ONE

The tale of Joseph Asher begins...

ONE

A gentle breeze may fan the leaves of a mighty forest--as men eat, drink are merry in its sunny glades�"but, in the branches parasites grow and spread. So, an unchaste creed wove its way among the men of The Kingdom Isle, from the cold, high mountains of the north to its acrid southern swamps. Yet--along the waning road to the king--a few still made their way and weather their trials... trodden under the feet of men like harvest grapes pressed to produce the choicest of wine.

Sprawled under the shade of ancient trees, a band of soldiers rested--by the side of The King’s Highway--out of the midday sun. The unit of twenty men met little in the way of travelers during their routine patrol a few day’s journey outside their capitol city. Thick forest spread out around them for a hundred leagues. Under the very edge of its vast, green canopy the soldiers enjoyed a rare moment of leisure as they broke their fast.

Lieutenant John Asher stood leaning against a tree, half-watching the road up ahead. The only nearby human enclave was a small lumber village, fairly close, down a dirt road, back through the trees. Asher had been there but once. The villagers lead a peaceful, undisturbed life in a green meadow, cutting and milling wood, protected from the wind by the ancient forest. The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder at their horses, clustered in the shade nearby. Knee-deep in lush grass his stallion, Pike, grazed contentedly.

Suddenly, the horse lifted its head. A bit of grass dangled from its lip. Asher stood straight--his eyes back on the road--one hand on the hilt of his sword. Over the edge of the knoll a magnificent horse burst into sight at a dead run;  a gray-cloaked man clung to its back. Wary of their sudden appearance Asher noted the stranger’s expression; he seemed intensely relieved to happen upon a unit of Kingdom soldiers. Checking his steed, the stranger cantered towards them. He dismounted with practiced swiftness.

A few of Asher’s men stood to their feet as the cloaked man approached.

“I saw a great plume of smoke from the road!” the newcomer called out. He pointed to the trees behind Asher’s men. “Not three leagues away, if that! It is black, as if structures are burning... trees and fields put off brown smoke. I have heard of a village nearby.”

Asher tensed at the man’s words. He peered into the trees, beyond the road.

“There is a village,” the lieutenant returned. “Woodcutters.” His gaze moved to the stranger’s horse as he spoke; its chestnut sides heaved and bits of foam-flecked the coat. It had run for some minutes, full tilt. “Quick lads!” Asher called out to his men. “The lumber villagers may need a hand! Ride light, but take your weapons.”

Galvanized by the mere mention of fire, Asher’s men gathered their horses with haste. They left their heavy packs and provisions in the grove. The stranger mounted his steed once more without a word. Asher caught Pike and did likewise.

“Ride by me,” he advised the man. “The village is close; if fire has indeed broken out, more hands will help.” The stranger nodded and stirred his horse to follow.

Turning onto the forest path Asher led the way towards the woodcutter’s village, moving forward as quickly as the trail allowed. The rock-studded earthen road wound back among ancient trees; deep ruts ran down its middle, cut by the wheels of heavily laden lumber wagons. Dense ferns--bunched between the wide forest trunks--closed in around the soldiers as the highway was lost from sight. Thin streams of sunlight filtered down through the canopy overhead as the men rode on.

Asher could neither see nor smell smoke. The quiet air felt cool and pleasant; it smelled of woodsy vines, mosses and the small flowers growing here and there. Trotting beside Pike, the stranger’s horse easily kept pace. Asher’s men followed them in a long, double line. As Pike picked his way along the track the lieutenant ran over his course of action in his mind. He hoped the villagers had buckets or shovels; such tools were burdensome for highway patrols. The very idea of a fire spreading to the forest sent a cold shiver down Asher’s spine. No effort of theirs could stop such an entrenched blaze from reaching his own town and countless others... perhaps even The King’s City.

Their slow pace allowed Asher time to study the gray-cloaked stranger by his side. His graying hair--speckled with black strands--gave him a fatherly appearance. His cloak looked rough and common--like a monk’s habit--but Asher could see the edges of a fine linen shirt underneath, tooled leather riding breeches and well-made boots. Tanned, weathered skin revealed a life of constant travel, or that of a lifelong sailor. As curious as he was about the man--and his reasons for traveling alone along this road--Asher kept his questions to himself.
 

  Eventually, the forest began to thin. Bright light pierced the canopy as the soldiers rode towards the woodcutter’s meadow. Covered in high grasses , the glade sloped down from the tree-line at a lazy angle. The small lumber village sat a quarter-mile away by a narrow creek; the pale brown waters bisected the meadow. A narrow footbridge crossed the creek, 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.

Asher felt a brief sense of relief fall over him; the fire seemed contained to the center of the village and not spread to the trees, yet.
The stranger seemed affected by the smoke as he entered the meadow; he slowed his pace and stopped. Smelling the air, he turned to Asher.

“The smoke smells awry, Lieutenant,” he called out. Asher did not halt. The lieutenant’s eyes took in the fire, his mind concentrated on containment. He urged Pike on, towards the smoke-filled village. Warily, the stranger followed. With narrowed gaze the man glanced at the tree line, circling the meadow.

The village appeared deserted. Asher’s men grouped about him, some calling out in distress at the sight of the fire. Turning to his men, the lieutenant barked out orders.

“Dismount at the creek! Use what you can to stem the blaze! Form a line at the water... look for buckets or pots in the outer huts. We must keep the flames from setting the forest alight!” His men spurred their horses, galloping down the slope to the creek. The cloaked stranger rode behind Asher.

Thick drifts of black smoke drifted in between the huts as the men crossed the narrow footbridge. Through the haze, Asher saw bright tongues of flame darting in the village center. His men quickly lined up at the creek, taking up a few rush baskets lying nearby. Filling these with water, the men passed them--in a line--toward the huts. Standing on the far bank Asher tried peering through the smoke into the village. He found the stranger at his side once again.

"The homes aren’t burning,” the man called, above the roar and crackled of the flames. “’Tis in the square!”

At that moment, one of Asher’s men came running from the village.

“Lieutenant!” the young soldier cried out; oily, black soot streaking his horrified face. “The fire! It is bodies! A great pile of them, burning in the square!”

All at once, a roar of voices rose from all around the village. Whirling around Asher beheld scores of men running out from the forest. No kings men, nor townsfolk were they; the ragged furs and long, filthy hair marked them as barbarian warriors, a cursed race from a distant northerly island. Yet, here--on Kingdom soil�"they hurtled across the glade toward Asher and his men. Shouting bloodcurdling screams they advanced across the meadow. The racket caused the soldier’s horses to scatter. Turning, to shout orders to his men Asher’s eyes fell upon a line of barbarian archers pulling back arrows--in his direction--from across the creek.

In the blink of an eye the gray-cloaked stranger flung himself into the lieutenant, knocking him over into the long meadow grass. Disoriented for a moment, the lieutenant rolled over and saw the stranger lying by his side; two arrows protruded from the man’s back. For a moment, the older man did not stir. A small amount of blood began trickling from one corner of his mouth; the ruby-red drops fell on the gray material of his cloak. Leaning over him a little, Asher perceived the man still breathed. The stranger’s eyes flew open and he struggled to move.

“Lay still man,” Asher told him, moving a little to peer above the tall grass. “You’re wounded.”
 

  Thick haze surrounded them on all sides. Asher’s eyes stung and smoke-tinged air filled his lungs. He forced himself to keep from coughing as he drew his sword from its scabbard. The sounds of deathly struggle, cries and the metallic clang of blade on blade rang out from all sides. Something touched the lieutenant’s arm. Asher looked down at the fallen man; the stranger held up an oilskin pouch up to him.

“Take it,” he whispered. His eyes took on a desperate look. “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 at first.

“The king?” he repeated, baffled. The stranger held up his right hand; on one finger sat a plain, silver ring. Turning his hand over, the stranger let the lieutenant see the ring’s crest, hidden in his palm. Asher stared. He recognized the seal of the King’s elite guard, the Shamar.

“Take the message... third gate.” The wounded man’s voice grew hoarse as he spoke. “Show them this.” He slipped off the ring and put it into the pouch. “Go... quickly! Report all you’ve seen, here... to the King.” Every word the man spoke seemed an extraordinary effort.

“Northern barbarians,” Asher muttered, glancing about their position. “Who would let them this far inland?”

 The stranger coughed.

“Runes,” he returned, laying back on the grass. “The ones who read the runes have done this.” He gestured with one hand, a feeble motion towards the forest. “Ride now! They mean... to invade us.”

Crouching low to the ground Asher left the dying stranger. He slipped the ring and pouch into his tunic. The creek water already ran red. Floating bodies choked the bank as Asher half-crawled, half waded across. His stomach turned as he crept between motionless forms of his men. Figures and shapes darted through the haze around him; swords clashed in the din. Asher gritted his teeth as he moved forward--ignoring the mad urge to inflict violence on the invaders. he kept one hand over the pouch in his tunic, the other clutching his sword. The bulge of the message pouch and ring silent reminded him more was at stake than even the lives of his own men.

A familiar sound reached Asher’s ears; above the noise of battle came the high-pitched cries of the scattered horses. Whistling for Pike he pushed forward, towards the tree-line. Pike’s whinny answered him at once. Soon, the large roan trampled the grass beside him. Quickly mounting his horse, Asher made for the safety of the trees. Just as he gained the shadowy trunks, however, a searing pain nearly knocked him off his horse. Lower down, his right side burned like a hot knife. Arrows flew around him and his horse, digging into the soft loam. Nearly doubled over in pain, Asher urged Pike to gallop.

The lieutenant did not look back. Indeed, he did not need to. In his mind he could well imagine the massive carnage laid out in the meadow--under the smoke--and the dead forms of his men laying in the grass and water. In between painful breaths Asher spoke a low oath--heard by none but God--to deliver the message at all costs. The king would rain down wrath on the invaders’ unkempt hides, he thought. Somehow, he would exact vengeance for his slain soldiers. Gritting his teeth against the pain,

Asher let his horse have all the rein he wanted. Pike abandoned the rutted trail and wove his way quickly between trunks, leaping over fallen logs.

No more barbarians did the horse and rider meet. In comparison to the meadow, the forest seemed almost peaceful. The words of the Shamar rang in Asher’s ears and his own heartbeat seemed to thunder in his chest. Gaining the highway once more, he spurred Pike eastward--towards the King’s City--to his own village. Blood trickled down his back. Asher ignored the throbbing pain; he had no time to stop and try to reach the arrow shaft, or even attempt to dress the wound. Any moment he expected to hear hundreds of hoof-beats behind him, hot on his heels. Every jostle and jolt sent pain searing up his back and down his legs, but each hoof beat--clamoring relentlessly against the  paving stones--brought the message one second closer to the King.

An eerie calm settled over the meadow in the lieutenant’s wake. Their blood-lust sated, barbarian warriors dragged all the dead--friend or foe--towards the still-burning village fire. The flames consumed the bodies without ceremony while fallen weapons and arrows were found and collected. Amid the gruesome activity a solitary figure strode. His long, fine cloak differentiated him from the horde of dirty warriors moving around him; the edge of a crimson-dyed robe peeped out from under the its hem. The cloaked man glanced at each still form on the ground before it was dragged to the fire, his aged brow furrowed in concentration.

He stopped at the sight of the dead Shamar. The gray-cloaked man still lay in the mangled grass, where Asher had left him. Eyes closed, the face looked peaceful in the midst of the surrounding violence.  Prodding the King’s guard with a gold-tipped staff, the cloaked newcomer beckoned to a nearby warrior.

“Search him,” he ordered. Squatting down, the blood-spattered man searched the Shamar for several moments before standing  up, empty-handed.

A pair of the invading warriors ran up--speaking in their own tongue--pointing excitedly at the forest. Listening, the cloaked man looked across the meadow, towards the trees where Asher had disappeared.

“If he is wounded,” he mused aloud, “then he should be easy to find.”

    
THE EARLY hours of the morning found the wounded lieutenant and his horse just outside the small town of Rishown. Pike knew the route home. Turning down a certain cobbled street, and passing a public well crowded with chattering women, the horse stopped in front of a small, thatched cottage, sandwiched in with other homes. A woman--washing clothes by the well--turned at the sound of the approaching hooves. Her hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the slumped rider.

“John!” She rushed to his side. All color drained from her face at the sight of the arrow protruding from her husband’s back.

A ten-year-old boy ran out of the house. Without a word, he helped his mother take Lieutenant Asher down from the saddle. The women from the well flocked around them, all talking at once, each trying to aid in some way.  Asher groaned in pain as his wife and son half-carried, half-dragged him into his house.

------------------

If you enjoyed this sample please support Independent Writers by buying this book on Amazon

Author's Note

Reviews encouraged. We utilize honest opinions to craft better fiction. If you enjoyed this sample, look for The Road to the King on Amazon. Search for Steven Styles: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Styles/e/B00I7XOUT4

Reviews

[Cass Morgan]

This reminds me of a Dutch book for children/teenagers called Brief voor de Koning (Letter for the King), in which a teenage boy finds a wounded man outside the chapel (where he is spending the night in order to become a knight) who urges him with his last breath to bring this letter to the king, and gives him his ring. I haven't read the book, but I watched the movie, and it's a very similar plot. Truth to be told, I like these kind of books. :)