The Miscreant (16 page)

The impact struck with enough force to lift the mercenary captain out of his saddle and pitch him onto the ground. The remaining officers tried to race away, but Garran launched himself off a tree stump, leapt thirty feet through the air, and dropped a shroud of death over them.

***

Garran stood amongst the carnage, gripping his bloody reaping blade and breathing hard. He heard men walking up behind him and slowly turned. Cyril and several others approached as if he might suddenly turn on them as well. Garran’s mouth moved with a hundred questions, but he was unable to form words. Cyril was saying something, but his voice was lost in the roaring waves crashing against the rocks within his head. Another dam seemed to burst within him, and the world flowed back into motion. Garran’s vision wavered and his knees buckled. Just before blackness descended upon him, he heard Cyril mutter a single word: “transcended.”

CHAPTER 14

Garran woke with a gnawing in his belly the likes of which he had never before experienced. It was far worse than the hunger he felt upon regaining consciousness after his fall. The pangs were so intense he felt like vomiting. As his ability for logical thought slowly surfaced with his hunger, Garran admitted the sickness could well be a result of laudanum and alcohol withdrawal as much as deprivation, depending on how long he had been out.

There were at least a dozen or more men in the infirmary with him, most sporting blood-soaked bandages. A flood of images reminded him of what had brought him to the sick tent. His body trembled as he recalled the strange sensation that had come over him and the gruesome slaughter that followed.

“Colin!” Garran cried, sat up, and searched the room for his friend.

Cranston appeared next to his bed in an instant and laid a hand on his shoulder to keep him from bolting from the bed and likely falling flat on his face. “Easy, son.”

“Where’s Colin?”

The physic’s face sagged. “I’m sorry, Garran, but he didn’t make it. He took a bolt to the gut and died two days ago.”

“Two days…” Garran stared at his feet, his mouth agape. “How long have I been out?”

“It’s been three days since the attack.”

“That explains why I’m so hungry…or at least I was.”

“We lost a lot of good men.”

Garran’s voice was thick with bitterness. “No, we lost one good one and a bunch of pricks I’d gladly trade ten of for Colin.” He took a deep breath and forced down his pain. “What happened to me? Why did I pass out?”

“I don’t know, but Commander Godfrey seems to know something about your…condition. I’ll go fetch him while I get you something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Maybe, but you need to eat. You’ve somehow managed to lose at least twenty pounds in the past few days, pounds you didn’t have to spare to begin with. Rest as best you can, and I’ll be back with some food and hopefully answers.”

Garran slumped back against his bed and stared at the ceiling. He could not believe Colin was gone. It wasn’t fair. Colin was a good person and his friend, even if he treated him like shit sometimes. Had Colin known how much he meant to him? He had to have. He had to have known that his obnoxious and often selfish behavior was just his way and that he really considered him his friend. He just had to.

Cranston returned bearing a tray loaded with food and set it in Garran’s lap. Garran scooted up in his bed to a sitting position and stared at it.

“Cyril says he won’t come until you’ve eaten, so if you want answers you need to eat whether you feel like it or not.”

Garran did not want to. He wanted to suffer for letting Colin die and for not being a better friend, but his stomach lacked his self-pity. It grumbled and his mouth filled with saliva at the sight and smell of the food. He finally surrendered to his body’s demands and ate.

He sank into himself and groaned in satisfaction as he devoured the enormous meal, so much so that he had to stop several times to keep from choking and spewing it across the room. Garran was enjoying a sticky bun, the last bit of his kingly meal, when Cyril entered.

“We really need to find a better way to sit and talk other than you ending up in the infirmary,” Cyril said.

Garran dropped the remains of his pastry on the tray. “At least I made it here.”

Cyril glanced at his feet and nodded. “Yeah, I’m really sorry about Colin. I know he was your friend.”

“Are you sorry enough to stop taking boys from their homes and putting them in a prison camp to die?”

Cyril steeled himself against Garran’s bitter and scathing remark. “I do not make the laws nor pressure anyone into giving up their children.”

“No, you just provide the vehicle for their enslavement.”

“If you want to find the source of your situation, you need to look back a lot further than when you met me. Your mother explained to me the reasons for sending you off in great detail.”

“Maybe I did bring this on myself, but what about Colin? What did he do to deserve his fate?”

“Not everyone deserves the fate they get. You’re right, Colin was a good kid, but fate doesn’t give a damn about good or bad, and it will save you or kick in your teeth on a whim. The same fickle luck that took Colin is the same one that saved my life all those years back. What you need to focus on is what you can control; otherwise you’ll spend your life barking at the wind.”

“Is what happened to me one of those things?”

Cyril took a deep breath and flicked his eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I really don’t know hardly anything about it.”

“But you had a name. I remember you saying transcended. What does that mean?”

“What do you know about the Hillman War?”

“Not much. My education is rather spotty. Something about a fight with hill people over farming lands or something.”

The commander nodded. “That’s pretty much it. About three hundred years ago, Moorwind was an independent principality stretching along the Highland Range. The land along the range was very fertile and produced some of the best crops in the kingdom. Anatolia’s wealth and power were rising fast, but so was its population. King…uh…I forget his name, but it doesn’t matter. Anyway, he decided it would be far more profitable to conquer Moorwind and annex it for Anatolia, so he started the Hillman War.

“You can imagine this didn’t sit well with the hill folk who were a fiercely independent bunch with the size and courage to stay that way. Have you seen a Hillman? Imagine an entire people all the size of Tye. To make matters worse, some of them were what they called ragers. Ragers went into a psychotic fury and could decimate a platoon of soldiers by themselves. Physics have opened up dead ragers and found their hearts and lungs destroyed by arrows, swords, and spears, yet they kept fighting on. One account claims one was beheaded in battle and killed three more men before he tumbled to the ground. Like a damn giant, sword-wielding chicken.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Garran asked. “I didn’t feel any rage or psychosis. I was perfectly calm and coherent. Weirdly so.”

“For a time, it looked like Anatolia bit off more than it could chew. Not only were we not taking the Hillmen’s farmlands, we started to lose some of ours as they pushed us back across our border and beyond. It was about a year into the war when some special soldiers began to emerge within the ranks. They claimed that the world slowed down to a crawl, but what everyone else saw was these men and a rare woman move faster than any human being should be able. A rager’s brutal strength and ferocity wasn’t much good if he couldn’t hit the enemy. With these new fighters, Anatolia surged into Moorwind, forced the Hillmen into the Highland Range, and claimed their lands.”

“That doesn’t tell me what I am; only what I did.”

“I can’t really tell you more than that. We began calling those special fighters transcended because some of them claimed that it felt like the spirits of their forefathers came into their bodies, gave them power, and guided their hands to transcend into the most lethal fighting force on the battlefield. I don’t know if any of that is true or just superstition. I’ve never met one nor knew anyone who did. Like any mortal man, the transcended died from old age after the Hillman War, and few were born to replace them.”

“Am I the only one then?”

“You’re the only one I ever met, but I know of one other, and I’m going to take you to meet him. If anyone found out I kept a transcended slaving in a work camp they’d hang me for sure.” Cyril laid a hand on Garran’s shoulder. “Son, you just became one of the most special people in all the kingdoms.”

***

It took four days for Garran to recover his strength enough to ride. In those few days, he ate enough food to feed several men for a week. His body ached and was so stiff he could barely move. It felt as if he had compressed a grueling week of work into those ten minutes or so of battle.

“Are you ready to ride?” Cyril asked as soon as he entered the infirmary.

“I’ve never ridden a horse before other than a draft animal I borrowed from my logging crew, and that didn’t turn out well. Are you sure we can’t take a wagon?”

“Wagons are too slow, and I want to hand you off and return here as quickly as I can.”

“Fine, but if the stupid creature bolts and runs through anyone’s hanging laundry, garden, or chicken pen like last time, it’s your fault not mine.”

“Fair enough.”

Cyril already had a bag packed for Garran and strapped onto a horse. Half a dozen soldiers sat mounted and ready to provide Garran with an escort to Leva, the kingdom’s capital. Several workers stood nearby to catch a final glimpse of their hero before he departed.

Evert broke from the crowd and shook Garran’s hand before he mounted up. “We all owe you big, lad. I’ve never seen anything like what you did, and I wish I never had to, but I’m glad you were here. You take care of yourself.”

“I will, Evert. Take care of my still.”

Evert Grinned. “I will. You got fifty or so men still around ready to adopt her and give her a good home.”

Garran spotted Dominic’s ugly face peeking over the heads of those standing in front of him. “Dominic, you saved my life. I don’t know why you did, but thanks.”

Dominic twitched his lip. “If it makes you feel any better, I had planned on killing you if it looked as if we were going to win. I just never got the chance after you went all berserk.”

“Maybe you’ll get another opportunity someday.”

“It’s what motivates me to get up in the morning—that and getting in line to bang your girlfriend.”

Garran grinned, turned, and stared into Rose’s blushing face.

“Garran, please let me talk. I’ve been trying to see you since…since what happened, but I was too embarrassed, and they wouldn’t let me visit you after the attack. I always meant what I said. I know you hate me for what I’ve done, but you are special to me.”

“What about everyone else, are they special too?”

“No, of course not. Do you have any idea how many promises men have made me? Do you know what it’s like to only be able to rely on yourself because everyone around you lies to get what they want, only to abandon you when they’re through?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“I prayed you were being honest with your intentions, but other men made promises just like yours only to take what little I had and leave me with nothing. I did the only thing I knew how so I would survive. I really do love you, Garran, even if you can’t love me back.”

Garran watched a tear trickle down her face. She leaned in and parted her lips invitingly. Garran bent slightly, pursed his lips as they neared hers…and spit in her eye.

“You can wash that out when you scrub Dominic out of your prick pocket!” Garran shouted at Rose’s fleeing back. “I think there was a booger in it, so flush it good so it doesn’t dry up and scratch your eye!”

“Damn, son, that was brutal,” Cyril said as Garran climbed atop his mount.

“If she wants out of here, she’ll have to hitch herself to someone else’s wagon. This one doesn’t take on passengers anymore.”

CHAPTER 15

It was a long and unpleasant ride to the capital. Garran was unaccustomed to riding, and his legs felt as though someone had torn them off and reattached them with baling twine. The saddle chafed the inside of his thighs, and his lower back ached. Cyril set a brutal pace, stopping only when it was too dark to ride and setting out again before the sun crested the horizon.

They rarely spent the night in a town to enjoy the comforts of an inn and a real bed. During one of the few times the end of their riding day coincided with a small speck of civilization, Garran sneaked away to indulge in some drinking and debauchery. Cyril was angrier with him for disappearing than he was with the fact he had to pay Garran’s bill.

It took them nearly a fortnight to travel from the work camp near Osage to Leva. Garran’s jaw dropped and he could not help but stare in wonder at the sheer number of people crowding the streets. There were more people passing through the city’s outer gates than he had ever seen in one place.

Cyril spurred his mount ahead, shoving through the mass of pedestrians to reach the soldiers controlling the gates. Garran could see him exchanging some words with one of the guards who then waved him and his retinue forward. Cyril motioned his group to follow and led them along the outside wall.

“Where are we going?” Garran asked as they skirted the wall. “I thought we were going inside?”

“We are, but the main gate is a fiasco.” He nodded toward a smaller postern gate a hundred yards to the right of the main gate and held up a glossy, white chit. “This allows dignitaries to bypass that goat rope.”

“Wow, I’ve been called a lot of things before, but never a dignitary.”

“Play your cards right and stop acting like an ass all the time and you might get used to it. Do you get my drift?”

Garran nodded. “Yeah, savor this fleeting moment.”

Cyril wagged his head and chuckled. They reached the postern gate, and Cyril displayed the chit. The door, just wide enough for two riders to pass through side by side, opened and allowed them entrance. The street ran through a much less congested area of the city away from the heart of the bustling vendors.

Garran and his entourage navigated the labyrinth of homes and businesses until they stopped at an inn. Cyril paid to have their horses stabled and rented a pair of rooms. They made their way upstairs where Cyril and two of his soldiers tossed their belongings in one room with Garran, and the others set up in an adjacent chamber.

“I need to contact someone in the city,” Cyril said once he dropped his gear in the corner of the room. “It could take a while, so you just sit tight until I return. Feel free to order anything from the kitchen. My men will bring it to you. Do not leave this room. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Cyril crossed the chamber, examined the window, and secured the shutters with a lock from his bag.

“Your lack of trust wounds me deeply.”

Cyril pointed his finger at Garran. “Stay put.” He turned to his soldiers. “He does not leave this room unless it is on fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cyril made to leave but turned, crossed the room, and snatched the oil lamp and sulfur sticks off the table. He shoved both items into the guard’s hands and left Garran in the care of his handlers.

Garran walked slowly around the chamber, riffled through the dresser and nightstand drawers, and finally sat on his bed. “I’m hungry.”

“It’s not suppertime yet,” his guard informed him.

“Cyril said I could have whatever I wanted from the kitchens. He didn’t say I had to wait until supper, so hop to and get me something to eat. Don’t forget, I’m a dignitary now.”

The soldier glared but relented. “What do you want?”

“Fish, curds, and milk.”

“Fine.” The man opened the door and spoke to one of the soldiers outside. “The little prick wants some fish, curds, and milk.”

“Dignitary!” Garran corrected.

“Shut up.”

“You’re very rude. I don’t appreciate your hostility.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass,” his guard countered. “I don’t appreciate being lectured by my commander because you decide to go gallivanting with whores.”

“It was one time!”

“And it’s the last time on my watch, so just sit there and be quiet until Commander Godfrey gets back.”

Garran flopped back onto his bed and crossed his arms. “Damn fine way to treat a transcended. See if I ever save your life again.”

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Garran’s order. The door guard passed the tray laden with his meal to his hostile room guard who set it on the table with a loud clatter. Garran pulled up a chair and smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything else Your Lordship demands?”

“No, I think this will do for now, unless you think the kitchen has whores.”

“I’ll check, but I doubt it.”

“I have noted your sarcasm.”

“Note this too.” The soldier turned his fist toward Garran and raised his middle finger.

Garran dug into his meal despite finding curds disgusting and knowing that most things dairy reacted rather violently with his system. He finished his food in short order and waited. It took only minutes for his stomach to begin churning.

“Oh, I think that fish might have been bad.”

His guard looked over, sniffed, and grimaced. “Seriously?”

“You may want to open the window.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The window stays locked.”

“Fine, I just hope you have a strong stomach.” Garran leaned to the side and released a rasping fart. “I think this is the beginning of something horrifically spectacular. I need to use the privy.”

“You’re not leaving this room. Use the chamber pot.”

Garran glanced at the enameled iron pot. “I have like four days of trail rations backed up in my system, and it’s about to break loose. There is no way that thing is going to contain this mudslide.” Garran let loose another blast.

“Good God, man!” the guard exclaimed and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve as he raced for the door. “Fine, you can use the privy!”

“Hold on, I think I need a fresh pair of underclothes. That last one had some weight behind it.” Garran riffled through the bags stacked in the corner and came up with a pair of fresh undergarments. “Here we go.”

“You are so disgusting.”

The man pointed to the privy after ensuring that the window was too small for Garran to fit through should this be a ruse to facilitate an escape. Garran darted into the small chamber, slammed, and locked the door.

It was a modern privy made of a bench built over a hole that likely ran to a sewer tunnel beneath the building. A bucket of water sat nearby to flush down the rancid waste. As he had hoped, the privy was a recent renovation and, to save money, was built by sectioning off one of the rooms with a single layer of boards and adding a door.

Garran pressed his forearm against his mouth and blew a loud and long raspberry as he examined the newer wall. “You guys may want to get comfortable. This could take some time.”

He found a loose board and used his belt buckle to pry out the nails. “Oh my God,” Garran cried out after creating another violent episode of flatulence on his arm and splashing some of the water down the privy hole. “I think I’ll have to walk to wherever we’re going next. There’s no way I can sit in a saddle after this kind of abuse.”

Garran flipped off the soldiers on the other side of the door before squeezing through the breach he made in the wall. It was good luck that the room was unoccupied. He imagined that most people preferred a room away from the privy and the noises and smells that accompanied its use. He slipped out of the window, shinnied down some latticework, and darted down the street.

He was a poor country boy loose in the big city, and he was going to ensure he got to enjoy it. First, he needed to not look like a poor country boy. After making a few inquiries, it did not take long to find a clothier.

The proprietor looked him up and down with obvious disdain when he strode into the establishment. “Can I help you, sir?”

Garran adopted what he thought to be a wealthy and pretentious tone. “I certainly hope so. As you can see, I am in desperate need of proper attire. Given the frightful state of the roads these days, my family thought it prudent to dress as a commoner whilst traveling from our chateau in High Lake to the capital. While it turned out to be a wise decision, it was largely fruitless as my retinue and I were waylaid by bandits.”

“Oh dear, that sounds dreadful!”

“Indeed. While several of my servants forfeited their lives to aid in my escape, I lost all of my baggage.”

“Well, I can certainly get you properly dressed once again, My Lord.”

Garran glanced around the room and sniffed. “Are you sure? These all look so quaint. I hoped to put my frightening episode behind me by indulging in some drinking, debauchery, and gambling.”

The proprietor crossed the room. “I have my best and most modern fashions over here. I’m sure we can find you something suitable for tonight and get your measurements for more formal attire. You did not lose your coin, I pray.”

Garran patted his pocket and held up a piece of paper. “Of course not. You will accept a bill of exchange won’t you?”

The tailor took the writ signed by King Remiel that allowed Cyril to purchase supplies for the work camp. “Oh, of course! Are you close to the king?”

“My family has ties, but I doubt he even knows I’m alive. The aristocracy can be so tedious. The common folk just do not appreciate how tiresome it can all be.”

“I can certainly understand that.”

“Can you? I don’t see how, but your sympathy is appreciated.”

The proprietor took out a measuring tape and measured Garran to create an entire ensemble for him to pick up later. In the meanwhile, Garran chose several garments off the rack with the tailor’s advice.

Garran raised his arms to display his new clothes. “How do I look?”  

“Dashing, My Lord, like a true man of the gentry.”

“Wonderful. I will return in a week for the rest of my clothing.”

“Are you sure you would not like me to have it delivered? There is no need to inconvenience yourself.”

“I have yet to decide where I will stay. I will retain a servant while I am in the city and have him fetch them for me.”

“Very good, sir. If you will just sign your bill of exchange, I will get to work immediately.”

“Of course.” Garran took the proffered quill and spoke as he signed the paper. “Lord Cyril Godfrey, Esquire.” He dropped the quill back into the inkpot. “Now, if you would be so kind as to point me toward the nearest den of iniquity, I shall be on my way.”

***

Cyril guided his mount through the diminishing foot traffic. He was in a state of agitation due to the bureaucratic hoops he had spent half the day jumping through like a circus dog. He had in his possession one of the very few transcended in the kingdom, and possibly the known world. One would think that would cut through almost any red tape and allow him to see the man he needed to inform, with a certain amount of expediency. One would be a damn fool for thinking so.

The day was shot to hell, and God only knew what kind of trouble that kid had caused while he was gone. He dismounted and tossed the reins to the stablehand. Cyril took a deep breath to calm his frayed nerves. He had half a dozen trained soldiers to guard a single boy in an enclosed room. How much trouble could he get himself into?

Cyril climbed the stairs and stopped when he reached the top. The sergeant he had put in charge and another trooper stood before the room’s open door and shifted uneasily at his arrival. The sergeant opened his mouth but snapped it shut when the words failed to issue forth.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Sir…I…,” the sergeant stammered.

“How do six men lose a single boy in a locked room?”

The sergeant forced himself to stand at rigid attention and locked his eyes on the wall just above Cyril’s head. “Sir, I let him out to use the privy.”

“One,” Cyril growled. “I gave you one simple order, and that was to keep him in that room unless there was a fire. Was there a fire?”

“No sir. Mr. Holt complained of severe stomach distress and requested to use the privy. He insisted that the chamber pot would be insufficient to meet his needs.”

“We think it was a ruse,” the other soldier chimed in.

The sergeant turned his head to face his subordinate. “You weren’t in there. It was no ruse!”

“So you let him use the privy. Did he somehow manage to climb down the shitter hole?” their commander asked.

“No sir, he pried loose a pair of wall boards and escaped through the adjoining room’s window. We began searching all of the taverns and brothels immediately upon realizing he had absconded.”

“And?”

“Our initial search did not turn up any clues, but when we returned to them later we did learn that he had indeed frequented them.”

“Which ones?”

“Most of them, sir. He seems to rotate through them fairly quickly. With only four men out searching, it would be only by sheer luck that one of us would be in the right place at the same time.”