In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 16

Barony of Lindenwood, Duchy of Kingsheart

Tom Fletcher made his way through the small clearing where his men were camped, stopping to talk to this group or that, offering words of encouragement or just a sympathetic ear. These weren’t soft men. They were farmers and woodsmen, hunters and craftsmen. Men used to long days of backbreaking work.

They all now had a new appreciation for the endurance of soldiers, after days of marching, pushing from sunup to sundown for two days across the Barony of Ambleton on their way to The Lindenwood. Ambleton, like Langmere, was a puppet of the Duke, and almost certainly had what men he had available looking for them, which meant they weren’t able to use the major roads, making the journey even worse.

They had made it, though. His entire band had breathed a sigh of relief when they finally passed out of the fields of Ambleton. Besides the thick forests which sat at the western edge of the Shatterstone Mountain’s foothills being an excellent place to hide, it was widely known that Baron Thurston was a man of the people, and had been shielding his from the king’s new laws. While he might not be in open rebellion against the king, it was unlikely they would be hounded in Thurston’s barony the way they had been in Langmere.

For their exhaustion, his men were in good spirits. After their victory in the Cresswell Hills, they’d had two more battles against men from the king and his lackeys, both of which they’d won handedly. That had been enough for Baron Blout to turn up the heat on them, which had ultimately been what drove them northeast out of the hills and toward Lindenwood.

Now they were here, and by tomorrow, they’d been deep into the forest, more or less safe from the king’s men. From that point, he’d have to talk to the men and figure out where their next target should be. He also needed to make his way to Lindvale, the capital of the barony that shared the name with the forest they were in, and send a wyvern to their benefactor, who he hadn’t been in contact with since just before the battle of Cresswell Pass, as their glorious victory was already starting to be known.

Tom had almost made it back to where he’d been going to settle down for the night when a shout suddenly rose from one of the groups closest to the treeline to the west, followed quickly by more cries. Tom’s head jerked up just in time to see riders bursting out of the woods in several places surrounding their camp. His men reacted quickly, jumping to their feet and scrambling for weapons as soon as the warning was given, but the enemy’s surprise had been complete. Even as he pulled his own sword, the enemy was already pushing everyone toward the center of the clearing, the horsemen quickly moving around their edges, encircling them.

“Back. Back,” Fletcher yelled, waving his sword over his head. “Form up.”

His men reacted well. They weren’t soldiers, but they’d been in enough fights to learn a little, and had started to listen even more to the men in their ranks with actual time in service to the previous king and his armies. A few tried to make a run for it, cut down before they could get out of the clearing, but the vast majority followed his orders, picking up spears, swords, and bows, forming their own circle, as the attackers now came at them from all sides.

Just in time, too, as a wave of horsemen smashed into their flank. His men managed to push them back, spears and swords injuring animals and men that got close enough, but not without cost. Screams of pain and rage already filled the air.

One of the supply wagons toppled, spilling bags of grain across the grass. Three of his men near it fell beneath the swords of the attackers as they tried to get into his lines. The few bowmen they had began to knock and loose arrows as quickly as they could, taking down a number of the horses and men assaulting them. Not enough, though.

The ambushers kept coming, not losing any momentum. They weren’t like some of the bailiffs they’d encountered, cowards who backed off as soon as they realized the people they were terrorizing weren’t going to back down. No, these men pressed in mercilessly, herding the outnumbered defenders together. Tom could see what they were doing. If his men got backed together tight enough, it wouldn’t take much for them to crush his force entirely, and ensure none escaped.

Even with his men fighting back in all directions, one thing was clear. They were going to be overrun soon.

“Everyone. Concentrate everything to the east,” Tom bellowed, to the men in the center of the camp, closest to him, before turning to Godric, one of the men who’d been with him the longest. “I need you to take that group and hold tight around the rest while they break out. You have to fight hard, keep them looking in that direction, so they don’t see their weak point until it’s too late.”

“What will happen to us when you break out?” Godric said, looking to the west where the largest group of the enemy were attacking.

He was a good man. He’d been a soldier for a short while, and read the field better than Tom ever had. It’s why he was the one to lead the rear guard as Tom got the rest out. He’d see where they needed to push to keep the enemy from reinforcing the breach, if it happened, in time.

Unfortunately, he was also smart enough to know what that would mean for him personally.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We need to get out as many as we can if we are going to continue the fight, we need to get out as many as we can.”

Godric frowned, misery playing across his face, before he pulled his mouth into a tight line and nodded.

“I understand,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “We’ll do what we can.”

Time was critical, but Tom spared a moment to squeeze his friend’s shoulder, looking him in the eye, trying to say everything he wanted but didn’t have the time to say with a look, instead of words.

Godric nodded, understanding everything, and said, “Go.”

He didn’t wait to see what Tom did, turning and yelling at his men, getting them to fan out, absorbing as much of the assault as possible, keeping the enemy busy while the rest attempted a breakout.

“With me,” Tom bellowed, pointing at the spot he’d indicated earlier, a portion of the men already attacking the half dozen riders on that side that stood between them and freedom. “Cut through! Pull them down!”

The cost was high, but one by one, the riders began to be surrounded by angry commoners, pulled off their mounts or stabbed with spear or sword atop them. Some of the horses were taken with the riders, others sent running as their rider suddenly disappeared.

His men were desperate, the attack brutal. He joined them, stabbing up from the side of a rider who was wildly swinging his sword around his mount, trying to keep the swarm of attackers away, panic in his eyes.

Tom came through at a blind side, his sword sliding easily into an exposed spot where greave met leather chest piece when the man leaned over to attack someone on the opposite side. With a gurgle, he slid off the saddle and collapsed. Tom pulled his blood-slicked blade free and pointed it at the treeline.

“Run. Into the trees and through,” he yelled.

They would become scattered, and most did not know the destination. He’d try and pick up stragglers as he could, but his number was certain to diminish more than just what was lost in battle.

Still, there was nothing for it as Tom sprinted with his group, sparing a look back to Godric, who spread his line out dangerously thin as the rest made a break for it, the enemy finally realizing what was happening and trying to get through or around them to chase down their escaping prey.

They crashed into the trees and through the underbrush, all of his men pushing hard, knowing it wouldn’t be long until the riders were after him. Godric was still fighting, though. Tom could hear the sounds of clashing steel and dying men, fading but still audible, behind them as they drove deeper into the woods.

He’d gotten maybe a two or three dozen men out, from what he could see around him. Perhaps there would be another dozen or so lagging behind or further out running in other directions. Some of those, the stragglers or the ones who’d cut too far north or south, would be caught and captured. If he was very lucky, he’d manage to hold fifty of the over one-hundred men he’d settled down in the clearing with. In ten minutes, he’d lost half his number, just when they’d thought they’d be safe.

Worse, something had changed. Those weren’t men of the Lindenwood. He didn’t see the branching tree on a field of green, the standard of the Barony of Lindenwood. In fact, he didn’t see any kind of sigil on them at all.

These were something new. He needed to talk to his friends, and find out what was happening.

***

Valemonde, Lynese

Isolde sat quietly next to the soldier as he fell asleep, holding his hand, trying to offer comfort in what was surely one of his final days. Her father had refused to budge since their argument weeks before, and she’d begun spending more and more time here, where it felt like at least she was doing something that mattered.

Now, more than ever. The hospital had swelled in recent days, ever since the Sidorians forced a crossing of the Chansol river, shattering her father’s army and pushing toward Lysmir lake, where the dead man’s hills finally narrowed and ended, opening up into the plains of Lynese. She knew these men were only the first, worst cases, sent by the disciples from their field aid stations here, where they had a better chance of recovery. Worse, even more of these men, the prime of Lynesian society, would have been beyond all hope, and allowed to pass away without coming south.

She couldn’t help but see the cost of her father’s policies and decisions in every man’s face.

Seeing the young man slip into a sleep, the pain finally leaving his face, Isolde placed his hand back on his chest, patting his shoulder before rising to move on to the next.

She was tired, in her heart, but she also couldn’t bring herself to leave. She’d only finished two wards, and there were still three more to go before she saw all of the areas assigned to soldiers. She’d made a promise to herself not to leave until she’d seen all of the men each time she’d visited, and she intended to stick to that.

Checking in on the last three cots she had not stopped at yet, she found each of the men asleep. It was early still, but many of the medicines the Disciples gave were specifically designed to force the patients to sleep, stemming from their belief that, more than any medicine or procedure they could perform, the best chance for men to heal was through rest.

Moving into the next ward, she instantly noticed something different about the setup, something she hadn’t seen here on her last visit three days ago. Normally this room was packed, with cots, row upon row, the full length of the room, stretching from one wall to the next. That was still true of the last two wards, but this one, the far corner was cordoned off, a barricade and screens erected and then another barricade past that, with no cots placed anywhere near that section, leaving a large, mostly unused space. Through a gap in the boards, Isolde caught a glimpse of a man thrashing against his restraints. She frowned, perturbed by the sight.

Isolde flagged down one of the Disciples moving amongst the patients. “What is all this? Why is that man bound and separated?”

The Disciple’s face turned grim, his eyes downcast. “I am afraid he has contracted the Elder Curse, my lady.”

Isolde gasped, taking an instinctive step back, away from the evil. The Elder Curse? She had heard tales of the deadly affliction since childhood and again in her history lessons. How could her lessons not cover it? The curse had ravaged the entire world several centuries ago, wiping out a huge part of the population of not only Lynese but every kingdom in the shattered lands before it finally ended. It was quite possibly the most deadly event since the fall of magic itself, claiming more victims than any mortal conflict, even the wars of the great alliance.

To even know of someone afflicted with it now, let alone see a patient in its grips, was exceedingly rare. Following the sacrifice that had ended the curse, it had become less contagious, allowing the disciples to quickly isolate and quarantine the afflicted, allowing them to die alone, without taking anyone with them. Isolde had only ever heard third-hand accounts of the few outbreaks that had happened in her and her father’s lifetime from tutors and advisors, and wasn’t aware of any occurring since she was old enough to track major events.

“How is this possible? Was he with the army?”

It wouldn’t make sense for a civilian to be in this section. Aside from the fact that they had their own, separate area of the hospital, putting soldiers who could potentially recover and rejoin their forces would be against everything she knew about how the Disciples worked.

The Disciple shook his head. “We do not know. The man arrived just yesterday, brought by a group of soldiers, already gripped by the curse’s advanced stages. We had to restrain and isolate him immediately before the contagion could spread. Thankfully, it seems the other soldiers with him were spared catching the affliction, although we still have them sequestered in another area of the hospital. If they make it through the month without the spot, we will release them.”

“Did you ask them what happened?”

“Of course, your highness. It is one of our order’s highest commandments. If any of the great curses appear, we are to find the source through every means possible, to ensure its containment. The Elder Curse rarely starts with someone so young, so we assume he contracted it elsewhere, but he would not say, no matter how much we pleaded. The other soldiers said they do not know him, and only know they were ordered to escort him here, for healing, and to ensure he nor they came in contact with anyone on the journey south from Lake Lysmir. They said they did not recognize him, but it’s possible he contracted it in that region, since your father’s army is large. However, that area is well traveled and highly populated, not even considering the armies in the field there. If it was contracted up north, near Lake Lysmir, we would have expected to see additional cases by now.”

Isolde took a hesitant step toward the barricade, peering through the gap at the thrashing man.

“How long has he been like this?” she asked softly.

“The grip took him a few hours ago, which means he’s begun the aging. Already, we can see lines appearing on his skin along with a few age spots, in addition to the mark of the curse, of course. By this time tomorrow, I expect his heart or lungs to give up.”

“When was the last time there was an outbreak?”

“That I know of, ten years ago. A group of settlers, three families, I think, was foolish enough to begin a settlement between the Wyvern’s Backbone and the Peaks of Oblivion, a few kilometers north of the shoreline. I didn’t see it myself, but I understand they were in a hard-to-reach area, which is how your father’s men missed them. It was only when a member of the family members still healthy enough to travel tried to go for help and was picked up by a patrol. As far as I’m aware, every member of the settlement died, along with a handful of members of that first patrol.”

“And none since?”

“Not that I know of, but there have been instances of small parties being stricken and found months or even years afterward. We can tell from the bones, as the aging process deforms them in unnatural ways. The existence of these suggests there are perhaps others we’ve never found.”

“I see. So where did he contract this? He’s a soldier, so presumably he ran into someone with it and contracted it from them, since I doubt any of my father’s men are left to just wander the wilderness. Not with the war on.”

“We assume as much, but he wouldn’t say. Before the grip began, all he would say is that he couldn’t tell us. Now, his jaw is locked so tight, I doubt he could say anything.”

Just then, there was a creaking sound followed by a man exhaling loudly. She peaked through the opening again to see the man had collapsed and stopped thrashing.

“It’s passed. I need to consult with my brothers about the next stages of treatment.”

“I want to talk to him. This is important. If there are people out there inflicted, we should find out and set up a quarantine right away.”

“Please, my lady, do not get beyond the second set of barricades. This is to keep people from getting too close, but none but the selected disciples are allowed beyond the second barrier. We aren’t completely sure how close you have to be to get it, but the proscriptions have set that as the minimum safe distance. Do not even lean over it. If you can’t hear him, we will send in one of the brothers who have been administering to him to help with communication.”

“Thank you,” she said, slipping past the first barricade.

In that interim space in between, she felt a strange sense of foreboding. She knew it was in her mind, since she’d walked this area just days before, when there had been cots and injured men here, but she felt it all the same. She found herself stopping a few steps from the second barricade, her legs unwilling to carry her further.

She was afraid. She wouldn’t say that out loud, not where the man could hear her, but in her heart, she knew how terrified she was. She’d seen drawings done during the great dying, of people who’d become more skeleton than human overnight. Not everyone who came in contact with a sick person, even physical contact, contracted the curse, but everyone who contracted it died. All of them.

“Can you hear me?” she said, her voice more wobbly than she would have liked. “I am Princess Isolde. Is there anything you need?”

The man’s head lulled to the side, facing her, giving her the first full look at him. He must have been a young man, although it was hard to tell now. His cheeks were sunken in slightly and age lines had begun to appear across his face, his skin sagging, giving him an appearance almost of melted wax.

He didn’t look right at her, and she could see some kind of film building over his eyes.

“Water,” he croaked weakly.

She began to take a step forward when an arm grabbed her from behind.

“My lady, you mustn’t go beyond this line,” a different disciple than before said. “The risk is too great.”

“He wants water.”

“I will go get his attendant,” the man said. “Please do not step any closer.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise.”

The man looked at her for another moment, clearly unsure if he should leave her on her own for a moment or not, before nodding and dashing away. A few minutes later a man in a full grown almost like a beekeeper, but with a thick leather apron over the garb came out. He had a strange mask over his face with no nose or mouth holes and only two tiny dots where the eyes should be. His hood was pulled tight over his head, cinched under his chin, which was itself covered in some kind of cloth the mask was then fitted over, not a trace of skin showing anywhere.

The costume would be terrifying if she hadn’t seen them before. Disciples often wore them during other disease outbreaks more mundane than the curse. She supposed it kept them somewhat safe, although she knew that more than a few disciples had fallen to the curse after tending a patient, no matter the precautions.

As she watched, the man went to a bucket on one side, pulling what looked like a long handle, with a small cup on the end. It wasn’t quite a ladle, but she doubted it would hold more than a mouthful of water. What it did do was let the Disciple give the man water from several steps away. Another precaution. As she watched, he extended it to the patient, who opened his mouth. As much of the water ended up on his chin as in his mouth, but the man gave a satisfied sigh anyway, clearly feeling some relief.

“I must know, if you can tell me, how did you come by the curse? Please, if you can speak of it, tell me. It’s very important.”

The soldier turned his head toward her again, his filmed eyes unfocused. He worked his jaw, lips parting with effort. Several times he opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak, but not sound coming out.

Finally he croaked, “There’s...a village...south of Varencia … near the backbone.”

He paused, chest heaving with labored breaths. Isolde waited patiently for him to gather his strength.

“We were ordered there. Several were sick...the elder curse had broken out,” he rasped, before stopping for another agonizing pause. “We were to take some of the afflicted...bring them north...to a village near the lake...where the Sidorians will be soon.”

Isolde’s eyes widened in shock.

Oblivious to her reaction, the soldier went on. “We tried to protest...but the Count forced us. He offered assistance for our families...things we couldn’t refuse. So we were careful as we could...never touched the afflicted directly...forced them into wagons with promises of a cure.”

His breaths came harder now, each word a struggle. “We brought them to the village ordered...left them in a vacant house. Never told anyone who we’d brought. We lied.”

A tear leaked from his filmy eye.

“The Ancients cursed us for it. We broke their sacred commands. Now we’re going to die.”

Isolde stared in horror as the soldier’s words sank in. Transporting the afflicted to secretly spread the plague among their enemies went against everything the Acolytes taught. She knew her father was ruthless in war, but never imagined he would stoop to such depths.

It wouldn’t only kill the enemy. If any of the villagers stumbled on the vacant house, found them, it would spread. Her own people were in as much jeopardy as the enemy.

“I’ll never see my wife and son again. I’m going to die wretched and alone. Please, Your Highness, promise me you’ll make sure the Empire cares for my family as they swore.”

Isolde stared at the dying soldier, her mind reeling. Her father had ordered his own men to transport plague victims to secretly infect their enemies. It went against everything she believed was right. Not only would it lead to the horrific deaths of countless Sidorian soldiers, but her own people were at risk too if it spread unchecked near the front lines.

“I promise, the empire will do right by them,” she finally said. “You have my word.”

The man’s body sagged in relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “Thank you, Your Highness. You are truly merciful and just.”

His gratitude made her heart ache. She should have been furious with him for his role in her father’s vile plan, but looking at this young man - who didn’t look young at all anymore - she felt only pity. He was a pawn following orders, sacrificing himself for his family’s wellbeing. How could she judge when her own father had orchestrated such evil?

The soldier’s eyes began to drift closed, his strained breaths slowing. Isolde backed away, maintaining a cautious distance as she’d been warned. His admission weighed heavy on her soul. Her father’s tactics endangered countless innocents, especially so close to the front where magistrates, marshals, and all of the administrative apparatus of the state would have fled ahead of the Sidorians, leaving the civilians alone and unprotected.

Isolde glanced back at the barricaded corner where the young soldier now slept, his life fading with each ragged breath. Looking at his gaunt, prematurely aged face, she could still hear his words, ‘The Ancients cursed us for it. We broke their sacred commands.’

Something had to be done before the plague took root and spread. Even if it saved enemy lives, she couldn’t let this happen.