Haggart's Dawn Read online

  Haggart saw that thin wisps of smoke were wriggling out from the mouths of the caves and escaping into the evening skies.

  “Nothing like secrecy,” said the Captain, sniggering.

  They set off along the path, stopping just before the plateau that marked the entrance to the cave. A raider was gutting the body of a recently slaughtered goat and when he looked up he dropped the carcass and shouted back over his shoulder to someone just inside the mouth of the cave. He was soon joined by three more, clubs and swords in hand and they stood in a line, waiting for them to attack.

  “I love a warm welcome,” said the Captain. Then, turning towards the raiders he said: “We've killed your friends. Now we're going to kill you.”

  “You're welcome to try,” said the butcher whose hands were still bloody and Haggart could see them trembling as they gripped their feeble weapons.

  “We won't be trying, I'm afraid.” The Captain climbed down from his horse and tied it to the nearest tree. Then, taking a firm grip of his axe, he pulled his visor down and began walking towards them. His armour rattled and clanked as he walked, each footstep sounding more and more terrifying as his tall form cast a deathly shadow over them.

  Haggart followed, still wielding the sword and shield of Alfred Dern which glittered in the sunlight. The nearest raider stood his ground bravely enough but the one who'd been cleaning his kill, realising the cave was on a high shelf with no other exit than through them began to stumble backwards. When the Captain's axe disembowelled his friend, he soiled his pants.

  *

  An hour later they returned to the village dragging a weathered looking donkey behind them, laden with armour, weapons and anything else the raiders had kept in their cave. The Farmer, still digging graves for his murdered friends, met them.

  “Are they all dead?” he asked. The Captain nodded. “Thank you.”

  “We piled the bodies inside the cave and burned them all. Their equipment is yours - you will need it if any come through here again.”

  “Again, we thank you,” he replied.

  “How many of your own people were killed?” asked Haggart.

  “We've found six so far. Two were only children for pity's sake. These are dark times, gentlemen, dark indeed.” To the Captain he said: “You wear the colours of the King, sir. I would give anything to see those Guards patrolling these hills again.”

  “As would I.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help you on your way? I assume you were passing by when you saw the flames. Do you need fresh supplies, food, water?”

  “Thank you, we'll stay the night if that's okay with you. We'll help you gather food and water and be gone in the morning.”

  “You can stay in the first house on the left - sadly, its owner is no longer with us. We will arrange what ever you need, just let us know.”

  “Thank you,” said Haggart. The Farmer returned to digging and he and the Captain rode back through the village to find the others. John and Lorrie were gathering up the raider's weapons while Talbert dragged their bodies to a makeshift funeral pyre. “Anything?” he said.

  “Some gold, some jewels taken from others. The villagers are refusing anything from them except weapons and armour. Some of them want to be ready if more come,” said John.

  “How's Lorrie?”

  “She'll be okay. She was just scared, that's all. It's over now,” he said.

  “And Talbert?”

  “Rotting, I hope. He tried to apologise before, but I...” John shook his head. “I still can't believe he did that.”

  “It was selfish,” said the Captain. “Thoughtless. I will be keeping a closer eye on him in the future.” All of this was said within Talbert's hearing, yet he said nothing in return.

  That night they retired to the small house on the left which had belonged to the village carpenter. He'd worked out of the ground floor of his home repairing carts and roof beams or mending buckets and barrels and the tools of his trade lay in neat order in his workshop. It'd been recently cleaned; the floors had been swept and the tools had been sharpened and oiled ready for work, as if at any moment their master might walk through the door and begin. But he would never return. He'd been slain within the first moments of the horrid attack.

  Their horses were tied outside and after speaking with the Farmer they'd managed to acquire enough food and water for the next week or two. There'd also been enough silver, copper and gold coins on the dead criminals to allow the village to buy materials to rebuild what had been destroyed. It would in no way make up for the lives lost to such a senseless attack, but Haggart felt a little better knowing that the raiders themselves had paid the cost in full.

  “Tomorrow we'll press on to the City,” said the Captain once they'd settled in to one of the Carpenter's two rooms above his workshop. “We've only just started and yet we're already getting our hands bloody.”

  “How many were in the cave?” asked John. Lorrie was sat with him and seemed to never be more than a few feet from him since the attack.

  “A lot. They were travelling somewhere - their packs and provisions were scattered around the caves as if they'd only been there a few days.”

  “More of them fleeing north?” asked John.

  “Yes. They saw the chance to take this village before moving on and stock up on whatever they could steal. They were nothing but scum and I can't say I'm sorry to put my blade to them,” answered the Captain with a furrowed brow and plenty of venom. “Death is too good for their kind.”

  They shared a silence as the meat on the spit dribbled and crackled above the fire and filled the room with the delicious smell of hot roasted beef. Only Haggart and the Captain seemed able to eat any. The others refused any of the cuts that were offered them.

  “It's understandable,” said the Captain. “This will be the first time you've killed men before, I expect.”

  “It wasn't what I expected,” said John. “

  “What did you expect?” asked the Captain.

  “I don't know. A sense of justice perhaps? Comfort from knowing I'd killed someone who deserved it. You know, just feeling... right about it. But...”

  “You don't though - do you?” said Haggart.

  “No,” he replied. “I just feel sad. Did I need to kill him? Could I have just wounded him? I keep asking myself if ending his life was necessary.”

  “You can bet me and your Dad thought that plenty of times on the battlefield,” said the Captain. “A lot of the time we had to follow orders blindly. Go here, kill them, go there and kill this one or that one. The difference between you and us is that you've not had to grow up with war, not had to learn it like a trade as this Carpenter who lived here would have done his own. To us, killing is as easy as breathing. It's what we do, it's our trade and we've spent years honing those abilities. You, on the other hand, have hunted animals for sport or for food, but never to survive. These people, these 'raiders' as we call them when all other words fail us, they gave up their right to live when they killed women and children and murdered men while they slept - and for what? A few coins, stealing what doesn't belong to them.”

  “I think I understand,” said John.

  “It's hard to, I know, but you must if you want to protect those you love. Me and Haggart have always lived with a simple code - we will kill to protect ourselves, our loved ones and our way of life.”

  “If I learned anything from my heritage,” said Haggart. “It was that men are tribal. We form our packs and our clans and we defend them to the death. If we can avoid killing you can be sure that the Captain and I will do so. But most of the time the only way is to end our enemy's lives, the lives of another tribe doing exactly the same thing as us.”

  “Are we your tribe now then?” asked Lorrie. Haggart laughed.

  “I guess so.”

  “Then we need to accept that we'll have to kill in order to protect it, to protect those we love, right? Even if it means dying ourselves to save the others?”

&n
bsp; Lorrie hadn't taken her eyes off the fire while she spoke and the amber glow cast her features into a form which almost scared him. Now more than ever he was sure that their future was wrapped up in what she was capable of, in what potential lay under that girlish outer shell that for now remained wrapped within and seemed to have started to leak out of the loosening seams.

  In the morning they bid the villagers goodbye and rode back towards the path, taking the southern junction at the old cross roads. Talbert rode lazily at the back of the line and led the pack horse with little enthusiasm, saying nothing since their meal last night and nothing by way of an apology to Lorrie. Haggart rode behind the Captain as they trotted along the widening expanse of countryside, sometimes turning off to examine a tree or a hedge here and there to stock up on herbs that grew near to the roads in those parts. At times John would lead his horse off towards a ridge a few hundred feet away and scan the land around them and on one occasion invited Talbert to do the same.

  “That's almost a peace offering,” muttered the Captain.

  “It's at times like these you feel your age, don't you think?”

  “Yeah, you're right. They're just kids after all. We were that young once.”

  “I don't remember being like Talbert though!” laughed Haggart.

  “This is very true. I remember a young cavalry soldier who broke ranks to chase down a fleeing Gorm archer once though.”

  Haggart gave a bark of a laugh and remembered that day vividly. “I was flogged for that little bit of enthusiasm. The Sergeant was a bastard though to be fair. McKendik, wasn't it?”

  “Aye, that was him.”

  “I promise you this, I learned my lesson that day I can tell you. Twenty kisses from the whip is enough to teach a boy to hold his formation.” The Captain passed him his flask and Haggart took a swig from the neck.

  “Bloody hell, is this Stromkin?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “They're brewing it back there,” he said. “The still was under the Carpenter's workshop.”

  “And you didn't think to tell me this?” said Haggart.

  “Sniff your bottle,” he said with a mischievous grin. Haggart took the stopper out of his small skin and smelt the contents.

  “You sneaky bastard,” he cried. “How much did you get?”

  “There was only this much in the pipes. Where they keep the bottles is beyond me, they weren't down there when I looked.”

  “I haven't tasted Stromkin since... well, a long time. It must have been before the overthrow and that is a long time ago.”

  “I had a suspicion when I saw them growing Suckle plants in the shade of the barn and as any good brewer of Stromkin knows only the best crops come from Suckle grown in the shade and the cold.”

  “You're a genius,” remarked Haggart taking another sip from his own skin. “We'd best make it last the entire trip and think about growing our own when we get back.”

  “Good thing I took some dried Suckle as well isn't it? There's a nice patch to grow it in back home, at the bottom of the field where we felled those trees.”

  “Now there's an incentive to get back in one piece if ever there was one.”

  The countryside closed in around them as they moved into the hills and the road, well worn and paved with broken stone, rose once more but never to the height of the mountains they'd already scaled. Instead they dropped into valleys, only to rise again before discovering another and it was on the top of one hill, reasonably flat and free from rocky outcrops, that the Captain called them to stop and unpack.

  “We'll break here for dinner. It's a good spot for a bit of training. Lorrie, John, get the training swords and clear a space. Haggart, you're the best one for this - you like pointy sticks.”

  “This 'pointy stick',” he said, indicating his sword, “requires precision. Not like that brainless piece of metal you favour.”

  “This ends lives quickly - yours merely prolongs their deaths.”

  Haggart laughed and took off his mail while John searched for the swords. They were wooden with a lead centre, the same weight and balance as the shorter, wider blade Haggart himself used but without the killing edge. When he returned he took one from him and ordered him into the only stance he knew, his feet a little apart but in line with each other.

  “Not like that,” said Haggart who then showed him the correct way. “You need your legs loose and able to move in all directions yet ready to brace yourself against your enemy's strike. Lorrie, repeat the same stance while you watch. Most of this skill is in the feet, not the blade. A slow, lumbering enemy - more than likely attacking you with a double-headed axe - will be slower than you so you need to be able to get into his guard, strike and then retreat quickly. He will tire faster than you - the weapon is heavy and if he's wearing a lot of armour he'll struggle to move with any kind of speed.”

  “Is that why you wear mail instead of plate?” asked Lorrie.

  “Yes. It's not as light as leather but mail will stop most slices and thrusts where leather might give way,” he replied, remembering how his shoulder had once been pierced by a spear point that passed straight through his old leather shirt.

  “Now, keep the sword up and ready yourself. We'll fight until either of us is struck, then swap with Lorrie. Understood?”

  “Yes, old man!” said John, grinning.

  The Captain gave the signal and the two of them began. Haggart moved forward quickly, swinging wildly and smashing his blade into John's over and over again until he backed up so far he nearly fell into the horses.

  “What was that for?” asked John, recovering a little.

  “Do not be intimidated. Stand your ground,” Haggart said. “That's why your stance is so important. You can't see behind you so don't back up, go right, go left but don't lose ground if you don't have to.”

  They fought again, Haggart allowing John to push him back, then bringing more pressure to bear on him. Soon they were panting and John's sword arm began to drop. Haggart knocked it from his hand with a downward stroke and slashed across his chest in one swift move. John yielded and gave the sword to Lorrie.

  “Good luck with that,” he whispered to her as he walked away.

  They saw no one that day or the next. The only noise was that of the birds whose chirps were becoming less distinct as the winter began to show. The air was sharp with the crisp coolness of autumn and it gave a fresh scent to the day. It felt, to Haggart, that it cleansed his soul a little, made him feel a little less burdened with the dead and closer to the living.

  They stopped to eat a small lunch on the fells as the sun reached its own peak. Haggart passed around the water skin whilst Lorrie and John handed out small loaves and pieces of dried beef. Talbert took his in silence and sat down on the grass.

  “It's beautiful,” said Lorrie, taking her boots off and wiggling her toes in the cool air. “I've never been this far south before. At least, I don't remember if I did.”

  “It would have been a long time ago,” said the Captain. “But we brought you to the 'Helm along this road. The Royal Road is down on the other side of the fell. We'll follow it for a while, keeping a respectable distance from it while we pass the toll way.”

  “The toll way?” she said.

  “It was the place where the King would collect his toll. It's a small outpost that was taken over by a gang of criminals a few years ago. I think it would be better to avoid it than to take them on. We've seen enough blood for a while.”

  “I didn't realise travelling was so dangerous,” she said.

  “It wasn't when there was a King. There were criminals, bandits, raiders, whatever you want to call them, but not as bad as this. The Council seems too busy with its own affairs to bother with the likes of North people.”

  “It helped that the King was a Northerner himself,” added Haggart. “Or, in truth - a Southerner to my people.”

  “Very funny,” said the Captain.

&nb
sp; “Did you ever meet him?” asked John.

  “No,” they both said. “Sounds strange, doesn't it? But sometimes a leader has the ability to inspire many without trying. We saw him, once, from a distance. He was rallying the troops before the final battle to put down a Gorm uprising. 1287 I think it was.”

  “Did he fight?” asked Lorrie.

  “No. He was a believer in the game of Chess - it was the Queen's job to protect her King at all costs. The Queen, he once said, was his Army. He loved her as a husband does his bride. In return, his Army was the best trained, the best equipped and the best looked after. His Queen loved him back. That's why when the Council came most of the Army sided with Aaron.”

  “In fairness to the Council, they recognised the loyalty the Army had shown their King and when the war was done, pardoned any who wished it,” said Haggart. “Some called us cowards, but we'd fought to the bitter end, done all that we could, but it was over. The King was gone and the Fortress had been taken. There was no one, or no thing, to fight for. No need to spill more blood.”

  “What happened to those who refused the pardon?” asked John.

  “Tried and executed. Some had a change of heart once they'd seen the block and the Council offered them a place in their own army. Some escaped and fled east. Most of us that survived the final days of the war simply retired. It was over. Or so we thought.”

  “Enough memories,” said the Captain after a while. “Let's be off.”

  They rode on into the afternoon, never seeing the Toll Way and had soon passed by safely on the other side of the hill. The land began to flatten out, the gradient being lost to the sea of grass that met them before arriving at the fringes of a huge stretch of woodland. The Captain steered his horse west, following the towering wall of oak and ash, until he found where the Royal Road entered the forest under a wide man-made archway.

  “If we're to be attacked, it'll be in here,” he said to them. “Better stop now and spend the night here on the edge before tackling it tomorrow.”