TWO

Joseph Asher sets out on his father's quest, the The King's City.

TWO

Lying face-down on his own table, Asher slowly came to. His wife hovered by his side speaking to him�"softly crying--but he couldn’t make out her words.
Slowly, Asher opened his eyes. His son, Joseph, stood close by the table. His young eyes searched his father’s face for signs of life. Asher shivered; he felt cold seeping into him from his very feet. His wife spread a blanket over him, crying and talking at once. Her voice grew more clear; she told him that the captain of the nearby village fort was on his way. She smoothed back his hair, out of his face, with her hand. Asher heard her send a neighbor for the doctor. The door opened and shut. All he could see were his son’s brown eyes; they looked warm and innocent. John Asher watched them until a dreamless sleep overcame him.

Pain jolted Asher from unconsciousness. Unable to move, he grew aware of several voices around him. His son stared at him from across the room. Asher recognized the doctor’s voice, telling him to be still; they were removing the arrow. Once more he felt the tearing sensation and then it was over. The arrow clattered to the floor as the doctor applied tonics and bandages. Struggling to listen, Asher pushed back on a wall pain, tilting his head to better hear the words.

“It’s blood-poisoning,” the doctor told his wife. “Give him this powder, mixed with water; it will dull the pain, but... soon the fever will set in. He has but a few hours more.”
Asher’s wife sobbed aloud, covering her face with her hands. A neighbor woman--hovering by the door--helped the doctor prepare the powder. With difficulty they poured the liquid down Asher’s throat. Sputtering and coughing he managed to swallow most of it. His wife slipped a small folded blanket under Asher’s face and he relaxed against its softness. He felt tears fall on one side of his face.

“Pike...” he whispered. “My horse needs water.”

“Yes,” his wife replied, wiping her face. “I’ll see to it.” The neighbor woman comforted Asher’s wife with low, soothing sounds. Together the women saw the doctor out of the house,closing the door after them.

Left alone with his son, Asher summoned his remaining strength. Opening his eyes he slowly moistening his dry lips.

“Joseph.” His voice held no more volume than a strained whisper. “Come here.” The boy obeyed, once again putting his face close to his father’s. “I have... a task... for you,” Asher told him. “Can you do it, son?” Joseph nodded. “Take the pouch... in my tunic. There’s a ring inside... and a message for the king. I need you ... to take  them both... to the king’s castle. Do you know where that is?”

“The capitol city, by the Great Bay,” the boy whispered back.
Asher closed his eyes and nodded. Pain shot up his back but the lieutenant ignored it.

“The castle... has three gates. Right of the inner court, past the second gate is a third, somewhere. I have never seen it; you’ll have to find it. Go as quick as you can... don’t be seen. Don’t tell anyone.... where you’re going... not even your mother.”

“Yes, sir,” Joseph answered; the gray color--creeping into his father’s face--frightened him. Asher’s voice seemed to weaken with each passing moment.
With a final effort, Asher opened his eyes again. All around him the room seemed to blur, but he could see his son clearly.

“When you find that gate... there will be gray guards there. Show them the ring first, then the message pouch. Say you have a message for the king. Do you understand?” Eyes wide, the boy nodded.

“Are you going to be well, father?” Joseph asked, blinking away the moisture gathering in his eyes. Asher did not answer; he seemed fall back asleep.
Suddenly, he jerked back awake again. Grasping his son’s arm he stared--wide-eyed--at the front door.

“The Shamar gave me the ring! He said... it was the readers of the runes. They slaughtered my men! We had no warning! They will invade us, he said...” Startled by the vehemence in his father’s voice, Joseph merely nodded in reply.

Having accomplished his mission--to the best of his ability--Lieutenant Asher inhaled once more and then let the air run out of his lungs. His grip on Joseph’s arm relaxed as he drifted into oblivion. The boy tried to wake him, but, something about his father’s face told him he was gone. Stepping back, the boy took the pouch in his hands and hid it away under his worn shirt. Tears running unhindered down his face, Joseph curled up under the large wooden chair in the corner... his father’s chair.

Evening came, filling the room with shadows. No fire burned on the small hearth; no dinner cooked in the iron pot hanging therein. Joseph stared at the fireplace, unwilling to look at the still form upon the table. He looked up only when the door opened. His mother came in, accompanied by the captain of the Rishown fort, his father’s friend. Joseph’s mother tried to wake Asher, to no avail. Her husband’s body already felt  cool to the touch.

The captain picked up the bloody arrow, studying it carefully.

“These aren’t kingdom arrows... did he say who’d attacked him? “

“He said... something about barbarians,” Asher’s wife replied, one hand partly covering her mouth. Tears glistened upon her face.

“Barbarians? This far south?” the captain returned incredulously. “Are you certain he said so?” Asher’s widow nodded, twisting her hands together. “I’ll gather some men to investigate,” the captain told her. “Whomever is responsible will pay, that I will swear.” After he left the house Joseph’s mother sank to the floor by the table. Weeping, she covered her face with her worn apron.

The door opened once more, moments later. Four men swept in; their flowing, crimson robes and gold-trimmed hats silently announced their priestly roles. Joseph did not come out from under the chair to greet them. One priest stepped towards his mother, helping her up from the floor. Another took out a small book and waved his hands over Lieutenant Asher’s body, speaking long sentences in a language the boy did not know. His mother wiped her tears away and managed to repeat some of the phrases along with him.

At the end of the short ceremony, the priest closed his book and asked about the burial arrangements;  without waiting for an answer, he expressed a wish to see the sight of the grave. The boy’s mother complied, drying her tears as she put on her shawl. She enlisted the help of her neighbor again, to walk to the cemetery. Once they left Joseph watched the three other priests talk quietly among themselves. They did not notice his small figure crouching in the shadows.

The priests looked at the body on the table with distaste. One said something in the strange language and the others nodded in agreement. Only one word was Joseph able to catch: “runes.” At this, the other priests nodded  again. Moving towards the table, the first priest gingerly searched within Asher’s tunic, breeches and boots. Finding nothing, he turned to his companions; they spent some moments looking around the kitchen area of the room; one poked the embers of the fireplace with a stick. Joseph pulled further into the shadowy corner--under the chair--praying they would not seem him. Eventually, the first priest gestured angrily to towards the door. All three left in a body, their robes lifted carefully off the floor.

Joseph listened as their steps faded away into the night air. Unconsciously he pressed the pouch  his father has given him tightly against his skin; through the thick oilskin he felt the hard outline of a metal ring. The parchment within faintly crackled as he moved out from under the chair.

     

THE FUNERAL took place at dawn.

A simple wooden tombstone, flowering herbs and tears adorned the grave of Lieutenant John Asher, soldier of the King’s Army. Standing next to his mother, Joseph held tightly onto her hand. As the village priest spoke, however, his eyes strayed towards the other side of town, where the king’s highway ran past the village. His father’s words kept ringing in his head. As soon as the priest finished speaking his prayers over the earthen grave, Joseph stepped forward, letting go his mother’s hand. Reaching into his leather pouch, the boy pulled out a smooth stone... a river-rock from the banks of the nearby creek. Swallowing hard, Joseph leaned down and solemnly placed the stone upon the top of the tombstone. It’s polished surface glinted in the early morning light. They’d walked by the creek often, he and his father; sometimes they would fish, or simply sit in the quiet and sunshine. A tear snaked down Joseph’s cheek, blazing a hot path against his cold skin.

Wiping his face on his sleeve, the boy backed away from the grave. Women from the neighborhood gathered around his mother, soothing her with promises of aid during her time of grief. Making his way to his mother’s side once more, Joseph asked her if he could go and stay with one of his friends--on the far side of the village--for a few days. Nodding through her tears the boy’s mother did not reply. Joseph embraced her briefly, and then left the cemetery. A growing sense of urgency built up within him as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Once out of sight of the mourners, Joseph made his way towards the village green. Avoiding any familiar faces he moved behind shops and  through muddy alleys towards the main highway. Several yards from the village stood a lone oak tree, by the side of the highway; a blue-dyed shield hung from the oak’s lowest branch, marking the way to The King’s City. Many times Joseph had spied solitary travelers stand beneath the ancient tree’s shade, waiting for passing carts to offer them a ride to the capitol city. Like they, he stood in the shade, careful to keep the tree’s wide trunk between himself and the village.

Situated within a day’s journey of the capitol, the highway running past Rishown Village saw more than its fair share of travelers. None, however, seemed eager to stop their march for the pale young boy--standing under the blue shield--who watched each oncoming cart with a haunted expression in his brown eyes. After nearly half an hour, however, a single wagon diverted from the main flow of traffic and rolled to a stop in front of the tree. Glancing up Joseph beheld an older merchant, sitting on the bench seat of an open cart, hitched to two aging mares. Kindly eyes twinkled at him above a bushy white beard and mustache. The man indicated--with his free hand--for Joseph to find a seat for himself, in back of the cart. The boy did not hesitate. Clambering up the wooden cart Joseph saw many bundles, sacks and small wooden boxes piled up, nearly filling the cart. Wisps of strong scent--both savory and sweet--could be detected, as well as the earthy perfume of dried herbs. Joseph made himself comfortable near some of the softer sacks as the cart began to move forward once more.

In spite of the well-kept paving stones upon the highway, the cart rattled and bumped uncomfortably. As he adjusted his seat Joseph lifted his gaze. Behind them, the village drifted farther away. A lump rose in the boy’s throat as he watched it fade into the distance. A feeling of loneliness settled over him like a mist. His father often spoke of taking him--one day--to see the great capitol city. Thoughts of seeing its many sights and wonders filled his dreams on many a winter’s nights. Joseph patted the thick message pouch in his shirt, feeling a part of his father was still there--with him--to see this last mission done.

Settling back, the boy allowed the noises and sights to distract him from his sorrow. Herds of cattle, sheep, carts and horse-drawn carriages packed the king’s highway, most heading towards the capitol. Farmers drove past, their ox-drawn wagons piled high with dull root vegetables and bushels of cabbages. Small groups of blue-clad soldiers cantered by on fine steeds, their bright cloaks draw about them. Tips of sword scabbards stuck out from beneath their cloaks, tapping against the shined black boots. More carts did the boy see: pigs, chickens and sheep,  all heading for market; the animals sat in slatted carts, their bleats and grunts filling the air along the highway. Joseph saw tinker, bird-sellers with live, trapped thrushes and finches in delicate branch cages. The amount of goods, people and animals heading towards the capitol city seemed endless.

Now and then, a fancy covered carriage--perhaps from some nobleman’s country estate--blatantly forced its way in between carts. Joseph’s serious brown gaze took in the surrounding hubbub in silence, trying not to think about the earthen grave-site, but rather his father’s instructions. Once, he peered into the precious pouch, tucked into his shirt; a folded parchment sat within, but the ring more interested Joseph. It seemed plain--a simple silver band--until he turned it, slightly, with one finger, revealing the crest. The shield thereon bore the Kingdom insignia, a rearing lion above two crossing swords, all under an inlaid, gold crown. He looked at the crest for a long time, feeling the weight of the ring in his hand.

At midday,  the spice merchant tapped him on the shoulder. Turning around, Joseph saw the great city in the distance ahead. At such a  distance the buildings, streets and walls resembled a wide, gray pool of stone, sitting at the base of the mountains on one side, hemmed in by the blue bay on the other. Beckoning to the boy, the merchant patted the bench seat next to him. Moving over fragrant, tightly bound sacks, Joseph sat on the hard seat and looked up at the driver.

“Are you hungry?” the man asked. He held out a thick slice of bread and a rosy apple. Joseph took these with a grateful look. He ate eagerly as the merchant talked. “You were so quiet back there I thought you had fallen off,” the man said with a smile. “My own boy was as young as you once. He is a soldier now. My name is Kosti, by the way.”
He paused, expecting the boy to speak. When he did not, the merchant asked his name.

“Joseph Asher,” the boy answered. “... of Rishown.”

“I thought so, seeing you were waiting out in front of it. A pleasure to meet you! I come to the King’s City once a month. I travel on to the coast and sometimes up north in summer. Have you been up north?”

Joseph shook his head, no.
“Ah, well. Perhaps you will, one day. It is good to travel, though my wife say I get too much sun. Look up there...” Kosti pointed ahead to a large, stone building on a hill, with a tall tower and surrounding wall. “That,” he continued, “is a monastery. I stay at monasteries when I can, as a guest of the monks. They do nothing but sit and read about things of God all day... and then they talk about things of God at night. They know many things this way.” Kosti paused his speech and ran one hand thoughtfully through his bushy whiskers.
“But then there are priests, in the big cathedral in the city. Now, they won’t talk to me at all. Always so busy, walking around in those red blankets. They are too friendly with the Senate and governors for my taste. The monks are loyal to the King; I haven’t met one that was not. If you ever need a safe place to go, find a monastery.”

Half-listening to the merchant Joseph set his gaze upon the approaching city. At first they had passed only farms; the fields resembled a huge green quilt--with fences for stitching--dotted with cattle and sheep. The stone-flagged highway sliced through the middle of the land, bringing the flow of people and wares right to the West Gate of the capitol city. Farms slowly gave way to inns, small villages and then marketplaces. The inns and houses grew taller, wider and more ornate as the spice cart drew closer to the city.

“I have traveled the breadth of this Kingdom, many times,” Kosti said, as they drove past a group of musicians playing by the side of the road. “There are ten large cities, almost as big as the capitol, in the Kingdom and I have seen eight of them. There are more than fifty big towns as well... can you count to fifty?”

Joseph nodded.

“Good. I have been to most of them as well, and to hundreds of villages.” Kosti waved his arm toward the northern horizon. “I have even gone off this island to other lands--when I was a seaman--but those lands are not as nice as this kingdom. The king here is a good king; he takes care of his people, and that is the way it should be. Have you ever seen the King’s castle... The Citadel?”

“No,” Joseph answered him. “But, I would like to see it.” His voice was barely audible above the din around them.

“Would you? Well, then... I could use a hand unloading my wares.” Kosti looked sideways at Joseph and scratched his bearded chin. “I have spices and herbs to sell, in the outer court of the Citadel. That is near the King’s castle. At least you can see it, from there. The market is past the first castle gate.”

“There are three gates,” Joseph said, suddenly. “My father told me. He was a lieutenant... in the army.” He swallowed�"a bit painfully--as he spoke.

“He would know then,” Kosti returned.

“How would one get past the second gate?” Joseph asked him.
Kosti looked at the boy for a moment; his white brow furrowed a little.

“Well, it would be impossible to go over the wall; it is forty feet high and very thick. And, at that gate they are not so friendly. In fact, I have heard that those who walk past it--without proper permission--get an arrow in the chest. Merchants must stay in the square in the outer court, only to enter and exit by the first gate. Once we are there, we cannot leave the square... and when you go, you’ll exit the way we came in, understand?” Nodding, Joseph looked ahead toward the approaching city.

The King’s Highway rose over a slight knoll. As Kosti’s cart reached the top, the great city unfolded before them, curving around a huge sapphire-colored bay and backed by gigantic mountains stretching far away into the distance. In the midst of the bay--like a finger pointing towards the sea--protruded a mountainous peninsula, atop which sat the King’s palace. Enshrined in walls, its many towers and turrets soared into the sky as if they were great stone trees. The sight held Joseph’s gaze until the great wall surrounding the City cut off his view. Along with many others the spice cart descended the hill towards the wall’s main gate.
Passing through the western city gate was a quick affair. Joseph asked his host why they were not stopped by the guards.

“Oh, that is but a city entrance,” Kosti replied, smiling. “Everyone can come in there. Don’t worry, young one. You will see plenty of stern looks from guards at the first gate of the castle. That is where we are going. This, here...” He gestured to one of the tall, red-shuttered Inns as they passed, “is the common part. I could live here, if I felt like it. The wall we are coming too, up ahead--you can’t see it over the cathedral--that wall holds in the seat of government, senators and the like. Past that is the gate that no one goes into but soldiers. But, we are not going there, so don’t worry.”

The outer wall of the castle--housing the merchant square and government buildings--looked far taller than the city walls. Only the very highest castle tower-top was visible above it. As the cart rattled closer to the castle gate, Kosti brought out an oilskin pouch from a basket at his feet. Before the guard could open his mouth, the aged merchant presented an unrolled parchment, ready for inspection. The staunch-faced soldier in chain-mail, blue tunic and burnished helm looked the proffered document over and then nodded, once. Smacking the reins on his horse’s flank Kosti drove through the massive gate. As they emerged Joseph took in the castle grounds before him, wide-eyed in wonder.
In between them--and the next gate--lay a large expanse of low hill, covered in square ornate buildings.

The neat streets teemed with people, even more so than the common part of the city. Above the government buildings sat the last wall; high and gray it stood. Tiny forms of the guards walked by the formidable battlements. Tall, white-stone castle towers loomed high beyond the wall on the hill’s crow. The blazing brightness of the marble shone out in stark contrast to the gray stone of the outer wall. Even the bustling city seemed dull and dirty by comparison to The Citadel.

As Joseph watched, the spice merchant drove them into one edge of the nearest square. All around its sides stood several wooden stalls, ready for the selling of wares. After a few minutes of searching they located an empty stall, though Kosti found it somewhat dirty.    

“It is a crime the way people leave the stalls,” he complained, easing himself from the cart’s bench to the square. Jumping down from his perch Joseph found himself staring at the stones of the square underfoot; they were beautifully inlaid with shiny green, blue and red tiles, set in intricate patterns around the borders of each huge slab of stone.

“It is pretty, no?” the merchant said to him. “Such trouble taken for shoes that have stepped in horse dung. Come... now we work.”

With the merchant’s directions Joseph helped him unload the cart. Now and then he looked up at the castle, set high on its rocky foundations. As he stacked bags and boxes in the stall, Joseph thought about which direction he should go to get to the second gate once he left the merchant.
Pausing in his task of filling jars with sticks of some pungent spice, Kosti nudged his helper and pointed up at the castle.

“Watch,” he said, simply. As the sun dipped lower behind the castle a wondrous thing took place. Joseph saw that several of the castle’s stained glass windows appeared placed specifically to carry sunbeams through them at a certain time of day. The prisms pointed down, into the city. As the sun hit the colored glass so beamed out the light, sending glimmering color out into the squares and streets. Purple light bathed the square where Joseph stood.

“It is beautiful,” Kosti said with a sigh. “But look at them, out there.” He pointed at the people strolling in the square; the milling citizens talked, traded and laughed as if there were no colored lights dancing about them on the buildings and ground. “They see it so much that they don’t even look anymore. It’s a shame.”

When he’d arranged each sack as the merchant required, Joseph took his leave. Kosti bade him farewell, giving him a small, silver coin. “To help you get home,” he said. “A worker is worth his due.” He patted Joseph on the head and nodded back towards the city gate. To ease the merchant’s mind he took a route towards the first gate. As soon as a few carts cut him off from Kosti’s sight, Joseph ducked in among a group of important-looking officials and their heavily laden assistants. A well-dressed servant dropped a scroll--from among the many he carried--just as Joseph passed by.

“Here, boy!” the assistant called to him. “Pick that up.” Joseph quickly did so. The man looked grateful and made motion with his head for the boy to follow him.
Together, they walked to one of the larger squares, rimmed ‘round with the most ornate buildings Joseph had ever seen. Each harbored massive marble columns crowned with carved designs all over the outer walls. Many crimson-robed priests walked alongside the richly-dressed men, themselves trailed by assistants and surrounded with flurries of speech. Outside a smaller building the assistant collected the scroll from Joseph, giving him a copper coin for his trouble.

Feeling a bit lost in the throngs of strangers Joseph looked for some place to get his bearings among the tall buildings. Walking into a stone alleyway, he came out into a formal garden. An old man worked there, raking small white stones neatly around blooming rose bushes. Absorbed in his work the gardener did not notice the boy walking quietly along the path behind him. The castle--visible again outside the busy fray of people and buildings--showed the way through the maze of wide, white streets and the seemingly endless squares.

Darkness fell before Joseph gained the wall. He walked as quietly as possible along it, taking care to stay out of the circles of light thrown by the wall’s torches. Wall guards strolled the parapets above, their dark silhouettes moving quietly against the night sky. The clinking of amour and clumps of their boots sounded out in the evening calm. Joseph saw few children about, always in carriages... and fine clothes. Certainly none walked here, by the second wall.

At last the gate he sought appeared, well-lit. Two sets of guards stood watch outside its massive, stone edifice. The sight of the guards’ weapons and stern demeanor made the young seeker shiver.
To the left of the gate--next to the wall--stood a covered stable building made of wood. Pausing outside, Joseph felt warm air coming through a large crack in the wall. Pushing on a loose board, he squeezed through the crack. The horses within lifted their heads but didn’t find him threatening. No other human could be seen around. Finding a dark corner--filled with fresh hay--Joseph dug a little ways into it, crawled in and plugged the hole after him. The morning’s grief, the long ride, the city’s excitement, the beauty of the castle and the flurry of busy squares all came together in the form of exhaustion to the boy. Warm in his hiding place, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

      
 
AS THE the sun rose, voices awoke Joseph in his hay burrow. Never having slept away from home before, he thought--for a moment--that it was his father, calling him to get up. The hay reminded him in time, however and he kept still and quiet, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“These two are rested... you take those,” an irritated voice called out. “These will stay here. I have a delivery to make inside in a few minutes. If I am late they will be angry, for certain. Those castle barracks need more oil than I can produce!”

Joseph’s ears pricked at these words. The voices faded somewhat. Joseph peeped out of a small hole in the hay. Two soldiers were busy backing a horse into the next stall; it was not quite willing to go in. Crawling out of the hay, Joseph found the crack in the stable wall again. Outside, the dim light of dawn barely revealed wooden wheels of a large cargo wagon standing close by. His gaze darting first one way then another, Joseph crept out from the crack and up to the back of the wagon. An old stained canvas hung down, such as one would find on a sailing ship... brown with weather, dirt and oil. Lifting one end of the canvas, the boy crawled in among the clay oil jugs and nestled into the farthest corner from the end of the tarp.

Soon, the voice of the merchant could be heard again. The wagon dipped slightly as the man climbed  up into the driver’s bench. Joseph heard the slap of the reigns; one of the horses whinnied and the wagon shifted, rolling forwards. All around Joseph the clay oil jars jostled rhythmically as the steady clip-clop of horse hooves sounded out. Moments later, the wagon slowed and stopped. In the darkness of the canvass, Joseph could hear parchments being unfurled and guards talking to the merchant. Convinced his heart was beating so loud that the guards would hear it, Joseph put both his hands over it. To his relief, the canvas was not inspected. Once more the rattling wagon moved ahead.

The road was even for some moments but then the cart began to incline, as if going uphill. Joseph throat felt tight, with both fear and anticipation; gradually he worked his way--quietly--to the side of the wagon. He peered out from under one edge of the canvass at the passing buildings. Low, flat white buildings--like those his father had taken him to see not long ago at Rishown’s fort--stood in rows quite close to the road. Soldiers in the dark blue uniforms, swirling capes and shiny, black boots stalked in and out of the barracks, sometimes pausing to talk to a fellow, or to look narrowly at the merchant’s wagon. Lying still, Joseph could hear the oil merchant’s voice through the cloth, calling out polite greetings to soldiers and officers alike. Few replies did he receive in return.

Looking out his peephole, Joseph saw the citadel wall ahead, up on the mountainside. Far to the right of the grand main entrance stood a small, square building, at the base of the wall. No windows met his eye on the small structure, only a single door. A Shamar guard stood on either side of the door, cloaked in gray. From the platform on which they stood, a narrow staircase descended--down the mountainside--to a walled square, partially hidden behind the last barracks building. Bright green ivy covered the wall around the square. Striking red roses wound around the posts of the single gate, marking its entrance.

Joseph did not see anywhere near this square, nor the stair. He was convinced this was the gate his father had spoken of. About twenty yards from the square’s entrance, some dense shrubbery grew by the road. As the wagon neared the shrubs Joseph wormed his way back to the loading area of the wagon and slipped out, keeping behind the wagon. His breath came faster as the cart rolled on. The bushes drew nearer. Joseph readied himself to dart over towards them and roll under them. 

To his horror, the wagon suddenly turned left--away from the barracks--leaving him in the open. Panic descended over Joseph; he sprinted to the bushes and dove into them, feeling as if deadly arrows already pointed in his direction. The leaves seemed to cover him well enough. Trembling all over, he forced himself to lay still, listening for shouts or approaching footsteps. He heard nothing but the rapid thuds of his own heartbeat. Slowly, Joseph moved into a sitting position, keeping within the leaves. Moving a small branch aside, he looked out. The corner of the ivy square lay just beyond, and the stairs leading up to the king’s palace. Joseph felt a tremble go through him at the idea of dying as his father had, with arrows in his back. Tears streamed down the young boy’s face, but he did not heed them. In his mind, Joseph only saw his father’s face, asking him one last request.

“Can you do it, son?”

The words, though barely whispered, still rung in Joseph’s ears. He swallowed his fear and peered out one more, judging the distance between him and the entrance to the ivy square. If he could just reach the stairs, he surmised, he’d have a fair chance of out running any pursuers. Fingering the message oilskin Joseph untied the binding strings. Carefully, he drew out the heavy ring, his fingertips touching the carved ridges of its crest. Closing his fingers over the ring Joseph took in a long breath and set his gaze on the door at the top of the stairs. The two men still stood--unmoving--their gray cloaks rippling in the chilly morning breeze. Setting his jaw, Joseph prepared to make a run for it.

High above--on the castle wall--an archer casually watched a merchant’s wagon approach. He noticed a small figure slip from the cart and dart into the brush by the last barracks building. Making a sharp motion with one hand, he signaled his fellow archers nearby and pointed down. The men beside him quieted and readied their bows. The captain in charge walked over--from under his shady outpost--and inquired what was afoot.

“I saw someone come out of the oil wagon, sir. He ran into the bushes there, to the lee of the barracks. Too quick to get a good look at him, though.”

“You are certain?” the captain asked, squinting in the growing morning light.

“Absolutely, sir,” returned the archer. “I been watchin’ and he’s not come out.”
The captain gravely gave command to prepare to shoot down the intruder.

“It might be a beggar, or just a madman... but, you know our orders,” he said. “Signal the archers on the south wall, in case he doubles back. Tell them to wait for my signal.” A young archer by the captain’s side wrote his order down quickly and tied the note to an arrow, firing it in a silent arc to the south wall. Soon, two lines of archers--one above and one below--watched for any movement, their bows ready.

The archer--who’d first spied the figure--was not quite sure of what he’d seen. Death was the penalty for unauthorized entry to their sector. Even the soldiers down below in the myriad of barracks knew to keep far from the ivy-walled square. Tense moments of silence followed.
Suddenly, the bushes rustled and from it darted the figure, heading straight to the forbidden square.

“Draw,” said the captain, his voice leaden. “Wait for it...” The archers obeyed, each held his arrow and trained it on the running figure. The captain looked harder at the square below; there was something odd about the darting form. “Luke,” he said, to the archer. “Is that a boy?”
Both men stared at the figure.

“I believe it is sir!” the archer replied, incredulously. “He can’t be more than nine or ten! Why the devil is he running to the ivy square?” The captain shook his head.

“Lower your bows!” he called out. “Who knows why a boy is running loose; maybe it’s some general’s son. I have a young son myself... and I’m not going to be ordering a child shot down like some barbarian invader! Signal the south wall to stand down.”

“Sir, he’s entered the forbidden square!” Luke called out. “He is heading for the stairs!”

The captain rubbed his chin with his palm.

“Let’s see how the Shamar guards handle him,” he said. “It’s their territory. Stand ready if they ask.” He smiled at the little figure charging towards the long staircase. “Brave little thing he is, though...”

Hardly breathing, Joseph ran as fast as he ever had. The fear coursing through him seemed to give his feet speed. He prayed that it was still too early for the full watch. As he passed under the rose arch, he could hardly believe his good fortune; pushing himself forward, he streaked across the white square to the stairs. A shout behind him caused him to him balk, just for a moment.

“Hey... boy!”

A soldier--walking to the barracks--saw him run under the arch. “Boy! Don’t go up there... you’ll be killed!” Joseph paid no heed. He ran up the white steps, expecting to hear feet stamping after him. No one followed him however. The soldier ran up to the arch, but the orders of no trespass kept him from going after the boy. Two or three of his fellows ran up but the soldier stopped them.

“Let him go. You know we cannot enter this gate.” The group watched as the small boy ran resolutely up the stairs.

Joseph felt his lungs would burst as he ran higher. At last the building with no windows appeared over the top of the stairs, as well as the two guards. Out of breath, Joseph felt in his tunic for the message oilskin and clasped the ring tighter in his hand. Gaining the last step, the boy nearly tripped over it in his haste. The guards still hadn’t moved. In their gray cloaks and common clothing they looked to be peasants, not soldiers. Unable to speak, Joseph stumbled closer, trying to get his wind back.

A sharp metallic ring sounded out. The tips of two blades were at Joseph’s throat before he could take another step. Joseph had not even seen the guards move until they were right in front of him, swords drawn.

“I... a message!” Joseph squeaked out. Fear gripped his throat, strangling his words. The palm of his hand fell open as he spoke. A ray of morning light caught the dead Shamar’s ring, sending a silver streak into the guards’ faces. The seal of the King shone out brightly in the boy’s hand. Glancing at each other, the guards of the gate drew back. They lowered their swords, but did not put them away. One went to the stone door and knocked. After a minute or two, another cloaked man came out. He stood taller than the others, with hair as black as night. Like the others, he wore a gray mantle and a serious expression. The guard who knocked spoke to the newcomer in low tones.

Still reeling from his sprint Joseph leaned over, breathing in short bursts, his eyes fixed upon the guards’ swords; they hadn’t taken the ring from him, yet... nor asked him a single question.

“Boy,” said the tall newcomer. Joseph straightened up, trying to muster a bravery he did not feel. He hoped they’d just take the message and help him get back through the forbidden gate unharmed. Looking at the tall man in the eye he tried to calm his breathing. The man’s calm, gray eyes held a look of keen interest, instead of the anger Joseph expected to see.
“Who gave you that ring?” the gray-eyed man asked him. His quiet tone calmed Joseph’s fears, a little.

“My father, sir... Lieutenant John Asher. He rode home wounded... from his post at Fort Bellar. He died... two nights ago.” The words left Joseph’s mouth with difficulty. His father’s strange expression and dying words drifted back into the boy’s mind. “He said a man gave him the message--and this ring--to carry before he died. He spoke of invaders... and ordered me to bring the message and ring here--at once--to the King.”

The guards exchanged looks.

“Come,” the gray-eyed man told him, standing a little taller. “You must tell us more of what you know.” The gray cloak swirled after as he walked over to the door and rapped upon its hard surface. He stepped back as the door swung open, beckoning for Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed, but paused--for a moment--to turn and look back at the city.

It was a view few his age had ever seen. The three walls of the city appeared closer than they really were, laid out in rings beneath the castle. The main city looked like a huge pile of gray pearls flowing down from the mountains, past the peninsula citadel, into the valley where Kosti had brought him in the spice cart. Next to city, the senate and official’s areas behind the second wall looked like a sparkling pool of gems, with the colored squares and markets. Below him sat the neat rows of barracks buildings and the soldiers milling about in their blue cloaks.

“Come,” the tall man said again in the same, even voice.

Following him, Joseph heard the two guards sheath their swords as he passed through the door.

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Author's Note

Reviews encouraged. If you like this sample, please journey to Amazon and purchase The Road to the King for Kindle, Kindle for PC or Kindle for iPad: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Styles/e/B00I7XOUT4