by Martin Owton
“You! I'll take your sword. Now!” he barked, pointing at the stranger. The young man stared back at him for a long moment, as if weighing the odds, then slowly unbuckled the belt that held his blade and let it fall to the ground. The captain gestured to one of the remaining guardsmen who stepped up and searched him for weapons. The guard’s eyes widened slightly as he retrieved slim throwing knives from both sleeves and a dagger from one boot. He stepped back and showed the captain what he had found.
“Right, you will come with me,” the captain commanded the stranger. “You too,” his eyes turned to the tavernkeeper. The guardsmen herded the stranger towards the door. Outside another four guardsmen stood with Davo. Beyond them a crowd of townsfolk was gathering to gawp at the scene
“You and you.” The captain gestured to two of the guards. “Get a cart and bring the body.”
The tavernkeeper locked up his tavern under the captain’s gaze, and then they set off for the castle accompanied by Davo. Behind them, the soldiers formed up around the young man and marched him away with two spears at his back. The crowd of townsfolk followed them shouting insults; a couple of urchins threw clods of earth at the young man until the guardsmen chased them off. The troop made their way up the wide strip of mud between the buildings of Nandor town; most were, like the tavern, wooden with overhanging shingled roofs, but as they came closer to town centre there were a few stone buildings.
A squall of rain blew up the valley sending the townsfolk scuttling for cover, lashing at the soldiers and their prisoner whose heavy travel cloak had been left spread across a chair in the tavern. The tavernkeeper looked back at the young man; muck from the soldiers' boots had splashed him up to his waist, the rain had soaked through his shirt and plastered his dark hair to his scalp. By the time they reached the castle at the far end of the town, the prisoner looked thoroughly bedraggled and disreputable.
Welcome to Nandor, thought the tavernkeeper.
CHAPTER 2
Nandor castle was neither large nor impressive. Though the main gatehouse was stone-built, there was no great curtain wall of stone, just a high fence of wooden stakes. Aron looked up and noted that no body hung from the gibbet that stood atop the gatehouse. Yet, he thought bleakly.
The guard party surrounding him entered the compound through a postern beside the main gate and stood in the rain, facing the keep on its raised mound in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, the grey stone stained by lichens and the runoff from the gutters. Next to the gatehouse was a two-storey stone-built barrack block where a few men in the same livery as the guards lounged around the door staring at the prisoners. Beyond that was a set of stables roofed with wooden shingles, and a collection of flimsy-looking sheds. A gust of wind carried smoke spiralling upwards from one shed; the forge, Aron guessed.
The captain brought the prisoners into the gatehouse and left them guarded by liveried men armed with spears and crossbows. The tavern-keeper, the little man called Davo and Aron were allowed to find seats, the guardsmen stood and kept hold of their weapons. Aron settled calmly onto a rough wooden bench, barely looking around; he did not look at the other two though he felt their eyes on him continually. The captain returned in a few minutes and took the tavern-keeper away with him. Davo's agitation increased. Time passed; the guards watched Davo, Davo watched Aron. Aron leaned back and closed his eyes.
Contrary to appearances Aron was awake; through half-closed eyes he was studying the guards. Their worn livery, the dull and notched edges of the spear heads, and with the poor state of the castle’s stonework drew him to the conclusion that if he had to fight his way out then he had a respectable chance. He hoped it would not be necessary; bloodshed always caused complications. But I cannot allow myself to be detained here too long. This trip escorting a wool merchant into the back of beyond was supposed to have kept him out of harm’s way for a week or two while the Duke of Caldon’s Saxish mercenaries took Oxport apart looking for him. Now it looked as if he could be diverted for months. How much harm can Caldon and Lord Tirellan do to the exiles in that time?
He reviewed the actions of the past hour. Could I have avoided getting myself into this mess? Perhaps I shouldn’t have put the beetle in Davo’s beer. No, he decided. Once he had entered the tavern the fight was inevitable. The big swordsman - Marek, Davo had called him - was drunk and looking for trouble and had settled on him as victim; nothing he could have done would have prevented the confrontation. Once Marek had drawn his sword then there could only have been one outcome. If fate was involved, it had determined that he kill Marek and take the consequences. There was nothing more he could do.
The captain returned. “You’re for the Earl,” he said gruffly, nodding to Davo. Davo stood up reluctantly and crept out past Aron, who opened one eye and watched him go. I won’t make any move before I hear what the Earl says, Aron thought. Who knows? He may turn out to be a just and honest man.
***
Alice, Countess of Nandor, strode into the gloomy little room that was her husband’s study, noting with disapproval the clutter of riding tack and empty bottles on the floor.
“What is this I hear about Marek?” she said.
“He’s dead,” said Baldwin, Earl of Nandor, mournfully. He gazed up at his wife from the chair where he sat, clad in mud-splattered britches and a wine-stained shirt, his favourite hound sprawled over his feet.
“How? Where?” She caught the half-formed braid of her hair, still unmarked by grey ribs, and tossed it over her shoulder.
“Murdered by some vagabond sell-sword in the Black Lamb.” Earl Baldwin drained his goblet and refilled it with wine from the earthenware jug on the table. “He’s in the guardroom. I’m going to hang him at sunset,” he said with heavy satisfaction.
“You will do no such thing.” Lady Alice glared down at her husband, hands on hips. “If there was a fight in the Black Lamb, then Marek started it. You know very well what he was like.”
“It’s what father would have done. I won’t have people killing our guardsmen.” He ran bony fingers through his thinning hair.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is all your father’s making. Without his pig-headed obstinacy we wouldn’t be in this mess. If he’d given you some part in the running of Nandor years before he died, then we might have mended our relations with Sarazan. Now you want to make it worse.”
“How could it be worse?” Earl Baldwin took another mouthful of wine.
“A swordsman capable killing Marek and you want to hang him? Madness! Don’t hang him, use him. Use him to get Maldwyn back.”
“How?”
“Send him in place of Marek. He could hardly be less reliable.”
“Why should we trust him? He might betray us to Sarazan. Lead us into a trap. I want men bound to us by blood in this.”
“And we have few enough of those that we can ill afford to toss away a skilled warrior. Madness twice over. Even your father would recognise that.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Leave that to me,” said Lady Alice firmly. “You have Thalon find out what he is capable of, and I will persuade him to join us. And for your honour’s sake put on a clean shirt before you speak with him.” She turned and swept out.
***
Time passed slowly in the guardroom, rainwater dripped steadily from the broken gutter of the gatehouse, the room grew dim as night drew on. A servant came to light the oil lamp that burned smoky yellow on its shelf, providing little light and filling the room with its stink. Eventually the Captain returned. He beckoned to Aron, who stood up; the guardsmen's spears again a handswidth from his chest as he stretched. Two of the guardsmen fell in behind him, spears still tracking him as he followed the captain. They crossed the small courtyard and, by the light of the Captain’s lantern, climbed a flight of stairs cut into the keep mound to the door which stood ajar. They passed into the keep, directly into the main hall. The Captain led the party towards a chair and table that sat before a fire
place set into the far wall. Light from a line of oil lamps splashed onto the straw-strewn floor. Threadbare tapestries and ragged banners, that emphasised the dark stone between them, hung above the benches that ran the length of the room against either wall. Aron could smell the smoke from the fire that smouldered in the hearth. The far end of the hall was lit by a single crown of candles that hung by a chain above the table.
As Aron's eyes adjusted to the light he noticed that his confiscated weapons lay on the table. He measured the distance to the table then relaxed and shifted his gaze to the man who sat in the chair. Earl Baldwin of Nandor was like his castle in that he was neither impressive nor in good repair. A thin balding beak-nosed figure in his mid-forties peered at Aron with bloodshot watery blue eyes. It was difficult to imagine that he had ever been magnificent even on his wedding day. One might indeed wonder what his wife had ever seen in him, Aron thought except, of course, he is an Earl. At a nod from the captain, one of the guardsmen reversed his spear and struck Aron a blow in the back of his right thigh that drove him to his knees.
“I will have your name, young man.” Earl Baldwin's voice was a high pitched, nasal whine.
“My name is Aron, son of Eamon, of the county of Darien.” Aron answered. At least the straw is clean, he thought. Someone keeps up standards.
“So Aron, son of Eamon, you have robbed me of the service of my finest swordsman,” the Earl said, almost petulantly to Aron's ears.
“It was nothing of my making, Lord.” If Marek was the finest swordsman in Baldwin's retinue it did not say much for the rest. Aron, though, thought better of saying so.
“I well know that, otherwise your head would already be adorning my gate,” said Baldwin. “Be that as it may, you are greatly in debt to my house. However, there is a way at hand for you to repay that debt. Stand up.”
Aron relaxed; at least he wasn’t going to have to try to cut his way out, though it sounded very much as if Earl Baldwin had a nasty job for him. He stood up, rubbing his hands together to remove the fragments of straw.
“My only son, Maldwyn, was captured by soldiers of House Sarazan twenty days ago. They hold him to a ransom of five thousand crowns,” said the Earl, almost choking over the words. Aron could smell wine on the Earl’s breath.
Aron's heart sank further. The Duke of Sarazan sat on a rich estate with a well-equipped and drilled army of considerable size and renown; he was also a confidant of the High King and no friend of Darien. Looking about the hall; at the Earl's tunic, which showed signs of darning, and his chipped and scratched chair, Aron could see how finding a five thousand crowns could be a problem. “House Sarazan, my Lord?”
“The House of Sarazan has laid false claim to certain border territories. Maldwyn was leading a troop of my guard to assert our rights. He was seized in ambush by a superior force.”
An equal number of Sarazan troopers is likely to be an overwhelmingly superior force, Aron thought. He did not say so. Instead he asked. “What does the High King say?”
“His opinion has not been sought,” said Baldwin dismissively. “He is unlikely to go against one of the men who put him on the throne.”
True, thought Aron. Though he claims he deals justice fairly to all.
“I was,” Baldwin gestured to the guard captain, who had taken up station behind Baldwin's chair, “with Captain Thalon here, even today preparing an expedition to rescue Maldwyn.”
Aron hoped his face betrayed none of the feelings of a man who has just had his worst suspicions confirmed. “Where is he being held, Lord?”
“Sarazan. Where else? They sent two of the men who were taken with Maldwyn as couriers of the ransom demand.”
“The main fortress, my Lord?” Aron had seen the Duke’s castle there. It had withstood a four month siege in the civil war half a generation ago, and had been reinforced since.
“You know it?” Baldwin asked. Aron nodded. “Good. Then you know its weaknesses.”
Aron tried hard to think of one and failed. “You could pay the ransom, my Lord.” Aron knew the words were a mistake as he was saying them.
“What? Never!” Baldwin leapt from his chair and drew himself up to his full height, namely Aron's chin. “The honour of Nandor would never permit it.”
Aron had not heard of the honour of Nandor before he had arrived in the little town this morning. All he knew were a few vague tales of an Earl of Nandor who was renowned as a fierce warrior, hunter and drinker and it was difficult to believe that his blood flowed in the veins of the man before him.
“Our plans must go forward and a swordsman without Nandor in his voice will be an asset. You will take the place of the man you killed, on your sworn oath of loyalty to Nandor, and make ready to free my son.” The Earl sat down triumphantly. “I will have your belongings collected from the town. You will live in the barracks until you leave for Sarazan. See to it, Thalon.”
“Is that wise, my Lord?” Thalon spoke cautiously from behind Baldwin's chair. “He has just killed one of them.”
“Ah yes, quite so. I see your point. You had better put him in one of the guest chambers.” With that the Earl rose from his seat and ambled towards one of the staircases that led off the hall.
The words, “I shall speak to you later, young man,” floated down the stairs.
***
Aron sat on his straw mattress cleaning the mud off his boots, thinking on the day and reflecting that Earl Baldwin of Nandor must be the greatest fool in the high kingdom if he thought that any oath Aron swore under these circumstances would bind him anywhere outside Nandor. Aron took obligations of honour very seriously; indeed such things were what elevated him in his mind above the level of other sell-swords and kept his conscience clear, but there were limits and this was well beyond them. Just do what you have to to get away from here as soon as possible, he thought. Even if it means swearing an oath you know you’ve no intention of keeping.
There was a knock at the door, and a grubby kitchen girl pushed it open without waiting for Aron’s response. She carried a tray with a large bowl of stew, half a loaf of fresh bread and a flagon of ale. Staring at him with fierce red-rimmed eyes, she laid the tray on the floor beside his bed, next to his pack which had been fetched from the tavern. Then she left and Aron clearly heard her exchange words with the guardsman outside the door. No matter that the stew was rich with mutton and the ale was dark and strong, he was still a prisoner.
CHAPTER 3
The ringing of a bell woke Aron. He took a moment to remember where he was, then rolled out of the low bed. He went to the narrow window, lifted the waxed linen blind and looked out. Yesterday’s rain had blown over and the sky was speckled with white clouds. In the courtyard below the servants and guardsmen were beginning the day’s duties. Maids carried baskets of fresh bread from the bakery, and two ragged children chased a pair of dogs around a wagon by the forge. Aron watched for a while, counting the number of shingles missing from the roof of the stables, wondering what the day held for him.
He did not have long to wait. Heavy boots clattered on the wooden floor and the door to his cell was thrown open. Captain Thalon marched in.
“Get dressed, lad,” he said gruffly.
Aron put on his still damp shirt and pulled on his boots as Thalon watched.
“Right, follow me.” Thalon turned and marched out. Aron followed him, hoping he would mention breakfast. He didn't. Instead they walked across the courtyard, out of the postern gate and along beside the wall to a bare field of beaten earth. About two dozen men in scruffy livery were waiting in the chill morning air, standing around in little knots gossiping. They fell silent as Thalon and Aron approached.
“What is to happen here?” Aron asked.
“You killed their instructor. I want to know if you are fit to take his place,” Thalon replied, his eyes cold. “Take a practice sword.” He pointed to a box of wooden practice blades. Aron took a sword and tried it for weight, he paused a moment,
tried another and another, then went back to the first.
“This one will do,” Aron said, gently hefting it. Thalon pointed at the nearest soldier, who already held a wooden blade.
“Begin.”
The soldier lifted the wood in salute then approached Aron sideways. His unbalanced stance instantly told of his poor level of training. Aron executed standard blocks, waiting for the mistake. He did not have to wait long. The man over-extended in a lunge and was unable to recover quickly enough to prevent Aron's wood striking him firmly under the ribs. He doubled over with a grunt, and two of the watching group stepped forward to assist him to one side as Thalon called the next opponent forward.
So it continued. One by one, Thalon called them forward, and Aron despatched them, each one no more skilled than the first. After the first few, Aron had thought he would have proved the point, but to his annoyance, Thalon seemed determined that they continue until Aron failed. He resigned himself to taking on each one to satisfy Thalon, reining back his anger to ensure that none of them took more hurt than a bruise. Good practice for my basic bladework, he thought, almost hoping for a man with a bit more skill so he could be truly exercised. No such man appeared, so he repeated the exercise of block and counter while the soldiers grew more restless and frustrated. One or two attacked with real anger, aiming wild slashes at him, but fared no better. These fellows are disgraceful. It would take months to turn them into a worthwhile fighting force. I hope the Earl doesn’t intend any serious fighting.
Aron counted twenty-six men fall before Thalon gave way and called a halt. Aron had not noticed the passage of time, but now saw that the sun stood high overhead and he became conscious of his empty belly.
“Right. We’ll break now. You, you and you.” Thalon pointed to three soldiers. “Take him along with you and get him fed.” He turned to Aron. “Go with ‘em, if you want to eat.” Then he turned and strode off towards the castle.