Stone Rising (17 page)

Will and the Boy sat, perched on a hard, wooden bench, Will gazing about him as if still in a daze from his fall before, whilst the Boy bit into a chunk of stale bread and chewed in morose silence.

Things were going to plan. Sort of. If they survived their training, then they’d get their shot at the Shiriff, soon enough. Whether they’d survive after that, only time and luck would tell. Until then, they had enough on their plates right now…

Will tapped him on the shoulder and nodded over to the other side of the room.

“They’ve been watching us for a while. Try to ignore them. We need to keep a low profile…”

The Boy risked a glance over; a group of older, more veteran city guards was sat there, some sipping at their beer, others chewing on legs of ham or chicken. All wore a look of curiosity mingled with contempt. The two looked at each other, wondering what they had possibly done to earn the ire of the other soldiers.

They did not have to wait long to find out.

Three of the guards rose from their table, stalking over with malice in their dull eyes. The leader of the trio, a large and burly looking man with pig eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than its share of times, pointed a meaty finger at the Boy.

“You. You’re the Toff. Cooper told us about you. Said you think
yaself better than the likes of us. That you’re just here for the thrill of playing at soldiers.”

The other recruits at their table began to sidle away, suddenly finding other things to be occupied with, drinks to be nursed with greater attention and chicken legs all of a sudden becoming objects of great and mystical interest.

The Boy fixed his accuser with his most defiant stare.

“Then ‘sirrah’,” he spoke the word with all the contempt he could muster, “has informed you wrong. I’m no different to you; just a man who has joined up for the coin, and a chance to see the world.”

The three laughed amongst themselves at his words and he could see that his reasoning had fallen on deaf – or unwilling – ears.

“Nah, nah,” said broken-nose, a grin on his face. “I can tell just by
ya voice that Cooper speaks the truth, aint that right lads? You’ve got toff written all over ya, clear as day.” The thug took the fist of one hand in the palm of another, cracking his knuckles. “This is our lot, toff. This is who we are. And we don’t take kindly to any who reckons to come ‘ere and take the piss outta us for nought but their own amusement…”

Tired though he was from the gruelling morning, the Boy had been in his share of scraps, seeing the clumsily telegraphed swing before the thug himself had even thrown it. He ducked the haymaker, then leapt up, swinging out with his own fist. It connected with the other soldier’s jaw,
clean and true, sending him sprawling backwards into his two comrades. The assailant felt his jaw, in astonishment which quickly turned to rage.

“You piece o’ shit – get ‘
im!”

             
The bully’s two friends leapt forwards, eager to take their own pound of flesh, but the Boy’s blood was up now, heart racing in his chest. He greeted one assailant with a boot to the midsection, driving the wind out of his sails and sending him to the floor, much to the cheers and amusement of the crowd of onlookers. The second came at him slower, his stance telling the Boy in an instant that here was a skilled pugilist, hands raised high to guard his face. A jab lashed out, just skimming the Boy’s face. Then another, the Boy raising his hand just in time to block. By judgement or luck, he counterattacked with a punch of his own, a satisfying crack as the fist hit home, blood spurting from the nose of his opponent, who stumbled backwards, falling over the wooden bench.

             
“Hah!” A quick laugh of disbelief, but then a mass slammed into the Boy, driving him backwards and into the wall. Sharp-steel pricked his throat, blood welling up at the point. Broken-nose glared at him, a trickle of crimson dribbling down his chin from his split lip. Knife held in a practiced hand, he grinned in bloodlust.

             
“Not so cocky at the end of a blade, eh, Toff?”

             
The Boy had no chance to answer, for an explosion of wood and splinters filled the air, his aggressor falling to the ground in a heap, knife clattering harmlessly away across the crowded barracks floor.

             
Will stood there, two legs of the shattered chair held in his hands.

             
“Well,” he shrugged. “That escalated quickly.”

They permitted themselves a shared grin of triumph, looking about the destruction they’d wrought, semi-conscious bodies being dragged away by cheering and jeering men-at-arms. But then
a figure caught their eyes, looming large in the background as it leant against the stone doorway that led out to the corridor.

A sadistic smile on his face, Cooper raised a finger, beckoning them to follow.

Will glanced at the Boy, face drained of colour. The Boy grimaced.

“Low profile, eh?”

***

The cell was small, dim, the only light a weak and pale beam of sunlight that forced its way in through the iron bars of the small, high window. The stone was cold, covered in mould and the futile and oftentimes obscene scratchings of previous unfortunate occupants.

              It smelt of piss.

             
“Would you stop pacing, even for one minute? You’re making me dizzy.”

             
The Boy stopped his walk for a moment, looking over to Will who sat on the sole, low stool in the corner of the cell. Only for a moment, did he stop, then began pacing again, walking from wall to wall as nervous energy and anxiety sought to escape from his limbs.

             
Oh god, things had taken a turn for the worse pretty quickly. They should have kept their heads down from the off. Why had he antagonised Cooper back in the wagon on the way to town, sowing the seeds of failure? Sure, he hadn’t known at the time who the scarred giant had been, but even so, on such a stealthy and secretive mission as this, he should have played things safer.

Why did he always have to go and open his big mouth?

He could still feel the sharp points of the halberds in the small of his back, as they had been frogmarched to the cells. Still see the sneering face of the Guardmaster as he had stood at the doorway to the cell into which they’d been unceremoniously thrown.

A day in the cooler will calm your tempers, the brute had snarled, taking obvious relish in the punishments he dealt out. You’ll miss the passing out tomorrow, of course. But I suppose if you clean enough latrines over the next weeks, I might give you a second chance…

The thud of the slamming cell door still rang in his ears.

A second chance? No, no they did not have a second chance. The Boy knew that he had taken a risk in coming here, a big risk, more so than Will had realised. But beer and late night banter often led rash and hot-hearted youths to embark on foolish adventures.

He wished that he could tame his impetuosity.

No. There would be no second chance, here. With every passing day the chances increased that he would be rumbled. Perhaps Will could remain undiscovered; he came from Blidworth originally, then moved to the forest, so none might know him from Adam.

But the Boy had been here before…

True, time had passed. A long time. A hard time. But there remained faces within the keep that might recognise him, despite the changes of the years, despite the
maturing of his features from boy to man.

And it was too big a risk to take.

“We have to escape.”

He spoke the words even as he thought them.

“Thank fuck for that.” Will grinned as he rose from his stool, stretching his arms and back as he did. “I wasn’t really too keen on a fortnight of mucking out the night-soil of those bastards in the barracks.” He swung his arms, loosening his shoulders for action. “Right, how do we do this?”

The Boy paused, then looked at the door, thinking. It was hewn from thick oak, reinforced with strips of dark iron. It looked as if it could withstand a battering ram; overkill, when it came to keeping prisoners in place. But it had a flaw; no viewing hatch that could be opened to enquire within, the only way of checking on the prisoners being to open the entire door itself.

“Got your pig-stickers?”

Will grinned, reaching down to his boots, sliding out his two hidden daggers from about his ankles.

“Always.”

The Boy gave a nod, then hammered his fist against the oaken door, calling out into the air, hoping that the guard beyond would hear through the thick barrier.

“Guard! Guard! My friend has fallen ill!” He hammered some more, the flesh of his hand hurting as it beat against the rough wood. “Summon an apothecary!”

Silence as they waited. Long moments passed and the Boy began to think that perhaps the guard wasn’t even there, but then the sounds of muttering from beyond the door, the drawing back of a bolt.

The Boy stepped back, nodding at his companion to be ready. Will spun his daggers about his hands in an expert flourish, tensing himself in eager anticipation.

The heavy door creaked open.

“Apothecary my arse. Unless someone’s dying in here, you’re gonna get the butt of my halberd round ya – “

With a skill and cold precision born of years in conflict, Will’s dagger swept up in a flash, the point burying itself in the guard’s throat even as he poked his head into the cell. A gurgling, choking noise as the man’s airway filled with his own lifeblood, and the Boy grabbed hold of his body, hurling him into the cell proper to lie, dying, on the cold, stone floor, in a spreading pool of crimson.

The Boy took the dead man’s halberd that had clattered to the floor, looking up to see Will peering out into the corridor, looking left and right.

“All clear. What next?”

The Boy joined him, taking his time to look both ways down the corridor. The castle was not a large one, yet as the centre of a large market town, it thronged with life at all hours of the day; whichever way they went was sure to find them bumping into others. They needed a way out without being accosted.

Perhaps, unwittingly, the Guardmaster provided them with the answer.

“The latrines…”

At the Boy’s words, Will made a face, but to his credit he didn’t argue; he knew the precariousness of their situation. He gave a sigh, then nodded.

“Fair enough. I knew there’d be more shit to wade through before we got ourselves out of this mess…”

***

As stealthily as they could, the duo made their way through the castle corridors, heading towards the barracks, the only place where they knew with any certainty where the latrines might be. Loath as he was to do it, the Boy knew that the slippery chutes down which the castle residents flung their waste would provide the fastest and most inconspicuous route out of danger.

             
At least if they were alive, they could always bathe…

             
The corridor, now, leading to the barracks. It was afternoon; they had been locked up for merely an hour or two. The guards would be on-duty, the recruits out for yet more ‘training’ at the hands of their sadistic superiors. The route should be clear, safe.

             
They made their way forwards, Will with his daggers to hand, the Boy with his borrowed halberd, held heavy and sweaty in his hands. The corridor stretched on twenty yards before them, the dark door to the barracks at the end, but that was not their goal. To the left, halfway between the pair and the barracks proper, an opening, an archway that led out to the latrines.

             
And freedom.

             
Escape tantalisingly close, their pace increased, but then their hearts stopped in their chests as the door at the end suddenly swung open, figures striding forth, deep in conversation, before stopping and staring at the pair before them.

             
Cooper stood there, bulk all but filling up the doorway, clad in dress uniform of bright tunic overlaid with a mail shirt. His face was mixture of puzzled confusion and snarling rage as his eyes took in the duo. Behind him, three of his most veteran and senior guard, all looking rough, tough and armoured, weapons ever to hand in defence of their masters.

             
The figure by his side was smaller, leaner, yet dressed even more ostentatiously, his clothes of fine, soft leather, his hat just-so with a spray of dyed feathers and gold buttons. His neatly trimmed moustache and beard framed a face that looked middle-aged, yet strong still; cheeks free from scars, a healthy colour that spoke of rich food and easy living. And eyes, keen, intelligent and cruel.

             
Eyes that fixed on the Boy’s and frowned, head cocking to one side as though half in recognition.

             
A shudder of fear went down the Boy’s spine and he yelled out as he sprang forward.