Read A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist Online
Authors: Ron Miller
A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist (23 page)
One morning, as the wagon is coming out of a narrow mountain pass, they come upon a troop of soldiers bivouacked in an open meadow. It is a strange and startling reminder of the real world, one that had seldom intruded upon the monotonous existence of the circus and certainly not its present condensed form. Borders had never particularly bothered them, as they wandered back and forth across them, as chance and pathway took them. They seldom even paid much attention to the languages being spoken around them; Busra is a polyglot and switches so easily from one tongue to another that even he is never really aware of what dialect he is currently speaking. He tells Thud that he no longer even recalls what language he had been born to.
The troupe is halted and the wagon is searched.
The soldiers allow Busra and Rykkla to go on their way, taking nothing from them but Thud.
Thud’s sojourn in the army is a mysterious and unpleasant interlude for him. He not only never understands who he is fighting, or why, he never even knows whose army he is in nor what country it represents. He charges the enemy, he tears down their defenses, he scatters men left and right. He eats when he is given food and he sleeps when he is allowed to. He doesn’t question any of this, he doesn’t rankle or rebel when he is treated like an animal or slave. He does as he is told because, if the truth be known, Thud is getting tired. Something has finally pierced that seemingly invincible armor of flesh and muscle and bone and stolidity. It is not his great heart that it strikes there, nor his brain, nor any other vital organ . . . the weapon is fear, desolation, loneliness, and resignation, and the victim is in every way that matters a child.
He seldom asks after his princess any longer, though he dreams about her almost every night. He becomes as he was at Groontocker and Peen, before the only whim he ever had in his life had forever changed his existence: little more than a mindless automaton, with neither future nor past, only an endless, empty present.
One day Thud’s army loses a great battle. Thud has fought as hard and as mechanically as ever, but the army falls anyway. Thud is overwhelmed and immobilized, which turns out not to be difficult for when he sees what is happening he lay down his weapon (the five-foot steel barrel of a cannon he had ripped from its carriage) and meekly allows himself to be taken prisoner. This action seems inconceivable to the victors, who cocoon the giant in heavy chains and padlocks so thoroughly that he has to be hoisted onto a wagon with a block and tackle. Under the watchful and fretful gaze of a dozen guards who never tale their eyes from the prisoner, Thud is taken to the capital.
He never thinks to ask the name of the city and no one ever bothers to tell him.
He is rolled into a dungeon cell where he remains for an indeterminate number of days. Food is brought regularly, he is never allowed to feed himself; he is fed one spoonful at a time by an excessively nervous old man whose hand shakes so violently every time it approached Thud’s vast maw that it occasionally misses even that huge target, but Thud doesn’t count the meals. Days or weeks might be passing so far as he could tell.
Then he is brought to trial. The laborious process of imprisoning him is reversed: he is rolled from his cell and hoisted to the street by means of a heavy winch. From there he is carried in the back of a heavy wagon to the public square where other war criminals are being tried and sentenced.
He is levered upright and propped into position, facing the tribunal. The men on the high dais are dressed all in black and wear stern and soulless faces that are blacker in their expressions than the robes they wear.
“Your name?” one asks; it doesn’t matter which.
“Me?”
“You heard the question.”
“What question?”
“What is your name?”
“Thud. Thud Mollockle.”
“Where are you from, Thud Mollockle?”
“From?”
“Yes.”
Thud thinks about this. Normally, he might have answered “Groontocker and Peen,” or perhaps even “Blavek.” But a sudden, stray glimmer of accuracy sparkled wanly, like a single bright star in an otherwise empty universe.
“I’m from down there.”
“
Where
?” asks the judges, their interchangeable faces taking on a keen edacity.
“Down there.”
“South?” suggests one judge, hopefully.
“Or under the ground?” offers another.
“Under the ground.”
At this answer the tribunal sits back on its bench like a trio of satisfied carrion crows. Only details remain; as far as they are concerned, the trial is over.
“Tell us more about yourself,” the tribunal asks.
“More?” Thud thinks hard. He had been asked similar questions before and had never known exactly what to say. His thoughts always become completely jumbled up, as though all of his memories have been written down on cards and his clumsy fingers have scattered them willy-nilly. Picking up a half-dozen at random, he begins quoting:
“I remember the little people and the big cat that tried to eat the princess, and I remember the lightning and how it came from my fingers, and I remember flying in the air and the storm, and the flames all around me and the animals . . .”
“Enough!” cries the tribunal in one voice. “We’ve heard enough. Take this . . . devil . . . away. He is guilty of sorcery and witchcraft and is hereby condemned to death. Guards!”
“The date of the execution?” asks one of the tribunes of his fellows.
“Death by fire for witches, warlocks, heretics and such? Am I not correct?”
“Yes, of course, but look at the calendar!”
“Dear, dear. I see. Not an opening until St. Grutten’s Eve. Well, this fellow’s obviously a special case . . .”
“Clearly inhuman!”
“ . . . therefore I think it would be in order to make a special event of his execution . . . obviously we would have to allow extra time in any case; it’s evident that he would burn for hours.”
“True, true.”
“Why not schedule it for St. Grutten’s Eve? The public would appreciate the spectacle offered by the burning of a genuine demon, especially after one or two hundred commonplace, routine executions. It would give the citizens of Flekke something to look forward to.”
“What a splendid idea!”
“St. Grutten’s Eve it is, then?”
“Yes, I believe that’s unanimous.”
“Let’s see, that’s six weeks from now?”
“Not quite, but yes, that’s about right.”
“Excellent! It’s agreed, then. Splendid, splendid.”
“Next case.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PREPARATIONS
The arrangements for the invasion of Tamlaght proceed at an encouragingly rapid and enthusiastic pace. The disappearance of both Bronwyn and Thud has been interpreted by Duke Mathias, rightly, as it turns out, as something engineered by Payne Roelt and General Praxx. He immediately called upon his small army: in effect every able-bodied man in the duchy. The ranks are swollen to nearly twice their expected size by volunteers of all ages who arrive in Diamandis from every town, village and farm. They arrive on foot, in carts, on horseback and on mules, and they arrive with guns, antique swords and pikes that are souvenirs of nearly forgotten battles, scythes, axes, pitchforks and, if nothing else can be found, clubs and fists.
The duke had, at the first intimation of Bronwyn’s disappearance, gone to Diamandis Antica himself, along with a half dozen of his most trusted household guards. Halfway to the port they stopped a man on the road who seemed to be in an inordinate hurry. At first sight of the duke and his officers the man’s immediate reaction seemed to be the desire for flight, which, after realizing that the road at that point is bound by a pair of high embankments, transformed into the same sort of frozen hysteria that would grip a deer in the path of an advancing locomotive. He is shaking like a mass of frog’s eggs when the duke drew up to him.
The duke noticed that although the man is on the road, miles from any town or village, he had been carrying no baggage of any kind, not as much as a parcel.
“Excuse me, sir,” asks Mathias, “but I would like to ask you a question or two.”
“You would?” the man gulped. An oily sweat oozed from his face, matting the few strands of hair he possessed into glossy sinuosities, as though he had dribbled black ink onto the parchment--like skin of his bald head. He blinked his good eye as it filled with the greasy, salty fluid. His other eye, a fishy orb, like a pearl of cooked tapioca, remained open.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, sir! Nothing’s wrong!”
“You don’t look well.”
“I, ah, it’s just a touch of the fever, sir. Picked it up during the wars.”
“Shouldn’t you be seeing a doctor? Should you be on the road like this?”
“Oh, I, ah . . . it’s for my health, sir. Can’t stand the, ah, sea air. Brings on my old fever, as you can plainly see. I’m, ah, going to see a, ah, my doctor in the, um, city.”
“Who’s that?”
“Who’s what, sir?”
“Who’s your doctor, man?”
“I, ah, it’s, ah, he’s really my, ah, brother’s doctor, sir. Don’t, ah, know his name right offhand, sir.”
“Hm. Well, I won’t delay your medical attentions much longer. Tell me, though, have you seen anyone else on the road this morning?”
“Other than you, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Why, ah, no, sir.”
“We’re looking for a girl, a young woman.”
“Well, sir, ain’t we all, sir?”
“No, no. I’m looking for someone particular. Someone I know.”
“You are, sir?”
“You haven’t seen her, by any chance?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“You seem pretty certain about that. She’s quite tall, slender, dark reddish-brown hair, rather short, green eyes, probably wearing a black leather jacket and trousers.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar, sir.”
“Probably with a very big fellow, looks like a cross between a giant and a circus fat man?”
“Mm, don’t think so, sir.”
“Her name is Bronwyn.”
“Bronwyn, sir?”
“Yes, the Princess Bronwyn, my fiancée.”
At this last utterance the man, without another word, broke and ran. At a gesture, the duke’s men rode him down and within a minute had the limply struggling figure back before their master. Fish-eye Gunther, for it is indeed truly him, fell to his knees in an attitude of abject supplication. He wrung his hands and face pitiably and a circle of perspiration and oil spread slowly around him.
“Oh, Musrum!” he wailed. “I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know! Have mercy on me, sir! They didn’t tell me nothing! I didn’t ask no questions! I hardly saw her! I didn’t know who she was! I didn’t know what is going to happen! I didn’t say anything to her! She didn’t tell me who she was! Oh, Musrum! Those terrible villains! If I had known who she was, sir, I would have defended her with my very life! Yes, I would have! Oh, the Princess Bronwyn, sir! Your beloved fiancée! If I could only help! But I am wallowing in ignorance, if your Grace can only forgive me, just wallowing!”
“Give him a crack, will you, sergeant?” requested the duke.
“Gladly, sir,” he replies, leaning from his saddle and giving Fish-eye a smart blow on the crown with his whip handle. Fish-eye fell onto his back as though thunderstruck. From this position, spread-eagled on the hard-packed dirt like a squirrel that had met a fast express, he spoke again, with noticeably greater calm.
“Ah, yes, sir, now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, I believe I do recall the lady.”
“Where is she?”
“I really don’t know, and that’s the truth, sir. I is just paid to look the other way. She is coming to look for someone named Pataskala, I run a rooming house for sailors, you understand, they knew she is going to come for him . . .”
“They? Who?”
“I don’t know, sir, I really don’t. I never saw them before. Pataskala cleared out and they waited for her in his room. They told me I didn’t know nothing and I believed them. I swear on my sweet mama’s grave, sir, I didn’t know who she was!”
“Sergeant,” says the duke through clenched teeth, “immobilize this man; we’ll take care of him later.”
They continued on to Diamandis Antica at a gallop, leaving Fish-eye tied up by the roadside, considerately in the shade, with a note attached requesting any passersby to please ignore him, thank you very much, signed: Duke Mathias.
Unfortunately, the trail ran out in the port village. There is no sign of either the princess or Thud at the rooming house. Mathias sent his men to comb the town and it is quickly learned that Thud had been something of an attraction that morning. An innkeeper informed them that not an hour or two earlier he had sent the big man down to the docks to look for the
Princess.
When Mathias and his men arrived at the pier, the freighter is only a smear of dark smoke at the horizon.
Did anyone know what the ship’s next port of call would be? No one knew.
Mathias returned to his capital, picking up the delirious Fish-eye on the way, and also taking with him a grim resolve.
In the duke’s long career, he has served in and commanded armies for all of his neighbor states, even spending nearly half a year at one time training the army of the .infamous Badaud Alcatode in the newly developed techniques of modern trench warfare, and so successful was the result that he is almost universally respected, admired and honored. It is to his credit that this holds true even for countries he had commanded armies for in one war and against in another. He immediately sends word by way of secret emissaries to Mostaza, Ibraila, Udskaya, Fezzara, Crotoy and, very secretly, to certain friends in Londeac.
Quickly, so quickly that it surprises even the duke, men, equipment and supplies begin to pour into the duchy by every possible route. Ships arrive with registries in ports as distant as eastern Peigambar and soldiers from insignificant duchies so small they are not even accorded a distinct color on most maps. The ships range from little brigs to a big five-masted barkentine to a slightly seedy passenger steamer. All are privately owned and not responsible to any government. Soldiers range from highly trained and well-equipped mercenaries from Londeac to ragged mountain warriors from Udskaya to wild-eyed and hyperactive horsemen from Ibraila. Supplies arrive as well: wagon after wagon, carload after carload of fresh and preserved food, equipment, ammunition and weapons, clothing, blankets, to say nothing of hundreds of horses.
In the week following Bronwyn’s abduction, Diamandis has been transformed: its every square is crowded with men, as is every open field in a five-mile radius from the castle. Eleven ships float in Diamandis Antica’s harbor, more traffic then it has seen in twenty years. Some of them have brought in troops and supplies and others have been donated to transport the invading force.
The plan is simple: steam and sail from Diamandis Antica up Stuckney Bay to Glibner and then march the remaining two hundred and fifty miles to Blavek. Although Londeac is only separated from Tamlaght by ten miles by the Strait of Guesclin, one could see either country from the opposite side on a very clear day, there is no possible way to cross that meager distance by water. The strait is a sheer-walled canyon through which, seasonally, pours the icy waters of the North Mostaza Sea. Funneled into this narrow channel, the current forms a raging barrier of water nearly one hundred miles long. There have been discussions among the more enthusiastic and optimistic engineers of Londeac concerning the possibility of bridging the strait, but that project, feasible or not, was not something that immediately makes the duke’s problem any simpler.
When Bronwyn returns to Lesser Piotr, she is amazed. Both she and Basseliniden think with some good reason that the duchy has been invaded. They have sailed into the tiny harbor in the pirate’s schooner, the
Barracuda
(he had apologized for the overly dramatic name, blaming it on the necessities of professional image), with the submarine boat
Torpedo
in tow. So busy has the port become that no one paid the slightest attention to their arrival. There are fourteen other ships in the crowded harbor: the sailing ships are three schooners (not including the
Barracuda)
a five-masted barkentine, a bark, a sloop, two small brigs and a brigantine; the steamers include two passenger steamers and a freighter. Basseliniden and his crew are a little confused as to what is going on and most of the people around them consider the newcomers to be something of a nuisance. Their every attempt to ask questions is met by abruptness or an answer that is incomprehensible.
It is some time, therefore, before the princess discovers that Mathias had declared war on Tamlaght.
Leaving the crew of the
Barracuda
behind, she and the captain go directly to Diamandis, on a road now crowded and churned to dust by wagons, carts, cavalry and foot soldiers traveling in either direction, with Bronwyn’s amazement growing with every mile.
Her arrival in the capital is tumultuous and emotional although there is an odd cast to the joy the princess and the duke feel at their reunion.
“Mathias!” she cries at her first sight of the young duke.
“Bronwyn!” he also cries, taking her hands in his. “My God! what happened to you?”
“That’s too long a story to tell right now . . .”
“It is Payne and your brother, wasn’t it?”
“You must’ve already deduced that, seeing what’s going on in the duchy. My stars, Mathias, it looks like you’re preparing for a full-scale invasion!”
“It’s a little deceiving: there are fewer men than the confusion makes it appear. You’ll see when things get organized and settled down. Ah, who is your friend, here?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! Mathias, this is Captain Basseliniden.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” says the duke. “I’m given to understand you had something to do with the princess’s safe return?”
“What little I did is only my pleasure and duty, your Grace.”
“The captain is a . . .” begins Bronwyn.
“A maritime entrepreneur,” finishes Basseliniden.
“Well,” answers Mathias, with an odd look at the tall man, “come along, both of you; you must be famished, I’ve ordered a luncheon that’s about to be served.”
“I’m anxious to see Thud and the baron,” says the princess, following the duke. Mathias pauses and turns toward her.
“Ah, well, that’s something we ought to talk about while we eat.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll discuss it in a minute.”
“No, I want to know now. What’s wrong?”
“I think you should get something to eat first. We can talk then.”
“Stop patronizing me. I want to know what’s wrong with Thud and the baron.”
“Nothing’s wrong that I know of.”
“Then what can’t you tell me?”
“I can’t really tell you anything. That’s basically the whole point: I have no idea where they are.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know where they are?”
“That’s it. Thud never returned from that irresponsible action you took upon yourself more than a week ago, and the baron’s been missing almost as long.”
“You’ve no idea where they are?”
“Not a clue. Well, except for Thud, that is. It seems he may have left on board a freighter called the
Princess
the day after you disappeared from the castle. Whether he left voluntarily or under duress, I have no idea. The baron . . . well, the baron is just gone.”
Bronwyn doesn’t know how to accept this blow. For the past several hours she has known an elation and optimism she has not felt for more than a year. The maddening uncertainty about the future has seemed to have vanished. Seeing the gathering army and fetal navy has raised her expectations to the remaining one of the only two levels her expectations ever achieved: absolute joy or absolute depression. There are seldom any grays in Bronwyn’s world.
The elation and confidence she has been feeling are instantly wiped away by the feeling of despair created by the news of her vanished friends.
“Bronwyn?” asks Basseliniden. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not. What am I going to do without them?”
“Just what we’ve been planning to do,” replies Mathias. “The fact that they’re missing doesn’t make any difference.”
“You would say that.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You have no empathy whatsoever. Two of my best friends are
gone;
doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Well, of course it does. I’m sorry to see you so upset. But it’s still only two people. Whether they are here or not wouldn’t’ve made any difference to the success of the invasion.”
“It makes a difference to me.”
“I don’t see how.”
“That’s what’s wrong with you.”
