Feist, RE - 00 Riftwar SS - The Wood Boy Read online

  THE WOOD BOY

  BY RAYMOND E. FEIST

  The Duke looked up.

  Borric, Duke of Crydee and second-in-command of the Armies of the West, acknowledged the captain at the door of his command tent. 'Your Grace, if you have a minute and could come outside?'

  Borric stood up, envying his old friend Brucal, who was now probably sitting before a warm fire somewhere in LaMut while he wrote long letters of complaint to the Prince of Krondor about supplies.

  The war was leaving its second winter and a stable front had been established, with Borric's headquarters camp located ten miles behind the lines. The Duke was a seasoned campaigner, having fought against goblins and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path - the dark elves - since boyhood, and every bone in his body told him this was going to be a long war.

  The Duke donned his heavy cloak, and wrapped his scarf around him. He exited his tent and a strange tableau greeted him.

  In the distance, a group of figures could barely be seen as they approached the camp. Through the swirling snow Borric could see them slowly take shape. Grey figures against the dull white, surrounded by a haze of snowflakes, they approached at a steady rate. Finally, the figures resolved themselves into a patrol escorting someone.

  The soldiers marched slowly, for the figure they surrounded was pulling a heavy sled, plodding along at a steady pace despite what appeared a heavy burden. As they came close, Borric could see it was a peasant boy who laboured to haul the sled to the camp. He moved with steady purpose, coming at last to stand before the commander of the King's Armies of the West.

  Borric looked at the lad, who had obviously been through an ordeal. He was bareheaded, his blond hair encrusted with ice crystals. About his neck and face he wore a heavy scarf wrapped several times around. He wore a heavy jacket and trousers, and thick sturdy boots. His simple wool coat was stained dark with blood. He had been pulling a sled, laden with odd cargo. A large sack had been secured with ropes atop the sled, and over that two bodies had been lashed down. A dead man stared up at the sky with empty eyes, his lashes sparkling with frozen tears. He had been a fighter, from the look of him, and he wore leather armour. His scabbard hung empty at his side and his left glove was missing. Beside him lay a girl, under blankets, so that it appeared she was sleeping. She had been a pretty girl in life, but in death her features were almost porcelain, near perfection in their pale whiteness.

  'Who are you, boy?'

  The boy said, 'I am the Wood Boy.’ His voice was faint and his eyes were vacant, as if he stared inward, though they were fixed on Borric,

  'What did you say?' asked the Duke.

  The boy seemed to gather his wits. 'Sir, my name is Dirk. I am the servant of Lord Paul of White Hill. It's the estate on the other side of the Kakisaw Valley.' He pointed to the west, Three days' walk from here. I carry firewood.'

  Borric nodded. 'I know the estate. I've visited Lord Paul many times over the years. That's thirty-five miles from here, and twenty behind enemy lines.' Pointing to the sled, he asked, 'What is this?'

  Weary, the boy said, 'It is my master's treasure. She is his daughter. The man is a murderer. He was once my friend.'

  'You'd better come inside and tetl me your story,' said Borric. He motioned for two soldiers to take the ropes that the boy used as a harness to pull the sled out of the way, and indicated that another man should help the exhausted youth.

  The Duke led the boy inside and let him know it was permissible to sit. He signalled for an orderly to get the boy a cup of hot tea and something to eat, and as the soldier hurried to obey, Borric said, 'Why don't you start fcpt the beginning, Dirk?'

  Spring brought the Tsurani. They had been reported in the Grey Tower Mountains the year before, bringing dire warnings of invasion from both the Kingdom rulers on the other side of the mountains and some of the more important merchants and nobles in the other Free Cities. But the tales that accompanied the warning, of fierce warriors appearing out of nowhere by some magic means, had been met with scepticism and disbelief. And the fighting seemed distant, up in the mountains between Borric of Crydee's soldiers, the dwarves, and the invaders.

  Until the first warning by the Rangers of Natal - who had quickly ridden on to warn others - followed a day later by a column of short men in their brightly-coloured armour who appeared on the road approaching the estate at White Hill.

  Lord Paul had ordered his bodyguards to stand ready, but to offer no resistance unless provoked. Dirk and the rest of the household stood behind the Lord of White Hill and his armed guards.

  Dirk glanced at his master and saw he stood alone, his daughter still in the house. Dirk wondered what extra protection the master thought that afforded his young daughter.

  Dirk found the master's pose admirable. The stories of Tsurani fierceness had trickled down from the early fighting, and the Free Cities would be wholly dependent upon the Kingdom for defence. Areas like White Hill and the other estates around Walinor were simply on their own. Yet despite no hope of successful resistance, Lord Paul stood motionless, without any sign of fear, in his formal robe, the scarlet one with the ermine collar. No hereditary title had been conferred on any citizen since the Empire of Great Kesh had abandoned its northern colonies a century before, yet those families with ancient titles used them with pride. Like other nobles in the Free Cities, he held in disdain other men's claims on title while treasuring his own.

  As the invaders calmly marched into view, it was obvious that any resistance would have been quickly crushed. Paul had a personal bodyguard and a score of hired mercenaries who acted as wagon guards and protection against roving bandits. But they were a poor band of hired cut-throats next to the highly-disciplined command that marched across the estate. The Tsurani wore bright orange and black armour, looking like lacquered hide or wood, nothing remotely like the metal armour worn by the officers of the Natal Defence Force.

  Paul repeated the order that no resistance was to be mounted and when the Tsurani commander presented himself, Paul offered something that resembled a formal salute. Then, with the aid of a man in a black robe, the leader of the invaders gave his demands. The property of White Hill, as well as the surrounding countryside, was now under Tsurani rule, specifically an entity named Minwanabi. Dirk wondered if that was a person or a place, like a Kingdom Duchy. But he was too frightened to imagine voicing the question.

  The leader of this group of Tsurani - all short, tough-looking veteran soldiers - could be differentiated from his men only by a slightly more ornate helm, graced with what Dirk took to be some creature's hair. The black fall reached the officer's shoulders.

  Dirk tried to guess what the role of the black-robed man might be; the officer seemed extremely polite and deferential to him as he translated the officer's words for him. The officer was called Chapka, and his rank was Hit Leader or Strike Leader, Dirk wasn't sure which.

  He shouted orders and the black robe said, 'Only the noble of this house may bear arms, and his personal man.' Dirk took that to mean a bodyguard. That would be Hamish. 'All others put weapons here.'

  The estate guards looked at Lord Paul, who nodded. They stepped forward and put their weapons in a pile, slowly, and then when they were done, they stepped back. 'Any other weapons?' asked the man in black.

  One of the guards looked at his companions, then came forward and took a small blade from his boot, throwing it in the pile. He stepped back into line.

  The officer shouted an order. A dozen Tsurani soldiers ran forward, each searching the now unarmed guards. One Tsurani stood, holding up a knife he had found in a guard's boot, and the officer indicated the man be brought forward. He spoke rapidly to
the man in black, who said, This man disobeyed. He hid a weapon. He will be punished.'

  Lord Paul slowly said, 'What shall you do with him?'

  'The sword is too honourable a death for a disobedient slave. He will be hanged.'

  The man turned pale. 'It was just a small one; I forgot I had it!'

  The man was struck hard from behind and collapsed. Dirk watched in dread fascination as two other Tsurani soldiers dragged the guard -a man Dirk hardly knew, named Jackson - to the entrance to the barn. A hoist hung over the small door to the hayloft - there was one at each end of the barn - from which a long rope dangled. The unconscious man had the rope tied around his neck and was hoisted quickly up. He never regained consciousness, though his body twitched twice before it went still.

  Dirk had seen dead men before; the town of Walinor where he grew up had known a few raids by bandits and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, and once he had stumbled across a drunk who had frozen to death in the gutter outside an inn. But this hanging made his stomach twist, and he knew it was as much from fear over his own safety as from any revulsion over Jackson's death.

  The black-robed man said, 'Any slave with weapon - we hang.'

  Then the officer shouted an order, and Tsurani warriors ran off in all directions, a half-dozen into the master's house, others into the outbuildings, and still others to the springhouse, the bam, and the root cellar. Efficient to a degree that astonished Dirk, the Tsurani returned in short order and started reporting. Dirk couldn't understand them, but from the rapidity of the exchanges, he was certain they were listing what they found for their officer.

  Others returned from the bar n and kitchen carrying dozens of commonplace items. The officer, with the aid of the black-robed man, began interrogating Lord Paul about the nature of various common household items. As the master of the estate explained the use of such common tools as a leather punch or iron skillet, the Tsurani officer indicated one of two piles, one on a large canvas tarp. When two of the same items were displayed, one instantly went into one pile, while the other might join it or be separated.

  Old William, the gardener and groundskeeper, said, 'Look at that,’ as two Tsurani soldiers picked up the tarp, securing the larger of the two piles, and carried it off.

  'What is it?' whispered Dirk, barely loud enough for the old man to hear.

  They're queer for metal,' softly said the old man with a knowing nod. 'Look at their armour and weapons.'

  Dirk did so, and then it struck him. Nowhere on any Tsurani could a glint of sunlight on metal be seen. Their armour and weapons all appeared to be hide or wood cleverly fashioned and lacquered, but there were no buckles, blades, or fasteners of metal in evidence. From their cross-gartered sandals to the tops of their large flared helmets, the Tsurani appeared devoid of any metal artefacts.

  'What's it mean?' whispered Dirk.

  'I don't know, but I'm sure we'll find out,’ said the old man.

  The Tsurani continued their investigation of Lord Paul's household until almost sundown; then the household servants were ordered to gather their personal belongings and move them into the barn or kitchen, as the Tsurani would be occupying the servants' quarters. In a move that puzzled Dirk, the Tsurani officer stayed in the same building with his men, leaving Paul and his daughter alone in the big house.

  It was but the first of many things that would puzzle Dirk over the coming year.

  Alex lay curled up, his face a mask of pain while Hamish shouted, 'Don't get up!'

  The Tsurani soldier who had struck the young man in the stomach stood over him, his hand a scant inch from the hilt of his sword. Alex groaned and again Hamish shouted to the young man to remain still.

  Dirk stood near the entrance to the barn while those servants nearby stood anxiously watching, expecting the worst at any moment. The Tsurani had revealed themselves as strict but fair masters in the two months since arriving at White Hill, but there was occasionally some breach of etiquette or honour that took the residents of White Hill by surprise, often with bloody consequences. An old farmer by the name of Samuel had got drunk on fermented corncob squeeze a month earlier and had struck out at a Tsurani who had ordered him back into his home. Samuel had been beaten senseless and hanged as his wife and children looked on in horror.

  Alex continued to groan but did as he was bid by Hamish until the Tsurani soldier seemed satisfied he wasn't going to move. The soldier said something in his alien language, spat in contempt upon the workman, turned, and walked away.

  Hamish hesitated a moment, then he and Dirk hurried over to help Alex to his feet. 'What happened?' asked Dirk.

  'I don't know,' said Alex. 'I just looked at the man.'

  'It's how you looked at him,' said Hamish. 'You smirked at him. If you'd looked at me that way, I'd have done the same.' The burly old soldier inspected Alex. 'I had my fill of smirking boys in the army and knocked down a few in my time before I retired. Show these murderers some respect, lad, or they'll hang you just because they can and it's a slow day for amusements.'

  Rubbing his side, Alex said, 'I won't do that again, you can bet.'

  'See that you don't,' said Hamish. The old soldier motioned for Drogen, his senior guard, to come over. 'Pass the word that the bastards seem touchy. Must have something to do with the war. Just make sure the lads know to keep polite and do whatever they're told.'

  Drogen nodded and ran off. Hamish turned to inspect Alex again, then said, 'Get off with you. You'll live.'

  Dirk helped Alex for a few steps. Then the man's legs seemed to steady and Dirk let go of his arm. They don't seem to take kindly to any sort of greeting,' said Dirk.

  'I think keeping your eyes down or some such is what they want.'

  Dirk said nothing. He was scared most of the time when he was around the Tsurani and didn't look at them for that reason. That was probably a wise choice, he judged.

  'Can you take the wood?' asked Alex.

  'Sure,' said Dirk before he realized that he was being asked to carry wood to the Tsurani quarters. Dirk picked up the fallen bundle and wrestled with it a moment before getting the unwieldy load under control. He moved to the door of the outbuilding and hesitated, then rolled the wood back on his chest and reached out to pull the latch rope.

  The door opened slightly and Dirk pushed it open with his foot. He entered, blinking a moment to get his eyes used to the darkness inside.

  A half-dozen Tsurani warriors sat on their beds, speaking in quiet conversation as they tended their arms and armour. Upon seeing the serving boy enter, they fell silent. Dirk went to the woodbox next to the fireplace situated in the centre of the rear wall and deposited his load there.

  The Tsurani watched him with impassive expressions. He quickly left the room. Closing the door behind him, he could hardly believe that just weeks before the bed in the farthest comer had been his own. He and the other workers had been turned out to the barn, except for the house staff who now slept on the floor in Lord Paul's kitchen.

  There was little need for wood save for cooking, as the warm nights of summer made sleeping fires unnecessary. The Tsurani used their fires primarily for cooking their alien food, filling the area nearby with strange yet intriguing aromas.

  Dirk paused a moment and glanced around, taking in the images of White Hill; familiar, yet cast in alien shadow by the invaders. Mikia and Torren, a young couple engaged the week before at the Midsummer's festival, were approaching the milking shed, hand in hand, and the invaders could be invisible for all the distraction they provided the young lovers.

  From the kitchen voices and the clatter of pots heralded the advent of the noon meal. Dirk realized he was hungry. Still, he needed to carry firewood to the other buildings before breaking to eat, and he decided the sooner started, the sooner done. As he turned to the woodshed, he caught a glimpse of a soldier in black and orange moving towards the barn. He idly wondered if the time would come when the invaders would be driven from White Hill. It seemed unlikely, for there was no n
ews of the war, and the Tsurani were settling in at White Hill as if they were never leaving.

  Reaching the woodshed, Dirk opened the door and saw Alex in the back of the shed cutting more wood. The still-bruised man said, 'You can carry, lad. I'll cut.'

  Dirk nodded and went in the shed, to get another armful of firewood. He sighed. As youngest boy in service, the worst jobs fell to him, and this would just be another task added to his burden, one which would not free him from any other.

  Before coming to White Hill, Dirk had been nothing, the youngest son of a stonecutter who had two sons already to apprentice. His father had cut the stone for Lord Paul's home, and had used that slight acquaintanceship to gain Dirk a position in Paul's household. With that position was the promise that eventually he would have sort of rank on the estate, perhaps a groundsman, a kennel master, or a herdsman. Or he might gain a farm to work, with a portion of his crops going to his landlord, even eventually earning the rank of Franklin, one who owned his own lands free of service to any lord. He had even dared to imagine meeting a girl and marrying, raising sons and daughters of his own. And perhaps, despite the Tsurani, he still might.

  Reminding himself he had much to be thankful for, he lifted the next load of wood destined for the fireplaces of the invaders.

  Fall brought a quick change in the weather, with sunny but cool davs and cold nights. Apples were harvested and the juice presses were busy. The Tsurani found the juice a wonderful delicacy and commanded a large quantity for themselves. A portion was put aside for fermenting and the air around the kitchen was spicy with the smell of warm pies.

  Dirk had got used to hauling wood to the Tsurani, and now was the one designated to keep all the woodboxes on the property filled, while Alex still did most of the chopping. Everyone began calling him 'Wood Boy', rather than his name.

  Dirk also worked the woodpile, and the constant labour was broadening his shoulders and putting muscle on him by the week. He could now lift as much as the older boys and some of the men.