Honor Crowned

by Michael G. Southwick

“If the monsters aren’t too bright. If we can goad them into charging into the trenches. If we had two squads of archers…”

  Jorem trailed off. His fatigue was weighing him down. He needed to get some rest or the desperation of their situation was going to drive him to despair. Many a battle had been lost due to mindset. As the saying went, “If you think you can or you can’t, you’re right.”

  “Has Cort come up with anything else?” Jorem asked.

  “Good question,” Neth sighed. “He’s excited about something. At least I think he’s excited. He’s been holed up in the library most of the day. When I asked what he was looking for, he said something about secrets and missing doors.”

  “Well, stay with him. Who knows, maybe he’ll find an escape passage.”

  “I already know where that is.”

  “Excuse me?” Jorem asked with surprise.

  “The passage to the bottom of the chasm—I already know where it is.”

  “So you know a way out of here and you were planning on telling me when?”

  “I’ve never run in my life. I’m not about to start now!”

  Jorem really wanted to smack her up the side of the head. It surprised him how limited her vision was. She saw the battle ahead but not the future beyond. What was it the philosophers had said so long ago? “Those who know can’t see and those who see don’t know.”

  “You and I will stay,” Jorem said evenly. “But it might be a good place to send the littlest of the children and the weakest of the elderly.”

  Neth actually looked as though he’d struck her.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “I…,” she sighed and shook her head before continuing. “I’ve never been good at that kind of planning. That’s why I never advanced in the ranks. The battle is all I understand. Everything else is, well, somebody else’s problem.”

  “It’s all right,” Jorem said, accepting her admission. “We’re all good at some things and not others. We’ll deal with the passage in the morning. For now, you’d better check on Cort. Let me know if he finds anything useful.”

  Neth nodded and headed out of the room. Jorem watched her as she walked away. Another old saying came to mind and he had to smile. “You can’t use a sword for knitting. Just as well to argue with a dragon.” Neth was definitely a sword. No sense trying to make her knit.

  Jorem was just about to find a corner in which to sleep when he was called to the front gate. Hector had finally returned from his scouting to the north. The news he brought was neither good nor hopeful. There would be no sleep for Jorem this night. Even had he had the desire for sleep, worries over the days to come would have kept him awake.

  The horde of monsters, over one hundred in all, was coming directly at the Keep. Hector estimated they’d arrive sometime early on the day after next. It was the news of the army behind the monsters that caused Jorem such distress. The monsters were being used as shock troops to take out any resistance before the real army arrived.

  The picture Hector painted was bleak. Some three hundred armed men were coming at them, well-trained, well-armed, and in no hurry. If that wasn’t enough, there was a smaller group following the army who, Hector assured him, had the looks of mages. Not just one mage, but five in all.

  Jorem sent Hector and all of his men not occupied with some task or guard duty to get some sleep. One thing Jorem had learned about seasoned fighting men. They could sleep anywhere, through anything. No matter how the next few days played out, everyone was going to need as much rest as possible.

  Knowledge of the secret passageway down into the chasm gave Jorem an option he hadn’t had before. If he could get everyone through the passage and then block it, the army coming at them might decide it too much out of their way to follow. Convincing the people of Cragg Keep to leave might be easier once they learned of the armed force coming behind the monster horde.

  A young boy came into the room, drawing Jorem from his ruminations. The lad was small, but the look of determination on his face more than made up for his size. He walked right up to Jorem and held out a small scrap of paper.

  “Gramps said to bring this to you,” the boy stated. “He said it’s important and you should see it right away.”

  Jorem took the note and scanned it over. Swallowing hard, he thanked the boy and waited until the lad had gone his way. Then he slumped into a chair. “Why is it,” he thought to himself, “that whenever things are looking their worst, more bad news has to follow?”

  The note was of the sort used with messenger birds. The words printed on it were short and to the point. Whoever had written the note had likely not known they were signing a death warrant for the people here. Flipping the note over revealed the King’s seal. If the King had not written the note himself, with the King’s seal on it, he might as well have.

  “Allow no forces to pass Cragg Keep.

  No troops available for reinforcement.”

  Frustration built up in Jorem to the point he was nearly bursting. He had to get out. Even if only for a mark or two, he needed to get away from all of this. His mind was running in circles. He’d do no one any good if he couldn’t clear his head and focus on the path forward.

  As he left the Keep, Jorem informed one of the sentries to expect him back in no more than three marks. His men were so accustomed to his early morning jaunts that no explanation was needed. The sentries’ only comment was to warn Jorem to be watchful of the traps that had been laid.

  Chapter XI

  Jogging through a forest is never a simple thing. Constantly having to change direction to avoid trees, rocks and fallen logs is a challenge. The ever changing terrain and unsure footing requires constant attention. After about a mark, Jorem slowed his pace, and shifted into stealth mode.

  Quiet and unseen by even the local wildlife, Jorem drifted from cover to cover. It wasn’t that he feared being observed, just that he wanted to stay in practice. After all, as Neth had once told him, “It’s far easier to practice when it’s safe than it is when someone’s shooting arrows at you!”

  After a short while, he noticed a subtle change in the vegetation. The trees thinned to nothing, leaving an open area with little or no brush, and only sparse tufts of long grass. At the center of the clearing was a small rocky outcropping just visible in the bright moonlight.

  Having nothing better to do at the moment, Jorem approached the rocks. There he found a small fissure in the ground. Kneeling down, he brushed a hand against the inside of the fissure. The rocky surface crumbled at his touch, leaving a light gray powder on his hand.

  The powder appeared similar to something the wizard Pentrothe had shown him several years ago. Touching a fingertip to his tongue as Pentrothe had taught him, Jorem found this to be the same substance. It was part of a mixture for what the wizard had called earth magic. Three different powders were needed to complete the mixture. This one was what Pentrothe had called the base.

  This substance was harmless by itself, as were the other two. Even when mixed together they were fairly useless, unless the mixing was done in a precise manner, using exact amounts of each substance. Of the other two, one was commonly found in animal enclosures. The other was rare and usually found deep inside caves, or buried deep in the ground.

  If there was a supply of the third substance, he might be able to make a batch of Pentrothe’s “magic” powder. Of course, the chances of finding all of the substances were slim to none, but he would ask around just in case. Even if he acquired some, his record at making the powdered magic had been dismal to say the least.

  Standing, Jorem brushed his hands off on his pants. The still night air was cool and moist. A few night creatures scurried at the edges of the clearing. With no breeze to rustle the leaves, Jorem could hear much more than normal. It was so peaceful here. Jorem took a deep breath and willed the peacefulness to calm his mind.

  Soon, much too soon, there would be no peace. Nor would there be time for rest. Between now and then, there
was still much work to do. People were depending on him. As long as there was breath in his body, he would do all he could to help them.

  A slight sound caught Jorem’s attention. It wasn’t loud, just a slight rustling of brush. Something about it just didn’t fit. Casting his eyes about, he scanned the tree line around the clearing. Nothing seemed out of place, but something definitely did not feel right.

  Most likely it was Neth, come to remind him in her ever so subtle way to keep his guard up. That was one lesson he wasn’t likely to ever forget. Neth’s sneak-attack lessons were something you remembered for a very long time, long after the bruises faded and the cuts healed.

  “When someone’s hunting you, you have three choices. You can run from them, hoping they don’t shoot you in the back, and find a battlefield of your choice. You can run at them, fight them on their choice of terrain and hope you’re better than they are. Or, you can settle and prepare, use what you have with you and around you to give yourself every advantage you can.”

  Neth had taught him this principle, and she had given him the opportunity to try all three options on numerous occasions. They knew each other well enough, and his skills had improved enough, that now he had at least a fair chance. This time, though, this time would be different. In his time with the scouts and Captain Jonas, he’d added a few more arrows to his quiver, so to speak.

  Although the meadow was free of trees, it held more shelter than one would think. Brush and scattered tall grass covered most of the area. The ground on first glance seemed level, but in fact had numerous depressions and rises. Jorem dropped to the ground and, using these features of the terrain for cover, he began making his way out of the meadow.

  He headed neither directly toward nor directly away from the sound he had heard. Instead, he angled away from it. Just in case he was spotted at some point, he changed his direction several times along the way. Once he reached the trees, concealment was much easier.

  Ghosting from tree to tree and bush to bush, Jorem used the shadows cast by the moon high above to hide his passing. He’d learned much from Hector and the other scouts about moving unseen. As he moved through the forest, he used those lessons to the utmost. If he’d had a pair of soft shoes to quiet the sound of his steps, he would have put them on, but he’d not thought to bring a pair. Another lesson learned.

  As he got nearer to the area where he’d heard the noise, he began stopping more frequently to watch and listen. It was time consuming and wore on Jorem’s patience, but at last he was rewarded with another slight sound out of place here in the woods—the sound of a boot pressing into leaves not quite damp enough to allow for silent passage.

  Keeping his breathing slow and even, Jorem focused his attention just to the side of the sound he’d just heard. Even with the dim moonlight filtering through the trees, movement was much easier to detect with peripheral vision than it was straight on. Quietly and patiently he waited, not moving, just watching.

  There! A figure darted from one shadow to another. With the silence of the shadows around him, Jorem moved to intercept his foe. Once in place, crouched in the shadow of a large pine, Jorem slowly and silently drew his sword. Knowing someone was coming made it much easier to discern the slight sounds they made as they approached.

  The idea of waiting until Neth was within arm’s reach and introducing her to the point of his sword crossed Jorem’s mind and was quickly dismissed. He could use a good bout. It would help release the tension he’d felt building inside. Besides, there was nothing quite so thrilling as going a few rounds with her. She never held back. When she was in the full throes of a fight, you were never sure whether she would stop before killing you or not.

  When Neth was less than a wagon length away, Jorem stepped from the shadows. The moonlight gleamed on the length of his sword. Looking up at the dark figure before him, Jorem realized he’d made a very big mistake. This was not Neth!

  The figure before him was stocky and at least as tall as Jorem. Whoever this was, they were more cautious than Neth would have been. Instead of charging, this person took a step back, dropped the bag he carried, and slowly drew his sword. The sword, like the figure before him, was a dark gray. No glimmer of light would warn of approach. It was impossible to tell the gender of his foe, as a mask covered all but the eyes.

  They stood facing one another for a moment. Then, with a rush, they came together and the fight began. Steel rang against steel as the two locked in a deadly battle. It didn’t take long for Jorem to realize that, whoever this was, they weren’t here to test him; they were here to kill him. Only the silent trees and the moon above witnessed the two mortals struggling against one another. Each focused on defeating the other, neither willing to die.

  It was not a quick battle. Jorem noted that although his assailant was not as ferocious as Neth, he was exceedingly skilled with a blade. This was a battle where the first to make a mistake would likely forfeit their life. Before long, both combatants were breathing heavily. Sweat stung Jorem’s eyes as it rolled off his brow, but he paid it no mind lest he give away some advantage.

  Jorem made an overhand swing only to strike a ringing blow on the other’s blade. Pressing forward, they stood face to face, sword to sword. A movement at the corner of his eye and Jorem snapped out his left hand just in time to block a dagger thrust.

  The attacker had been fighting left-handed. He had used his right hand to attack with a dagger when he had thought Jorem’s full concentration was on the swords. Fortunately for Jorem, Neth had done this to him on several occasions, along with numerous other nasty little tricks, so it wasn’t the surprise the attacker thought it would be.

  With his sword pressed on one side and his hand grasping the attacker’s wrist on the other, Jorem wrestled with the other man. He felt the dagger scraping against his forearm. Had it not been for his Ovack armor, his arm would have been sliced to ribbons.

  Looking his attacker straight in the eyes, Jorem put a wide, crazy grin on his face. At the moment the other fighter’s eyes showed concern, Jorem drew back his head and thrust it forward, striking the man squarely on the bridge of his nose. Jorem might have a bruise on his forehead, but that was a small price to pay.

  The unexpected blow stunned the attacker just long enough for Jorem to knock the sword from his hands with a hand strike near the wrist. At that point, Jorem could have run the man through. Instead, he bought his hand up with a hard uppercut to the chin. His fist, weighted with his sword, was sufficient to send his opponent crashing to the ground unconscious.

  While the man lay there, Jorem quickly searched him and removed anything that could be used as a weapon, becoming certain this was a man in the process. A quick search through the bag the man had been carrying revealed numerous weapons—throwing knives, a short blow gun, a thin wire with handles on each end (Jorem recognized it as a garrote), some cords, and several vials of powders and liquids. These were the tools of an assassin.

  Someone had sent an assassin after him—him personally. Jorem was dumbfounded. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anyone who would want him dead that badly. Taking the cords he found, Jorem tied the prostate man’s hands behind his back. Then he tied his prisoner’s feet together.

  Rolling the man over, Jorem peeled the mask from the still unconscious man’s face. What he found caused him to fall back in shock. He knew this man, and he knew immediately where the man must have got his orders. Unless something drastic had changed, Jorem’s entire world was about to crumble before his very eyes.

  This man was Jacobs, or Cobren, as Jorem knew him to be. Brother to Duke Rodney of Broughbor, Jacobs had been one of the King’s royal guardsmen. He’d even befriended Jorem on their trip with his father and brothers to Broughbor to witness the knighting of Duke Rodney’s son Pertheron. Jorem had noticed the other guardsmen treating Jacobs with particular deference. He’d also seen the wariness in Duke Rodney’s eyes when Jacobs had confronted him in support of Jorem.

  Many little thin
gs fell into place while many others fell out. Jacobs, for he would always be Jacobs to Jorem, was an assassin. Jorem had never given any thought to Jacob’s always being near at hand to the King. Nor had the man’s occasional absence for long periods of time been thought amiss. Thinking back Jorem remembered numerous encounters with the guardsman in the castle corridors late at night. Jacobs was not just any assassin, he was the royal assassin, answerable only to the King, loyal only to the King. With his back pressed so tightly against a tree trunk he could feel the texture of the bark, tears fell from Jorem’s eyes. His own father had ordered his death.

  Chapter XII

  It took Jorem a while to regain his composure. When he did, he noticed that Jacobs had managed to sit up. The urge to reach over and knock him down again was almost irresistible.

  The anger must have been evident in Jorem’s glare. Jacobs slumped and looked away.

  “They said you were good,” Jacobs said after a moment silence. “I figured they were exaggerating. When you tripped over your own shovel yesterday and fell on your face, I figured I was right.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “Then you take off through the trees like a deer. You up and disappeared in the middle of a wide open clearing and appeared like magic in front of me. As soon as we crossed blades, I knew I didn’t have a chance. Why didn’t you finish me?”

  Jorem’s emotions were still raw in his throat. He took the time he needed to get control over himself before responding. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and flat. As much as he wanted to rage at this man, he wanted to control the situation more.

  “Dead men don’t answer questions very well,” Jorem said, “and I want answers.”

  They sat in silence. All of the wildlife had vacated the area during the fight. Not even a breeze rustled the leaves. Only the moonlight casting shadows gave contrast to the forest about them.

  “Why, Jacobs?” Jorem asked evenly. “Why does my Father want me dead?”