“You never know,” Fanen said. “Monks of old used to fight a lot, and Alric said you helped save his life by killing one of those mercenaries who attacked you. So you’re one ahead of me there. I’ve never actually killed a man.”
Myron frowned and dropped his gaze. “I wish he hadn’t told anyone about that.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Slaying a villain in the service of your king is the stuff of legends and what heroes are made of.”
“It didn’t feel very heroic. It made me sick. I don’t even know why I…no, that’s a lie. I really have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Lying. The abbot told me once that lying was a betrayal to one’s self. It’s evidence of self-loathing. You see, when you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie to hide it rather than accept yourself for who you really are. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you. It’s like when a man would rather die than be thought of as a coward. His life is not as important to him as his reputation. In the end, who is the braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?”
“I’m sorry, you lost me there,” Fanen said with a quizzical look.
“It doesn’t matter, besides, the prince asked me along strictly as a chronicler of events, not as a warrior. I think he wants me to record what happens today in a book.”
“Well, if you do, please leave out the way Denek threw a fit at not being allowed to come. It will reflect badly on our family.”
Everything they passed was new to Myron. He had seen snow, of course, but only in the courtyard and cloister at the abbey. He never saw how it settled on a forest or glittered on the edges of rivers and streams. They were traveling through populated country now, passing village after village; each one larger than the one before. Myron could only stare in fascination at the many different types of buildings, animals, and people he saw along the way. Each time they came into a town, the villagers came out to stare at them. They scurried out of their homes aroused by the ominous thrump, thrump, thrump of the soldiers marching. Some summoned the courage to ask where they were going, but the men said nothing under strict orders to maintain silence.
Children ran to the edge of the road where parents quickly pulled them back. Myron had never seen a child before, at least not since he had been one. It was not uncommon for a boy to be sent to the abbey at ten or twelve but rarely, if ever, before the age of eight. The smallest of the children fascinated Myron, and he watched them in amazement. They were like short drunk people, loud and usually dirty, but all were surprisingly cute and looked at him in much the same way that he looked at them. They would wave, and Myron could not help but wave back, although he assumed it was not very soldierly to do so.
The war host moved surprisingly fast. The foot soldiers, responding in unison to orders, alternated between periods of double-time marching with a more relaxed stride, which was only slightly slower. Each of them wore a grim face without a smile among them.
For hours, they marched. No one interfered with them. There were no advance formations lying in ambush, no challenges along the road. To Myron, the trip felt more like an exciting parade than the preparation for an ominous battle. Finally, he saw his first glimpse of Melengar in the distance. Fanen pointed out the great bell tower of Mares Cathedral and the tall spires of Essendon Castle, where no standard flew.
A vanguard rode up and reported a strong force entrenched around the city. The nobles ordered their regiments to form ranks. Flags relayed messages, archers strung their bows, and the army transformed themselves into blocks of men. In long lines of three across, they moved as one. The archers were summoned forward and moved ahead just behind the foot soldiers.
Ordered to the rear, Myron and Fanen rode with the cooks to watch and listen. From his new vantage point, Myron noticed part of the army had broken away from the main line and was moving to the right side of the city. When the ranks of men reached the rise, which left them visible to the castle walls, a great horn sounded in the distance.
One of their own answered the castle horn, and the Galilin archers released a barrage of arrows upon the defenders. The shafts flew and appeared to hang briefly in the air like a dark cloud. As they fell, Myron could hear the distant cries of men. He watched with anticipation as the mounted knights broke into three groups. One stayed on the road, while the other two took up flanking positions on either side. The main line increased their pace to a brisk walk.
When they heard the horn, Mason Grumon and Dixon Taft led their mob up Wayward Street, effectively emptying the Lower Quarter. It was the sign Royce and Hadrian told them to wait for; it was the signal to attack.
Ever since the two thieves woke them in the middle of the night, they spent their time organizing the resistance in the Lower Quarter of Medford. They spread news of Amrath’s assassination by the archduke, of the innocence of the princess, and of the return of the prince. Those not moved by loyalty or justice were enticed by the chance to strike back at their betters. It was not difficult to convince the poor and the destitute to take up arms against the soldiery who policed them. In addition, there were those hoping for a possibility to do a little looting, or perhaps receive some reward from the crown if they prevailed.
They armed themselves with pitchforks, axes, and clubs. Makeshift armor was constructed by strapping whatever thin metal they could find under their clothing. In most cases, this meant commandeering a baking sheet from their wives. They had the numbers, but they looked a pathetic lot. Gwen had roused the Artisan Quarter, which provided not only strong workers but a few swords, bows, and bits of armor. With the city guards ordered to the perimeter and most of the Gentry Quarter at the trial, there was no one to stop them from openly organizing.
With Dixon at his side, Mason marched at the head of the commoner procession, his smithing hammer in one hand and a rough-hewn shield he had beaten together that morning in the other. Years of frustration and resentment steamed to the surface as the smith strode forward. Anger born from the life he had been denied overwhelmed him. When he could not pay the taxes on his late father’s shop, it had been the city sheriff and his guards who came. When he refused to leave, they had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into the gutter of Wayward Street. Mason blamed the guards for most of his life’s misfortunes. The beating had weakened his shoulders, and for years afterward, wielding his hammer was so painful he could only work a few hours each day. This, and his gambling habit, kept him in poverty. Of course, he never really considered the gambling to be the real problem; it was the guards who were responsible. It did not matter to him that the soldiers and the sheriff who beat him were no longer with the guard. Today was his chance to fight back, to repay in kind for the pain he had endured.
Neither he nor Dixon were warriors or athletic, but they were large men with broad chests and thick necks, and the crowd followed behind them as if the citizens of the Lower Quarter were plowing the city with a pair of yoked oxen. They turned onto Wayward Street and marched unchallenged into the Gentry Quarter. Compared to the Lower Quarter, it was like another world. The streets were paved with decorative tile work and lined with metal horse hitches. Along the avenue, enclosed street lamps and covered sewers accentuated the care taken for the comfort of the privileged few. Marking the center of the Gentry Quarter was a large spacious square. The great Essendon Fountain, with its statue of Tolin on a rearing horse above the pluming water, was its main landmark. Across from it, Mares Cathedral rose. In its towers high above, bells chimed loudly. They passed the fine three-story stone and brick houses with their iron fences and decorative gates. That the stables here looked better than the house Mason lived in was not lost on him. The trip through the square only added fuel to the fire that was sweeping across the city.