Read Online Into a Dark Realm by Raymond E. Feist - Free Book Online
Authors: Raymond E. Feist
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I’ll make a general out of you, and when the time comes we’ll push down to the sea together.”
“Make me a general?” said Kaspar with a grin.
“Ah, yes, I was the commander of a brigade when last we met,” said the General, returning Kaspar’s grin. “Now I command the army. My cousin appreciates success.”
“Ah,” said Kasper, shaking his hand. “If ambition grips me, I know where to find you.”
“Good fortune, Kaspar of Olasko.”
“Good fortune, General.”
Kaspar left the pavilion and mounted his horse. He walked the gelding down the side of the hill toward a distant dell through which wandered a good-sized stream.
He felt a rising disquiet as he approached the luggage wagons, for he could see signs of battle all around. The traditions of war forbade attacking the luggage boys or the women who followed the army, but there were times when such niceties were ignored or the ebb and flow of the conflict simply washed over the noncombatants.
Several of the boys he saw bore wounds, some minor, some serious, and many were bandaged. A few lay on pallets beneath the wagons and slept, their injuries rendering them unfit for any work.Kaspar rode to where a stout man in a blood-covered tunic sat on a wagon, weeping. A recently removed metal cuirass lay on the seat next to him, as did a helm with a plume, and he stared off into the distance. “Are you the Master of the Luggage?” asked Kaspar.
The man merely nodded, tears slowly coursing down his cheeks.
“I’m looking for a boy, by the name of Jorgen.”
The man’s jaw tightened and he dismounted slowly. When he was standing before Kaspar he said, “Come with me.”
He led Kaspar over a small rise to where a company of soldiers were digging a massive trench, while boys were carrying wood and buckets of what Kaspar assumed was oil. There would be no individual pyres for the dead; this would be a mass immolation.
The dead were lined up on the other side of the trench, ready to be carried and placed atop the wood before the oil was thrown over it and the torches tossed in. A third of the way down the line the man stopped. Kaspar looked down and saw three bodies lying close together.
“He was such a good boy,” the Master of Luggage said, his voice hoarse from shouting orders, from the battle dust, the day’s heat, and strangled emotions. Jorgen lay next to Jojanna, and next to her lay a man in soldier’s garb. It could only be Bandamin, for his features were similar to the boy’s.
“He came looking for his father almost a year ago, and…his mother arrived soon after. He worked hard, without complaint, and his mother looked after all the boys as if they were her own. When the father could, he would join them and they were a joy to know. In the midst of all this”—he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture—“they found happiness in just being together. When…” He stopped and his eyes welled up with tears. “I asked for the…father to be detailed with the luggage. I thought I was doing them all a favor. I never thought the battle would spill over to the luggage train. It’s against the compact of war! They killed the boys and the women! It’s against every rule of war!”
Kaspar took a moment to look down at the three of them, reunitedby fate and fated to die together, a long way from home. Bandamin had been struck a crushing blow in the chest, from a mace perhaps, but his face was unmarked. He wore a tabard in the blue and yellow of Muboya. It was faded and dirty and slightly torn. Kaspar saw the man Jorgen would have become in his father’s face. He had an honest man’s face, a hardworking face. Kaspar thought Bandamin had been a man who had once laughed a lot. He lay with eyes closed, sleeping. Jojanna appeared unmarked, so Kaspar suspected that an arrow or spear point had taken her in the back, perhaps as she ran to protect the boys. Jorgen’s hair was matted with blood and his head rested at an odd angle. Kaspar felt a
“Make me a general?” said Kaspar with a grin.
“Ah, yes, I was the commander of a brigade when last we met,” said the General, returning Kaspar’s grin. “Now I command the army. My cousin appreciates success.”
“Ah,” said Kasper, shaking his hand. “If ambition grips me, I know where to find you.”
“Good fortune, Kaspar of Olasko.”
“Good fortune, General.”
Kaspar left the pavilion and mounted his horse. He walked the gelding down the side of the hill toward a distant dell through which wandered a good-sized stream.
He felt a rising disquiet as he approached the luggage wagons, for he could see signs of battle all around. The traditions of war forbade attacking the luggage boys or the women who followed the army, but there were times when such niceties were ignored or the ebb and flow of the conflict simply washed over the noncombatants.
Several of the boys he saw bore wounds, some minor, some serious, and many were bandaged. A few lay on pallets beneath the wagons and slept, their injuries rendering them unfit for any work.Kaspar rode to where a stout man in a blood-covered tunic sat on a wagon, weeping. A recently removed metal cuirass lay on the seat next to him, as did a helm with a plume, and he stared off into the distance. “Are you the Master of the Luggage?” asked Kaspar.
The man merely nodded, tears slowly coursing down his cheeks.
“I’m looking for a boy, by the name of Jorgen.”
The man’s jaw tightened and he dismounted slowly. When he was standing before Kaspar he said, “Come with me.”
He led Kaspar over a small rise to where a company of soldiers were digging a massive trench, while boys were carrying wood and buckets of what Kaspar assumed was oil. There would be no individual pyres for the dead; this would be a mass immolation.
The dead were lined up on the other side of the trench, ready to be carried and placed atop the wood before the oil was thrown over it and the torches tossed in. A third of the way down the line the man stopped. Kaspar looked down and saw three bodies lying close together.
“He was such a good boy,” the Master of Luggage said, his voice hoarse from shouting orders, from the battle dust, the day’s heat, and strangled emotions. Jorgen lay next to Jojanna, and next to her lay a man in soldier’s garb. It could only be Bandamin, for his features were similar to the boy’s.
“He came looking for his father almost a year ago, and…his mother arrived soon after. He worked hard, without complaint, and his mother looked after all the boys as if they were her own. When the father could, he would join them and they were a joy to know. In the midst of all this”—he waved his hand in an encompassing gesture—“they found happiness in just being together. When…” He stopped and his eyes welled up with tears. “I asked for the…father to be detailed with the luggage. I thought I was doing them all a favor. I never thought the battle would spill over to the luggage train. It’s against the compact of war! They killed the boys and the women! It’s against every rule of war!”
Kaspar took a moment to look down at the three of them, reunitedby fate and fated to die together, a long way from home. Bandamin had been struck a crushing blow in the chest, from a mace perhaps, but his face was unmarked. He wore a tabard in the blue and yellow of Muboya. It was faded and dirty and slightly torn. Kaspar saw the man Jorgen would have become in his father’s face. He had an honest man’s face, a hardworking face. Kaspar thought Bandamin had been a man who had once laughed a lot. He lay with eyes closed, sleeping. Jojanna appeared unmarked, so Kaspar suspected that an arrow or spear point had taken her in the back, perhaps as she ran to protect the boys. Jorgen’s hair was matted with blood and his head rested at an odd angle. Kaspar felt a
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