Chapter 8 – Tides

A painted carriage towed by two draft horses arrived in the Lake Top square. From the door, a sharp-nosed man emerged wearing the King’s colors. Blue and gold silks were draped over his glistening mail shirt. A carriage driver leapt down, placing a wooden step in front of the ported door. As the well-dressed man stepped clear of the carriage and meandered into the crowd, his ruffled silks trailed behind him. He held his nose high and looked over the villagers appraisingly; a farmer looking over the livestock at market. Lake Top was a sleepy town, so it did not get many visitors. This new arrival caused quite a stir.

Men, women and babes took a pause from their labors, crowding into the town square. They looked on in enamored wonder. A young woman wiped at a streak of dirt across her forehead, clutching at a tangle of carrot stems. She was drawn towards the elegant man, an aura of importance radiated from his pristine uniform. Who was this man? He certainly was not a Lake Top regular.

Abel shrugged through the amassing crowd, eager to see the new arrival. Sweat marred his white linen shirt and he still held the smithy’s hammer at his side. Abel hoped that Master Finley was not too perturbed about his absence. The portly smith was renowned for his short temperament. He was also known for his short stature, quite short as a matter of fact. No one would dare comment on his height though. Master Finley had spent more than 30 years at the forge, smashing metal and hauling crates of unrefined ore. The man resembled an ox now, with meaty limbs jammed onto a wide frame.

Abel heard a frilly, exaggerated accent that silenced the crowd around him.

“People of Lake Top, it is with great pleasure that I come today to offer you a most phenomenal opportunity. Your King, his majesty Othello Caprica the first, protector of Marlathon, the valiant victor of the Great War, savior of the free peoples, has sent me to meet with the great residents of Lake Top.” The man grinned, scanning the crowd.

“The King has long remarked of the rugged, unshakeable character of the peoples of Alacia. As he peruses the maps of Marlathon, he often stares longingly at the Jylet Mountains. Oh so frequently does he comment that the stunning, clean waters must make for the heartiest, and most absolute of men. Even more so, he has held that Lake Top’s merit is unmatched. He praises the competence of its peoples, and applauds the self-reliance of Lake Top that is unmatched in Alacia. This is why, King Othello Caprica, has bestowed upon me this great honor today.”

A quiet buzz of excitement began to rise within the gathered villagers. The sharp man pivoted quickly, caressing his oiled mustache before continuing.

“Fine people of Lake Top. The King has requested your service.” He put emphasis on the word your. Then he bowed to the crowd, much as a man would bow before a statue of Mainar when asking for a blessing.

The soft buzz grew into a swarm of mutters and raised eyebrows. Shoulders were packed in around Abel, pushing forward. People had edged closer to the crier, almost on top of him now. The shimmering man stood reverently at the center. Abel watched as the man wiped a sole finger under his eye. Was he wiping away a tear?

“The King humbly asks for your help. He has flown the golden colors once again and announced that he is reassembling the Marlathon Army. Filian miscreants have been rallying at the border and taking our people. Those savages continue to breach Brashus Reach, violating the accords and ravaging the peace that we worked so hard to establish. As such, the King has marshalled his forces to the border. Scouts have told the King that the Filians are amassing a considerable army across the Brashus Reach. He fears that soon those fanatics will move towards our sovereign lands.” The mustachioed man swept his arm across the crowd in a circle.

“We have a duty to our King, a responsibility to maintain this peaceful way of life that Marlathon stands for. We must stand together. We must stand for righteousness and justice. We cannot wait idly and unprepared for the Filian forces. We must bolster our reserves and prepare for battle. Reports are already coming in of small border skirmishes as those filthy reds begin probing the lines. It is time we offered our service to the King’s great cause.”

Abel stood on his toes, trying to peer over his neighbors and friends. He watched as the crier fetched some documents from his driver and started beckoning for people to form a line. A pile of fresh vellum sheets bore the King’s seal and were headed with ‘Writ of Service’. They were draft documents to enlist in the King’s Royal Army. Abel knew that you couldn’t enlist without spending time in a city or regional guard. The King must have waived the requirements. Things must be rather stark with the Filians.

A ponderous line slowly unfurled in front of the crier’s carriage. Eric, Hudson and Renley, all boys his age, were clamoring for a spot. He recognized stable hands, more farmers and even some of the local guard in the line. Missus Wright, Eric’s mother was tugging emphatically at the boy’s shoulder. Her eyes were red and welling with tears as she pleaded with her son. Eric’s father had passed away two winters ago from a flu and he was an only son. His mother found work repairing clothes and sewing outfits for summer, but most of the farm work fell to Eric. He never seemed quite suited for farming and had tried joining the guard several times since his father’s death. Missus Wright had begged Talbot not to let him join, so all of Eric’s attempts were denied. Abel watched as Eric tried to comfort his mother.

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Able narrowed his brow, staring at the gleaming mail of the crier. Silvered steel hung neatly beneath spun gold and blue. Abel had never held a sword before. Up until this point, the biggest blade he had helped Master Finley with was a belt knife. He had urged Master Finley to make a sword for months now, but the old ox had told him that nobody in Lake Top had need of one.

But the army needed swords. Were the Filians really so terrible? He had read the accounts of the Great War, even though his father disdained books with violence. Caleb had told him that there was nothing to be learned from fighting.

“War is a failure of men, a failure to communicate.” Abel heard his father’s words in his head. Even so, he felt that there was much to be learned in the accounts of battle and the stories of men. Some of the simplest, humblest men had found themselves becoming heroes without even realizing it. They stumbled into greatness, and not because they sought glory. Abel’s favorite stories were of the men that simply wanted to protect the people around them. They fought because they were selfless, because they cared about the friends next to them. They cared about their families back home. They simply wanted to protect those who could not protect themselves.

Abel had skimmed over the tales of Brindon and Bruden’s party. He found himself skipping them out of shear frustration. Why? Why had Brindon betrayed his brother. The thought of Brindon killing his twin brother made Abel clench his fists in anger. The five of them had single handedly saved the kingdom and shut down the Filians. They were the biggest heroes in Marlathon history. King Caprica offered them lands and titles, he made them infamous. They were deities in Marlathon after the war. Frustration overwhelmed Abel. Ragged fingernails dug into fleshy palms as Abel breathed in slowly, releasing the thought and easing his hands open.

Again, Abel found himself pulled unwittingly towards the line of volunteers. Another step. He could do better than Brindon. Instead of reading books and stories about other men, Abel could be that man on the pages of history. Instead of hammering away at old horseshoes, he could be the one to make a difference. Abel set his jaw and started marching towards the diminishing line when a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Able, what’s going on here? That man is wearing the King’s colors.” His father stood beside him now, peering towards the last few boys lined up in front of the crier. Abel winced, looking abashedly towards his dad.

“They’re recruiting father, recruiting for the King’s Army.” He couldn’t stop himself from emphasizing the words in an anxious tone. Caleb paused, closing his eyes briefly. His father breathed deeply, absorbing his son’s words.

“And you… you were going to volunteer then?”

Abel looked at the ground, sensing his father’s concern. He didn’t want to lie to him, but he knew that his father would be crushed by the thought of him leaving to fight in a war.

“I just want to do something important. I don’t want to watch my whole life pass me by from behind a book. The Filus threaten us again, just like the Great War. It’s my time to protect our home.” Abel fidgeted nervously.

“Aye, I understand Abel. But, there will always be somebody else to do the fighting, to do the killing. You could be so much more my boy.”

“Like you?” Abel retorted. “Filus destroyed entire cities the last time they attacked. Thousands died protecting their families. Where were you? You could have protected Mother but you didn’t!” Abel was shaking with emotion now. His chest felt tight as he stared daggers at his father. A hint of tears sat precariously on his eye lids.

Abel watched as his father recoiled from the stinging words. He had never accused his father before, but he felt the anger and sadness exploding inside him. The thought of his father running from the Filus made him furious. He wanted to scream.

“Alright,” Caleb said softly, “just don’t leave without saying goodbye.” His father turned slowly and walked away, leaving Abel standing in the middle of the nearly empty square. Abel looked back to the crier who was gathering the stack of documents from the attendant. He still quivered with rage, seeing white spots dancing in his vision. Despite his narrowed vision, Abel dashed towards the crier.

“Sir!” Abel said between rushed breaths, “Sir! I would be honored to enlist”.

The mustachioed man lifted his eyes slightly from the stack of papers, surveying Abel from head to toe before looking back down.

“We filled our quota already boy. Fifty men from Lake Top. Pheh. Fifty sodden boys at least.” The man mumbled under his breath, casually counting the stack. “Maybe you’ll have a chance next war” he chuckled slightly.

Abel felt cold. The heat of frustration and excitement drained from his body. His eyes were blank with desperation. What?! Wait, surely the King would want as many men as the Kingdom could muster. It was a simple mistake.

“Sir,” Abel swallowed audibly, “You would take no more than fifty men? I suspect the King would be pleased if you recruited more than your quota.” He paused nervously waiting for a reply. “Especially Lake Top men that the King speaks so fondly of.”

“Hah!” the crier nearly spat, choking from laughter. “Ah yes, Lake Top, what a valiant region of hardy, noble men. As spectacular as Hummenbog, or the Southern Reach, or the rats scrambling through piles of shit in the Narrows. Lake Top is a tariff to be paid, not some grand force of knights gracing the front lines. Go home boy, lest I mark you disabled and bar you from the King’s service.”

The crier finished gathering his things as Abel sat in shocked silence. Cold seeped into Abel’s bones now, freezing him in place. He stared, eyeing the crier, seeing the grease clinging to the man’s mustache. Abel could see rusted tarnish now on the chain mail, hidden by the flowing blue and gold cloak. Dirt and mud flecked the bottom of his cloak, the façade quickly fading as the crier climbed into his carriage.

A firm snap of leather jolted the horses into action. Begrudging whinnies from the horses followed, pulling the cart. Abel looked numbly at the cart as it rolled away. He watched it rambling slowly towards the distant tree line, powerless to act, as his opportunity vanished into the forest.