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

by J. S. Crews

  He had been raised to believe in following his instincts. His father had always taught him that the little voice inside each person was actually the gods trying to guide them into making the right choices to reach their true fate. Every person had an inescapable destiny to which they were inexorably moving and a purpose to serve, but the choices they made dictated whether the path was easy or difficult. Along the way, the gods would guide the person in the same way that a parent guides a child, trying to steer folk toward either making good choices or getting them back on the right path after making the wrong ones.

  Yet, despite his raising, he had failed to follow that little voice. Every instinct had told him that getting involved in the scheme brought to him by Allet was the wrong choice, but he had allowed himself to be blinded by greed or need, and in the end it didn’t matter which. Instinct and the gods had not failed him. The failure was his alone. His mind was a jumble of regret, fear, embarrassment, and self-reproving thoughts, but he must now push aside all but that which would keep him alive if he was ever to find his way back to his wife and child.

  Luck at least was holding with them in so much as the woods were muffling their fleeing footfalls. Each step sank quietly into the thick detritus of the forest, so evidence of their passing was minimal, but Ansel worried nonetheless; the only sounds coming from the fugitives were their ragged breaths and the occasional racket of a bird startled by their presence, but if the reavers had a tracker among them he would no doubt be able to follow the clumsy trail left in their haste to get away. None o’ that’ll matter if ya don’t git away, he reminded himself and plunged ahead.

  After a while, it began to feel as though they had won free, assuming they had been pursued at all. In all the carnage, it was possible they had simply slipped away unnoticed, and the dead sellsword might have been thought the victim of a fisherman fighting back. In fact, Ansel hoped at least a few of them had dragged their attackers into the Otherworld and sent them to the lowest level of the Abyss in payment for the unprovoked slaughter they had unleashed.

  But, just then, a young hind burst from within a thicket a hundred yards or so ahead... too far to have been startled by them and, in fact, heading in a direction nearly crossing their own course rather than directly away. "Down!" Ansel hissed, and to his surprise both of his fellow abscondees obeyed instantly, unconsciously attempting to blend into the greenery as they hunkered down.

  Ansel held his breath, hoping he was wrong, but soon a lone figure stepped out of the trees. He carried a sword, rather than a hoe or wood axe, marking him as one of the men responsible for tonight’s butchery as opposed to a fellow prisoner. It was possible even from this distance to see that the blade of his steel was stained darkly, by what it was not difficult to guess, and he was wearing a bone horn on his belt. The man cast his eyes back and forth over the forest, and seemed for one breathless moment to be looking straight at the three fugitives, before stepping back into the undergrowth.

  Ansel held up a hand to motion for the others to remain quiet, and to his surprise again both kept still until he was certain the searcher had truly moved off. "Y’see that damned horn?" asked the sellsword who had helped them escape.

  "Aye," Ansel replied. "They’re huntin’ us, an’ whoever sees us’ll blow their horn quick an’ in a hurry t’bring the rest down on us. We change direction now"—he motioned to indicate a course moving diagonally away from the searcher they had just nearly run into—"away from the last sight o’ pursuit, an’ we keep movin’, quick an’ quiet like, ‘cause I’ve no idea if they’ve got a tracker comin’ up behind. On me." And that was the end of the instruction as he paused for just a moment before moving off, the others following.

  As they fled through the darkened forest as quietly as possible, Ansel assessed their surroundings. The woods were dense. The trees were mostly varieties of evergreens, which brought him no surprise since, even though these were not the woods of his accustomed territory, the region was the same. The trees he saw as he whipped his head left to right were not particularly large. The undergrowth was thick and tangled.

  Soon they did come to a spot where it seemed the trees were larger, only to find that these behemoths were sheltering behind them an unassailably sheer cliff of stone dead ahead. They would have to change their course either left or right. Ansel did not know if they would be able to return to their original course at some point beyond this obstruction, but he stopped for a moment to gulp water from the bubbling spring emanating from the rockface in order to allow himself a moment to decide which way they should proceed.

  Going either direction would mean they would be running along the path of a tiny stream. The water here absorbed the runoff from the spring, bubbling down the cliff face and between the rocky debris at their feet to join the stream, which ran parallel between the sheer rockface and the screen of larger trees behind. It was a small body of water, so small in fact that a grown man could stride across in a wide, exaggerated motion without getting his boots wet, but then Ansel took better stock of his surroundings and began to amend his assessment.

  While the stream was small, it was only because of the time of year. Both sides of the water, extending all the way to the edge of the depression that formed the streambed between the trees and the rockface, was strewn with stones of varying sizes that had nothing green peeking up between them. On both sides, there were downed sapplings, but no healthy plant growth, and Ansel knew immediately that this should not be the case, since green growing things are forever seeking purchase. This stream would be much larger, likely during the rainiest seasons and in the earliest days of spring when snowmelt from the mountains would swell it to encompass the entire streambed.

  He made his decision then, settling back into a loping run on the right-veering route, and the others followed suit, though they could not have been aware that his decision to go that way had been purely random. After thinking about it, he realized that it made no difference which way they went. He intended to put them back on their original course eventually, unless they encountered another searcher that forced them to change direction again. What was important was that keeping themselves in the water, narrow though it was, would add to their odds of escape, no matter which way they were running. Men running through a stream, much less one that was largely dry now and mostly bedded with stones, would leave no easily discernible tracks to follow.

  Time soon became a fluid thing, passing with little notice. This phenomenon, Ansel knew, was simply a trick of the mind, having experienced it during his soldiering days. It was something that only manifested during mindless repetitive labors, the likes of which were the bane and principle province of soldiers the world over, whose daily lives were made up of marches, patrols, and sitting lonely, cold guard posts over and over—the same nagging doldrum, despised openly and then just as shamelessly prayed for after having the monotony broken by the terror of battle.

  While their flight could not truly be thought of as mindless, dominated as it was by needing to be vigilant for signs of pursuit, it was definitely repetitive. The woods were like a second home to Ansel, but he knew the others might not possess his skill at woodcraft. As a result, he found himself constantly occupied with choosing their path, once they had finally left the streambed. He sought the easiest ways through the underbrush and kept to established game trails. In addition to keeping the trio mostly free of tripping over gnarled roots and having their exposed skin slashed by branches, the less strenuous passage also added speed, a key aspect of any successful escape.

  All he could think of was winning free and returning to his family, and he began to pray quietly to Iadara and any other god or goddess willing to listen for a sign that things would soon be set right. He had no idea what hour of the night it was, his every faculty centered on evading capture, and he was just thinking of calling for a quarter-hour of rest to gauge the time by the silver moon’s position in the sky when he felt the first raindrop touch his skin.

  Slowing, he t
urned and quietly whispered to his followers to rest. Covering ground was important, but it would not serve their cause to find themselves too exhausted to fight if their pursuers overtook them. Then, gazing upward and moving slightly to seek a better vantage through the canopy, he realized his hopes of estimating the hour would be fruitless. He could see no moon at all, not even the wispy ghost tendrils of light one might expect to halo the branches if only the thickness of the greenery blocked the view. He had known already the sky was overcast, but it must truly be choked now with the clouds producing this rain.

  And rain it did. By the time the three men willed their burning musculature into moving again, they were being pummeled by a relentless squall. It had begun with that single drop, but quickly intensified as they sought to catch their breath. Each understood without saying that drenching rain on a late spring night like this would leave them chilled, adding to the wretchedness of their shared predicament.

  Fat drops of moisture battered them with such speed and fury as to make them impossible to feel individually, soaking the three men. Almost as if their earlier worries had been prophetic, the sudden storm also brought in its wake intermittent violent gusts of wind that made them shiver and decreased visibility through the chaotic trashing of dripping tree limbs. Quickly, their world had become a sodden, cold, and almost completely lightless misery.

  Hurdling through the black wood, Ansel’s heart suddenly leaped into his throat as the singer yelped a sudden scream. The sound seemed appallingly loud, compared to the quiet for which they had been striving, and it’s abruptness was enough to nearly steal the soul from his body. It also ended sharply, punctuated by grunts and what must have been muffled curses. His first thought was that Leffron had been felled by an arrow, but that errant fear was put aside almost immediately. Rather than being killed, his wayward companion was waving for the others to join him.

  He had simply fallen, not because of being struck down, but because their frantic trek in the gloom had strayed close to a steep point on a heavily-treed hillside, and the purchase of his feet had given way in the wet leaves and mud. From there, he had tumbled down perhaps six paces into a somewhat sheltered gully and was insisting they follow him, even as Ansel was motioning in the negative and for him to rejoin them on the original course. He was not to be dissuaded, however. Gods ferbid he starts yellin’ fer us t’come down there, he thought, and so he gave in and started down, his head swiveling and his eyes darting around to watch for danger.

  Slogging down the hillside and trying not to emulate the singer’s fall, Ansel mused that he was not sure he would have heard the man if he had yelled. The storm’s raging had grown severe enough to fill one’s ears to the exclusion of all else, and this brought him a measure of peace; it was doubtful the scream, frightfully loud as it had seemed from only feet away, would have carried over nature’s ferocity to give them away. Passing beyond that worry, though, quickly brought him to another as he hoped the frantic gesturing was not because the singer was injured. That, too, would be disastrous. By no means were they yet beyond peril, and being forced to haul a lamed man between them would only serve to further hinder their escape.

  Luckily, this was not the case, and when Ansel saw why he had been beckoned down the hillside, he was intrigued. The singer had discovered what appeared to be the mouth of a cave, opening into the hillside. Up until that moment, Ansel had thought of nothing but escape. Better death than slavery, he thought. Now, however, he was rethinking things. Continuing to run through the storm had its own dangers, highlighted eloquently by Leffron’s misstep, and so he found himself now thinking of evasion as a viable alternative. Escape would come, obviously, if the gods were with them, but that could be achieved after their pursuers had moved past or broken off the search entirely.

  It might have been a bear’s winter den or the lair of some other beast, but a quick glance confirmed no evidence of tracks in the mud nearby. An outcropping of rock protruded from the hillside at a nearly horizontal angle, little different from an awning over a doorway, and he wondered about the small miracle that the plummeting man had fallen just clear of the potential killing stone. The presence of either unbelievable luck or supernatural providence was further supported by the realization that the outcrop was hidden by several inches of topsoil and living vegetation atop it. It had not been visible from above, he recalled, naturally camouflaged to appear no different from the rest of the hillside.

  Whether it could rightly be considered the mouth of a cave or simply a cleft in the walls of earth forming the enclosure he could not know. Nor do I care, he thought to himself. All that mattered was it was hidden from further up the hill. His woodsman’s eyes told him enough to suspect that, rather than a true cave, a mudslide had caused the hill to slough downward, parting over the outcropping like the sea divided before the prow of a ship, so that the majority of the material fell to either side and left a crevice open directly beneath the stone. Time and the warmth of the sun would have eventually hardened the mud and life would have taken root as always—goddess be praised—covering the area in new-formed vegetation. Possibly some animal had come along later and widened the existing hole into a proper entrance for a den just as he had initially suspected.

  The opening was screened by waist-high vegetation that should help keep it hidden from the opposite direction as well. It was also small, so small in fact that he wondered if he would be able to fit through. And that fully-formed thought arising from his unconscious assured him he already knew what he was going to do. He was left only to act. Time I started listenin’ t’my instincts, he mused to himself, wordlessly setting about his task after another quick survey to make sure nothing currently called the place home.

  He quietly motioned for the others to keep watch, then bent to one knee, eventually crawling on his belly through the detritus to more closely examine the crevice. Taking great care to part the coarse shrubbery growing before the opening without crushing it and negating its value as camouflage, he saw that—while certainly small—the opening was wide enough to allow his shoulders through with some shimmying. The prudent next action would be tossing a lit brand inside, while preparing for whatever frightened animal might scurry forth. Unfortunately, lighting a fire could mean death from beasts of the two-legged variety, so he would take his chances with those on four.

  A few short minutes later, unblooded by claw or fang, he slowly worked his way back out into the night, still careful not to damage either the nearby plant-life or the edges of the opening. It was small and he wished it to remain so, since small was easier to keep concealed. What mattered most was that the interior widened once inside, so he motioned his companions to join him, showing them what he intended through nonverbal cues since the storm’s fury seemed to be increasing.

  Through trial and error, he made them understand, having the singer go first so that he could guide his passage—making sure he also had the attention of the sellsword—and keeping both moving slowly and carefully to keep from leaving visible signs of disturbance. Once both had disappeared within the wet earth at his feet, Ansel felt satisfaction at how thoroughly hidden they were. This madness might actually work, he thought, then bent to slither inside again himself, reaching back to ensure the vegetation was not matted down by their passage.

  The darkness inside was ink-black. Light could only enter through the same passage they had crawled through, and no moonlight was escaping the roiling cloud cover anyway. Unfortunately, it would have to stay that way. Lighting a fire would not be any more possible here than it had been outside. With the way the storm was raging, there would be little dry tinder about, causing any meager flame to smoke heavily, a scent that could carry for miles—and that was in addition to the danger of the flickering light being visible. He also feared the three of them might choke with no outlet for the smoke to escape. It would be a wet, dark night.

  He had felt his way around by touch his first time inside and estimated the interior to be roughly circular. The o
pening had been barely wide enough for the largest of them to wiggle his way inside, but beyond it opened up to perhaps nine or ten feet in width and a bit less in depth from entrance to rear wall. He could not be more exacting, since the height was too shallow for a man to stand and properly pace it out. Instead, he had laid flat on his back, satisfying himself that a man of similar height could at least lie within the space and keep his entire body fully hidden from anyone outside.

  Ansel, being the last in, felt his way along in the darkness for an empty space to rest among the bodies of his companions. Long minutes passed, the only sound the labored breathing of the physically spent escapees, broken only by occasional grunts of apology for inadvertent contact as they moved around to get settled in the dark. Eventually, Ansel’s eyesight began to adjust, and he could make out vague shapes. No details were visible, but he could discern the heaving chests of the other two men, not unlike his own. I’m not sure we coulda made it much further, he realized.

  He could soon see also that he was not the only one regaining his vision. Like himself, the others were looking around, seeming to take greater note of each other for perhaps the first time. "I’m Ansel. This is Leffron," he said, taking the lead.

  "Name’s Hywel," responded the big mercenary. He offered no more and Ansel didn’t pry. Despite owing this man a debt, the one thing they knew was he was a killer. They had witnessed as much with their own eyes, and Ansel had already decided he would keep him at arms length. Such a man was no friend to be had, even if he was an ally for the nonce.