Death and Honor: Book 1 of 2

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© 2015 by James Wisher

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B
urt hated the forest
. Whenever he came this way something bad happened. Last month his mule threw a shoe halfway to Lord’s Way. Six months ago a rotten branch broke loose and came down on Joey, breaking his arm. Now here he was walking along a well worn path through dappled shade just like nothing bad would happen when he knew damn well it would. If the roof on his little cottage didn’t need replacing he wouldn’t have taken this job.

The lead in his hand jerked when his mule lowered its head to crop the lush clover growing along the side of the path, again. He gave the lead a jerk and the mule’s head came up. “Come on, damn you. You’ll get your feed when we make camp, same as me.”

Burt snatched his hand out of the way when the mule tried to bite him. He cracked it across the nose with the leather lead and it shied away. “Miserable beast.”

Behind him the guards riding drag chuckled. Bloody mercenaries with their fancy horses and fancy armor, they get to ride the whole trip to Lord’s Way while Burt and the other drovers had to walk and drag the mules along with them. The bosses hired six of the bastards this trip, the other four rode up front to protect the caravan master.

“Hey, Burt, old Susie giving you a hard time?”

Burt grinned at his buddy, Mik the stick, walking beside the next mule in line. Mik just flicked his hickory switch and his mule looked away from the clover. He got similar results waving it at his kids. “Damn thing just wants to eat. What time you reckon it is?”

Before Mik could reply an arrow loosed from the right side of the road pierced his throat. He fell, blood spraying from his neck. Shouts of pain came from the front of the caravan, and a second later shouts came from behind him. Burt spun and found the mercenaries lying on the ground, both sporting arrows in their chests, their fancy mail not phasing the arrows in the least.

Burt swung back an instant before an arrow slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to the ground. He lay still despite the screaming, both from the rest of the caravan and his shoulder. The little belt knife he carried wouldn’t be much use in a fight like this, and if he moved they might put another arrow in him for good measure. Live to fight another day that was Burt’s philosophy.

Minutes passed before the forest fell silent. Burt kept his eyes shut until he heard voices.

“We have what we came for.”

Burt opened an eye in time to see a group of bowmen, he counted a score plus three, dressed in ragged armor made of leather and bits of chain. The bandits looked at another man dressed in gleaming mail and wearing a helm with the visor open. The man had a bent nose over a bushy mustache, the helm hid the rest of his face. Another fancy mercenary, only this one worked for the other side. In his hands the leader, Burt held no doubts about who led the bandits, held a small wooden chest. The chest was a late addition to the caravan, a desperate woman in Three Streams paid the master double the usual fee to bring it to Lord’s Way, though who the recipient was Burt couldn’t say.

“You’ve got five minute to loot the mules, then we leave,” the leader said.

The bandits howled like animals and tore through the panniers looking for anything worthwhile. One pulled out a small box of ingots intended for a silversmith. A second man tackled him and they rolled around kicking and punching to see who’d end up with the silver. Burt closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder, praying no one would notice his shallow breathing.

“All right you dogs, time’s up. We’re leaving.”

Burt opened his eyes in time to see the bandits trudging northeast behind fancy pants. He waited another ten minutes, shoulder be damned, to make certain they weren’t coming back. Burt climbed to his feet, a short distance away Susie lay on her side, an arrow through her ribs. Stubborn mule or not she hadn’t deserved to die.

Burt shuffled up the road a ways then knelt beside Mik; he hadn’t deserved to die either. The arrow in Burt’s shoulder screamed, but he continued to ignore it. “Rest easy, mate.” Burt closed his friend’s eyes.

Now, unless he’d gotten turned around, they’d passed the road to some nobleman’s estate about two miles back. They had to have a healer on the grounds, soldiers too. Burt gathered his gumption and started back down the road, his shoulder yelping with each step. By the gods, it was going to be a long walk.

J
eremiah Kane watched
his sons face off with padded, wooden swords. They sparred in a training circle drawn in the dirt between the barracks and Lord St. Jaques estate. They were alone in the late afternoon sun, the soldiers having decided not watch the afternoon match. That suited Jeremiah since the boys liked to show off when the soldiers gathered. He wanted them focused on the fundamentals not entertaining an audience.

Gabriel held his sword in high guard. With his short blond hair and blue-gray eyes Jeremiah’s elder son looked like a miniature version of himself. Though he’d turned fifteen a few months ago Gabriel already stood near six feet tall. Older, stronger, and more experienced, Gabriel should have been able to best his younger brother with no trouble. Xander, however, never let being younger and smaller stop him from doing what he wanted, and at the moment what he wanted was to drive his father and brother to distraction.

“Begin.” Jeremiah said.

Gabriel swung down and to the left. Rather than block the way Jeremiah taught him Xander spun away and counter slashed at his brother’s ribs. Gabriel blocked and danced out of the way.

“Stop!” Jeremiah scowled at his younger son. Xander grinned back at him, wooden sword resting on his shoulder. Fast, smart, and two years younger than his brother, sweat plastered Xander’s long dark hair to his head. “You’re supposed to parry the blows, not dodge them.”

Xander’s ice blue eyes locked with Jeremiah’s, ready to argue. He looked so much like his mother in that moment Jeremiah’s frustration faded away. “My hands are still tingling from the morning match. If the idea is to avoid getting hit dodging is better.”

“The idea,” Jeremiah said, forcing himself not to shout. “Is to build up your strength and calluses. You do that by blocking. I’m trying to teach you two the proper way to fight a duel.”

“Father, I’m curious.”

Jeremiah put a hand to his forehead and suppressed a groan, if he had a gold royal for every time his younger son began a sentence with ‘I’m curious’ he could have bought the estate from Lord St. Jaques.

“It seems the only way someone can win a proper duel is to be stronger than his opponent. I’ll never be stronger than Gabriel so why should I learn to fight in a style that will cause me to lose.”

“When you’re older,” Jeremiah said for the thousandth time.

Before he could continue his explanation Gabriel pointed down the road and said, “Father, someone’s coming.”

Jeremiah looked where his son indicated. A figure, a man from the looks, staggered down the road. “Fetch the guards then get in the house, now.”

The boys sprinted for the barracks. “I almost got you that time.” Xander dodged a good-natured swipe from his brother. They reached the barracks door and Jeremiah put the boys out of his mind. He drew his sword, and started down the road to see who was coming to visit this late in the evening. When he got closer the man’s staggering gate and the arrow jutting from his shoulder gave mute testament to the fact that he was no threat.

Jeremiah sheathed his sword and rushed forward just in time to catch the man when he collapsed and lower him to the ground. “Easy, easy, what happened to you?”

“Caravan…” the man gasped. “Bandits…”

He passed out.

The thundering of booted feet on the road announced his mens’ arrival, ten men-at-arms, swords drawn and ready for battle. His second in command, Sergeant Marcus, knelt beside him. “Lord Knight?”

“It appears we have bandits roaming our territory, Marcus.” Jeremiah pointed at a pair of husky men. “You two carry him to the guest cottage. Someone get Bones.”

One man sprinted back to the barracks to fetch their healer while Jeremiah and the rest escorted their guest to one of four guest cottages on the eastern edge of the compound.

“Do you think he’ll live?” Marcus asked.

“I’m no healer,” Jeremiah said. “But that wound is far from his heart. I suspect the exhaustion caused his collapse more than the injury.”

They reached the cottage, a one room affair with a tile roof and two windows. Jeremiah unlocked the door with a key from his key ring. The light from the setting sun provided dim illumination. “Put him on the bed and get a fire started.”

One soldier bent down in front of the fireplace and there was a creak as he opened the flue followed by the click of steel on flint. Soon a warm glow filled the little space.

“If you’re not bleeding, get out.” The imperious voice of the company healer rang out.

The men fled like rats from a sinking ship at the sight of the wizened figure stomping toward the cottage, his satchel slapping against his hip. Little more than skin and bones, which was how he earned his name, Bones was shorter than Xander, louder than the cook, and tougher than old leather. Bones ignored Jeremiah and leaned over the man on the bed.

Jeremiah gave him a minute then asked, “Well?”

Bones looked at him. “He’ll live. The arrow missed the big vessel running to his neck. Let’s yank that arrow while he’s still out.”

Jeremiah pulled the unconscious man into a sitting position and held him while Bones cut the arrow short, pushed it through the back of his shoulder, and pulled it free. He dropped the arrow head on the floor and smeared a thick crimson paste on both sides of the wound. He bound bandages in place then nodded for Jeremiah to lower him back down to the mattress.

Bones wiped the man’s blood off on his smock. “That troll’s blood ointment will have him right as rain in a few days.”

“Can you wake him?” Jeremiah asked. “I need to know what happened.”

“I can,” Bones said, the disapproval in his voice clear. “It’d be best if you let him sleep until morning and get some food in him before you put him to the question.”

“I’m not going to torture him,” Jeremiah scowled at the old healer who grinned. “Morning will be fine. I can’t ride until then anyway. Will you stay with him?”

Bones nodded. Jeremiah closed the door behind him and headed for the main house. The boys bounced back and forth in front of the front door waiting for him. “Was it a bandit, Father?” Gabriel asked as soon as he got in ear shot.

Jeremiah tousled Xander’s hair. “No, just a man who needed help.”

“Ha! I told you it weren’t a bandit,” Xander said. “You owe me half your dessert.”

“You’re both getting half portions tonight.” Jeremiah smiled when Alexandra appeared behind the boys in the doorway. His wife had a knack for catching the boy at mischief. “How many times have I told you two about wagering like that? And Xander your grammar was awful just now. You know better.”

The boys hung their heads. “Sorry, mother.” they said.

“Get inside this instant and wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

They scooted past her and into the house. Xander stopped and looked back. “What are we having for dessert, anyway?”

Alexandra pointed toward the wash room. Xander grinned and scampered up the stairs.

“That boy’s a devil,” Alexandra said.

Jeremiah kissed her. “Takes after his mother.”

Alexandra swatted him on the shoulder, her long, dark hair swirling around a slim elegant figure. Seventeen years since they married and she still looked as beautiful as the day she first caught his eye. He said a silent word of thanks to whatever god had placed so wondrous a woman in his path.

“So what’s this about a wounded man?” Alexandra asked, jolting him out of his moment of reflection.

“He staggered onto the grounds while the boys spared, an arrow in his shoulder, muttering about bandits. Poor fellow passed out without another word. Bones is with him now and I’ll question him in the morning.”

Alexandra slipped her hand into his and they went inside to eat. The warm wood floor and familiar stone walls welcomed him home. While he’d been out Alexandra put up a new tapestry in the entry hall, dragons chasing unicorns this time. Last week’s was knights at the joust.

“You’ll go after them?” Alexandra asked.

Jeremiah nodded. “In the morning as soon as I question the stranger.”

“You could have Marcus lead the men. He’s a good soldier, he could handle it.”

“He is and I’m sure he could, but it’s my responsibility. I won’t hand it off to someone else.”

“You’re getting older,” Alexandra said. The quiver in her voice tugged at Jeremiah’s heart. “No one would think less of you if you let someone else take up some of the burden.”

He stepped back and looked into her eyes. “You’re wrong. I’d think less of myself. I’m not hurt or sick, that would be different. Lord St. Jaques entrusted the care of this estate to me, not Marcus or anyone else. It’s my responsibility, and keeping bandits off the roads is part of that responsibility, honor demands I see it through as long as I’m able.”

“I know,” She laid her head on his chest. “I just wonder which time you won’t come back.”

“That will be as the gods will. Better an honorable death on the battlefield then a coward’s death at home. We’ll speak no more of this.”

T
he next morning
Jeremiah met Marcus by the front door and they made the short walk to the guest cottage together. “Bones asked for a double helping of breakfast this morning,” Marcus said. “I guess that means the stranger is awake.”

Jeremiah laughed. “I wouldn’t make that assumption, the way Bones eats.”

The two guards on watch snapped to attention as they approached. “Be at ease.” Jeremiah said.

The guard on the right pushed the door open and Jeremiah stepped through. The stranger sat up in bed and did his best in inhale a bowl of oatmeal. Bones dozed in a chair nearby.

“It looks like our guest has recovered.” Jeremiah said, louder than necessary.

Bones’s head snapped up eyes wide. “Are you trying to scare the life out of me?”