by J. S. Crews
The sellsword looked incredulous. Guffawing, he asked, "You know Earl Philus?"
Even the minstrel, Leffron, seemed dubious. "I’ve played an’ sang fer ‘is court, while he drank mead an’ ate supper, but I’ve never met the man, Ansel; much less do I trust ‘is mercy enough t’put m’life in ‘is hands. Why would he even grant ya an audience, much less trust ya?"
"Not ‘im," he offered by way of explanation. "The captain of ‘is personal household guard is a wry bastard named Kevan, who jus’ so happens t’be my old lieutenant from my soldierin’ days. If I can find a way t’get myself in front o’ him, he’ll believe me," he continued, "an’ he’ll help me convince His Lordship."
The others still weren’t sure. "How can ya be so sure, Anse?" asked Leffron.
"Because him an’ me bled t’gether," was the only further explanation. That would either be enough or it wouldn’t. Now it was time for each of them to make their own decision.
Both of them thought things over for a few moments, and it was the singer who answered first, "I trusted an’ followed yer lead when we was in Hell t’gether. No reason not t’keep on."
Ansel nodded in acknowledgment, both of them turning their gaze on Hywel, who was returning it with a frustrated look on his face. "Fine. Still think it’s a bad idea, but mayhaps I can find a caravan headin’ south from there that needs guardin’. Damn sight more likely there than in one o’ these little backwater villages."
The more thought Ansel devoted to his decision, the more he believed it was for the best. He had no doubt that a few of their pursuers would be sent to keep a watch on Kaeti’s parent’s cottage, once it was obvious they would not find the escapees at his farm. It would soon be plain to any watcher, though, that none of them were about. He was confident the diversionary trail he planned on setting over the next few days would be accepted as truth. They would believe him gone to ground in the deep forest, or worst case scenario he would continue to be hounded along the trail into Sarton, which would at least draw the killers yet further from his wife and son. Either way, the path was now set before them, and Ansel sighed worriedly, fearing it would be a long and winding one before all was said and done.
Epilogue
“The Young Lord”
Exhausted and covered in grime, the patrol cantered into the courtyard. They were overdue, having spent an extra day in the field after the bandit and wolf attacks. Scanning the area to find no additional outlaws nearby, Teagan had again insisted they travel to Reylie Hall and Sir Eadred had finally agreed. The Lieutenant had made sure a bird was sent from there to inform Newport of the situation. From there, they had tarried at another walled guard fort and a handful of outlying farmsteads to put them on alert.
The guards at the gate called out to announce their arrival, bringing forth a flurry of servants, and Jonas was almost surprised to dismount and feel the reins wordlessly lifted from his hands. In the field, each soldier was responsible for seeing to his own horse at the end of the day, and though and it was no great burden, he was nonetheless pleased to be relieved of the duty. Seeing the soldiers removing their own gear from the saddles, however, reminded him that he would still have to see to his own equipment.
The stable boy waited patiently for him to finish, then led the horse away as the young Squire turned to find Alastar and Sergeant Hammid standing nearby, holding their own gear in their arms. Most of the other soldiers were already trudging away from the courtyard, their conversations little more than a receding babble, but the Sergeant apparently wasn’t quite done with them. "If ya don’t mind hurryin’ it up, Squire, I’ve still got t’see that you two know the right procedure fer storin’ gear after a patrol, an’ you’re cuttin’ in t’the three day liberty promised me now that we’re home."
His tone was authoritative but not harsh, giving Jonas the impression he was meaning to tease more than berate. Still, he had no desire to test that assumption, so he quickly snapped to and both boys followed the older soldier as he strode toward the barracks hall. A few moments later, they noticed someone was whistling a carefree tune and, much to their surprise, it turned out to be none other than this same dogged man who had seemed so austere when on duty and was now simply strolling along as though without a care.
The boys glanced toward one another and grinned at the unexpected change in the Sergeant’s demeanor. They said nothing, though, for fear of somehow upsetting the illusion like ripples dispelling a beautiful reflection on the surface of a pond. Rather, they quietly followed along, allowing their minds to turn inwardly toward their recent experiences, as he led them past the common barracks hall and the bachelor officer’s quarters to the armory.
The armory was a large room with racks mounted on each wall and rows of standalone shelves filling the space between. Every surface was littered with weapons. Racks of swords and spears butted up against shelves containing pre-packed sheaves of arrows, and rows of daggers sat on display before a wall hung with crossbows. Further within was a smaller room that was kept locked, containing the personal weapons belonging to the Duke and his son. A duty officer stood behind a wooden counter.
The Sergeant led them directly there. The officer on duty looked over each weapon and piece of gear, making marks on what Jonas could only assume was some sort of tally sheet. Coming to Jonas’s spear, the fussy-looking man noticed the ragged teeth marks in the leather binding and frowned. "This’ll need repairin’," he said. "What ‘appened?"
Jonas told him, losing himself somewhat in the telling as he relived the harrowing struggle. It seemed so much more distant somehow, and he found himself scarce able to believe it had occurred just days before. He had managed to kill the wolf that had singled him out when they were beset, helped by an arrow that he knew had saved his life. Approaching the creature’s body again when he had gone to retrieve his spear had in no way lessened his gratitude toward whoever had held that bow.
The beast was huge. It was also, he could not help but admit, beautiful in a wild and savage way. He felt foolish for being somehow sorry he’d had to kill a wild animal intent on his own demise, but the truth was he did feel a sort of sorrow. Even though somehow lessened by the extinguishing of life, the creature was still a magnificent creation of his goddess, and all he could think was that he wished the wolf and he had never crossed paths. Quietly, he had offered a prayer—one his father had taught him for honoring prey after a successful hunt—and pushed the feelings aside, but they still haunted him.
Of course, he told none of that to the officious little duty officer, whom he knew was interested in naught but a bare accounting of damage done to an item under his charge to maintain. He told him the simple truth, and—to his credit—the duty officer reacted exactly how Jonas expected. He simply nodded his head and scratched his tally sheet.
As though reading Jonas’s thoughts, however, Hammid nodded toward the mangled grip and commented, "The Jolly Foeman was lookin’ after ya, boy." He was invoking a common nickname for Tytos, the god of war and tactics, who was said to watch over the valiant in battle. Jonas smiled at the implied compliment.
Looking at the ragged tears in that tough leather binding and knowing he was saved by the sturdy iron tang running down the center of that spear, he could not argue. Some sort of providence had surely placed that weapon in his hands, rather than one of the typical wooden-shafted spears that surely would have shattered when the beast’s jaws snapped over it. In the end, he knew he was lucky to emerge unscathed.
Their task finished, the three began to leisurely retrace the path back to the courtyard. After a moment, Hammid spoke, "Jus’ so neither o’ ya layabouts can malign my good name as a tutor by sayin’ I ne’er offered ya any encouragement, ya did well fer a couple o’ noble snots playin’ at bein’ soldiers."
Again, despite the gruffness of his words, the boys got the distinct impression there was at least some strange species of friendliness underneath as he continued, "In fact, ya both done better ‘n we expect’d when told we’d be babysittin’ ya. O�
� course, that really jus’ means ya weren’t as awful as ya coulda been, ya see?" He paused and they looked over to find him staring back almost mischievously before he added, "I figure, with a decade’r two o’ hard practice, ya both might jus’ pass fer decent soldiers one day."
He graced them with a wisp of a smile then. It was a fleeting thing, but Jonas was certain it was the first he’d seen from the man that wasn’t underlined by some meanness, taking pleasure from assigning them some horrible duty or another. Small as it was, he decided immediately that he welcomed it.
After a moment, though, memories of the past few days intruded once again, causing Jonas’s own smile to fade. In an odd and somewhat uncharacteristic outward moment of self-reflection, he heard himself saying, "We thought we were ready for anything."
All three of them stopped in their tracks at that. It wasn’t so much what he had said but how he had said it: in a rueful tone, almost as though he were thinking they had been fools before. Gazing at him hard for a moment as though considering his own words carefully, the Sergeant said, "Look here, both o’ ya. All fun by the side, you lot really did do better’n we expected, an’ that’s sayin’ a lot since things got a lot hairier than planned."
Taking on an almost fatherly tone, he continued, "As t’bein’ ready, the thing ya gotta see is nobody’s ever ready. Not really. Ya might think that fight we jus’ lived through will prepare ya fer the next time ya gotta draw steel, but the real truth is it won’t. Just like that’n won’t help with the one after it. There’s really no way t’be ready ‘cause e’ry plan ya make falls apart the minute blood spills, an’ so ya just deal with it as it comes. Leadin’ men into battle it’n about plannin’. That’s a piece o’ it, f’sure, but bein’ a good leader is really about bein’ able t’think on yer toes an’ do what’s needed t’keep yer men alive an’ bring ‘em home. Ya understand?"
They nodded that they did and started walking again. Then, after a few moments, Alastar got a mischievous look on his face and asked, "Sergeant, that three day liberty pass for patrol members… is that for us also?" Not even having thought of that before, Jonas was suddenly excited to hear the answer as well. The Bright Fires festival, during which they would get free time, was also right around the corner by his reckoning, and what young person fails to get excited by the prospect of an extended holiday?
Sergeant Hammid rubbed his chin and tilted his head in a comic exaggeration of one pondering a great dilemma. In the end, he nodded and answered, "I don’t see why not. Ya were assigned t’our duty, after all. Not fer me t’say, though. Be up t’the Lieutenant t’decide, I’d think, but he’s sure not t’be happy the two o’ you’ve kept ‘im waitin’ so long."
Not understanding what he meant, the boys looked at one another and then back to the older soldier somewhat frantically. To their great chagrin, they found him smiling back at them, but now it was again one of those more familiar cruel taskmaster’s smiles he’d worn so often in the field.
Feigning distress, he gushed, "O’ my! Did I forget t’tell ya t’meet Lieutenant Teagan outside the Officer of the Watch station right after turnin’ in our gear?! D’you louts not know yer duty it’n over ‘til relieved by the officer in command?!"
Almost in shock, neither boy moved for a moment, until the Sergeant finally yelled, "Git, fools! The patrol it’n over until he reports in, an’ it’s t’be yer last lesson! What officer’s life’d be complete without gabbin’ an’ paperwork?! Go!"
Shocked again—but this time into movement—they ran, Hammid’s laughter trailing after them. He had played a cruel joke but it was one they should have expected, and deep-down they knew a certain level of hazing was something they’d simply have to accept as part of their training and education. That was the way among soldiers, and both of them had been raised around enough of their like to understand that well enough.
Nobility brought with it an obligation to duty, they’d always been told. It was a lord’s duty to be a lawgiver and a protector, and in a harsh world both of those things were dependent upon the sword. In order to keep the peace and give the people protection from those who might harm them, a lord must needs be a leader of soldiers, meaning he first had to be one himself, even if it meant enduring some of the same rites of passage as every raw recruit.
It was to be the focus of their lives now to learn the lessons that would make them worthy stewards of a sacred trust: the calling of Lordship that was their birthright. But whereas some undoubtedly viewed that simply as an entitlement to luxury and status, they had always been taught that it came with grave responsibility, and that the trappings of wealth and rank were but payment in return for a lifelong dedication to service.
"A lord must know his people and his lands upon which they live," his father had always said, "for how could he hope to protect them and give them justice without knowing first how they live?" Remembering that was enough to help Jonas understand that this would not be their last patrol. Nor was it likely to be the last time he would face danger with a sword in his hand.
The need for both justice and protection were beyond debate; recent events more than drove that point home definitively. Try as they might to settle these lands, the Northern Realm was still very much frontier country, so banditry was naturally something the nobles dealt with more often than their counterparts in the long-ago settled Southern Realm. It was obvious, though, that those encountered recently were but a fraction of an unusually large band.
In all truth, there was no concrete information to be had. All those they’d come across had been killed in the fighting, but it was clear they were a large band for their activity to disrupt the natural predator-prey cycle in the area, driving hungry wolves dangerously close to human settlements. Nothing about that smacked of the ordinary, and the young Prince-turned-Squire could not shake the dark feeling that came from thinking about the great many dangerous men who’d apparently melted away into the countryside. Even if they dispersed or moved off to trouble some other area, there would always be others to take their place. In the meantime, it was Jonas’s and Alastar’s responsibility to learn what it was to be a lord and endeavor to find it within themselves to do their duty with honor.
But first they’d need a good excuse for why they were late reporting to the Lieutenant.
THE END
So, you’ve finished reading A Lord’s Duty: Book One Of The Chronicles of Galennor, and I really hope you enjoyed it. It’s destined to be an exciting series, so I hope you’ll stick it out with me, but in the meantime I have a favor to ask.
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And now, please turn the page to enjoy a brief excerpt from the next book in the series . . .
Free Preview Excerpt Of The Upcoming Second Novel In The Chronicles Of Galennor Series
Vytaus was already walking away from the fight before the soon-to-be lifeless husk of Egilhard, Chieftain of the People of the Wolf, slumped to the ground. This whole business had been an utter waste of time and energy, and Vytaus’s frustration was reflected in his black mood.
This was the second such fool that he had been forced to kill, and he could only pray that it would be the last. In truth, he could hardly blame them. When it was decided that the Kulti Nation would go to war, many had clamored to be named Warleader, but once Vytaus had laid claim to that right it was decided. The People of the Elk had always been the strongest of all the clans in the Nation and, therefore, it was only fitting that their chieftain should
lead the clans in battle.
What remained, however, was to decide who would lead all Wodonni warriors, not just those of the Kulti Nation, as supreme commander in the war to come. Again, here Vytaus stood above all others, since tradition held that the strongest of the various Warleaders took the command. Tradition or not, though, it was not actually law; any free man could challenge for the honor.
Only two had obstinately refused to step aside and acknowledge his primacy. Both had been young and brave and had thought much too highly of themselves, and now they were dead for their troubles. They had believed themselves, as young men often do, warriors of legend, and so both were now feeding the worms. The ultimate insult was that Vytaus could not even enjoy the victories, for each had served only to deprive his people of a skilled fighter in the upcoming conflict.
Stopping before his sons, he wordlessly accepted the towel and wash bucket offered to him by the younger of the two and began wiping the blood from his hands and his sword blade. Brandr was his second-son, a year or so younger and two-stone lighter than his brother Belios. His smaller stature was not necessarily a weakness, though, as he was still growing, and was one of the quickest boys Vytaus had ever known. Unless he put on quite a bit more size, he would never be the stout spearman that his older brother was, but he was already a better swordsman and a better shot with a bow. All in all, he was rather proud of them both, but did his best not to let it show overmuch.
Both of his sons suddenly gestured behind him with the slightest of nods. He did not turn, for neither of his boys gave impression of any alarm and, in truth, with so many eyes watching it would be better to be stabbed in the back than to seem afraid. Instead, he glanced slightly over his shoulder as he continued to worry at the syrupy red stains upon his sword blade that were already beginning to clot. Egilhard’s young son was approaching as his dead father’s wives wailed in the background. At this, he did turn, partly out of curiosity and partly because he half imagined that the son was about to prove himself every bit as rash as his father had been.