King's Road

      Seventeen stand with the king against a screaming rabble of thousands. The screams of the attackers and the dying assault his ears, surrounded by the dead and soon to be dead. A sword flashes at his face. He ducks as his own sword rises, leaden arms getting slower and slower with each attack. His assailant’s sword glances off the cheek guard of his helm, driving it into his face. More of his blood runs down his armor mixing with the blood that already drenches it, some his, most of it others. He is long past noticing the pain. He feels his sword sink into soft flesh and his assailant falls clutching at the coils of guts that are spilling from his gaping belly, adding his death scream to the cacophony. He looks up from the dying soldier at a grunt from his right. Sir Rausch stands with a javelin protruding from his left eye, the point showing through the back of his helm with a fragment of his skull hanging from the rent. He silently topples to joining the bodies of those he had slain. Sixteen stand with the king, all soon to be dead.

         He awakens with a flash of panic; raising the sword that he fell asleep clutching. His heart is pounding and his body covered in sweat that tells him he is still alive. The desperate feelings from his nightmare fade slowly as he looks up into a clear sky that glows faintly with the first hints of the dawn. He sits up and grunts from the pain in his side from the deepest of his wounds that has been frustratingly slow to heal. He has been on the road three weeks with only the last few days making any real progress. The first fortnight he lay in a thicket near a stream unsure if he would survive his wounds and not caring. When he recovered enough to be able to stand he left behind all his armor keeping only the sword, more for its usefulness in assisting his limping walk. Now as he has healed enough not to need the sword as a crutch he keeps it as a remembrance of his failure.

         His nightmare haunts his morning thoughts. Sir Raush was not the king’s greatest knight, nor the strongest, or the best with a sword but it could be argued that he was the most intelligent.

         He breaks his fast with a handful of grain and a couple of dried apples he stole from a farm he passed two days ago. He eats slowly watching the distant horizon. When he finishes he rises painfully and leaves the stand of poplar trees and makes his way to the King’s Road. “Now that there is no king only a queen they should rename it,” he thinks with a painful chuckle. The few people he has encountered on the road so far, merchants and farm folk, have passed him warily with little greeting. It is a fearful time for travelers. A kingdom in rebellion is dangerous place. All fear they may be singled out for perceived loyalties to the fallen king. That and the sight of his sword keep all at a distance.

         He walks slowly along the road more leaving things behind than with any plan on where he is going. He keeps his thoughts focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Too many demons from his past propel him forward. To dwell on any of them would cripple him. Drive him to his knees in futility.  As the sun rose towards midday he hears a wagon approaching him from the rear. A glance back shows a lone man driving a large wagon being pulled by a heavily muscled ox. As it nears him he steps to the side of the road to let it pass.

The driver, an old man wearing a heavy grey tunic and trousers tucked into high leather boots, nods a greeting to the limping walker and slows his wagon. “Watching you walk is painful. You look like you are about ready to fall out.”

The man’s wariness faded into a genuine smile. “Is that just an observation or do you have an alternative in mind?”

         The driver returned a warm smile. “What do you think Baleraup, can you handle a little increase in your burden?”

         It took the man a moment to realize that the driver was directing his question to the ox.  “My pardon, should I direct my question to the leader of your team? He gave a nod to the ox as he put a hand on to the side of the wagon to steady himself. When he stopped moving his pain and fatigue had caught up with him leaving him dizzy.

         The driver’s smile burst into a load deep laugh. “We are a partnership, his brains and my muscle.” The driver extended a hand down to the man. “They call me Ox and my quiet partner is Baleraup.” The drivers grip was strong and firm as he grasped the man’s hand and easily pulled him up onto the bench besides him. “Welcome aboard. We don’t regularly pick up strangers but Baleraup thought you had a trusting face and thought it unfortunate if you would fall on it… which you looked to about ready to.”

         The man let the words wash over him. It seemed like it had been a long time since he had heard so many at once, and was a bit thrown by the introduction. “My thanks for the assistance, I was thrown by my horse a while back and the worse for it.” The man paused for a moment. “My name is Kael.”

         Ox seemed not to notice the hesitation. “Well met Kael.” Ox made a quick nod to the sword still clutched in Kael’s hand.  “You might consider stowing that in the back. Patrols have been seen on the road as of late. They trouble everyone looking for deserters and King’s loyalists” He said this last while keeping his eyes straight ahead and giving the ox a tap with a thin pole that lay across the front board of the wagon. The wagon lurched forward as the great ox started down the road at a steady walk. Kael followed Ox’s advice and twisted around and tucked the sword under the edge of the worn canvas covering the wagon’s cargo.

         As Kael turned back forward in the wagon he found a large clay jug suspended before him by one of Ox’s massive hands. He took the offered jug and took a long pull. His throat burned like he had just swallowed a lite torch. He coughed in surprise as he felt the warmth spread through his belly and extend a comfortable numbness into his limbs almost immediately. He gave another cough as his eyes started to water. Ox chuckled as he took the jug back and took a long pull of his own. After he swallowed he let out an audible sigh. “This is my own brew. It warms the soul and eases the aches of age.”