Chapter Ten—Defeat

 

The following morning, Curran was roused by the sounds of movement nearby. Persistent and painful when the noise crashed into the fragile material left between his ears, Curran ducked under his pillow to hide.

“None of that, Sir Curran. You have to be up and about, or you will be left behind on your first campaign.”

“Stop shouting,” Curran ordered, his head in danger of breaking, like a tree that bursts when its sap freezes from the cold. His head had never ached so bad. Worse than any hangover he’d ever known.

And what was the “sir” business?

The servant stomped over to the bed, removed the pillow. “Up and about.”

“You cruel beast. Do you get joy from causing pain to others?” Curran sat up. That process brought so much nausea he couldn’t force himself to march on with the next step, that of opening his eyes.

“It is not my heart that gives shelter to the evil in this place,” Evander replied, finally using a tone that was just a hair lower than mind-splitting.

The servant brought a large pitcher to the bed. Curran was about to take back some of the nasty things he said to the angel of mercy who brought him water to chase away the furry beast nesting in his mouth. Then the little toad of a man upended the pitcher of cold water over Curran’s head, shocking his system into wakefulness whether it welcomed the change or not.

“The Duke plans to leave in an hour. Get dressed and meet him in the courtyard. His Grace expects you to ride at his side.”

That news brought a joyous leap to Curran’s heart. Whatever happened the night before, what little he remembered, no longer worried his conscience. It was a one-time ordeal, a rite of passage. Surely things would be different now.

 

 

 

As it turned out, things were different once they left Duke Luthias’ lands, but not necessarily better. Curran soon realized the Duke wasn’t as well-equipped as he had thought to lead his men into battle. All the noble qualities a strong leader should possess deserted Luthias when it came time to make war. The Duke’s confidence overrode all other considerations. He expected to win easily. The details were unimportant to him, and their ability to wage effective war suffered for it.

Curran circulated through the men each night, listening to their chatter and doing what he could to rectify their complaints. Luthias disliked having his favorite knight disappear for hours at a time. He preferred to keep his innermost circle around him, like acolytes at his altar. In the end, Curran was forced to forgo sleep to make sure that all the loathsome details the Duke relegated to low-ranking, clueless officers were getting done in proper fashion.

He blamed this lack of rest for failing to recognize the Celts were setting a trap until it was too late to extract the Duke’s men. The heathens lured the Duke’s troops into the hills, their home ground. Luthias pursued them, unwilling to end the chase now that his quarry was on the run.

Through the dense trees, the Duke pressed on. His fighters lost their advantage when the underbrush snarled around their limbs. Without the freedom to maneuver, they were sitting ducks when the rain of Celtic arrows came down.

Luthias had provided swords for his recruits, but given the number of new ranks there hadn’t been time to produce body armor or give them much training. The small shields they hid behind did little to prevent them from taking an arrow in the knee. Or the face.

As God protects imbeciles and children, so he protected Luthias’ army that day. The arrows quickly dried up, giving Curran a chance to order his charges to withdraw, out of weapon range.

The Duke ordered the men to rally for another charge up the hill. Thankfully, the horn he used to convey such commands was one of the casualties of the melee. Curran pretended not to hear the faint call over the breaking of sticks and groans of the injured men as the survivors carried their wounded brothers back to the relative safety of their camp.

The trip back was far shorter than the march out. Nothing stood in their way, and they didn’t have to fight for every inch of bloody ground they covered.

Blood of their own men.

Blood that didn’t have to be shed.

Blood, Curran vowed, that wouldn’t go to waste.

There was a lesson to be learned here, and he would make damn sure Luthias learned it as well as he.

Curran didn’t have time to rehearse his speech. When he followed Luthias into the tent the knights used as their barracks, he spoke plainly. “Your Grace, what plans have you to return to the castle?”

“Return?” The Duke handed his helmet over to a waiting servant. “I plan to return to the battlefield, not the castle.”

“We lost a third of our men today. We need more time to prepare a plan of attack that will yield better results than this.”

More men from the Duke’s inner circle joined them, and began to strip the armor from Luthias’ body. “I agree our methods must be altered to meet this new challenge, young Curran. Our enemy has grown bolder over the last few encounters.”

“They have grown smarter as well,” a grizzled veteran added.

Curran noticed the way the grim-faced warrior kept his sword within arm’s reach at all times, as Curran did. The Duke had handed his blade over to a servant. Had the man learned nothing from his experiences these past years? Attacks could come at any time, without warning. This wasn’t a holiday or a job where the sword could be hung up for the night like a cook’s ladle.

“Perhaps,” Luthias admitted. “Even the stupidest of animals can be taught a new trick.”

“You think one of our men is teaching them how to counter our English tactics?” one of the knights asked the Duke.

Anger flashed across Luthias’ face. “No. No one would dare defy me that way.”

Curran balanced on the balls of his feet, bursting with desire to fling himself at the Duke and shake some sense into him. “Perhaps we could discuss the day’s events, see what we can learn from them.”

Now dressed in a loose robe, Luthias sat upon a scaled-down version of his throne. “Ah, young Curran, you have a warrior’s heart but you do not appreciate the benefits of victory. Half the joy to be found in waging war is the way we divide our enemy’s spoils at the end of the day.”

Several of the knights who milled about the large tent laughed at this response. Only the veteran seemed to sense Curran’s seriousness and the reasons behind it. Did they not understand what had happened in those hills? “Your Grace, it is not the spoils that need our attention this night, but rather the battle itself. We must speak of the mistakes made today so that we may not repeat them on the morrow.”

Luthias’ eyes narrowed. “Mistakes? I think you are confused, boy. We won. Our enemy was forced into retreat.”

“Only because the Celts ran out of arrows.”

Luthias shook his head. “So disappointing, I agree. I, too, wish for a more challenging opponent. It hardly seems worth getting out of bed to face them. Perhaps if we are more aggressive, they will put up a better fight.”

Curran couldn’t help himself. He choked over that. “More aggressive? That rash attack, following those men on land which they have spent generations, cost us nearly a third of our men. Do you not see that lives are being needlessly spent by your reckless tactics?”

Light noise, that of men gorging on drink and shedding their tools of war, suddenly turned to silence. Luthias sat up straighter in his chair, staring at Curran with cool blue eyes. “What I see is a careless man on the verge of committing treason.”

Curran sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. As he did, he bowed deeply. “I beg your forgiveness, your Grace. I meant no offense.”

The Duke waved his hand dismissively. “I forget that you have not fought with us before. It is natural that you feel some disquiet the first time blood is spilled by your own blade.” Luthias raised his hand, then clenched his fingers with a dramatic flair. “In time, you will grow to love the power of holding a life on the tip of your sword. To set it free or snuff it out on your whim.”

The Duke’s passionate tone turned Curran’s blood to ice. The scales fell away from his eyes, and he looked upon Luthias with true vision. For the first time, he saw the monster inside the man, the very real evil that Evander had spoken of. It sapped the strength from his knees. He crashed to the floor. To God, he said, “I do not understand.”

However, it was the Duke who answered him. “You will, in time,” he assured Curran. “Rest now. We will speak more of this after we have feasted.”

The men went back to their drinking. Activity swirled around Curran as his brain wrestled with this new, terrifying discovery. Luthias wasn’t a noble, seeking to protect his kingdom from marauders. He thought of them as dogs, taunting them into attack so he could punish them for their disobedience. He was a bully. All the songs of praise about his battle prowess were nothing more than wind to further inflate his gigantic ego.

One of the knights brushed against him. Wine spilled down the back of his neck. It shook Curran out of his stupor, giving him the motivation to move. He got to his feet, his legs still unsteady, and started toward the flap that would take him out of this strange nightmare and into the moon’s healing glow.

An arm encased in steel blocked his path. Curran glanced at the man who had doused him. His eyes reflected more sobriety than his clumsy nature would have one believe. “Let me pass,” Curran muttered softly.

The battle-hardened knight steered Curran toward the back of the tent, away from the Duke and his companions. “Let your tongue loose like that again, and you will not live to see the dawn.”

“I do not deserve to.” He’d done nothing, nothing, to protect the innocent from Luthias’ rampage. No wonder the heathens raided their lands if this was the kind of treatment they were accustomed to from the British nobles. To be hunted like wild animals for sport…it was hardly the act of a virtuous Duke. And by association, the blame trickled down to all those who fought in his name.

The veteran gave Curran’s shoulder a hard shake. “Be sensible, boy. What good will you do anyone if you are short a head?”

“Without honor, a man is nothing.”

“He is alive. I would say that is a damn sight better than not.”

How could Curran make the man understand? He’d rather be dead than follow the Duke into another senseless, brutal confrontation. “I cannot kill for sport. I cannot kill for a man who treats his subjects like pawns on a chessboard.”

“Too late for that. You accepted Luthias’ offer of family and friendship. You carry his sword on your hip, and his favor on your arm. Kill or be killed. Those are your choices now. Be quick to know your heart and mind. Luthias will not allow you much time to decide, and his brand of justice is often brutal.”

Curran left the tent and walked among the wounded. He had no words to brighten their sagging spirits. This was not the way things were supposed to be.

And yet, how could they be any different? Luthias would not change. Curran didn’t waste a moment trying to fool himself into believing otherwise. He’d already lost too much to false dreams. But what options did that leave him? Even if he chose the life of a vagabond, the shame of breaking his word, of putting his life above his vows, would kill him more quickly than an arrow through his head. At least by staying there was a chance he could save another innocent pawn from death, even if it was far too little, far too late.

He arrived at this answer as dusk closed the curtain on day. The knights would be feasting on whatever rations Luthias ordered. Curran had no appetite, and no desire to return to the Duke’s side. He was about to find a quiet spot in which to lie down when a runner approached him at top speed, falling against Curran, out of breath.

“Sir Knight, his Grace wishes to see you at once.”

“Tell him I have had too much entertainment this day and must retire.”

“Duke Luthias said more blood will be spilled if you do not,” the lad said in between pants.

Curran didn’t question whose blood that would be. It didn’t matter. As the old warrior had said, Luthias would not willingly give up his entertainment.

With a determined stride to beat the Duke at whatever game he was playing now, Curran went where summoned. “You wished to see me, your Grace,” he said upon entering the Duke’s presence.

Candles now flickered from their holders to either side of Luthias’ chair. The remains of a meal littered the wooden table set in the center of the lavish tent. One plate was left untouched. His own. Flies now buzzed around it, feasting on the dead meat.

There was one other addition to the setting, that of a young woman. Long hair covered her face, but not even the layer of mud caked on her body could throw her gender into doubt. She wore a leash fashioned from long strips of leather and nothing more. Although her position was supposed to imply subservience, her expression remained defiant.

As Curran came forward, the woman tried to bolt. Although Luthias’ attention was no longer on her, he remained attentive of her position. A quick yank of the leash brought her back to his side.

“Worse than a dog,” Luthias said, disgusted. “This one is all teeth and no brain.”

“If she does not make a good pet, then perhaps you should return her to the wild. An inferior creature would not survive long there.” For a second, Curran thought his suggestion had worked to gain the woman’s freedom, but Luthias disappointed him with his next breath.

“Wounded animals can howl for days before they die. So depressing. I would not want to subject our men to that.” He turned his head to look at his loyal knights. “Which among you would like to put this creature out of her misery?”

Several men stepped forward, including—to Curran’s amazement—the old warrior. How could he be so callous? Did no one else but him see how wrong this was?

Luthias smiled upon the men who offered. “You are good-hearted to spare me the trouble, but I think it is time young Curran learned what power there is in death.”

His anger generated a flush of heat that he couldn’t quell. “No.”

“Are you defying me?” Luthias asked, a faint frown upon his lips.

Yes, I will never be party to this kind of brutality, his heart screamed even as his lips said, “This is not needful.”

“Fear of the unknown holds you back, Curran, not these morals you cling to. I knew the day I saw you with the hunt master that you share the same dark desires I possess. I promise once you do this for me, you will understand why it is necessary.”

Dark desires? What he had shared that night with Tanis was bright and warm. There was no shame in it. Unorthodox to many, perhaps, but not morally wrong. Taking a life that did not threaten his own was wrong in every way. “Your Grace, I cannot do as you ask.”

“I am not asking.” Luthias’ voice became cold and soft. “Death, once promised a soul, will claim his due. Your life or hers, Curran. Which will it be?”