Read The Bark of the Bog Owl Online
Authors: Jonathan Rogers
The Bark of the Bog Owl (12 page)
“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.”
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 the 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?”
Greidawl finished his speech and stood with arms outstretched in a gesture of mock welcome. Behind him, the Pyrthen soldiers waved and jeered and climbed around in the lower limbs of the oak tree like deranged monkeys. On the other side of the valley, the Corenwalders looked at their fingernails and drew in the dirt with their toes. They were too ashamed to look at each other, and they dared not look in the direction of the gigantic Pyrthen. Finally, they began to trickle back to their tents.
Greidawl threw back his head and laughed a loud, throaty laugh. The plume on the top of his helmet danced a derisive jig. The mere sight of him terrorized Aidan, even from across the valley. Now he saw why the Corenwalders were so demoralized. This was what had robbed them of their manly courage.
Aidan walked back to his brothers’ tent. The seats where he had left them were now unoccupied, so Aidan opened the tent flap and peered in. There they sat, in the hot, stuffy dimness. No one was speaking. All eyes were fixed on the ground in sullen stares.
Percy was the first to speak. “For two weeks now, he has come each afternoon to the valley’s edge and made the same offer. If we send a champion out to fight him man to man, we can avoid a battle between the armies. If Greidawl wins, we become the slaves of Corenwald. If the Corenwalder wins, the Pyrthen fighters become our slaves.”
“So who’s going forth, and when?” asked Aidan. “Let’s see … maybe Wilson Longshanks? He’s not as big as Greidawl, but he’s the biggest soldier we’ve got. Or Leonard Stout? He can pick up a young bull. How about Wendell Quick? He’s not big, but I’m sure he could dance circles around that lumbering oaf.”
Brennus interrupted: “Listen, Aidan Dull-witted. Nobody’s going out to face that monster.”
“What do you mean? He stood right there and insulted our entire army, our king, and our God.”
“What is anybody going to do about it?” Brennus answered. “Didn’t you notice? He’s seven feet tall. His legs are like tree trunks. No, his
arms
are like tree trunks. His legs are like … they’re like …” He struggled for a comparison.
“Like bigger tree trunks?” offered Percy.
Brennus glared at him. “His legs are like pillars. His broadsword is as long as my spear. His spear is as long and as thick as a pine sapling. It would pierce a shield as if it were a sycamore leaf. But in his hand, it’s like a reed.”
“But surely he can’t move very quickly,” offered Aidan.
“He doesn’t have to. His armor is iron; a normal man could hardly pick it up, yet he wears it as easily as I wear my tunic. He could take blow after blow and
never feel a thing—though no soldier has ever lived to strike him twice. They say he’s killed a thousand men. He’s invincible.”
“No,” said Aidan. “Only the One God is invincible.”
“Then perhaps the One God should meet him in the field,” Brennus shot back.
Brennus’s irreverent remark hung in the air. No one quite knew how to answer the eldest brother. He seemed a little ashamed of himself.
Aidan broke the silence. “Let’s assume, then, that we can’t find a warrior to face the Pyrthen champion man to man. What would happen if we mounted an offensive and fought the Pyrthens army to army?”
“We’d get slaughtered,” answered Brennus. “That’s what would happen. They have us outnumbered two to one. They have superior arms and armor. And they’re hardened veterans. We’re mostly farmers. We can’t possibly defeat them.”
“So we just sit here and wait until the Pyrthens are ready to destroy us?” Aidan challenged. “And in the meantime, we just receive insults and blasphemy from this monster every single day, without giving him answer? Do King Darrow and his generals have no better plan than this?”
“Not so far as we know,” answered Maynard, gloomily. “But at least we’re not all dead.”
“But isn’t this a kind of death?” Aidan’s terror at the sight of Greidawl had given way to indignation. He was ashamed at the cowardice of his brothers and countrymen. “You die every day you hear that beast insult our armies, mock our king, and blaspheme the One God. You
die every day you submit to a slavery that has been imposed on you without a fight.”
Brennus, sullen before, was growing red in the face. “The Pyrthens haven’t enslaved us!”
“You’re right,” replied Aidan. “We have enslaved ourselves. We weren’t born slaves. We were born to serve only God and king. But look outside this tent. Look at Corenwald’s fighting men. Those aren’t the faces of free men. They can’t even meet the eyes of a stranger. Defeat and humiliation stare out from every face. And not one blow has been struck! We live under the protection of the One True God. Our enemies worship statues of fish and snakes! And yet we bow to their yoke without a fight?
“You don’t want to be killed. I don’t either. But wouldn’t you rather die once than die every day of your life?”
Brennus leaned across, his face just inches from Aidan’s. “Then perhaps you should go have your one good death tomorrow afternoon when the giant comes back.”
“Maybe I will,” said Aidan. Shouldering his flour sack, he stood up to leave.
“Aidan, wait!” It was Percy. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t fight Greidawl.”
“Let him go,” said Brennus. “He can’t help being stupid. And as for his fighting the giant, there’s little danger of that. I doubt our brother the shepherd boy is braver than the entire Corenwalder army.”
Brennus glared at his youngest brother. Aidan shook his head, then lifted the tent flap. Without another word, he stepped into the slanting sunlight, not sure what to do next.
A Champion Appears
It was late afternoon when Aidan left his brothers’ tent. He decided he might as well just go back home to Longleaf. There seemed nothing else for him to do in the battle camp; he had delivered the parcels to his brothers, and he could report back to Father that they were in good health. But this wasn’t at all what he had imagined.
Though there were still two hours of daylight left, Aidan decided it was best to find an out-of-the-way place where he could lie down and sleep out the night before heading home in the morning. It had been an exhausting couple of days. He wandered through the camp, hardly even looking at the soldiers who stood in idle groups outside their tents. These men had been his heroes, the mighty men of Corenwald; now he could hardly bear the sight of them.
It was going to be a warm, cloudless night; Aidan would need no tent over his head. He picked a spot between two tents, underneath the tent ropes. He spread out the flour sack beneath him and used his panther cape for a cover. A chunk of firewood served as his pillow. By the time the evening star first appeared, he was sound asleep.
But Aidan’s sleep grew fitful around midnight, when the camp was perfectly still and he was assailed by dreams. He dreamed of a Corenwald ruled by the Pyrthen Empire. He dreamed of the black-and-red banners of Pyrth fluttering over Tambluff Castle. He dreamed of live oaks felled and hewn into ribs for Pyrthen warships, of the singing longleaf pines planed to beams for Emperor Mareddud’s newest palace. He dreamed of swamps drained, of feechiefolk in chains. He dreamed of the manor house burning once again.
Aidan’s homeland was a dark and unhappy place in those dreams. But then, just before daybreak, he had a dream of a different sort: a dream of salvation. He dreamed of the Wilderking, coming out of the swamps to deliver Corenwald from her enemies. He wore a panther-hide cape.
Aidan woke with a start as the sun first peeped over the eastern horizon. He had a long way to go and was anxious to begin his journey home. But even though he was wide awake, his dreams of the previous night still troubled him. What did they mean? Did they mean anything at all?
Except for the sentries and others with predawn duties, few soldiers were up and moving as Aidan made his way through the encampment back toward the Western Road. But Aidan recognized a familiar face as he passed by one of the few fires lit at that hour. Herschel, the messenger boy from the day before, sat hugging his knees and staring bleary-eyed into the fire.
“Herschel,” called Aidan, “it’s me, Aidan Errolson. You helped me find my brothers yesterday.”
It took Herschel a second to free his attention from the fire’s hypnotic pull. “Aidan,” he answered, and motioned toward the fire. “Come, warm up.”
Aidan squatted beside the messenger boy and held his palms out toward the fire. “You don’t look like you slept very well,” he remarked.
“True enough,” answered Herschel. “I spent most of the night planning my future: a long life of slavery or a violent death sometime in the immediate future. That didn’t leave much time for sleeping.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Aidan. “Yesterday, you were the only person I could find in this whole camp who hadn’t let that big-mouthed Pyrthen get to you. Now you’re acting like everybody else.”
“I know things today that I didn’t know yesterday.”
“What sort of things?” asked Aidan.
Herschel looked around, then leaned in close to whisper. “Yesterday afternoon, just after Greidawl finished his daily performance, I delivered a message to the Pyrthen camp.”
“And … ?”
“And King Darrow is trying to surrender.”
The words hit Aidan like a fist to the stomach. His ears rang; bright spots appeared in front of his face. Would Corenwald end like this? Would his countrymen not even go down fighting?
Aidan managed to catch his breath. “What do you mean King Darrow is
trying
to surrender?” he asked. “Either you surrender or you don’t.”
“The Pyrthen commander said he would accept surrender only from a defeated foe.”
Aidan blinked. He didn’t follow Herschel’s meaning.
“It means there is going to be a battle,” explained Herschel. “Either a single combat between two champions or a pitched battle between the armies. We have three days to find a champion to fight Greidawl. If no Corenwalder champion appears, the Pyrthen army attacks on the third day.”
Both boys were silent as Aidan digested this information. Aidan remembered his dreams of the previous night—of Corenwald subjugated and Corenwald delivered. He remembered Bayard’s advice:
Live the life that
unfolds before you. Love goodness more than you fear
evil.
At last Aidan spoke. “Herschel, I have a plan.”
“Does it involve running away and not stopping until you’re far, far from this place? That’s the plan I’ve been working on.”
Aidan ignored him. “I need a pen and some paper to write on.”
“You’re writing your will? Probably a good idea. Look in my pouch.”
Aidan found pen, ink, and palmetto paper in Herschel’s messenger pouch. He quickly wrote a note and, folding it in two, nodded toward Herschel. “Can you take me to King Darrow?”
“King Darrow?” exclaimed Herschel. “Are you crazy? Don’t you suppose the king’s got a lot on his mind?”
“Just point me in the right direction.”
Herschel watched Aidan carefully for a few seconds, just to be sure he was serious. Herschel rose to his feet
and, brushing firewood bark from his tunic, stepped out into the alley between the tent rows. “Come on, then,” he said, waving his hand for Aidan to follow.
“The king is always in the council tent,” said Herschel as the two boys walked through the awakening camp. “All day, every day, he’s in there with his generals and closest advisers. Some nights, he even sleeps there.”
Near the camp’s center, Herschel pointed to a circle of large tents. Within the circle of tents were four or five larger tents. “That’s the command yard,” he said. “If you get past those two guards, the council tent is the biggest one inside the command yard. I don’t know what you’re up to. I don’t even want to know. So I’m going to head back to my tent and let you do what you think you need to do.” With that, he turned and walked back the way he came, slowly shaking his head and looking once or twice over his shoulder.
Aidan took a deep breath as he prepared to face the guards at the entrance to the command yard. They were tall, strong men, square of jaw and stout of limb. Unlike the guards Aidan had encountered the previous day at the edge of camp, these were professional soldiers, the king’s own bodyguard. As Aidan approached, their straight-ahead stare never changed. They maintained the same impassive expression as the boy spoke. “Ahem, pardon me, I have a note for King Darrow.”
Neither of the guards acknowledged him. Aidan spoke a little louder. “I have a note for King Darrow.” No response. “A champion has presented himself … to face the Pyrthen champion.” At this, the guards looked at one another. One of them nodded, and the other reached out
a hand toward Aidan. Aidan gave the paper to the guard, who disappeared into the tent. Neither of the guards had spoken a word.
“I’ll just wait here,” called Aidan to the tent flap.
Three or four minutes later, the guard emerged from the tent. “The king will see you,” he said. Aidan followed the guard into the tent, then into another tent inside the first, the inner chamber of the council tent. Here, surrounded by charts and maps and battlefield models sat King Darrow in a chair, along with seven or eight generals and noblemen.
Aidan looked at the men around the table. He had seen most of them at Longleaf at one time or another. His own father, no doubt, would have been among this group if not for his stroke. Then Aidan’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. At King Darrow’s right hand sat a barrel-chested old man with blazing white hair and green eyes that seemed to see more deeply than any others’. On the ground in front of him sat two goats, a billy and a nanny. He had cut his hair and cleaned himself up, but there was no question: this was Bayard the Truthspeaker sitting at the right hand of the king himself, in the seat of the chief adviser.
Aidan stared at the prophet in disbelief. Bayard’s expression, on the other hand, did not betray the least bit of surprise. Rather, the little smile, the raised eyebrows, the upward tilt of the head all said, as clearly as if he had spoken: “Ah, there you are, young Aidan Errolson. I knew you’d come soon.”
The voice of the king brought Aidan back to reality. Darrow held Aidan’s note in front of him and was reading out loud:
Your Majesty—
I will fight the Pyrthen champion and so spare
the shedding of any additional Corenwalder
blood. You determine the time and place, and I
will be there to fight for Corenwald.
Yours sincerely,
Aidan Errolson of Longleaf Manor
The king looked over the paper at Aidan. “And our champion, this Aidan Errolson, why has he sent a messenger boy instead of coming himself?”
“Well, Your Majesty, you see, I—” began Aidan.
“Errol’s eldest son is named Brennus, is he not?” interrupted the king.
“Yes, Sire,” answered Aidan, “Brennus is the eldest of the brothers.”
“So this Aidan is the second Errolson?”
“The fifth, Your Majesty,” answered Aidan.
“The fifth? No, no, you must be confused. Errol’s fifth son would be no bigger than you are.”
“True enough, Sire. I
am
Aidan Errolson.”
The king looked again at the signature on the letter and gave a short bark of surprise. “You can’t be serious!”
Bayard smiled and spoke to the king. “Oh, he’s serious, Your Majesty. I’ve met Aidan Errolson; this is he.”
Darrow turned toward the prophet at his right hand. “But he can’t face the Pyrthens’ champion.” He turned back to Aidan. “Boy, have you seen this Greidawl?”
“I have seen him, Your Majesty. I have heard of his cruelty and the thousand men he has slain. But I also know him to be a boaster and a blasphemer against the One True God.”
King Darrow shook his head. “I admire your bravery, lad, but you cannot possibly—” The king broke off; the whole idea was so ridiculous he didn’t even finish his sentence.
Aidan stood a little straighter. His face was set in a steely gaze of determination. “Your Majesty, I cannot hear our enemies speak against Corenwald and the One God without giving answer.”
There was an unspoken rebuke in Aidan’s response— a rebuke against the king who had yet to answer Greidawl and whose cowardice had brought his kingdom to the brink of ruin. Darrow heard this rebuke, and it angered him. “Insolent boy!” he said through clenched teeth. He pointed toward the tent entrance. “Go home where you belong! There you won’t have to hear the giant’s taunts.”
Aidan stood his ground. “If I go home, Your Majesty, I should hear Greidawl’s taunts all the more. I should become like the soldiers outside this tent, who hear the Pyrthen’s voice so clearly that they cannot hear the voice of God.”
Darrow looked away. “Away with you, boy. Go home. I have much to think about.” His voice was softer now. “I don’t need the blood of children on my hands.”
Aidan looked to Bayard for help. But Bayard was silent. He just sat with that faint smile on his face. When two guards approached Aidan from either side to escort
him out, Aidan grew desperate. “Your Majesty,” he blurted out, “I know you’ve tried to surrender to the Pyrthens!” The guards stopped in their tracks and looked to Darrow, not sure what to do. Aidan continued, “And I know the Pyrthens insist on a battle.”
The king sat stone-faced, neither confirming nor denying Aidan’s claims.
“Sire,” continued Aidan, “if you have already given up hope of defeating the Pyrthens, either army to army or champion to champion, what would it hurt if I faced Greidawl? Do you have a soldier who can defeat him?”
Darrow was silent still. One of his generals spoke up at last. “Your Majesty, the boy has a point. We cannot defeat the Pyrthens in a pitched battle. We have no fighting man who could hope to defeat the Pyrthens’ champion in single combat. The boy’s offer may be the best we can hope for. The Pyrthens will have the blood they require, and we will lose no soldiers.”
“If the boy wishes to die for Corenwald,” added Lord Selwyn, “why not let him?”
Darrow looked into the face of each member of his War Council, one after the other. In his turn, each man nodded, a barely perceptible nod with eyes averted. The king drew a deep breath. “Well, that settles it, doesn’t it? Corenwald has a champion.”