“Sure we were,” Aidan answered. “I had the time of my life. But the battle for Corenwald is on. I can’t be off frolicking in the swamp with the feechiefolk while my brothers are fighting—maybe even dying—on the battlefield.”
“Then how ’bout I go with you?” said Dobro excitedly. “Your fights is my fights now.”
“Not this fight. This is between the Corenwalders and the Pyrthens.”
Dobro looked hurt. “You don’t think I’m a Corenwalder? You don’t think them was Corenwalders you spent yesterday evening with?”
Aidan paused to think. “No, Dobro, I don’t suppose I ever thought of the feechiefolk as Corenwalders.”
“The feechiefolk was Corenwalders many long years before you civilizers come to this island.” Dobro lifted his head and looked westward toward the battle plain. “You might be right. This battle you’re headed to might be none of my business. It might just be one bunch of civilizers fighting another bunch of civilizers to decide who gets to pretend this island belongs to them. That’s a fight you can keep for your own.”
Dobro turned and looked Aidan in the eye. “But if your fight is a fight for Corenwald, that’s a whole other thing. You love Corenwald. I know you do. But you don’t love it no more than we do.”
A short silence prevailed between the boys. Dobro had given Aidan a whole new way of looking at things. “There’s an old prophecy in the feechie lore,” Dobro continued. “It tells about a civilizer king who’s going to make one nation out of Corenwald. There won’t be no civilizer Corenwald or no feechie Corenwald … just Corenwald.
“Most of the feechiefolk don’t pay no mind to that old story. They think it’s make-believe—just something to tell the wee-feechies. Most of the feechiefolks wouldn’t even want to join up with the civilizers. But I been keeping an eye out for that civilizer king. When he shows up, I’m going to be the first feechie to join up with him.”
Dobro gave Aidan a sidelong glance, as if he weren’t saying everything he was thinking. “But it’s probably time you got going,” he said, and he shoved Aidan off the tree limb and into the water below. When Aidan came up for air, he heard Dobro deep in the forest: Ha-ha-ha-hrawffff-wooooooooo … Ha-ha-ha-hrawffff-wooooooooo.
Aidan’s coating of mud was dissolving into a gray cloud in the green water of the limestone sink. He rubbed away the last of the mud on his face and arms as he swam lazily to the edge of the sink. Climbing onto the grass, he found his flour sack, safe and dry. Dobro, nimble as a pickpocket, had snatched the sack away from Aidan as he fell and dropped it on the grassy bank. Aidan took off his panther cape, shook it dry as best he could, then folded it and placed it in the flour sack. Now that he was out of the creek bottom forest, it was time to become a civilizer again. He shouldered the flour sack and headed down the Western Road, energized by the thought of seeing his brothers among the mighty men of Corenwald.
* * *
Aidan had never seen a real battle camp before. But in daydreams during those long afternoons in the sheep pastures, he had fought many battles and spent many nights encamped with the armies of Corenwald. His head was filled with clashing arms, with battles and sieges and cavalry charges. Though he was a shepherd boy, Aidan’s heart was the heart of a warrior. So when he crested a gentle rise and caught his first glimpse of the Corenwalders’ battle camp a league westward on the Bonifay Plain, a thrill surged through his every bone and sinew. At the same time, though, he felt an odd familiarity, as if he were back home after a long time away.
Even from this distance, Aidan could see that the encampment looked just the way he had thought it would. Blue-and-gold battle flags rippled lazily in the slight breeze. A thousand field tents pitched in long ranks, the distant whinny of a warhorse, even the smoke drifting up from the remains of the noonday cooking fires— all of these things he had imagined and longed for. The early afternoon sun glinted off the helmets and spear points of a dozen pairs of sentries standing guard around the camp’s perimeter. They looked so strong and splendid that it made Aidan’s heart hurt with pride to think that he was their countryman.
A small valley ran along the camp’s western edge—the opposite edge from where Aidan stood. A bank of chalky clay led down ten or fifteen feet to a grassy flat where a river had run many years before. On the other side of the valley stood the Pyrthen camp, its black-and-red battle flags raised high. Beyond it, as far as the bottomland forest along the Eechihoolee River, stretched the plain, treeless except for the occasional cedar planted by farmers who had farmed here decades earlier.
It was hard to tell from such a distance, but the Pyrthen camp seemed to be much larger than the Corenwalder camp. If the Corenwalders had a thousand tents, the Pyrthens, it appeared, had two thousand, perhaps even three thousand. Not good odds. Well, then, thought Aidan, all the more glorious shall the Corenwalder victory be! He tossed the bag over his shoulder and broke into a quick trot for the last league of his journey.
* * *
At the edge of the Corenwalder camp, two sentries stood on either side of the path. They were dressed in the plate mail and blue tunics of Corenwalder foot soldiers. One of the sentries was tall and thin, with a wispy mustache and a bashful little chin that didn’t protrude quite as far as the Adam’s apple just below it. The other was a round little fellow who barely came up to the top of his partner’s breastplate. The Corenwalder army hadn’t made any uniforms for men his size and shape—or, in any case, he didn’t get one. Aidan had to admit that these soldiers looked much more impressive from a league away than they did up close.
The sentries were leaning on their spears and appeared to be deep in conversation. They hadn’t noticed that Aidan had walked up on them. He cleared his throat loudly to get their attention. They stood up straight and pointed their spears in his direction.
In unison they spoke. “Halt! Who goes there?”
Aidan smiled at the sentries and spoke in a confident, soldierly tone, as to his equals. “I am Aidan Errolson of Longleaf Manor, loyal subject to King Darrow and brother to four warriors of Corenwald.”
The sentries turned their heads toward each other, then burst into laughter. The tall one spoke first. “Warriors of Corenwald? Well, they ain’t been doing no warrioring around here, I can tell you that!”
Aidan was perplexed. He looked about him. “Isn’t this the battle camp of the Corenwalders? Aren’t those Corenwald’s battle flags flying overhead?”
The short sentry looked skyward, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. “Hey, Terence, young Aidan Errolson has a point. Those are battle flags.”
“Well, I’ll be,” answered Terence. “I thought King Darrow was drying his laundry.” He snorted with laughter, almost before he had finished the joke. His short, round partner laughed a wheezing laugh and slapped his knee.
Aidan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. These soldiers were mocking the very king they were sworn to serve—the king who had provided them with arms and armor. He thought it best to go on his way and leave them to their hilarity. “May I pass?”
“Not so fast.” It was Terence, the tall jokester again. “Lester, this being a battle camp and all, don’t you think we should interrogate the subject?”
“Right, right,” said Lester. He assumed an official-looking posture. “State your name.”
“It’s Aidan Errolson. I already told you.”
“Yes. Of course. Aidan Errolson of the Fighting Errolsons. Brother to four warriors.” Terence stifled a giggle.
Lester resumed the interrogation. “State your business.”
“I’m here to see my brothers—to deliver this sack of provisions from home and to get news of their well-being to bring home to our father.”
Terence snorted at this. “News of their well-being! You can tell Daddy that unless one of the Fighting Errolsons burned himself at his cooking fire or broke a fingernail while polishing up his armor, he’s as safe in this battle camp as a babe in arms.”
Lester broke in. “And
as for that sack of provisions, we’d be glad to deliver it to your brothers, so you just hand it over and run along home.” He reached for the sack. But by this time, Aidan had had enough of these soldiers and their jokes. He drew back the hand that was holding the sack and glared at the sentries. Though the soldiers were bigger, older, and certainly better armed, they could see that the young shepherd boy meant business. They decided not to press the issue.
“Ahem. Well, I reckon we could let you deliver the sack—this time—but you better let us have a look inside.”
“Yeah, we can’t be allowing parcels to enter the encampment without performing a visual inspection.” Terence had learned this official-sounding language during his brief training.
This seemed a reasonable request. Aidan untied the drawstring at the mouth of the sack and folded back the coarse cloth so the sentries could see inside. “It’s loaves of bread and new cheeses from our goats.”
“Look, Terence—cheese! Young Aidan of the Fighting Errolsons is bringing cheese to his warrior brothers!”
“You know what they say,” answered Terence. “Nothing fortifies a man’s warrior spirit like a nice fresh goat cheese.” This was just too much for Terence. He doubled over laughing at his own joke. Lester, too, was nearly incapacitated with laughter. They leaned on each other, whinnying and guffawing.
Aidan was puzzled by the men’s behavior. Their hilarity was all out of proportion to the joke, which just wasn’t that funny. He had seen people laugh extra hard at little jokes during times of particular jollity—at the solstice festival, for instance, or at the harvest feast, when a summer’s long, hot labor was finally at an end. But Aidan could see that these men were not laughing from an excess of joy. Theirs was a forced laughter, with too much breath and not enough belly. They laughed the way a person laughs when he has slipped and fallen in front of strangers and wants to show he’s not embarrassed, even though he is.
Aidan cinched up his sack, slung it back over his shoulder, and continued into the camp. If the sentries wished to stop him, they were free to do so. But he had no intention of waiting for them to regain their composure, and they had no intention of stopping him.
As he entered the encampment, Aidan realized the sentries had been right about one thing at least: Though there were uniformed soldiers milling about and battle flags flapping overhead, this did not feel like a battle camp. There was no buzz of excitement as he had expected. He did not hear the hum and clank of last-minute battle preparations—no blacksmiths pounding at swords and spears, no mighty men strapping on their armor, no pageboys gearing up the warhorses. There were no soldiers nursing wounds from battles already fought. He saw no units drilling in the common areas. And in the faces of the soldiers he saw neither grim determination nor the swelling pride of conquest, nor even the fear of death. Instead, he saw heavy-lidded indifference. They looked more like men about to go to sleep than men about to go to war.
Aidan saw a few signs of life and vigor among the Corenwalders, but they weren’t very encouraging. A particularly animated supply officer beat a pack mule that had stopped in the passage. The next tent row over, an officer and a foot soldier yelled and swore at each other. Behind one of the tents, a knot of soldiers huddled together, talking excitedly and pointing intently at a spot on the ground between them. Aidan thought they must have a map, going over a battle scheme or planning a raid on the enemy camp. But as he drew near, he realized they were throwing dice, gambling away their soldiers’ wages.
Aidan wandered down one tent row, then another, searching for his brothers but without success. Few of the men he passed acknowledged his presence at all. No one noticed that he was lost and confused, nor did anyone help him find his way.
Aidan was feeling very discouraged when he heard a voice beside him.
“You look lost.”
Aidan turned to see a boy about his age wearing the hat and side pouch of a messenger. The messenger boy had fallen into step with Aidan and was holding out his hand to shake. “I’m Herschel,” he said, showing Aidan the first genuine smile he had seen since arriving at the camp.
Aidan shook Herschel’s hand. “I’m Aidan.”
“What are you looking for?” asked the messenger boy.
“My brothers. The Errolsons.”
“Everything around here is arranged by shires,” said Herschel. “What shire are you from?”
“Hustingshire.”
“Oh, you’re almost there,” Herschel answered. He pointed over to his right. “The Hustingshire regiment is two tent rows over.”
“Thanks,” said Aidan, shaking the messenger boy’s hand. He started to leave in the direction Herschel had pointed, but he stopped. “Herschel?” he asked. “Can I ask you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“What is going on here?”
“How do you mean?”
“Look around you. Look at the soldiers in this battle camp. They don’t look like the mighty men of Corenwald. These aren’t the faces of the free and the true. What’s bothering everybody?”
Herschel chuckled and shook his head. “You mean you haven’t heard what’s bothering everybody?”
“How could I have heard?” Aidan answered him. “Except for a couple of smart-aleck guards, you’re the first person who’s said a word to me since I set foot in this camp.”
Herschel looked up at the sun. He appeared to be judging the time of day from its position in the sky. “You’ll find out soon,” he said. “Within the hour, you’ll see for yourself what’s bothering everybody.”
Chapter Eighteen
A Challenge
Herschel the messenger boy went about his business, and Aidan found his brothers right where Herschel said he would. They were seated on logs around the cooking pit in front of their tent. Aidan was overjoyed to see them.
“Brennus! Maynard!” he shouted eagerly. “Jasper! Percy!” His brothers just stared at him.
“You should see your faces!” he continued. “Are you that surprised to see me? You should have known I’d figure out some way to get here.” He began opening his bag. “I wouldn’t let you have all the fun yourselves. Now, who wants some of Ebbe’s new cheese and Moira’s fresh bread?”
Aidan was so busy talking and unwrapping that he didn’t notice Brennus’s and Maynard’s surprised looks narrow into scowls. Even Jasper and Percy were frowning.
Aidan went on, oblivious. “You have to tell me everything that has happened since you’ve been here. Father’s doing better, I’m glad to say, but it was getting pretty—”
“What are you doing here?” sneered Brennus, cutting Aidan off in midsentence. “Don’t you have some sheep to tend to?”
“Or some feechies to fight?” added Maynard.
“Funny you should mention that,” answered Aidan. “You wouldn’t believe the day I had yesterday—”
“You shouldn’t be here!” shouted Brennus, interrupting him again. “You just came to watch us all get killed. Why did Father let you come?”
“What did I do?” asked Aidan. There was hurt in his voice. “What did I say?” None of his brothers would answer him or even look at him. Aidan looked from one brother’s face to the next, searching for any clue that would tell him what was going on.
Then a trumpet blast split the air, followed by wild shouts. The sounds came from the west, the direction of the Pyrthen camp. Was it a raid? Was the battle beginning? Aidan looked to his brothers, expecting them to arm themselves and rush out to join the fray. But they didn’t. Brennus uttered a long sigh and cast his eyes heavenward. Percy held his head in his hands; he was covering his ears. Maynard and Jasper sat stone-faced, as if they had heard nothing.
Surprised that his brothers seemed to have no intention of going anywhere, Aidan leaped to his feet. He motioned for his brothers to come along and ran in the direction of the shouts. He was already well on his way when he heard Percy’s voice behind him. “Aidan! Don’t go there. It’s not safe!”
Aidan ran to t
he edge of the valley that bordered the battle camp. On the opposite edge, in front of a great oak tree, stood a line of thirty or forty men in black armor and black, spiked helmets—Pyrthen foot soldiers bearing spears and blood-red shields.
In the middle of the line stood the biggest man Aidan had ever seen. He looked to be seven feet tall, maybe taller, and a huge plume on top of his helmet added another two feet to his height. The tallest of the other men barely came up to his chin. He looked like an oversized iron statue of a man. His right hand clutched a twelve-foot spear. His left arm was strapped into a shield like a full moon, four feet in diameter, and decorated with images of the Pyrthen gods in all their cruelty and hideousness. Over his left shoulder was the double blade of a massive battle-ax, its handle stuck into a sheath strapped to his back. Even from across the valley, Aidan could see the cruel, murderous look in the great warrior’s eyes.
The Pyrthen’s deep voice thundered across the valley. “Dogs of Corenwald! I am Greidawl of Pyrth. Send a champion to face me in single combat, in full view of our two armies. If he triumphs over me, the army of Pyrth will be defeated, and we will be your slaves. If I triumph, the Corenwalders will be defeated, and you will be slaves to us.”
The Pyrthen champion paused, pretending to be waiting for an answer from the sentries on the valley’s eastern edge. Receiving none, he spoke again. “You have nothing to lose. You are our slaves already. Every day you tremble at my threats, every day you swallow my taunts without response, you show that you are slaves to Pyrth and servants to our gods.
“Through two phases of the moon, I have stood each day on this hill and made you this offer. Why should your whole army be put to the sword when the blood of one man would do? Is there not a single man among you, dogs of Corenwald?
“I am Greidawl of Pyrth. Here I stand, by the power of the Pyrthen gods. By their power I have broken men like twigs. By their power I have mown men down like autumn wheat. By whose power do you slink and cower? Can the God of Corenwald raise up a champion to face me? Who would spare the blood of his brothers?”
The Bark of the Bog Owl Page 11