The Dark Cycle - Chapter Seven

The Camp

When Stephen woke up, he realized he had been trussed like a chicken.

He was face-down on a carpet that smelled like feet. His arms were tied behind his back in a tight position, the ropes already chafing into his skin. As Stephen tried to move, he felt flushes of ticklish pain from the welts in his wrist, followed by a searing jolt in his thigh.

His legs were also tied together at intervals, so he could only move by flopping them around like a fish’s tail. When he did this, his left shin ached dully, the pain pounding below the more high-pitched shriek from his thigh. All of these hurts and knots made it difficult to turn around. But failure meant succumbing to the filthy carpet. When Stephen finally sat up, he saw a damp puddle of his own tacky, bloody drool, soaked into the fabric.

Stephen had been able to stifle his cries of pain, but now could not suppress a stern: “Ugh. Gross.”

“You sucked the carpet all night,” Raeffe’s voice assured him.

Now that Stephen was in a half-sitting position, he managed to rotate himself around. The world was still a little fuzzy, but he could tell he was sitting in a tent. A wooden stake in the ground was holding up several yards of tarp. The blue of the material turned the daylight to the color of burnt cinder, and the occasional rip cast gems of light on the walls. One of these bright yellow bursts hit Stephen directly in the eyes and he winced.

When he adjusted his position, Stephen saw Raeffe was sitting across from him. The young nobleman was similarly bound, with war-wounds of his own: a fat, glossy welt split his bottom lip and his eye was haloed in a black bruise.

Stephen experienced a nauseating moment of concern - Raeffe’s pretty face being thus marked was an upsetting and dramatic surprise. But he forced himself to think quickly and be calm.

“What can you tell me about our captors?” he asked Raeffe.

“They like to punch people.”

Stephen shook his head. His voice had sounded strange to his own ears: garbled and soft. But at least his senses were returning to him. He could hear snatches of conversation from outside and the crackling of open hearth-fires. Occasionally, a bout of laughter punctuated the soundscape, but the dominant quality of the voices was crisp and militaristic.

“We are in the Knights of Oblivion’s camp,” Stephen intuitied.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Raeffe muttered, wiggling around to try and shift his position. “These men wear decent uniforms and I haven’t seen them dismembering any animals since we got here. So I think it’s a different army.”

“They are very cruel though,” Grey sniffled. For the first time, Stephen realized the boy was in the room, hidden almost perfectly behind the wooden column that held the tent up. Grey peeked around this barricade. “They shot poor Stephen in the bottom.”

“Heh heh heh.” Raeffe stuck his legs out in front of him. “I bet that hurt.”

“Yes it did. And thank you for your concern,” Stephen said to Grey.

But Raeffe’s giggles were apparently infectious, for Grey’s compassionate expression was beginning to crack. “You should not laugh at other people’s hurts,” Grey said to Raeffe. “But it is a little funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” Raeffe agreed, a musical lilt in his voice. “When they hauled you up from the ground, there was a big arrow sticking out of your bottom. I laughed; and that was the first time they punched me.”

“Well! That was decent of them,” Stephen said. “I think I like our captors better than I like you, Raeffe.”

“I don’t think you’ll say that, when you hear what they did to Lyle.”

Stephen’s heart dropped. “What? What did they do to him?”

Raeffe and Grey exchanged a worried glance, all of the humor vanished from their eyes. “So, here’s the thing,” Raeffe said, beginning slowly. “They seemed to know who Lyle was. At least, one of the soldiers did. And as we all were walking over to the camp, someone brought a whip and they started hitting Lyle with it.”

“Calling him all sorts of terrible names,” Grey added. “Like ‘cod-swiller’ and ‘no-good rogue.’ They hit his back until he was ripped up and bleeding! I could not even tell where the cuts were anymore, he was such a mangled mess. I almost vomited. And then they - they - they took Gertrude. And they said they were going to eat her!”

“That is worrying,” Stephen agreed, looking at each of them. “I suppose it’s possible Lyle committed some crime. They didn’t say anything more specific?”

“Hard to say,” Raeffe said. “I was trying to listen, but the march here was so difficult. I was just concentrating on keeping on my feet.”

“Oh really?” Stephen asked dryly. “Is walking so very difficult for you to walk in a straight line? Poor little nobleman!”

Raeffe’s glare was withering, but he did not speak.

After a long silence, Grey finally said: “They made Raeffe carry you.”

“Yes,” Raeffe said, in a sneering hiss. “And you, Stephen Marshall. Are. Fat!”

“You carried me?” Stephen asked, disbelieving. “With what muscles?”

Raeffe began squirming again, this time with such violent thrashing that Stephen tried to wiggle back a few inches. “Ungrateful - little - villain!” Raeffe cried.

“What are you doing?” Stephen asked.

“Going to come over there and punch you in the face!”

“Your hands are tied,” Stephen reminded him.

“I will bite your nose off, then,” Raeffe said, though he was already giving up. The collar of his fine tunic was ringed in sweat and he was breathing heavily, his motions slowing to the faintest ticks. “No. No, I cannot! I am too tired from hauling around your fatness.”

“I still don’t see how that was possible.”

Grey shrugged and told Stephen: “It helped that they put a sword against his back. I never saw Raeffe move so fast, not even with you slung over his back like a sack of flour.”

Raeffe slid to the floor, clearly exhausted. “And this is a thanks I get. If anyone finds out I carried around an unconscious, unclean peasant I will die of shame. I might as well die now.”

“No, no, no, keep up and don’t die,” Stephen commanded. “We need to get out of this. Do you have any indication of what they want with us?”

“I heard some of the soldiers talking,” Grey offered. “They seem to be waiting on their commander to come talk to us. I believe they think we are spies.”

“Who are these men?” Stephen asked, more to himself than the others. “They are fighting the Knights of Oblivion, perhaps? So they might be our friends. We just need to keep our heads, and try and rescue Lyle.”

“Why do we want old chicken-lover back?” Raeffe asked.

“We need him. He knows the Iron City. And also, he said he had a plan for getting in.”

“Oh please,” Raeffe muttered. “I would wager a year of my life that whatever his plan is, it is the absolute worst.”

“Wager accepted,” Stephen said.

Raeffe paused, then looked up at Stephen, his black eyes shining with curiosity. “And what are you going to do with a year of my life?”

“I don’t know. Make you carry me around places, probably.”

“Fine! It’s a wager.”

“What are you going to do with a year of Stephen’s life?” Grey asked. “Imprison him in the Fortress d’Piers?”

“Don’t rush me,” Raeffe snapped. “I want to think of something really good. And also, Grey: when they ask you what your name is, you had better not say ‘d’Piers’. When I was in the Stabby Moors, I assumed a false name to hide my identity.”

“That’s actually a really good point,” Stephen agreed. He lowered his voice when he continued, hearing the sounds of squelching footsteps in the damp mud outside of the tent: “These soldiers might belong to a rival earl who could hold you both for ransom. Pick another name - any other name. Raeffe, what name did you use in the Stabby Moors?”

“Oh? Um. Heh. Well…” Raeffe looked up at the top of the tent, as though trying to find the answer written on the ceiling. “Um. Raeffe...Tent...Tenter...Tenterpole, I think it was?”

The true answer occurred to Stephen at once.

“Get stuffed,” he said. “You said your name was Raeffe Marshall, didn’t you?”

But before Raeffe could answer, the rhythmic sound of marching soldiers, moving in their direction, filled their hearing and struck Stephen with terror. His body suddenly felt heavy in its bonds. He was numb from a lack of circulation, and this immobility reminded him of being paralyzed in a nightmare.

A soldier entered, ducking underneath the tent’s canvas door. He was an unbearded man with squinting eyes and a slight stoop. His face was clean and unmarked by age, but something about his sunken posture made him appear old.

The soldier looked at each of the prisoners in turn, before ducking out again. In another instant, two of his armed counterparts entered and grabbed Grey under the arms.

“Stop!” Raeffe screamed, trying to rise again to his knees. “Stop - wait! Grey!”

To his credit, the younger boy did not scream in terror, but his eyes went huge. They were the disassembling eyes of a deer, trying to determine whether or not to run away, without realizing it was in the crosshairs of a hunter’s bow already.

But Raeffe continued to lurch about, shouting a torrent of profanity-laced threats. “If you hurt him, I’ll kill every last one of you!” he roared. “I will burn you up! You touch one hair on his head, and I’ll cut your throats and dismember your appendages and throw your heads on pikes! Your eyes will be bird-food!”

“Raeffe, calm down!” Stephen shouted. “You’re not helping!”

But it was too late. The young soldier from before came back in with the tallest soldier Stephen had ever seen. The man was packed with armor and weapons. He took one look at Raeffe and raised the young nobleman up by the collar until Raeffe’s feet dangled from the ground.

“You really are a crazy one,” the young soldier said, shaking his head. “Do you like getting punched in the face?”

“No…” Raeffe wheezed.

“Leave him alone,” Stephen commanded, pushing through a slight wavering in his voice. “We have nothing to hide. We are not spies, merely four travellers seeking to do a good deed. Take us to your commander, and we’ll tell you everything.”

The young soldier acquiesced, nodding his head at his meatier counterpart. The bonds on Raeffe and Stephen’s legs were cut, and they were summarily hustled into the camp, where an armed escort marched them forward.

At first, the naked light of the sun hurt Stephen’s eyes, and he couldn’t see anything. But soon, the camp began to come into focus. This was certainly not the Knights of Oblivion’s chaotic company. This was a much smaller force, for in looking around, Stephen could see all four boundaries of the camp at a glance. The soldiers numbered no more than two hundred.

But though small in size, the camp was far cleaner and better-organized than the army besieging the Iron City. Men in clean, blue uniforms stood beside cooking-fires that warmed the glistened, cracked skins of ducks and chickens. A few others were cooking chunks of meat. The drippings hit the flames, sizzling and hitting the air with the loamy, delicious smell of cooked fat. Stephen suddenly realized how hungry he was.

When they passed a bubbling cauldron of stew, Raeffe leaned over so far to get a whiff, Stephen was afraid the nobleman was going to fall over. But a soldier grabbed Raeffe by the shoulders and ordered:

“Keep moving, bug-meat!”

“Oh heavens,” Raeffe murmured. “But I would give my horse for just a bite.”

“What happened to Lander, by the way?” Stephen whispered. “Did they get him?”

“Be quiet!” a soldier growled, hitting Stephen and Raeffe in the back of the head. But Raeffe didn’t really need to make a reply, for the answer was obvious in his enormous, black eyes, which were now glittering with tears. He shook his head.

Poor Lander, thought Stephen. They’ve probably muzzled him and made him a war-horse by now.

The soldiers kept marching them to the far side of the camp, where a table stacked with vellum sat at the edge of a small field. The young soldier with the stooped manner of walking went over to the table, sat down, and picked up a quill pen. After dabbing his pen in ink, he said:

“You are prisoners of the Gideon Mace, commander of the fifth division of the Earl of Murdina’s personal army. My name is Peter, I am the divisional scribe. And what are your names?”

Stephen looked at Raeffe. He knew the young nobleman would do a better job of speaking for them, but Raeffe was still staring at the cauldron of stew.

“Raeffe!” Stephen snapped, under his breath.

“Hm? What? Oh, right.” Raeffe cleared his throat. “See here, Peetey - ”

“Peter.”

“See here, Peetey: we’re not spies or enemies or anything of that nature.”

“Then why were you creeping around in a war-zone?” Peter asked, shaking his head. “And the fact that you keep calling me ‘Peetey’ makes me think you are a couple of roguish figures. Probably from the Thieves’ Guild.”

“Well, I never!” Raeffe cried indignantly. “Ask me whatever you wish, we have nothing to hide. There’s nothing roguish about us. I just find your name hilarious, and I want to keep making fun of you. Peetey.”

The scribe’s only reply was a cutting glare. He paused, then began to scratch something out on his vellum.

“What are you writing down?” Raeffe asked, suddenly sounding nervous.

“None of your concern,” Peter said, without looking up. “It could be an execution order, if you don’t tell me your names…”

“Raeffe.”

“Surname?”

Raeffe didn’t answer. For a moment, Stephen couldn’t tell why his talkative companion had suddenly gone silent. When he looked over at Raeffe, the young nobleman’s face was growing pale, contrasting the stripey red injuries on his cheeks. Raeffe was looking at another soldier, who was approaching the scribe’s table.

But this was no ordinary soldier. This was a young man in a sea-colored sash, which glittered with jeweled pendants. He wore a nobleman’s seal-ring on his thumb, and several other gemstones flashed on his fingers. His high status was also evidenced in his cunning half-smile, which revealed a solid sense of superiority over everyone in the camp.

“Oh dear,” Raeffe whispered as the man with the sash began to stride toward the scribe’s table, flanked by two tall soldiers in heavy chainmail.

“Surname,” Peter demanded. “I won’t ask again. Oh, hullo Alyster.”

“Hullo,” the nobleman said, leaning over the table. “Got some new prisoners? Well. At least this gives our soldiers something to do. And what interesting prisoners, too.” He squinted at Raeffe, as though trying to bring him into focus. “This one looks familiar.”

“Marshall!” Raeffe blurted out. “My surname is Marshall.”

“And you?” Peter asked Stephen.

“Stephen Marshall is my name.”

“Brothers, then?”

Stephen answered reflexively: “What? No. Ugh. He’s not my brother.”

“What are you - married, then?” Peter giggled, nudging Alyster. “I have to tell you Stephen, that is one sharp-tongued wife you’ve got yourself. Not to mention, ugly as a dog.”

Stephen thought Raeffe would argue with this, or say something cutting and clever. Stephen was actually looking forward to it. But Raeffe didn’t say anything. He was trying to avoid looking at the man called Alyster, who was staring at Raeffe with a curious expression.

“He’s my...cousin…” Stephen said, without much enthusiasm. “My father’s nephew.”

“No he’s not,” Alyster said briskly, standing up straight. “That is Raeffe d’Piers, or I’m blinded. And I would wager six gold coins that the boy you have in the commander’s tent is his brother, Greyden. I met them both during the Winter Feast last season, when all the earls came together. If I recall correctly, Raeffe here was sulking the entire time because the castellan said he was too little and weak to compete in the tournament.”

Once again, Stephen thought Raeffe would make some snide comment, and again Raeffe was mute. So Stephen spoke up for him: “Listen here, I don’t know who you think you are - ”

“Alyster Murdina, eldest grandson of the earl of Murdina,” the nobleman said, seeming to grow taller as he spoke his title. “Gideon Mace’s chief advisor in our war against the Knights of Oblivion. I am Lord of Jaffar in the South, Duke of the Seventeenth Isle. And who the deuce are you, Stephen Marshall?”

At that moment, they all were distracted by the sound of rattling chains. A half-dozen soldiers walked through the field to the scribe’s desk. Two of them were dragging a man between them. He was so bloodied and bruised, it took Stephen several moments to recognize Lyle. The soldiers deposited Lyle in front of the scribe’s desk, where he moaned and held his ribs.

“And what,” Alyster Murdina continued, “were you doing with this traitor?”

“Traitor?” Stephen repeated, astonished.

“The traitor Lyle des Vargas,” Alyster said. “One of the most infamous rogues in all of the kingdom. My father has a warrant out for his immediate execution, and at least seven other earls that I could name right now would pay a sack of gold for his head. Are you really telling me you didn’t know?”