In Service Of The King (Book 2) (26 page)

“In the brig,” Dunner informed him, smiling. “Came out eventually, like the rat he is. Do not worry, lad... he’s guarded at all times. You’ve been sleeping a good twenty hours. But, it is well-deserved... a fighting madman you were, in the glade!” He leaned over the wounded man, scrutinizing his face a bit. “You look no worse for the wear, but not much better either.” Joseph scared up the energy to snort, a little.

“I need to piss...” he grumbled. Dunner threw back his head and laughed. The monk smiled as well at this, finishing wrapping Joseph’s shoulder with a clean dressing.

Hezekiah strode quickly into the room.

“The young lord will be fine,” Dunner told him, with humor. “Wants to relieve himself. He’ll need a drink and some food, too I’ll wager....” Hezekiah looked relieved at seeing Joseph sitting up. The monk gathered up the soiled bandages and ushered everyone out of the room that Lord Asher might have a minute of privacy.

Rubar opened the wounded man’s door a few minutes later; Hezekiah stood by Joseph’s bedside, painting a picture of the hours that followed Sytel’s capture.

“Once his men had surrendered, they pushed the Bishop out to us,” the marshal said, nodding. “Inside the fortress was truly a palace. My wife would have loved it. The finest of everything, but a treasure trove of documents. Some he’d managed to destroy, but his assistants fled before completing their task.”

“Ungrateful minions...” Dunner put in, puffing his pipe. Chuckling, Hezekiah continued his story.

“Maps of the barbarians encampments, and well-laid plans for the sectors of benevolences in each of the seven cities... the pompous fool documented everything in three languages.”

“The best part was the weapon cache,” Dunner said, taking the pipe from his mouth. “Caverns filled with the things, all for building a rogue army.”

Despite his exhaustion, Joseph absorbed this information with interest.

“He was not... merely introducing… a pagan religion,” he said, with a great effort. Hezekiah shook his head, slowly.

“He wished to be king,” the Marshal said, heavily. “We seized parchments with the king’s travel routes and details of his carriages and the best areas to ambush from.”

“Aye,” Dunner said, darkly. “We’ve evidence enough to hang him ten times over. Though hangings too good for him, says I. Death by wolf-pack more like it...”

“Peace, brother...” Rubar said, shivering a little. “He was once a man of the cloth.”

Hezekiah glared at the floor.

“Exactly,” he said, without mirth. “There does not exist a death painful enough for him. The King will decide what is to be done.” He looked at the wounded young lord sitting up in bed. “Tyrus responded via messenger bird,” he told Joseph. “He rides down with five-hundred Shamar to meet us as we travel north, also with our own men; we’ll have two companies. We leave within the hour.”

“I will take good care of Lord Asher,” Rubar said, nodding. “Though this abbey is not as grand as the Castle of Stone Mountain, he will want for nothing.”

Hearing this, Joseph suddenly felt more awake.

“Do not... dare... leave me... behind,” the young lord said, firmly. “I will get out … and ride after you.” The bishop found the young man’s attitude disconcerting.

“You’d best rest here, my lord,” the man said, soothingly. “You’re in no shape to ride.”

“Death nearly claimed you, Lord Asher,” Hezekiah said, gravely. “Indeed, I saw your wound and thought you finished.”

“Aye...” Dunner said, plaintively. “But what an exit! I looked over an’ there you were, whacking out with that great sword of yours, hewing heads and limbs as if your very soul were at stake...”

“Listen to reason, young lord,” Rubar pleaded. “These men think only of preserving your life.” Joseph’s face did not soften but held the same, unyielding expression.

“My life is in the hands of God,” he stated.

Dunner looked from Joseph’s determined face over to the bishop.

“It’s no use, brother Rubar...” the aging sailor said, sighing. “I’ve seen that look before. Lord Asher has a will of iron, but he comes by it honesty. We’d best fit that mongrel Sytel’s carriage with a bunk and take him along.” Joseph looked up at Dunner in mild surprise, and gratitude at the suggestion; sleep tugged at his eyes and he struggled to stay awake. A monk appeared in the doorway with a streaming mug of rich broth. Joseph accepted it with a grateful expression and took several deep drinks.

“You took Sytel’s carriage?” he asked, at length, smiling a little. Dunner grinned.

“Aye... how do you think we got you here, lad?”

“It might be a boon to have the carriage along,” Hezekiah said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. Dunner chuckled.

“Perhaps we’d want to ride along in it as well!” he mocked.

The men laughed quietly at this for a moment. Looking over, the Shamar saw Lord Asher had fallen back asleep. The monk pulled the woolen blanket up around Joseph’s shoulders and left with the others.

RHYTHMIC JOLTING woke Joseph from a deep sleep. The clattering sounds of multiple horse hooves upon flagstone met his ears. Looking up, Joseph saw he lay in a fine carriage, on a soft mattress of feathers and linen that spanned fully one half of facing carriage seats. Feeling the bedclothes bedside him, Joseph relaxed as his fingers touched the familiar scabbard of his sword.

“Good afternoon, Lord Asher!” an amused voice called out from not far away; the carriage windows were open. Looking over, Joseph saw Dunner riding beside the carriage

“Where’s my horse?” Joseph called out, tersely. Dunner chuckled.

“That black beast of yours is tied yonder, behind the carriage,” the aging sailor told him. “His bad temper matches that of his master, methinks.” Joseph ignored this and looked around for some water. A stone bottle of ale lay on the seat within reach. Taking this, Joseph used his teeth to uncork the bottle and took a long drink. The bitter liquid quenched his burning throat.

Hezekiah rode up on the other side of the carriage.

“Ah, Lord Asher,” the Marshal said, genially. “Please, do not rise to greet us... we are but humble servants.”

“Yes, you continue to rest, while the serfs work hard to protect this convoy...” Dunner put in, clearly enjoying himself. Closing the window curtain roughly, Joseph laid back on the pillows, glaring up at the ceiling of the carriage. A moment later a monk climbed into the carriage, bearing clean bandages.

“My lord...” he said. “You will feel pain, but I must change your dressing,” the man said, candidly. Feeling the young lord’s forehead, the monk shook his head. “You fever is still high.” He saw the empty ale flask and nodded, well pleased. As the monk cleaned the wound with wine and honey, he had to press down on it; though he was gentle, pain shot down Joseph’s arm and chest, causing darkness to come upon him again.

Delirium took him; he woke to the black shades of night. Angry shouts and the clanking of swords hung in the air. Groping blindly, Joseph reached his good arm out for his sword. Clutching it, he tried to stand but fell back against the pillows. Torches could be seen in the distance, and the whine of passing arrows sounded close by. The scene blurred before Joseph’s eyes and he slept again, his sword still in hand.

Hours later, Joseph awoke to the sight of the friendly monk, hovering beside his cot. The man urged him to drink from a goblet. Sweet wine rolled down the young man’s parched throat. Joseph tried to rasp out inquiries of the night before, but the monk shook his head. A nearby groan of pain took the young lord’s attention from his own woes.

Moving his head with difficulty, Joseph looked over to his right. Another cot had been made up in the spacious carriage and on it lay Hezekiah, his arm and side bandaged.

“Let me up... let me up...” the older man croaked out, deliriously. “I’m Marshal Walters... I outrank all of you; let me up at once. I can fight...” The monk chuckled at the man’s ravings and attended the wounded marshal with water and wine.

“I appear to be the last man standing,” came a familiar voice, from outside.

Turning his head again Joseph glared out the carriage window at Dunner; the man rode alongside the carriage, his pipe lit and trailing smoke.

“Oh, puff it out your blowhole....” Hezekiah called, from his sick-bed. “You salty old barnacle.” In spite of his pain, Joseph found himself smiling at the situation. Dunner, however, laughed loud and long at his old friend’s bad temperament. Joseph accepted another drink before sleeping again. He awoke once more in the dark to muffled voices and shouts; he saw torch-lights again and heard familiar clangs of metal. Shaking with fever, he could not even lift his arm for his sword. In his daze, kind hands attended to him and gave him warm, delicious broth.

It was full morning when Joseph awoke again. Feeling much clearer in his head, he slowly eased himself up into a sitting position. Looking over, he saw Hezekiah sleeping on a nearby cot, well covered by a woolen blanket. The noble soldier’s face appeared a bit pale and drawn with pain. A loud snore took his attention from the wounded marshal. Over his feet, Joseph saw a hammock had been strung up across the carriage. In it lay Dunner, fast asleep, his leg well-bandaged in linen. Loud snores emanated from the aging sailor’s open mouth. Joseph smiled a little, rubbing his head and looking out the windows.

The snoring stopped for a moment; a low, vibrating sound echoed from the hammock.

“Oh, not again!” Hezekiah groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “Hang your stomach, man! What a stench!” The smell left the carriage quickly but Dunner sat up awake, rubbing his eyes.

“My apologies, brother,” the aging sailor said, grinning. “I did eat that goat stew last night...”

“We are all painfully aware of this fact,” Hezekiah said, from under his blanket. “What will I tell the king when we bring back Joseph’s lifeless form to him? Oh your majesty, he died of gastric stench poisoning?!” Dunner laughed and looked over at Joseph.

“Well, Lord Asher… you appear much improved today,” he said, nodding at Joseph. At this, Hezekiah peered out of the blanket and made to sit up as well, grimacing in pain.

A monk swung up into the carriage; he helped the marshal sit up, with pillows at his back.

“You’ve been sleeping these two days at least,” Hezekiah observed, accepting a mug of broth from the monk.

“Had us worried with your fever, lad,” Dunner agreed, grimly. “But you’re a tough sort. Must have some sailor in you after all.”

“It appears I did not dream the attacks on our convoy,” Joseph remarked. Dunner shook his head.

“No, lad,” he said, also taking a mug of broth from the monk. Joseph accepted one as well, thanking the man with a nod. “Twice we were ambushed in the night. I know not how word leaked out where Sytel was, but they tried to set him free.”

“Success eluded them,” Hezekiah put in, sipping the hot liquid.

“How many of our men were killed?” Joseph asked, his brow drawn. Dunner grinned.

“None,” he said, proudly. “We chased them back into the night and left bodies all along the road.”

“How many wounded, then?” Joseph responded. The two men stayed silent at this. The monk attending them stood up, smiling.

“Only two men were injured, sir, though not seriously....” the man said, cheerfully. “They rest here, in this carriage.” Hezekiah and Dunner both snorted, but stayed quiet until the monk left.

Soon after their carriage slowed and jolted to a halt. Grabbing his sword, Joseph made to get out of bed.

“Is it barbarians?” Dunner exclaimed, angrily, trying unsuccessfully to disentangle himself from the hammock. “Let me at them... confound this blanket!” The clear, long note of a trumpet sounded in the air; at the sound of it, Dunner relaxed, exchanging a relieved look with Hezekiah.

“Tis the horn of the Shamar,” the Marshal said, his face calm again. “Tyrus has come.”

The gray-eyed captain of the king’s guard himself came by the carriage not many minutes after. Dismounting his horse, Tyrus stepped up to the monk who’d been caring for them. Speaking in low tones for a moment, the duke sent the monk away and opened the door of the carriage.

“Greetings men of the King,” he said in his customary even tone. The men inside nodded and mumbled a reply back. Tyrus looked from Hezekiah on his cot up to Dunner in his swaying hammock. “It appears two of you have the great honor and distinction of being the only men among 503 soldiers to be injured along this journey.”

Seeing Dunner’s face flush red, Joseph spoke up.

“Have you news for us?” he asked. The Shamar captain smiled, a little.

“Indeed I have Lord Asher,” said he. “Ithycor was arrested, by myself, not six days ago. Troops have been sent into the sectors of Benevolence in six more cities, to relieve the citizens and have arrested a score of priests and many priest guards have met their end; proof against two senators have also been found. All are charged with cruelty and crimes against Kingdom citizens.”

The gray-eyed man looked over at Hezekiah. “You have caused much stirring among the aristocracy and senate by invading the fortress Morronai and arresting Sytel.” He paused a moment before continuing. “Such stirrings will be quelled once the king makes known the documents you’ve recovered, and those seized from Ithykor.”

At these words, Joseph felt as if a large weight lifted from him. Hezekiah nodded, but did not look surprised at the turn of events.

“My men will escort your prisoners and this convoy to the Kings City,” Tyrus continued. “Judging from your faint pallor, it is advisable that you rest before the Sentencing Day commences. I shall have some of these men travel with you to a fortified monastery not far from here; they possess a volcanic mineral spring which is said to speed healing.” The men in the carraige nodded at this, appearing relieved. Tyrus turned to go, then stopped and glanced back to the door.

“One last thing, men... you have done a most excellent work,” he said, smiling. “The king was delighted to know your injuries did not take your life.” This last part he spoke to Joseph. The men watched Tyrus mount his horse again and ride out of their sight.