The Road to the King series, Book I - by Stephen Wayne

Chapter One:

          Sprawled in the shade by the stone-flagged road, the band of soldiers rested out of the midday sun. On routine patrol of the highway to the great capital, the King’s City, the unit of sixty men had not encountered even a small skirmish since leaving the fort the morning before. They stopped their march to break their fast and enjoy a moment of leisure.
          Captain John Asher, second officer at Fort Bellar, stood leaning against a tree watching the road up ahead of them. Their fort was just outside the town of Taren about 30 miles down the highway; a smaller village was located somewhere behind them a few minutes through the forest. The thick forest spread in every direction for hundred leagues and the growth very old and dense; it was largely unpopulated but here and there a village had sprung up in the small meadows, their trade consisting mainly of cutting lumber to cart away to the King’s City, two days away by horseback.
          The soldiers' horses were also resting. Knee-deep in lush grass nearby the captain’s horse, Pike, grazed contentedly. Suddenly, it lifted its head, a bit of grass dangling from its lip. Asher stood straight, watching the road where his horse was staring, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Over the edge of the knoll a grey-cloaked man on a magnificent horse burst into sight at a dead run. Startled by the sudden appearance of the man on horseback, Asher saw an intense look of relief on the stranger’s face at the sight of the soldiers.
          Checking his horse, the stranger had it canter quickly to where Asher stood, and then dropped down from the saddle. A few of the soldiers stood warily to their feet as the cloaked man approached their officer.
          “I saw smoke from the road.” the stranger said, hurriedly, his voice hushed. He pointed to the trees behind Asher’s men. “It is very close, in that direction. I have heard there is a village not far from here...”
While the man spoke Asher tensed and peered into the trees toward where he knew the village to be.
          “There is.”, the captain said, guardedly, looking at the stranger’s horse. Its chestnut sides were heaving and bits of foam flecked the coat; they had been riding hard for a few minutes at least. He looked back at the stranger’s concerned countenance. “It’s where you were pointing. Quick lads!”, Asher called, sharply, to his men. “The lumber village may be on fire! They’ll be needing a hand. Get up and get in formation!”
          The men, jolted from their reverie, stood quickly and gathered their horses, leaving their packs behind but taking their weapons. The stranger looked somewhat relieved and mounted his steed once more; Asher caught Pike and did likewise.
          “If you want to come along, ride by me.”, he advised the stranger. “It is easy to get lost in these woods, but it’s not more than a quarter hour march from here.” The stranger nodded and stirred his horse to follow Asher.
           Turning to the forest, Asher directed his men to follow quickly up the trail; the rock studded path wound into the great trees and disappeared in the shadows. There was room for two by two formation on the path; as they marched, the highway was out of sight in a short time. Much of the sunlight was filtered by the thick canopy of leaves and branches high overhead, and the air was cool and pleasant, smelling of woodsy vines, of herbs and small flowers that crowded the forest floor.
          The stranger’s horse came trotting up beside Asher’s, keeping pace with the captain as the men followed them in a long, double line. Eyeing the stranger, Asher ran over in his mind what they could do if the village was indeed on fire. He hoped the villagers had extra buckets or shovels; those tools were burdensome for marches and were never carried by routine patrols.
          Despite the uneven trail, the stranger kept good pace, allowing Asher to study the fatherly man; grey hair speckled with black strands, but cut short like a peasant. The grey cloak was a rough, common sort, but the man wore a fine linen shirt underneath and expensive leather riding breeches, such as a nobleman would wear. The captain surmised that the man traveled a great deal; his aged face was as tanned as his own. As curious as he was about the man’s manner of dress and reasons for traveling along this road, Asher kept his questions to himself.
          The huge trees and thick vegetation hid the smoke so well that the captain smelled it long before seeing it. All at once, the forest thinned and the light grew brighter as they came upon the meadow. Large and grassy, it sloped down from the tree-line at a lazy angle; the small village was clustered half a mile away at the other end, not far from where a large creek bisected the meadow. The creek was crossed by a footbridge not twenty paces from the first hut. Behind the village the forest sloped upwards and up over another ridge.
          Haze hung in the air around the village and smoke rose up thick and black in an ominous cloud from the village center. Entering the meadow, the stranger seemed affected by the smoke, he slowed his pace and stopped; he turned to Asher and called out,
          “Something is wrong...” Coming up beside him, Asher did not halt but kept going.
          “I’ll address your concern later,” Asher said, “That fire must be contained.” The stranger rode up next to Asher again.  
          “Sir, do you smell that?”
As he spoke Asher could smell the un-mistakable odor of burning flesh. He made a sign for his men to halt their advance.  The stranger continued. “I advise you to stop and send out scouts. This has the feel of evil.” Asher looked at the village; a small doubt formed in his mind, but he could find no reason for it.
          “Where are the villagers?”, the stranger continued, in a low voice. “Who is putting out the fire?” The man was uneasily searching the forest around them. Studying the village, Asher saw the man was right. It appeared deserted, only the large fire in the center of the huts.
          As the men poured out of the trees behind them, some shouted out distress.
          “The villagers are most likely out in the fields. Some of my men are from this village, is it near harvest.” Asher said, moving forward. “It is our duty to keep the peace and help where needed.” Turning to his men, he shouted, “Ride down quickly, dismount at the creek, cross and use what you can to stem the blaze. Form a line at the creek and some look for buckets or pots in the huts that are not burning.” Hearing the order, the men galloped down the slope to the creek; the stranger followed, keeping further advice to himself, but looking around him almost constantly.
          The footbridge was narrow and several minutes passed before all the soldiers had dismounted and crossed. The smoke was thicker here; the bright flames were barely visible through it. Staring up the small knoll to the village, Asher had some of the men line up at the creek, having found a few water buckets nearby; filling the buckets the men began to pass them along up the small rise to the village. Standing by the creek, Asher tried peering into the village and found the stranger at his side once again.
          “The homes are not burning.” the stranger said above the din. “The fire is in the square.” One of Asher’s men came running from the village.
          “Captain!” the young man said, his horrified faced smudged with black, oily soot. “There are people on fire! The fires are piles of bodies, in the square!”
          All at once a roar of voices rose from all around the village, in the trees; whirling around, Asher saw hundreds of unknown swordsmen pouring from the forest on all sides, as well as from the empty village homes, all dressed in the ragged furs and long, filthy hair of barbarians. These swordsmen shouted bloodcurdling screams as they ran across the meadow towards the village, causing the soldier’s horses to scatter. As he began to shout orders to his men, Asher’s eye fell on a few barbarian archers pulling back arrows in his direction, from across the creek. 
          In the blink of an eye, the stranger hurled himself into the captain, knocking him over; he fell at Asher’s feet in the long grass. Shocked by the stranger’s action, the captain rolled over and saw the stranger lying by him, three arrows protruding from his back. For a moment the stranger didn’t move. A small trickle of blood began trickling from one corner of the man’s mouth onto his cloak. Leaning over the fallen man, Asher saw he was still breathing; the stranger’s eyes flew open and he struggled to move.
          “Lay still man. You’re wounded.” Asher said quietly, glancing around.
          The haze was thick around them now; the wind had shifted. Something poked the captain’s arm. The stranger was trying to hand him a small leather pouch, the kind for carrying messages, his eyes taking on a desperate look.
          “Take it... take It.”, the stranger said a strangled voice. “Take it to the King!” His thoughts clouded by the noise, the smoke and his men, Asher didn’t understand what the man was trying to say.
          “The King?” the captain repeated, baffled. The stranger held up his hand in front of Asher’s face; on one finger was a plain, silver ring. Turning his hand, the stranger let the captain see the ring’s crest, hidden in the palm of his hand. Staring, Asher recognized the seal of the King, worn by the king’s guards, the Shamar.
          “Take the message... third gate... right and behind the barracks.” the stranger whispered hoarsely, as though he was trying to yell. “Show them this...” The stranger slipped off the ring and put it into the pouch. “Go. Take it... quickly. Report all to the King.” The stranger said every word an extraordinary effort.
          “Northern barbarians.” Asher said with distaste, peering again above the grass. “Who would let them this far inland?” The stranger coughed.
          “Runes.”, he said, his voice dropping. “The ones who read the runes; ride... quickly. Your men will... be... slaughtered.”
          Crouching low to the ground, Asher left the dying stranger with the ring and pouch tucked safely in his tunic; the creek was red and choked with the bodies of his men as he waded across. His stomach turned as he crawled through the tall meadow grass over the dead men who’d been guarding the horses. The thick haze of smoke lingered over the grass; Asher saw figures darting through it, swords clashing and cries of pain. Gritting his teeth, the captain moved forward, his hand over the pouch in his tunic.          
          The frightened high pitched cries of the scattered horses reached Asher through the din of battle; whistling for Pike, the captain pushed forward towards the tree-line they had come from. Pike’s cry answered him and soon the large roan was beside him. Mounting quickly, Asher began to ride towards the safety of the trees; just as he gained them he was nearly knocked off his horse by a searing pain in his back, lower down towards his right side. More arrows flew around him and his horse. Doubled over in pain, Asher urged Pike to a gallop which the scared horse did willingly; glancing back as they gained the trees, the smoke cleared somewhat and Asher saw the massive carnage laid out in the meadow that was once his patrol unit.
          Reaching the highway some minutes later, Asher saw no more barbarians; the words of the Shamar soldier rung in his ears and he spurred Pike towards the King’s City. The wound in his back throbbed but Asher did not slow the horse’s pace. He had to get to the king with the message and spread the news of what had happened to his men.
          As the afternoon wore on, the meadow Captain Asher rode from gradually changed; the barbarian warriors gradually dragged the dead towards the still-burning village fire. Amid the horde of dirty, skin-clad invaders strode a solitary figure in a long, fine cloak; the edge of his crimson robe peeped out from its hem. The man’s face was aged and craggy, his brow furrowed with concentration. Glancing briefly at every still form on the ground, he suddenly halted at the sight of the dead Shamar, lying still in the mangled grass. Prodding the King’s soldier with a gold-tipped staff, he beckoned to a nearby warrior.
          “Search him.” he ordered. Squatting down, the blood-spattered warrior searched the man on the ground for several minutes, and then stood up empty handed. The face of the crimson robed man darkened.
          A pair of barbarian soldiers ran up to him, speaking in their own tongue, pointing excitedly. After listening, the man looked across the meadow to where Asher had disappeared.
          “If he is wounded,” he said, coldly, “He should be easy to find.”
   
          The early hours of the morning found the captain and his horse just outside the small town of Rishown; Pike knew the route, having traveled it many times before, at the end of each patrol. Turning down a certain cobbled street, passing a public well crowded with chattering women, the horse stopped in front of a small cottage that was sandwiched in with other homes. A woman, washing clothes in front of the home, turned and cried out as she saw the slumped rider.
          “John!” she said, horrified by the red-brown stains and the arrow protruding from her husband’s back. A young boy of ten ran out of the house and helped his mother take down Captain Asher from the saddle, as the women from the well flocked around. The captain groaned in pain and let his wife and son drag him stiffly into the house.