep up their strength. After supper, they pushed on until nightfall, one rider going ahead to find a suitable place away from the road for their overnight stop, with good overhead cover, then guiding the others to it. They made a cold camp without light or fire, sleeping in and beneath the wagons, tethering the horses to them. They stood guard through the night, two men at a time, the others sleeping with weapons ready beside them.

  Everything went smoothly until the morning of the ninth day in the forest. Owain was driving the lead wagon when he saw Apal give a warning signal from where he rode, fifty yards up the trail. He pulled his horse into the trees on the right, while behind him Rostam moved to the left, hefting his light throwing spear in his hand. Owain pulled up his wagon, knowing that Diava behind him would do the same, while Dort and Kimeta would redouble their vigilance in the rear.

  Apal turned his horse and rode back to Owain. “There’s a man sitting on a log in a clearing up ahead. He seems too well dressed for a forest bandit. He’s just sitting there, looking in our direction. He seems to be waiting for us.”

  “Take the wagon. I’ll borrow your horse.”

  Owain swapped places with Apal, took his Graben-booty arbalest from the wagon bed, spanned its prod, and slotted a bolt into place. He rode slowly forward, telling Rostam as he passed to remain in position.

  As he rode into the clearing, the man on the log stood and bowed. His voice was light, with a touch of mockery, Owain thought. “Welcome to our lands, traveler.”

  “Your lands? Who are you, and what title do you hold to them?”

  “I am Garath, younger son of the Baron of Brackley.”

  “Surely you mean the former Baron of Brackley, now that the Earl of Elspeth has usurped his holdings?”

  A flash of anger crossed the young man’s face. “Armed robbery does not legitimize possession of its fruits. When we can finally stir the King into action, we shall deal with him as he deserves. As to my present title, it comes from my sword, and the swords, spears and arrows of my father’s loyal retainers, and the tolls we levy upon travelers like yourself, passing through what remains of our holdings. They’re unfortunately one of the few sources of income left to us.”

  Owain nodded slowly. The Baron had fled to the Wald after refusing to sell his holdings to his much more powerful neighbor five years before. Irritated, the Earl had simply taken them, overwhelming the Baron’s meager forces by weight of numbers. The invasion had been completely illegal, but the King had vacillated, refusing to use the authority of the Crown to resolve the matter. Elspeth was one of the most influential nobles in Avranche. He had called in every marker he was owed by his fellow nobles. Their pressure had ensured that no action had been taken against him.

  “If you’re the eldest son of a Baron who no longer has a Barony, how then am I to address you?” Owain asked, a glimmer of humor in his voice. The other caught it, and grinned.

  “Oh, let’s not stand on ceremony. My name will suffice. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “I am Owain of the Axe.”

  The other’s face lost all expression. “I find that… hard to believe,” he said slowly. “One is not accustomed to
meeting the King’s Champion Emeritus in a remote forest glade. I presume you can prove it?”

  “You can face my axe with your sword, if you wish. That should settle it in about thirty seconds.”

  “So long? You must be slowing down.”

  Now it was Owain’s turn to grin. “I fear age catches up with us all – but if your man behind that bush doesn’t lower his bow, he’ll never have to worry about it. This arbalest will see to that.”

  Gareth’s face showed a flash of annoyance as he turned. “I said no weapons! Wait until we see if they’ll be needed!”

  Behind a nearby bush a man removed the arrow in his right hand from his bowstring, calling, “You’d have to hit me first, Master Axeman. That may not be as easy as you think.”

  “I’d only have to scratch you. The Graben poison on this broadhead would do the rest in a matter of seconds.”

  Garath’s face turned ugly as his hand crept towards the hilt of his sword. “You dare boast of using Graben poison?”

  “I fear I don’t have much choice. The raider who carried this poisoned all the bolts in his quiver before I took it from him.”

  “A Graben raider?” The young man’s hand stopped moving, then withdrew as his shoulders relaxed. “I trust you took his life, while you were about it?”

  “I did, and the lives of his three companions, and the two gruefells on which they rode.”

  “Gruefells? Where? When?”

  “The inn below the Valley of Harnack, about two weeks ago. They killed the innkeeper and his family before I could stop them. The inn was destroyed.”

  “News of it hasn’t reached us yet, but we know of other raids where gruefell sign was reported. It seems evil times have returned.”

  “I fear so. That’s why I’m traveling through this forest, instead of on better roads. I’m less likely to run into more of them here.”

  Garath nodded slowly. “In your shoes, I’d be cautious too. You know my father fought in the Graben Wars?”

  “I did. I met him several times. He’s a good man – or was. I don’t know if his exile has changed him.”

  “It has, but he’s still a good man. I’d be grateful if you’d tell him more about what you’ve just told me. Our Barony’s been the victim of Graben raids in the past. Even though we can’t do much to stop them now, my father still cares about his people. He’ll share with them anything you can tell us that may help keep them safe, despite the Earl of Elspeth’s neglect of his duties.”

  Owain considered. “I can’t tarry long. Taking this forest road has already slowed me down more than I wanted.”

  “I understand; but I hope you can see my side. We still try to live up to our baronial responsibilities, despite all obstacles in our paths.”

  “I wish more nobles did the same. Very well. Where is your father, and how long will it take us to get there?”

  “He’s an hour’s march down that side path.” Garath pointed to a narrow footpath leading into the trees, very faint, as if it were little used.

  “Can horses use it?”

  “I fear not. It’s very narrow, and the trees close in thickly above and on either side.”

  “It seems I must walk, then. What about my men and wagons?”

  “They may stay here in safety. I’ll leave two of my men here as surety for your safe return.”

  “How long will we be gone?”

  “That depends on how long he wants to talk to you, and you to him.”

  Owain thought for a moment, then signaled with his hand. Rostam waved, turned, and motioned to the others to come on up. They rode into the clearing warily, weapons ready.

  “I’m going with this man to speak to the Baron of Brackley. We’ll be gone at least three hours, perhaps longer. Two of his men will stay with you as surety for my safe return. Pull off the road and into the trees. Keep out of sight, particularly from above. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Brackley, is it?” Diava grunted. “Stubborn-headed young subaltern, he was.”

  Garath grinned. “You served with my father?”

  “I was his troop sergeant when he joined the King’s Bodyguard. I taught him everything practical about being a soldier. He had all the theory from his noble education, but as always, it wasn’t worth a damn to him until he’d learned what worked in the field, and what would get him – and us – killed. He did better than a lot of his peers. He lived long enough to learn.”

  “Will you come with us? He’ll be glad to see you again, I’m sure.”

  “It’s an hour’s march there on foot, and the same back,” Owain warned his friend. “Will you be able to cope with that?”

  “It’ll be painful, but I’d like to see the Baron again, for old time’s sake. I think I can make it. I’ll get my crossbow from the wagon, and a staff.”

  “Very well. You can come along.”

  —————

  The trees and scrub pressing close against the path suddenly began to thin. Within a matter of twenty paces a clearing opened up before them, with several shacks and shelters visible beneath the trees around its edge. Horses grazed in the center of the clearing, watched by a couple of boys. A sentry stood watch near the path, spear held ready. He watched alertly as they emerged.

  “You make more noise than a marauding bear!” he called cheerfully to Garath.

  “I can’t help it if our guests have lead feet.”

  “Funny, I could have sworn the bells on your toes were ringing.”

  Owain laughed. “He’s certainly got the manner of a jester, but I hadn’t noticed he was wearing the shoes as well.”

  Garath sniffed ostentatiously, grinning. He and Owain had talked during the march, and had grown to like each other enough to tolerate such chaffing. He motioned to a slightly larger shack than the others on the far side of the clearing. “My father will be in there.”

  They set off across the clearing, Diava following them with Garath’s armsmen. The old man was hobbling badly. Owain looked back at him and frowned, concerned.

  “Are you all right, Diava? You look like death warmed over!”

  “I hate to admit it, but I feel that way. I hadn’t expected a mere hour’s walk to cause me so much pain.”

  “Are you injured?” Garath asked, concerned.

  “Ill. Do you have a healer here?”

  “We have. He’s short of supplies, but does the best he can for us. Maran, take Diava to see him, please.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man-at-arms led Diava off in another direction.

  A tall, burly man came to the door of the shack as they approached. His face was lined with age and care, but his eyes twinkled. He was of similar height and build to Owain, wearing simple brown breeches and a plain white shirt, but had an elaborate filigree chain of office around his neck.

  Garath called, “We have a visitor, Father.”

  “So I see. Greetings, Owain of the Axe. It’s been years since last we met.”

  “Indeed, my lord. If I may say so, that was in a better time and place than this.”

  “It was. However, the present circumstances have at least one advantage. One can tell who one’s friends are. Those who are worth having still visit me. Those who were naught but fair-weather friends now shun me as if I were evil personified.”

  “Aye, I’ve met more than a few such in my time. They’re not worth bothering about.”

  “Agreed. What brings you here?”

  “I had a run-in with some Graben raiders on gruefells a couple of weeks ago. Your son thought you’d want to hear about it. I took some things from them that I don’t understand. I’m on my way to the monastery of Atheldorn to ask what they mean.”

  “Well, sit down and tell me about them. We’ll eat in a short while – the midday meal is almost ready.”

  “You’re spoiling me. For the past nine days, we’ve eaten only a late breakfast and an early supper before making a cold camp without fires.”

  “Trying to avoid being spotted? Are you expecting p
ursuit?”

  “Aye. Those dead Graben doubtless have friends.”

  “I see. Let’s sit outside at that table – the sunshine’s warm enough now to be enjoyable. Come, Garath, join us.”

  —————

  Owain mopped the last of the gravy from his plate with a hunk of bread. “If all your meals are this good, I’m surprised you aren’t all much fatter than you are, my lord,” he observed with a smile.

  “We would be, but living in the forest is much harder than in a castle or town,” the Baron retorted. “Building and maintaining our huts and shelters, gathering fallen trees for firewood, hunting for food – all those things take a lot of work. We burn off the fat before it has a chance to settle around our bellies.”

  Another man walked up to the table. “Good morning, my lord – or is it already afternoon?” He squinted up at the sun almost directly overhead.

  “Greetings, Riann. Allow me to introduce Owain of the Axe, the retired King’s Champion. Owain, Riann is our healer.”

  “It’s you I came to see, Sir Champion. Your friend Diava is –”

  “Diava?” the Baron exclaimed. “Is that the Diava who was my troop sergeant in the King’s Bodyguard?”

  “It is,” Owain confirmed. “He wanted to see you, but he’s not a well man. The walk here caused him pain. I sent him to your healer.”

  “I saw him,” Riann agreed. “He told me of the diagnosis given him by the healer priest he saw a few weeks ago. All his present symptoms confirm it. I fear the constant bouncing on poor roads during your journey has hastened his decline. He’ll not be able to walk back to your wagons this afternoon. I’ve dosed him with poppy-juice to dull the pain. He’s asleep right now.”

  “Damnation! I don’t know what to do, then. I can’t leave him with you.”

  “Why not?” the Baron asked. “We send a rider to the monastery every week to trade for supplies and learn the latest news. The next one’s due to leave tomorrow morning. I can send a cart instead – there are other, wider tracks out of here than the one you used. I’ll put Diava in it, with a straw-filled mattress to keep him comfortable. He can rejoin you there.”