Updated 11/16/24

Chapter 6

Blackhawk

The sun was descending when he arrived back at the small camp. He passed four mounted soldiers each with a woman sitting docilly in front, hands tied to the pommel. Not a hint of defiance. He couldn’t see any bruises on them. But the women would have heard that if they attempted escape, that the soldiers would be free to use them as they pleased, a fate they would think worse than death. An intimidation thorough enough to stifle all resistance.

The soldiers knew that wasn’t true. These women were far too valuable to the earl. He’d skin any soldier alive if they reduced a woman’s price by even one baden.

 When Blackhawk rode near, he bristled as the soldiers teased him yet again, hooting and shouting about how the kid lieutenant got himself a new gal.

The first pointed to Blackhawk. “Can’t snag a grown woman?”

“Na, he prefers little girls,” another said, nudging his horse into a walk.

They all laughed as they passed him.

Blackhawk didn’t respond; never did. He was a stone. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, traversed the camp, observing the dynamics at play.

A few were decent soldiers with good discipline, just poking fun. Most he’d met, both here and at North Fort, were lowborn and gave little thought except to their base instincts.

If he were the officer in charge, he’d enforce more discipline.

Blackhawk had no right to judge, he was an orphan, alive today only at his lord’s pleasure.

The blonde girl sitting in front of him was still as a corpse, except she turned her head a bit every now and then. She hadn’t cried or spoken so neither had he. Strangest little thing.

Blackhawk clutched the motionless girl in his arm as they trotted toward the iron cage cart. He dismounted with grim determination etched on his face.

Children pressed against the bars. A collective gasp rippled through the retreating captives as he swung open the iron door and pushed the girl inside. A shuddering metallic clang rang through the air as it shut.

A good haul, the callous assessment echoed in his mind. Seven boys and six girls reduced to mere numbers in Rosewud’s ledger. The weight of the moment bore down, subtle nuances of emotion played across Blackhawk’s face—always a stoic mask, revealing little.

After tying the mare to the picket line, Blackhawk marched to Rosewud’s tent, wincing at Rosewud’s deafening harangue. His entrance interrupted the undersecretary’s tirade against Sergeant Jonsun, who stood at attention, glaring. Rosewud turned his focus to Blackhawk. “Lieutenant Blackhawk, what took you so long?”

Blackhawk shot a glance at the sergeant and reported, “Sir, I found the girl, but not the mother.”

Rosewud frowned as he polished one boot with a brush. “I’ll be short much baden because that woman got away. Perhaps, the other groups will make up for it.” His mahogany chair creaked as he leaned back, drumming his fingers on the smooth arms of the chair, as if contemplating the repercussions.

“I searched for them both, sir. The child was well hidden. If I’d not seen where she went, I wouldn’t have found her. She’s been trained to—”

Rosewud thrust out his palm. “I’m not interested in excuses or crazed notions about children being able to hide from an officer, even you, a mere boy.”

Blackhawk shrugged but kept his face still. “The woman may appear if we wait. I left a clear trail for her to follow. She will come for her child.”

“No. This has already delayed us until morning. She’s on foot. I’ll be forced to feed the imps if we wait,” Rosewud grumbled, picking up his other boot. “If we leave at first light, I’ll be spared that expense. Bounty hunters will find her.”

Sergeant Jonsun sighed. “I’ll write up the warrant for the mother and have it posted as soon as we get to town.” Then he left.

Once dismissed, Blackhawk went to the stew pot. Scooping a bite, he sniffed the meal—cold, and burnt, as usual. Dropping the ladle back, he sought solace against an old oak, a lone sentinel in the midst of misery. The apathy etched on his face masked the turmoil within as he ignored the cries of the imprisoned children. He was a stone.

Half a dozen other soldiers moved about the circle of tents with hoots and rowdy conversation. He wanted nothing to do with them.

Blackhawk pulled a leather pouch from his belt and drew out a lump of dried meat. The captured children huddled, whimpering. But the girl he’d caged stood at attention, watching him. He looked at her whenever his chores put him in sight of the cage. She followed him. Each time a soldier slammed the iron cage with their axe to silence a bawling brat, she seemed unaffected, except to scowl and wrinkle her nose. When he passed her, he felt her eyes on him, piercing through his thick shroud, pricking his soul. And whenever their gazes met—she scowled at him.

As full darkness fell, he retired to his tent, wondering how she could remain unflappable.

Sarah

In the dark, she watched the soldier boy go into his tent. Sarah shook the cold iron bars, her tiny fingers curled around the unforgiving metal. She pushed the straw with her boots and found a dry place to sit amongst the huddling children. The smell was bad. Other, older children, hugged each other tightly like cocoons of two and three. They murmured head-to-head and never looked up. She tapped the bar of the cage with her boot, frowning.

Beside her, the little black-haired boy whimpered, curled up like a kitten, alone like her. He had raven black hair, damp curls stuck out in all directions like the baby blackbird she’d found once, peep, peep, peeping. It had fallen out of a tree, bits of eggshell sticking to the wet black feathers. She’d put it in her basket, but her brother, David, climbed and put it back in the nest.

“Hey,” she whispered, gently touching the small boy’s arm.

He flinched.

“Want to play a game?”

The boy looked up, his eyes wide, his lip trembled.

Sarah smiled softly. “I'm Sarah. What's your name?”

The boy's lips moved, but no sound came out, his arms crossed tight across his chest.

“That's okay,” Sarah said. “You don't have to speak. Just pretend with me?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, transporting herself back home on laundry day. “Imagine these bars are the stone walls of my castle,” she murmured. “Can you see them?”

The boy blinked, then slowly nodded.

“Good,” Sarah encouraged. “Now, see the opening here between thick, rich curtains of red and blue velvet. We're in my beautiful castle hall.”

As she spoke, Sarah's mind drifted to her game that fateful day. “I'm the princess,” she declared, sitting up straighter. “And you—you're my brave knight.”

The boy's eyes widened, a flicker of interest replacing some of the fear.

“See those other children?” Sarah whispered, nodding toward the huddled groups. “They're not ignoring us. They're loyal subjects, waiting for commands.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “There's a battle coming. We need to rally our troops.”

The boy tilted his head, confusion evident on his face.

“It's okay,” Sarah assured him. “I'll teach you the soldier song my da taught me.”

She began to hum softly, then sang it in a hushed voice:

“Like a little brave soldier, you will stand,

Like a little brave soldier, you will fight.”

As she sang, Sarah remembered her mother's stern look, her grandmother's comforting embrace.  She let out a sigh and squared her shoulders.

“The enemy is at the gate,” she whispered urgently to the boy. She searched through the straw on the floor and found short sticks. “Take this knife. We need to be ready. While we wait, we’ll sharpen these knives.” She began scraping one stick against the other. “You try,” she said as she handed two sticks to him.

The boy's eyes darted around the cage, then back to Sarah, a mixture of fear and excitement in his gaze. Then he took a stick in each hand, his lips tightened, and he imitated her.

“That’s good. Remember, we're warriors,” Sarah said, her voice soft but firm. “We're surrounded by strong castle walls. Our army is coming to rescue us.”

She began to rub her stick again. “Follow me, brave knight. We'll keep our followers safe.”

The boy hesitated, then he nodded.

“That's it,” Sarah encouraged. “Now, we need to be very quiet. We need to observe the enemy. When they make a mistake, we’ll find a way.”

Sarah's mind flashed to her desperate run through the sorghum field. But she wasn't alone and scared. She was a brave princess leading her people to safety.

“My da says that my head is the sharpest weapon,” she whispered to the boy. “And we sharpen it by thinking of what we know is true.”

The boy nodded; his eyes now alight.

Sarah's scanned the camp, cataloguing everything she saw. J’shua was with her and she was a brave princess, protecting her wounded knight.

Chapter 7

Rebekah

Rebekah followed the boy soldier’s horse tracks from the point he entered the woods, leading away past the blackberry patch. They were woven through the softest dirt—obvious. She followed, knowing they’d be watching for her.

The sun was low when smoke of a campfire rose above treetops. She continued running until laughing and drunken arguments filtered through the trees. An occasional mournful cry of a child, followed by a clash of metal and an angry shout, stabbed her in the heart.

A large tent and several small ones peeked above the brush in a meadow. She padded closer. Two men with axes dangling from their belts came from between tents and traversed the space between the camp and the woods, then returned hefting logs. Four more, armed also with swords, exchanged words and then split off in pairs to guard the perimeter.

Not leaving soon, she thought. Then her eyes sought cover. Ahead a hundred paces, a thicket of large azalea bushes provided foliage, their fragrant flowers buzzing with bees. A pleasant place to wait and remain unseen, but it was very close to the large tent.

She waited for the sentries to pass and amble out of hearing, then she dashed for the thicket. In the midst of it, she sat on a layer of damp leaves and leaned against branches, watching the frolicking bees.

Sounds of boisterous men came from the camp and faded away. She recognized the occasional shout from Rosewud in the large tent, “Be quiet! Move to the other side of the camp.

That he was suffering even a little made her smile for a moment. But there were too many men for her to attempt a rescue. She slumped down in the brush, crying in silence.

Startled by two men talking nearby, she slid deeper in the foliage until their voices grew distant. Creeping from her hiding spot, and deeper into  the trees, she circled the camp, but could not see Sarah, only tents and above them, the smoke of their campfire. She wrung her hands and tried to reassure herself.

Sarah must be in there. She would be safe until they sell her.

Rebekah ground her teeth.

That weasel, Rosewud, won’t allow her to be defiled. He’d lose money.

Rebekah’s only choice was to watch for an opportunity.

She waited, praying J’shua would comfort her daughter. Praying for Jonathan and their son, David. Praying for wisdom and help in her time of trouble.

The waiting still gnawed at her. She itched to pace as she did at home when she worried. Instead, she curled into a tight ball, pressing her palms into her eyes, praying, listening.

What will you do, Jon, when you find us gone and everything destroyed?

How will you find us?

At least David is safe.

He was safe. When Jon left with their son two years ago, it tore her heart out. Why did he have to take her son to far-off Esthlanis for an apprenticeship? He was too young. He could have become apprenticed to the local blacksmith or a baker and remain at home. Then he wouldn’t have left until eleven winters old, instead of eight. At eleven, he’d go to the Knights’ School like his father had.

Was that best for him? The life of a knight was like a seaman’s, pushed by sail and oars in the waves of chaos. Was it J’shua’s will? She rocked herself and prayed.

A conversation grew louder as two soldiers approached, complaining. “We don’t need so many sentries. No one would attack us here; bawling imps aren’t a target for bandits.”

“You’re still hacked because you didn’t get to take one of the women to Lorness. At least we don’t have to listen to that bragging old fart, Jonsun, or Rosewud.”

“Heh, what do you know about anything?”

She lay still as a corpse until their words were indistinct.

She’d never traveled more than a few days’ ride from home until she met Jonathan. He taught her how to track and hunt. Once married, she never left his side, until Sarah was born. Then they decided she should stay with the children on the farm in Lorness until she was older. Since then, she and Jonathan were only together for a few weeks every three or four moons. When he was home, she felt safe, whole. She cherished every moment. It was the life they had chosen. That’s what a happy life was, wasn’t it, memories of those times? Otherwise, it would be only hard work and misery—and now terror.

The same two soldiers passed by three more times. After that, a different pair.

She marked their rhythm.

Daylight faded into night. She scrounged a few berries to ease her sudden hunger. Rebekah hid in a blanket of leaves, massaging sore muscles. She dozed fitfully, aware of the sentries when they passed.

A shout startled her awake. Momentarily disoriented, she lay still, straining to make sense of the cacophony of noises coming from the camp. She crawled closer to see.

The tents were being struck and their wagons were hitched to leave. A soldier stood by each wagon. Far in the front, a cage of squirming children was guarded by two more. She bit her lip, breathing faster. She crouched and moved closer. None that she could see were Sarah.

She followed the muddled tracks of men and wagons, bleating goats, and snorting oxen. They traveled at a slow pace because of the many beasts they’d stolen. Only an hour later, they veered onto the old cow trail. She knew where they were going—River Town.

I’m coming, baby.

***

As Rebekah continued to follow from quite a ways behind, she glimpsed a farm in the distance. When she reached the boundary stone, the sign said, “Canferd Farm”. This farm was in the Duke of Wooster’s domain. He was an upright man, a follower of J’shua.  He would not allow such evil in his lands. This was her best chance of finding a horse—before dark.

She ran beside the path, in the cover of trees, afraid to be seen, for she planned to steal one.

Her chest burned, gasping for air.

Rebekah’s strength waned. She could not run like she used to. Her heart pounded.

When she’d hunted with Jonathan in the early years, they’d run on either side of any prey they’d wounded, through the woods, leaping over fallen branches. They never lost sight of it before it fell.

She found her rhythm, alternating between walking and running. It was a mile before she saw the cottage and a large barn. Her heart soared at the sight of it—they have horses.

She crawled toward it through the knee-high meadow grass.

No one came out of the house.

She continued in a crouch, watching.

Is anyone in the barn?

She loped to the heavy door and slid through, comforted by the moist scent and warmth of six horses. They huffed and snorted. Rebekah patted the withers of a healthy brown mare, whispering calm words. Her heart thumped in her throat. She bridled the horse and threw on the saddle, pulling the straps tight. Then she flung the door wide. Holding the reins, mounting, hunching low, she burst out.

“Stop, thief!” An old man staggered toward her, waving a big stick. She dodged him, yelling, “Sorry, I’ll return her.”

To confuse pursuers, Rebekah galloped in the wrong direction and walked in a rocky creek to thwart any tracker.

Then she turned the horse’s head toward the shortest path to River Town.

Sarah

Sarah awoke when two soldiers hooked horses to the cage cart, the dawn light adding a hint of color to the lush glade. Sarah knelt over the sleeping boy and patted his back. He clutched her hand tight and cried, “Mama,” in little more than a whisper. She stood guard over him, holding onto the bars. The cart lurched over deep ridges in the clay. Trees, dust, brush. No birds or animals anywhere near these loud, noisy men. She wanted this adventure to be over. Blinking back tears, she observed the soldiers with drooping faces tromping behind the cart. The rhythmic clatter of hooves accompanied the caravan’s slow progression.

No one looked at her. No one cared. Sheep bleated in the distance and an ox bellowed far behind the unhappy soldiers.

Two of Da’s lessons came to mind.

Righteous anger is better than fear.

Counting is a way to master your will.

One, two, three…

J’shua?

You are safe, little one.

Twisting, her cheek against the bars, she craned her neck to see the men ahead. Without seeing faces, she couldn’t decide about them.

The metal bars made stripes of everything. Up-down, up-down went the world as the cart wheels found holes in the rutted road. Sarah wrapped her fingers around the bars, pressing her face close to watch the forest dance by in pieces.

A deer, froze mid-step, its ears twitching at the cart's creak. She pointed, about to tell the boy but his motionless weight against her side revealed he was fast asleep. Not that it mattered. Free, it bounded away in three graceful leaps.

Up-down went the cart. The chains holding it to the horses clinked like her castle’s tower bells announcing the morning meal, but sadder somehow. Her knees hurt from the straw-scattered boards, but standing let her see more through her striped world:

Mushrooms, like tiny white plates, poking from a fallen oak tree, some curled up like the pages of a neglected book, dark with secrets.

A patch of sunlight broke through the leaves, dust motes dancing in the golden beam like a grand royal ball, each seeking a turn to twirl about the floor with the princess.

Excited, she opened her mouth to tell the boy, but still he slept.

The boy-soldier rode by, blocking her view. He kept pace with the cart. She tried to move to be able to see the world again. When she looked up at him, annoyed, he was staring at her.

He scowled. Then he sped up.

Two squirrels chased each other in spiral paths up a tree trunk, their tails flicking like the baker's cat when it was angry.

The cart rattled over a bridge. Below, a stream chattered to itself, water splashing white over rocks green with moss.

A cluster of bluebells in a glade, nodding their heads as if sharing gossip. She'd picked bluebells once, before. The memory felt far away, like trying to share a dream at supper time.

The forest opened sometimes into meadows where sheep grazed, their backs dotted with burrs and their stupid eyes watching the cart pass. Sarah didn't like the meadows as much. Too open. Better the forest, where shadows made patterns on the road like spilled ink, and every turn might show something new.

A robin perched on a fence post, its red breast bright as a berry. It cocked its head at her, then flew alongside the cart for three heartbeats before disappearing into the green.

The sun played hide and seek through the leaves, making patterns on her hands, on the straw, on the rough wood floor. Sometimes the shadows looked like creatures – wolves and bears and things with too many legs. But they couldn't get her through the bars. Nothing could get in, or out. She was safe in her castle.

The cart wheels found another hole, and she bumped her head against the bars. A tear slid down her cheek, but she didn't make a sound. Instead, she glanced at the small black-haired boy. He smiled, a weak smile.

A puddle in the road catching the sky's reflection, turning the mud into a mirror until the horse's hooves shattered it.

“Look,” she whispered, pointing at a butterfly landed on a thistle, its wings moving slow as breath, painted with eyes that stared back at her. “It’s a messenger, bringing news that the army is near.”

The boy nodded and blinked as he joined her at the window of her tower, watching with her as the slices of the world passed by like a processional, each presenting a gift.

Evening came creeping through the trees like a cat, turning everything gold, then grey, then blue. Sarah and the little boy curled up in their corner of the cage, small as mice. But she kept her eyes open, watching through her stripe-world as the forest transformed into something older, something deeper, something that might hide magic or monsters behind every tree. But in her warm embrace the boy fell asleep again.

The first star appeared between the branches, like a silver nail hammered into the darkening sky. And the moon, round as a cheese and just as pale, followed the cart like a battered shield.

The forest whispered its night music—owl calls and cricket songs and the rustle of things that lived in darkness. The girl pressed closer to her bars, watching, waiting, as the stripe-world turned to shadow and silver, and every turn of the wheels took her further from home. And Sarah fell asleep.

***

In the morning, her eyes fluttered awake as the cart’s door creaked open and the soldier-boy offered them each the cup. He gave them water in the morning and at night. Only water. It had been so long since she’d had any food, that she wasn’t even hungry any more. She gave the little boy the cup. When she drank her allotment, the soldier smiled.

Sarah didn’t know when they had stopped, but the day lurched to life again and more slices of the world meandered by. How many days had it been? Numbers were tricky when everything kept moving, rocking her to sleep.

There he was again. The dark-haired boy-soldier slowed his horse and soon was beside her.

His head turned and his eyes met hers. He smiled.

Sarah scowled, standing defiant. You put me in this stinky cage.

Chapter 8

Blackhawk

Blackhawk woke with a scream caught in his throat. Haunted by the recurring nightmare, all he could remember was a single leaf gracefully descending from above, as the sparkling sky filtered through a dense forest canopy.

With a furrowed brow, he pulled on his boots, folded the blanket, and threw open the tent flap. The lingering echoes of the dream colored the mundane routine of camp life. Approaching the kettle of porridge, his stomach growled and an acrid odor struck him. “Burned, again.”

His eyes shifted to the cage, still frowning, as a peculiar mixture of relief and surprise washed over him at the sight of the sleeping girl’s relaxed face. He dismissed the unfamiliar emotions that tugged his heart. Blackhawk saddled his horse and secured his gear, ready to face the tasks of the journey ahead.

Still no sign of the mother, as the caravan set in motion. The long rainy season had left deep cuts in the road, slowing the progress of the wagons and confiscated animals.

Blackhawk rode alongside the cage cart, his eyes occasionally drifting over the older children to the small girl within—Little Soldier, as he had named her. She stood, small hands clutching the bars, an image of disciplined resilience.

Blackhawk couldn’t fathom why she intrigued him, devoid of paternal instinct or vulgar interest, she seemed to exist outside any known world. Whenever he stole glances in her direction, she was intently watching the scenery, but her curious gaze changed into a scowl when their eyes met.

Then she turned to a whimpering boy of about four winters who resembled a younger version of himself with scrawny limbs and unruly black curls. Blackhawk contemplated their interaction with a mixture of wonder and confusion shadowing his features.

Little Soldier said, “It’ll be well. J’shua is with me, and he can be with you too. Do you know him?”

The little boy shook his head.

“Want me to tell you about him?”

The lad smiled weakly and scraped his face with his sleeve.

The girl squatted beside him, her big brown boots poking out from under her filthy dress. “Well, my da says the Serpent tricked the First Man to disobey the God of Truth. This is how the Serpent owns the world and all the people, but the God of Truth loved everyone, so he sent his son, J’shua, to pay a ransom for us. Do you know what a ransom is?”

The boy shook his head again.

“I’m not sure either…but…it means you don’t have to pay to be saved. J’shua promised to be with us…always. I know he’s here.” Sarah placed her hands over her heart.

The boy wrinkled his forehead, looking left and right. “I don’t see him anywhere. There are many soldiers.”

Little Soldier hugged the boy again. “I know. You can’t see J’shua, but with practice, you can hear him. I do. It’s a whisper, but he says I am safe.”

The little boy smiled.

She drew him onto her lap.

Blackhawk’s thoughts were interrupted as Little Soldier, in her tattered dress and big brown boots, continued to share her beliefs with the young boy. The sincerity in her voice and the genuine smile on her face captivated both the child and Blackhawk himself. Her care for the little boy had pricked at the edges of a memory just out of reach. His face tightened as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Shaking off an unsettling feeling, Blackhawk tugged at his armor and spurred his horse forward. Little Soldier’s words lingered in his mind, challenging the structured beliefs instilled in him. The idea of a ransom was so counter to the teachings of Lord and Lady Melazera.

It can’t be that simple. Gods must be appeased. And J’shua wasn’t one of theirs.

He trotted up the line and, when he reached the undersecretary’s cart, matched its pace.

Rosewud frowned, his typical greeting. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“We’re nearly to River Town, sir. Do you need any help with delivery?”

“They’re children. Shouldn’t be any trouble.” Rosewud waved a hand dismissively.

“Of course, but the mother could be following.”

Rosewud rubbed his chin. “Yes, you might capture her if she shows herself.”

Blackhawk waited while the fop thought.

“I won’t pay much, but I wouldn’t object to having you along.”

 “Shall I follow you or scout ahead?”

“Scout,” he said pointing up the road. “I’ll break my fast at the Sapphire before heading out. Find me there.”

“Yes, sir.” Blackhawk rode into River Town.

Half an hour later, Lieutenant Blackhawk stood by his horse, perusing River Town’s busy main street. When Rosewud drove up in the cart, the undersecretary lingered a moment looking at two militet marching toward the cage, then he entered the Sapphire Inn. Blackhawk frowned as he watched Little Soldier console the black-haired boy. With a grunt, he entered Sweet Maids, the brothel across the street, where he soothed his ill humor with a whore.

Other soldiers had taken him and other boys to such places soon after arriving at North Fort. They played games of chance in the parlor and he, being only eleven winters old, didn’t have much to bet. So, they let him play for extra chores and soon he started winning. Later, he learned what the brothel was for. It was what men did, they told him.

Once outside the brothel, someone bumped him and he realized he’d been standing there quite a while, grinning from the warmth of a woman’s company. Nothing else relaxed him, except perhaps a twenty-mile run.

Little Soldier’s scowling face came to mind.

Argh. I just do my tasks.

She made him think too much.  

He kicked a stone, glowering as he crossed the street. She had ruined his mood—again.

The two militet stood by the cart. Little more than untrained recruits, if they hadn’t advanced by the end of the first moon, they were misfits who refused to learn. Perhaps unjust, Blackhawk mused, after all, he’d avoided the militet, only because of his lord, who through a spy, posing as an uncle, paid for his entry as a corporal.

He continued across the street. The merry sounds pouring from the inn only darkened his humor further. When the undersecretary emerged, Blackhawk altered his expression, making it open and friendly.

“Right on time, Blackhawk,” Rosewud called out, pointing his shillelagh, at the young lieutenant, a masterpiece of a club.

Dismissing the two bored militet that leaned against the iron cage, Rosewud scolded, “You two must exert more effort if you wish to earn rank.” He strutted to the front of the cart and thrust a cup and skin into Blackhawk’s hands.

“Give the imps water. We’re headed to Commandant Greysun in Fairness Crossing. He pays a bonus to make him my first stop when I’ve got a batch of children.”

Rosewud climbed onto the cage cart, setting his shillelagh on the seat.

Blackhawk poured water into a cup and handed it to a waif.

The children pushed to be next to get a drink. Only Little Soldier waited, still,, holding the small boy’s hand. When all-but-last, Blackhawk handed her the cup, she gave it to the boy and waited as he drank. She handed it back.

“You are something,” he muttered as he gave her the cup again, smiling as she drank it.

The chore completed, he stowed the water and cup and took his seat as Rosewud snapped the reins.

Blackhawk glanced back at the iron cage. Little Soldier stared at him. She smirked slightly and lifted her fingers in the tiniest wave. He felt the corners of his lips rise. He gave her a slight nod.

Turning to Rosewud, he said, “What’s Commandant Greysun looking for today?”

“Boys, I think. He has a training camp. Likes to start them young.”

Blackhawk scratched the meager black hairs on his chin. “Hmm.”

“If you haven’t seen his operation, you’re in for a treat. It’s impressive. The regimen and discipline are beautiful to behold. He’s been the commandant for eight years.” Rosewud turned to Blackhawk. “I’ll introduce you. There are glorious rewards for a motivated soldier like yourself. And with you so young,” the undersecretary looked him over, “fourteen or so?”

“Fifteen,” Blackhawk responded.

“There’s no limit. You should request Fairness Crossing for your next assignment.” Rosewud smiled.

The undersecretary continued without encouragement, Blackhawk nodding now and then.

Some people had to talk. George Rosewud was one of those people. Couldn’t stop him without offending him, so he let him continue.

Rosewud rambled on, “…Order of the Black Robe uses…”

Blackhawk knew about the Order.

Four years ago, Gaelib Melazera’s spy had taken Blackhawk to North Fort posing as his father. Dressed like a lesser nobleman, the spy paid fifty thousand baden to start him as a corporal, rather than militet. The man was not a typical black-robe. He had better skills.

Just before they left for the outpost, Melazera had taken Blackhawk in a private room and warned, “Be careful; someday, an operative will try to recruit you into the Order. That is not what I want for you. When they do, don’t let them reveal too much, because they’ll kill you to protect their secrets if you don’t join. My wife would waste you on eavesdropping. I have groomed you for greater things. I plan to keep you for myself.”

Rosewud continued, “…the Order keeps…”

“What’s that?”

“What…? Oh. The simplest explanation is they’re highly trained scribes, counting men, and court officers. The Order finds people without a trade or worthy parentage and prepares them to support the kingdom’s infrastructure. It is difficult to manage a kingdom without loyal aides. It also educates soldiers looking for advancement.”

Blackhawk’s understanding of it was incomplete, but he sensed it was more than that.

He was a four-winters-old orphan on the streets of Farr when Melazera took him in. He’d only been allowed out of Melazera’s sight when sent to deliver messages. Even then he’d felt the guards’ eyes on him. They knew he belonged to the earl. After a few years, Blackhawk had learned to anticipate his lord’s every whim and respond to Melazera’s expressions and gestures. So much so, that Blackhawk could wander around the room and neither Melazera nor Caileagh, his wife, took any notice of him. Most of the time, they forgot he was there at all.

Neither was aware of his knowledge of their secret sparrows, ravens, and hawks. They never mentioned the Order of the Black Robe, but they often mentioned bits about what their birds were doing.

Rosewud continued, “Once trained by the order, you could be sent on important missions for the royal steward or the king.”

Blackhawk wanted to know everything. He had so many questions.

Chapter 9

Rebekah

Rebekah’s heart pounded as she urged the mare into the bustling River Town market and dismounted. Permanent structures of established merchants loomed, wooden enclosures with shuttered windows thrown open, adorned with shelves abounding in wares. Within the square, canvas stalls of peddlers buzzed with activity. People huddled in small clusters or sauntered from cart to cart, carrying burlap bags or baskets, while a steady stream pulsed through the center of each lane. A farm boy loped past her, leading a dappled mare, interrupting the chaotic scene that slithered apart to let him pass.

Weaving through the crowd, Rebekah led the mare, keeping her eyes averted, the fear of being arrested as a horse thief weighing on her. Her mind raced; her daughter’s rescue depended on remaining inconspicuous. She tied the horse to a picket line and perused the shops.

Her frown deepened as she realized her dagger wouldn’t be enough. Her bow had broken last week. If she’d had it, she’d have killed that brigand before he got any further.

Rebekah spotted a merchant arranging swords and axes in a neat line. Approaching him, she examined a bow and tested its draw. “How much for this short bow, a full quiver, and an extra string?”

The merchant eyed her, measuring her intent. “Fifty-two baden for all.”

Undeterred, Rebekah counted arrows, haggling over every flaw until the man sighed, relenting. “Forty-one then.” She gathered it all, arranging the quiver of arrows across her body and shouldering the bow.

Moving to the next stall, she purchased a wide-brimmed hat and donned it, affording her some anonymity. Her shoulders relaxed as she sought other items she’d need, contemplating the uncertain journey that lay ahead.

How long would they have to hide in the wilderness? How long would it take to get to the Esthlanis border?

Yard-long leather thongs caught her eye. After buying several, she returned to the horse with provisions, homespun breeches, and a plain tunic.

The marketplace shifted into chaos as a uniformed soldier galloped in. How had a soldier found her so soon? Panic set in; Rebekah felt his gaze on her. Her thoughts raced as she slid behind her horse, tying her purchases in place.

To get through the press of people, she’d have to leave the horse, but then she’d never stop the men who had Sarah.

She stole a glance. Her heart hammered as the soldier dismounted and tramped forward, intensity written on his face.

She froze, inhaling sharply as he reached out with his hand.

To her surprise, a woman’s voice rang out from just behind her, “Hadran!” A smile bloomed on both their faces as they embraced and twirled around. The maiden squealed with joy, held his face, and kissed him.

Rebekah sagged against the horse. Her knees wobbled, as she glanced side to side. Her heart still pounded in her ears.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Rebekah led her horse, at a calm pace, past peasants entering a tent flying a black banner—the Order of the Black Robe was recruiting. An inn exploded with laughter. As she approached taverns and brothels shuttered until a more lucrative hour, the streets became quiet. A dark alleyway caught her eye. She lashed the reins of the horse to a post and ducked behind some barrels.

She cut and tore her skirt, using a wide swath to bind her breasts, disguising her femininity to avoid detection. Once dressed in the gray tunic and breeches, she hid the torn clothing. Still bent down, breathing rapidly, she sawed at handfuls of hair until it was shoulder length and tied it with a thong. Then she rubbed her hands in the dirt and soiled the cloth and her face, hoping to look more rugged.

As she led the horse she mimicked some slouching lads ahead down the road, hoping to blend in. She headed toward the busier part of town, keeping a wary eye out for any sign of her daughter or Jonathan. Rebekah patted the horse and whispered a prayer.

Grabbing an apple from her purchases, she took a few bites hoping to settle her stomach. It didn’t help much. Giving the rest to the mare, its soft lips tickled her palm. Her mouth almost turned up into a smile. Yet, without Sarah, the world lacked all joy.

Heading toward the busier part of town, she moved into the crowd that briskly passed around her. Each glance in Rebekah’s direction made her hands tremble.

Her breath caught as a caravan of wagons came down the main road. She leaned forward, straining to catch sight of Sarah or Rosewud, the weasel, who had her daughter.

Jonathan should be on his way back from Mestelina. Jon fought for what was right. Could she?

Grant me courage, J’shua.

She walked the horse forward, trying to appear relaxed, in no hurry at all. She squeezed her hands tight to still them. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Within a cage packed with bone-weary children, she caught a glimpse of blonde hair. It was Sarah—her little knight.

Her anger was a whetstone, sharpening her senses. She watched as the wagons departed, confiscated livestock trailing behind. The cage cart remained unattended as the weasel went into the Sapphire.

Rebekah walked the horse toward Sarah, inching closer. She was about to reach for the door of the unguarded cage when two soldiers ambled toward the cart bearing the green dragon crest on their tabards. Each carried a club. The poorly trained militet were as captive as the children in the cart. Rosewud must have rented them.

She inhaled sharply as she continued past, careful not to stare at the children.

Rebekah couldn’t reveal herself, but she needed to know more. Then she could follow Sarah until she had an advantage. She’d strike these vermin down, one by one.

Tying her horse to a hitching post, Rebekah followed Rosewud. Her face a stern mask, she stepped inside the Sapphire Inn. She recalled a passage from the Writings to calm herself.

[Be still and know that I am the God of Truth.]

The inn was a tidy place. As she passed through an inner door leading to the dimly lit tavern, pipe smoke and the stench of henbane assaulted her. A nasty habit, but a way to escape the oppression spreading across the land. She continued across the floor littered with straw already damp with sour spills.

She bought a mug of ale. Taking in tables and benches, a variety of guests, and the kitchen maid slicing a roasted goat onto wooden plates, she relaxed. The place was full of chatter. Rosewud paid for a meal as she observed the crowd. She sat within arm’s reach to wait for him to finish.

The bang of a door caused her to look up to an ornate balustrade above, where three Black Robe acolytes scrutinized the crowd, expressionless like corpses. Rebekah exhaled gradually willing her tension away.

Rosewud finished his meal and left. She waited for five breaths, then followed.

Outside, in the sun, she squinted. The young soldier who’d captured Sarah marched toward Rosewud as she passed them and her little girl in the cage cart. She averted her eyes as she overheard, “…Greysun in Fairness Crossing. He pays a bonus to make him my first stop….”

Greysun, you evil drecksa! You would purchase kidnapped children.

She took a last look at Sarah, biting her lip to stifle a sob.

Rebekah grasped the pommel and mounted her horse. She rode out of town. Then she followed the river at a gallop to gain time and find a suitable site.

I’ll be waiting for you, weasel.

Chapter 10

Jonathan

After fording the river, Jonathan stood in his own country of Freislicht, sopping wet and cold. His almost white hair had a tinge of gold when damp, otherwise it was pale as straw. Away for three moons, he was anxious to be home. He hoped the newest circles he’d planted in the east relied on J’shua, not him. Readjusting his bulky pack and strapping on his sword, he noticed the spring breeze now felt warm after the frigid water.

As he hiked, he noticed a small glade. There he made a fire, donned dry clothes, and let his horse graze. While spreading his wet things out over bushes, he spied rabbits, a whole warren of them. He managed to hit one after unleashing three arrows. Still not as good as my wife. As it roasted, he leaned back on a log and waited for his clothes to dry, turning the spit now and again.

His mount signaled him with twitching ears. All the small birds fell silent. Leaves rustled behind him. Twigs snapped.

Turning, Jonathan gazed at a scrawny boy who stood before him hefting a crude spear. His wild brown hair falling into his eyes.

“Hallo there. Would you like some rabbit? It’s almost done.” Jonathan pointed at the fire.

“Yes, but you don’t need it as much as we do.” The young voice quavered, his eyes were determined. The boy’s arm tensed, ready to jab. He was hungry, desperate.

“So, you plan to steal it rather than accept my hospitality?”

“I don’t see you’ve much to say about it. You’re surrounded.”

“You have an advantage,” he said with a gentle smile, “but as I can teach you how to catch your own rabbits, which are plentiful here, why settle for one?”

More twigs broke, and leaves crunched as others advanced. Scooping up his bow, he fixed an arrow, drew, and aimed at their leader.

The child took a step back, his weapon poised.

“Come out with your weapons undrawn, and I will not harm him,” In a loud voice, Jonathan spoke to the hidden horde.

One by one, five more boys walked into the clearing.

“Please don’t hurt our brother,” the first to appear pleaded. He looked a bit like David. “We’re so hungry.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Sit down; let me get more rabbits.” Ragged clothes hung off their skinny bones. He doubted they’d eaten much for weeks. Soon he returned with six more.

They licked their lips as he skinned, gutted, and spit the meat on greenwood stakes.

As it roasted, he drew out their story.

The eldest lad, James, looked about twelve, a bit older than his son, David. “Ma and Da were arrested at circle,” he said, as he threw the twigs he’d been breaking into the fire. “That was six moons ago.”

Jonathan kept his face still but his gray-blue eyes flashed like steel as they told of the persecution of followers of J’shua within Melazera’s earldom. He gritted his teeth at this outrage.

“We remained near home for several weeks but—afraid of debt collectors, took to the woods. We couldn’t catch much food.” The boy sighed, staring at his feet. “So I led them to the river to fish.”

It was obvious from their gaunt, tattered looks that they were not catching enough.

Jonathan prayed again for guidance.

I could take them to the Knights’ School, but three were too young…or take them with me, but my journey led far south of their home. Or…

The last alternative was so obvious that he neither formed the words, nor did he require the still, small voice’s confirmation.

Looking deep into the fire, he listened to the boys as they ate; talking, laughing, sucking every bit of the sweet fat off their fingers. These were good lads whose lives had intersected with his. He gazed at them and smiled. “I will teach you how to survive solely upon the God of Truth’s abundance, if you will permit me.”

James’ eyes went wide. He stood and bowed. “Thank you…sir.” Stepping forward, he said, “When do we begin?”

Jonathan’s grin spread across his face as he said, “Now is perfect. Everyone done eating?”

All five boys nodded.

“Run a lap around the glen, just within the treeline.”

The younger boys’ eyes widened in surprise, then they looked to James, who cocked his head and shrugged, while Jonathan raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Come on,” James said in resignation, as he trotted off. The others followed like ducklings.

When they returned, Jonathan motioned for them to follow him. “Look here,” Jonathan crouched by a cluster of plants. “See these leaves? Three lobes, a bit fuzzy. This is wood sorrel. You can eat it raw, add it to a stew, or brew it into tea.”

He plucked several leaves and chewed. “Tastes lemony. Try it.”

The boys sampled the plant with suspicion, their faces lighting up at the unexpected flavor.

“Remember,” Jonathan cautioned, “always taste a small amount first. If your gut rebels, proceed with caution. Be certain before you eat a large quantity of wild food. One mistake could be fatal. Here is another edible…”

They boys ran after him.

As days passed, Jonathan's lessons grew more complex. One afternoon, he gathered the boys in a small clearing.

“Today, we learn to move unseen,” he announced. “Watch me. Count to ten and then try to find me.”

Jonathan seemed to melt into the undergrowth, his movements fluid and silent. After the count, they began to track him. The boys strained their eyes, stepping through the lush foliage, struggling to find him.

“Where'd he go?” whispered one spreading the branches of a bush.

“There are signs in all directions,” James said as he tapped his chin.

Just then, Jonathan's voice came from behind them. “Right here.”

The boys jumped, startled.

“Your turn,” Jonathan said with a smile. “Remember, be the shadow, not the tree and move on the diagonal.”

Hours of practice followed, with Jonathan offering gentle corrections. “Soften your steps, Caleb. Step first with your toes. And Samuel, watch those twigs underfoot.”

As the second week began it drizzled all day, so Jonathan introduced them to fire-making in the rain.

“Flint is your friend,” he explained, demonstrating how to strike it against steel. “But it's useless if you can't keep your tinder dry.”

He showed them how to find dry material even in wet conditions, and how to shelter a nascent flame from wind and rain.

“Now, let's see you try,” he encouraged, handing James his extra flint.

The boys struggled at first, their frustration evident as spark after spark failed to catch.

“I did it!” Jonah, the youngest said, jumping up and down. All that time, he had been striking Jonathan’s flint with his knife. He was the first to get the damp tinder lit.

“Wonderful patience,” Jonathan reminded them. “It's worth the effort. A fire will keep you alive, especially in winter.”

Soon, each boy could start a fire in minutes, even as a light drizzle fell around them.

Everyday Jonathan focused on procuring food. He taught them to fashion bows, and simple weapons from wood and stone, and to set snares for small game.

“See how this loop is positioned?” he asked, adjusting the vine forming the snare. “A rabbit will run right into it without seeing the danger.”

James nodded. “I see where I made a mistake with my snares.”

Jonathan also showed them how to make fish traps from woven reeds.

“Place these at the river bend,” he instructed. “Fish swim in but can't find their way out.”

Each evening, as the sun dipped below the tree line, he gathered the boys around the fire for prayer and reflection.

“J'shua Ha Mashiach is with us always,” he would remind them, “in the wilderness as much as in the city. Let us give thanks for His guidance and protection.”

The boys would bow their heads, their voices joining in prayer, finding comfort in faith amidst their harsh surroundings.

As the third week drew to a close, Jonathan looked at the group with pride. They stood taller now, more confident, their eyes sharp and attentive.

“You've learned much,” he told them, “But remember, the wilderness is always teaching. Stay alert, stay humble, and trust in J'shua Ha Mashiach.”

The boys nodded solemnly, understanding that their education in survival—both physical and spiritual—was far from over.

Jonathan taught them, what to eat, and how to protect themselves. He trained them to hide, to be still, and to move like shadows. Over time, they found flint, fashioned weapons, hunted their food, and made fires in the rain. And they communed with J’shua Ha Mashiach and his father every day.

They grew in wisdom and understanding. When he left, he told them, “No stealing, unless a life depends on it. No armed robbery; that will get you killed. Remember, you can always go to—”

“Shining Mountain to eat!” one of the young boys shouted.

“And don’t become over-confiscated,” the youngest said.

“Over-confident,” Jonathan corrected. “Stay hidden.”

He promised to return when he came this way again, but did not know when that would be.

“God speed, James of the Wood. Lead them well.” He waved to them all and disappeared into the woods.