A Lord's Duty (The Chronicles of Galennor Book 1)

by J. S. Crews

  Because they were shaken. That sense he’d had of something immaterial and yet heavy in the air that he couldn’t name now became obvious as a nervous fear, an instinct that something is amiss even in the absence of visible threats. Ansel believed in instinct as being the prodding of the gods, so his attention turned now to those herding the locals inside—men who, unlike the rabble of farmers and millers, he assessed as being dangerous.

  He now turned a more scrutinizing eye on those he’d been thinking of as highwaymen. Ansel did not delude himself, pretending they’d come there under the veil of night to participate in anything lawful. This being some venture well outside the king’s laws was the only explanation for the level of secrecy being insisted upon, yet he had agreed to at least come this far because those laws had pushed beyond the point where he believed a man need concern himself with the moral issue of going against them.

  He realized he had been thinking of them as highwaymen, simply for lack of anything better to call them. Suddenly, though, a sense of something more worrisome was raising an unformed suspicion within him. What he saw as he looked again with a more discerning eye told the soldier in him that these were harder men even than he had originally thought.

  Each was dressed in a long cloak and carried himself like a soldier but without the inherent discipline typical of that breed. Some even wore scars. These were the kind of men avoided by the wise when possible. These would not be the sort found drunk and blustery in taverns, spoiling for fights, but rather the quiet dangerous ones sipping mead alone in darkened corners with eyes that said they would slit your throat if given cause.

  Ansel watched as they barred the doors of the barn, taking up position in a line facing the crowd with their backs to the exit. Suddenly, he found himself having to swallow down a rising panic as he recalled his own thoughts from a few moments ago, comparing the way they were being lead into the barn to a herd, his puerile mind jumping to memories of livestock slaughters for the Festival of Last Harvest. Get ‘hold o’ yerself, fool, he thought. They’ve no reason t’harm us.

  Yet, something was definitely wrong, and he wasn’t the only one who appeared uneasy. Without even realizing it, Ansel had instinctively moved closer to his brother-by-law, and—looking to see if Allet was seeing the same—he found what he sought instead in the face of the minstrel from the night he’d allowed himself to be pulled into whatever this was. That one was clearly apprehensive, glancing pointedly toward the now-blocked exit and then back to Ansel.

  Others quickly began glancing worriedly back and forth as well, and the tone of the hushed conversations seemed to change. Even without being able to pick out specific words or phrases amid the hum of voices, it was impossible not to sense the change in mood. It was just such a tonal shift, in fact, that served to draw Ansel’s attention back to the front of the gathering.

  Looking past the heads of the others from where he stood near the center of the throng, Ansel saw what had commanded everyone’s attention. There, a man had hoisted himself up on top of a barrel, using an old milking stool for a step and towering above everyone in order to be seen and heard. He was a bull of a man, perhaps of middle years with a weather-beaten face and a nose that had obviously been broken too many times to count. He had no neck, large arms, a thick chest, and the face of a murderer. His dress was simple, though of fine make, and he wore an expensive sword with a jewel incised at the pommel. A crooked scar marred the left side of his face, disappearing beneath his close-cropped hair.

  Raising a calloused hand for quiet, he spoken vaguely and, to his credit, rousingly about how wealthy each of them would soon be. None of what passed in those several minutes was important, however. What mattered came right thereafter. The mouthpiece tried to rouse the crowd and deflect questions for a time, but when it was clear the men were going to insist on knowing more, he yielded his position.

  Piquing Ansel’s interest, this new speaker did not require perching atop a barrel to be seen, his own height more than sufficient. It was none other than the man he had been calling the Bear. Ansel had yet to hear him speak, but that was apparently about to occur, since he had stepped to the front and raised his hand into the air. It was just as the noise died to a whisper in anticipation, though, that the Bear removed his cowl for the first time and the whole world suddenly changed.

  The face revealed beneath his deep cloak was mostly unremarkable. Ansel had thought of him as the Bear, and seeing his face for the first time did not dispel that assessment. It was a hard face, framed by brown hair gathered in a bun, a face capable of cruelty. Of course, Ansel had found the latter to be true of most men, regardless of their looks, but he immediately knew it would be true in this case.

  Ansel felt his breath catch in his chest and his blood run suddenly cold. The Bear wore a painted face, not using pitch or lye as enamel, but with the ink imbedded permanently beneath the skin with a needle. Charcoal made from a willow was used to create a dark, blackish blue pigment. It was a long and somewhat painful process, or so he had been told. It was a mark of distinction undertaken by certain warriors of the Northlands: barbarian Wodi!

  He had seen men wearing such marks during his time serving on the frontier. He knew nothing of what the symbol’s signified, but the older veterans said they held spiritual purpose and made the one wearing them powerful, protecting them in battle. Others had sworn that was nonsense and that it was simply the way certain tribes denoted rank. Ansel did not know which was true, if either, and nor did he have knowledge of the heathen gods worshipped on windswept mountain peaks and in deep groves north of the kingdom’s holdings. What he did know, however, was that this man and his gods did not belong here, and he subconsciously fingered the amulet of Iadara around his neck even as he forced himself to breathe.

  Another thing he was now certain of was that whatever was happening here tonight was nothing of which he wanted any part. Others seemed frightened as well. It was anyone’s guess whether they had served in the north themselves or were simply reacting to the tales of bloodthirsty barbarians with painted faces stealing children and women and leaving murder in their wake, but the effect could not be denied. Some others plainly had no clue what was happening, simply glancing around nervously.

  Ansel turned to see the minstrel again, this time with naked alarm written across his face, apparently waiting to see how he was going to react. Instinctively, he knew then that the man would follow his lead, and so he took Allet—poor, stupid Allet, who still had no clue what was happening—roughly by the arm and started pulling him backwards out of the agitated crowd. The doors behind them were guarded but by only a few men, and his best and only plan in that moment was to rush them and quickly win free. Finding success in such action would require surprise and so he did not simply turn and rush that way but rather sought to back out of the crowd, then turn and accost the guards quickly.

  He could only hope the minstrel would follow as it seemed, and it wouldn’t hurt if Allet helped too. None of them were armed, but he hoped they could quickly overwhelm the guards and win past them. They did not need to win a duel to accomplish that.

  Unfortunately, what little hope he had died with the sound of swords hissing out of their scabbards behind him. He turned, subterfuge no longer a necessary part of his dissolving plan, only to find the way blocked by grim men with naked blades in the flickering torchlight. No words were said, but one of them simply nodded his head in the negative, the message more than clear.

  Ansel turned back toward the crowd, his attention drawn by a sudden collective gasp. The reason for that surprise, he could now see, was the emergence of many more armed men from further on the barn’s far side where the flickering torchlight and that of the lanterns had not reached. These men advanced menacingly from their shadowed hiding places, swords and axes drawn, to stand behind the huge Wodi warrior.

  They were trapped.

  Chapter Ten

  “The Young Lord”

  Jonas jerked hard on the reins to sett
le his ill-tempered whoreson of a mount.

  Lieutenant Teagan had kicked them awake while still buckling on his own armor, and the entire patrol was in their saddles during the gloaming hour. By the time the sun began to illuminate the eastern sky, they had already covered a mile or more on the hard-packed dirt trail and were dipping into their morning ration of dried fruit and nuts as they rode. Despite encountering somewhat rougher country than the previous day, the patrol was now reaching the stopping point of the second day of their circuit with daylight yet remaining.

  The idea of getting out of the saddle pleased Jonas more than was fitting for such an experienced rider. He had been working with horses his entire life, carrying fond memories of riding his first pony when he was still so small he needed help mounting her. They had been in the saddle most of the day, however, with only intermittent breaks. After two such days in succession, his backside and legs were killing him.

  Making matters worse, he had been given a different horse today, and it was probably the most disagreeable animal he had ever encountered. The uppity bastard had to be manhandled to get him to comply with even the simplest commands, and that extra effort was contributing to Jonas’s fatigue and foul mood. All of this was by design, of course, which he should have expected when Sergeant Hammid passed him the reins with a smile that morning, saying he had picked the beast out for Jonas himself. If he had ever learned anything from his father, it was that nothing delighted bored soldiers more than passing gossip and hazing new recruits.

  Thankfully, though more strenuous than the previous day, their trek had rarely strayed from the road. Having cut his teeth in the shadow of the great range known as the Blue Mountains and in the midst of the forest men called the Teeming Woods because of its wealth of game, Jonas was aware the going could have been much worse. Luckily for them, a cavalry patrol had no choice but to cleave to whatever passed for a road as much as possible for the sake of the horses.

  Cavalry represented the most awe-inspiring and effective fighting strength available. Heavy horse, as it was often called, represented a force multiplier in that it allowed a numerically-inferior body to overwhelm a larger one, riding them down like grass and scattering them into a welter of confusion. Aside from that blunt force, cavalry also had other uses. More agile units, kitted out with lighter weaponry and armor, provided a defensive screen to protect infantry while they moved into formation on a battlefield and acted as a lightning-fast body of reconnaissance scouts. In peacetime, these units often made the rounds of the roads between settlements, since they were not hindered by heavier armor and equipment. The patrol to which they were attached was just such a unit.

  Each man was outfitted in leather armor made from layers of ox hide, boiled in animal fat or beeswax and stretched to dry and harden over a wooden dummy. The result was then studded with steel. This process created a cuirass strong enough to deflect anything but the most direct strike, while remaining much lighter than a suit of steel armor. The only member of the patrol wearing metal protection—in this case, a suit of ring mail beneath his own leather cuirass—was Lieutenant Teagan himself, because he would naturally be the one most exposed in any altercation as he directed the activities of the others.

  They wore shortswords on their hips, for—while no trouble was anticipated—they were riding into some of the wilder countryside of the Duke’s territory. Jonas and Alastar were not excluded, though they were present solely to learn and armed strictly for their own self-defense. That mattered little, however, since action was unlikely in any case, and they were excited just feeling like real soldiers. While not the weapons they had been primarily trained to use, shortswords were well-suited to their unit. In addition, each had a light cavalry spear hanging from his saddle, resting horizontally alongside his leg where it would not drag the ground.

  Smaller than the lances or pikes carried by heavy cavalrymen, these also seemed singularly appropriate for use by a lighter unit. They were about half again the height of a man, yet surprisingly light since the shaft was made from layerings of tightly-wrapped leather, rather than carved wood. The tang—which ran the length of the shaft—was a single cylindrical piece of iron topped with a steel spearhead. Layer upon layer of leather stripping had been stretched and wrapped tightly around the iron rod and fixed with an adhesive that dried tough but lacked the weight by which such a large weapon would otherwise have been hindered. They could punch through armor or a shield, but remained lightweight and just flexible enough not to snap like traditional spears and lances.

  The only difference in uniformity of equipment was exhibited by the three troopers assigned as scouts, whose job it was to do reconnaissance ahead of the main column. In addition to shortsword and spear, they were also armed with recurved shortbows. The ranged weapons hung from their saddle horns along with the quivers of deadly missiles, so that they could be retrieved quickly at need.

  They were approaching the village by which they would camp for this their second night in the field, and Jonas was more than eager to part company with the cantankerous beast beneath him. It was a small settlement, just a dozen or so homes at first glance, arranged in a rough circle around a well faced in loosely mortared stone. A wooden bucket swayed in the gentle breeze from a rope secured around a wooden frame built above the well. A large area to the rear of the dwellings was fenced-in with wattle and was obviously a livestock corral.

  The village also boasted a Haven. This was a communal shelter, meant to be used in times of trouble to protect the people and their precious breeding pairs of livestock until help could arrive. The need for such was an unfortunate fact of life for simple folks living miles from the lords and knights sworn to protect them. It was constructed of a log palisade, faced on the outside with the same roughly mortared stone as the well. Jonas was impressed. The place appeared nearly as defendable as the guard fort they had left that morning. The interior featured a small barn and the long low haven of unmortared piled stones from which the whole bulwark took its name.

  As they moved closer, though, something seemed off. Two men, one younger and one older, were driving a flock of sheep into the defensive enclosure. Considering the village had its own corral, such an action seemed odd, unless there was some danger about. Lieutenant Taegan must have thought so as well, because he took only a moment to consider the scene before spurring his horse to get down to the two men more quickly. The whole column followed his lead.

  Drawing within shouting distance, he hailed the men, who stood fast and allowed their flock to wander. Curbing his horse, he asked by way of greeting, "Bandits causin’ you folks trouble?"

  The younger man looked up, cupping his hand lazily to shield his eyes from the sun, and his older companion simply waited as though taking little interest. "Aye, but these is the four-legged kind. Wolves outa yonder hills. All told, we done lost near half a score head t’the bastards o’er the past moonturn, the last of ‘em took right from inside yonder yard behind our very houses."

  All eyes had moved to follow the younger man’s gesture, pointing vaguely to the north where Jonas spied the distinct outline of a series of tree-dotted hills a few miles distant and stretching away toward the eastern seacoast. Their attention returned quickly, however, at mention of wolves daring to come so close to a human settlement. It was no wonder these folks were eschewing the spindly protection of the wattle fence, trusting instead in the stout palisade to protect their beasts.

  The old bent-back seemed less convinced. He scoffed, spitting into the dusty hillside loudly to show what he thought of his younger companion’s assessment. "Might be the beasties is the ones eatin’ our sheep, but mark me if it ain’t bandits that’s causin’ it. I’ve lived in this village all my life, an’ the only time we’ve had wolves so brazen was when I was a lad, ‘n’ turned out they was two-legged wolves in them hills that none o’ us knew nothin’ about. Not ‘til they started waylayin’ folks travelin’ the North Road."

  It was the last statement that told Jonas
what hills were being discussed. He had no idea what they were called, or if they even had a proper name, but he had seen them on a map in Duke Valdimir’s private study, made evident by the old man’s mention of the North Road. He remembered a small series of bumps, clearly meant to be smaller and more rounded than proper mountains, sketched on the map as running right alongside the thin black line scratched into the parchment to indicate the course of that road.

  The old man was still talking. "Kept that mess up ‘til ‘is lordship brung men from the castle an’ run ‘em down. Mark me. They’s men up there is the cause o’ this. A big band too if them huntin’ is thinnin’ out the game enough t’drive wolves down here lookin’ fer somethin’ t’eat."

  The younger one’s interest was fully piqued now, hearing such tidings with a group of kingdom soldiers right in front of him. "You lot could go clean ‘em out!"

  It was Sergeant Hammid who pointed out the gods’ truth. "These horses’d be naught but useless in them hills." Speaking now to his commander, he continued, "I think we’d best carry word o’ what’s happenin’ here t’the nearest guard post and on t’the castle. Mayhaps, they’ll send out a full company t’root around an’ see if anything’s amiss. Mayhaps put a bounty on wolf pelts fer a while t’thin ‘em out. What say you, Lieutenant?"

  Teagan seemed to consider his options, then nodded his agreement. The two sheep herders, obviously less than pleased but unwilling to press the issue, returned to harassing errant members of their flock to a chorus of disgruntled bleating. Jonas, for his part, felt strangely uneasy. Normally, the idea of riding into the hills to hunt bandits would have set his soul burning with enthusiasm, but the moment banditry had been mentioned his mind had strayed to the execution he and Alastar had witnessed just weeks before and all the wind had gone out of his sails.