Dark Crusade - Chapter 5 (Lucas)

Lucas

         The sun beat down out of the cloudless sky, dazzling Lucas’s eyes with reflections from the water. The flagship of his armada was two hours out from the coast of Venmar. Lucas paced the forecastle of the ship in restless impatience.

         “I tell you, they know we’re coming,” the Grand Priest said from his seat beneath the foremast.

         “And I tell you that there is no way they can,” Lucas snapped. “We’ve not seen land for three days, Your Grace, and the land we have seen was our own shores. No, they know nothing of our arrival.”

         “So you anticipate no resistance?” The gnarled old man asked skeptically.

         “I anticipate very little resistance.” Lucas turned his back on the old cleric and strained his eyes at the approaching shoreline of Venmar. “There is always the odd band of sand eaters that needs killing. They’ll be no match for our troops.” He smiled, toothy, like a predator.

         Behind them, the armada spread out as far as they eye could see in every direction. When the call had gone out for men to fight in Venmar, the number of volunteers had exceeded everyone’s imagination. Every ship owned by the crown, the church, and every merchant vessel that could be found was now carrying men, horses, or supplies to Venmar.

         “Are you sure we can trust the Mavens?” The Grand Priest was saying now. “How do we know that they haven’t sent word of our crusade?”

         Lucas rolled his eyes. “I don’t know that they haven’t, Your Grace,” he answered. “But if I have to fight every man in this pitiful kingdom eventually anyway, I’d rather do it sooner than later.” He turned and crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the old man.

         The Grand Priest of Yanus had not handled the sea voyage well at all. From the first hour out of sight of land, he had hung over the rail of the ship, retching. His long grey beard was crusted with vomit and dried spit, and he stank.

         Lucas had to admit that with a limited water supply, bathing had certainly become lessened, if not completely non-existent. He was rather ripe himself after five days at sea. He wrinkled his nose as an errant draft sent him a whiff of the Grand Priest. At least he didn’t stink of vomit like the old man.

         He turned to a young soldier standing nearby on the deck. “Signal the other ships, and get the men into their armor. We land shortly, and I want them ready to fight.”

         The young man stiffened, bowed, and then raced off to pass the word.

*                    *                    *

         Son of a whore it’s hot! Lucas thought to himself. The sun beat down on the shore, reflecting blindingly off both the sand and the water. The light dazzled his eyes, and the heat felt like it was cooking him alive in his armor.

         Around him, dead men and horses sprawled across the sand, blood slowly leaking from their shattered bodies and soaking into the dry ground. Immediately upon landfall a clan of sand-eaters had come galloping up, gibbering in their heathen tongue and brandishing weapons. Lucas had rather enjoyed the fight, quick though it had been. After two weeks of endless arguments with that damned priest and the best part of another week trapped on the ship with him, Lucas was more than ready to kill something.

         He bent down to wipe the blade of his sword on the nearest sand-eater’s clothing, listening to the general chaos of the troops landing behind him. He rose back to his feet and sheathed his sword, then muttered a curse as the voice of Yanus’s high priest wavered though the dry desert air at him.

         “Well! Here we are, not even landed yet and already we’re discovered!” he shrieked at Lucas. “I must have been mad to listen to your so called ‘wisdom’ about landing here!” The aged man was nearly hopping up and down in his fury. “You’ve ruined this expedition, Lucas! Ruined, I say!”

         He had a small rock clutched in his gnarled fist, and he hurled it at Lucas, striking sparks from the prince’s pauldron, and leaving a scratch in the deep purple enamel.

         Lucas looked for a long moment at the scratch while the High Priest babbled on, then he turned to face the irate man with eyes of solid ice. The fingers of his left hand twitched, aching for the dagger sheathed at his hip. But he left the blade where it was. Instead, his right hand moved like a striking snake, and he seized the priest by the throat.

         With his air cut off by the Royal Marshal’s fist, the High Priest’s tirade degenerated into a gasping plea to be released.

         Lucas shook the old man, his nostrils flaring wide with pleasure at attacking the source of his pent-up frustration. Lifting him so that they were eye to eye, he spoke, his voice more frozen than his eyes. “Listen to me, Priest,” he hissed. “I don’t care who you are, no man attacks me and lives.” He gave the old man another, almost gentle shake. “If you so much as think of raising your hand to me again, I’ll squeeze your head right off.”

         The High Priest’s blue-tinged lips worked soundlessly, but his head bobbled on his neck in a rough approximation of a nod.

         Lucas cast him aside, seeing as he landed the dark stain on his robes from pissing himself. Wiping his hands in disgust, Lucas walked back toward the ships.

         “You there!” Lucas bellowed at a sailor scampering up the rigging of the closest beached ship.

         “Yes, m’lord?” the man called back.

         “Get your flags and tell some of the water ships to come up and unload. Its several days march to the oasis and my men are thirsty after that little bit of a fight!”

         His statement was met with cheers and shouts of agreement from the troops around him.

         “Right away, m’lord,” the sailor agreed, and resumed his climb to the top of the mast.

         “We need to ration the water, Highness,” Sir Adam said, appearing beside Lucas.

         I’ll set enough aside to drown you and that senile priest! Out of my own ration, even! Lucas thought. How I long to be rid of both of you! “We can conserve water when we’re dead, Sir Knight,” Lucas responded, not bothering to look at the older man. “There are ten of the crown’s largest ships out there carrying nothing but fresh water. In ten days they will be back with more. There is plenty here, we can slake our thirst today without guilt.”

         “As you say, Highness,” Sir Adam responded. “But best to get the men used to water rationing now, before we actually are short of water.”

         “Tell me, Sir Adam,” Lucas said, gritting his teeth. “Do you intend to argue with every decision I make while we are in this Yanus-forsaken kingdom?”

         “Only the stupid ones, Highness,” Sir Adam responded. He sketched a small bow, then turned and returned to the marshalling of his troops.

         Lucas was left alone to grind his teeth in fury. “Impudent peasant!” He muttered to himself. “The coward dares call me stupid? Me?” He drew his sword and viciously stabbed the sand with it. The familiar red haze began to claw at the corners of his vision, but his beat it back. Slowly, torturously, he regained control of himself.

         Turning to a nearby soldier, Lucas waved him forward. “Fetch my commander of scouts, soldier,” he commanded.

         “I…I don’t know who the scout commander is, Highness,” the man stammered.

         Lucas breathed deeply, forcing himself to retain even the slightest bit of calm. “Lord Allyn is the scout commander. Do I need to draw you a picture of his sigil, or can you find it by yourself?” His teeth were beginning to hurt from the pressure his jaw was putting on them.

         “I-I-I can find him, Highness.” The soldier hastily bowed and retreated from his Prince.

         Taking advantage of the temporary silence around him, Lucas closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the salt air calm his fury. Slowly, he fumbled his waterskin off his belt and took a drink. The water was warm and flat, but he drank it anyway. He’d been in this desert before, and warm and flat was more than welcome in the desert.

         A shadow fell on his face, lessening the light burning through his closed eyelids, and his eyes snapped open. Lord Allyn stood before him, his helm removed and head bowed, waiting for Lucas to acknowledge his presence.

         “Ah Lord Allyn!” Lucas said, as if the man were an old friend, and not someone he’d met four or five times in his thirty years. “I’d like you to take your scouts and clear the way to Hell’s Gate oasis. I’ll send a baggage train a day behind you with all the empty barrels so your men can start filling them there.”

         “All the scouts, Your Highness?” Lord Allyn looked at him quizzically.

         “No, I’d say take perhaps two hundred picked men. Enough to take down any clan of sand-eaters you may come across. Also, I want flank patrols out as we move. Make sure whoever you leave in command understands that. I want no surprises. Anything that comes within ten miles of this column I should know about. Understood?”

         “Yes, Your Highness.” Lord Allyn bowed and mounted his horse, walking it back to where his men were gathering.

         The sun was slowly sinking to the horizon, and the scouts had long since left the seaside camp when Lucas saw Yanus’ Grand Priest again. Lucas was sitting at his writing table inside his tent, taking his evening meal. It was damnably hot inside, but at least the sun was off him and out of his eyes for the time being.

         The hatched-faced old man walked into the tent without so much as calling out for permission. With him were two of his church swords. Big, burly men in white armor with full beards and drawn swords.

        Seeing their shadows fall across his plate, Lucas wiped his mouth and turned to face them. “Well, to what do I owe the honor of your presence so late in the day, Your Grace?” he asked.

        “I’ve sent a courier back to your father, informing him of your assault on me this afternoon,” the old man snarled. “You are to remain here, at the landing with your men until I receive word back from him.”

        “And what makes you think I’ll take direction from you, old man? You’ve no idea where you are, or how to conduct this army through the desert.”

        “I have two thousand more of these,” he jerked a thumb at the two brutes standing behind him, “That say you and your five hundred marshals will do as you’re told,” The old man snapped. “Sir Adam has also assured me that he will lend his aid, as well.”

        “That coward?” Lucas sneered. “I’ll go through him like a mace through a ripe melon.”

        As the words left his mouth, Sir Adam ducked through the doorway and into the tent.

        “By all means, everyone just walk right in!” Lucas snarled. He rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at the ex-watch commander. “I’ll have you scourged for your insolence, peasant!”

        "I think not, Your Highness,” Sir Adam replied. He gestured outside and five more men, these wearing the blood-red cloaks of the king’s legions jammed into the tent. “Prince Lucas, you are to consider your tenure as Royal Marshal suspended, and you will be held here to await return to the City of Kings for trial.” The five men pushed forward and grabbed him, wrestling his wrists into shackles.

        “You have no authority to suspend me, Whitby! This is treason!” Lucas shouted, fighting against the soldiers.

        “No,” the elderly knight said in a voice of iron. “This is justice for all the women and children you’re slaughtered.” He gestured to the men holding his prince. “Keep him quiet. We don’t need the lords inciting rebellion over this.” He turned and left the tent. After a thoroughly self-satisfied smirk, the grand priest and his thugs followed, leaving his alone with his captors.

        One of the red-cloaked men removed his helm and stepped closer. Lucas could barely make out the face in the dying light. It was totally unfamiliar to him.

        “Don’t remember me, do you?” The soldier asked. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t think you would. I was a salt-maker near Icegate. Had me a pretty wife, nothing special, but she was a good woman and nice to look at. Three little girls we had, all of them getting ready to marry. Then you and your marshals came riding up.” His face twisted in fury. “You killed them. All four of them. For what? Witchcraft?”

        Tears were running from the man’s eyes as memories he had tried for years to forget resurfaced. “I came back from the flats to find my girls dead in their own blood, and you and your bastard marshals riding away up the path!” He finished in a hoarse scream, burying his fist in Lucas’ stomach.

        Lucas wished he still had his armor on, but he forced some words out around the pain. “Your wife…died…moaning…like…a whore…”

        The other four soldiers join in on the beating at that point, and though Lucas fought them, a mailed fist caught him in the side of the head, and he collapsed into the black pit of unconsciousness.