The Stonegate Sword Read online

  The Stonegate Sword

  The stonegate

  Sword

  Harry James Fox

  Foxware Publishing LLC

  Las Cruces, New Mexico

  The Stonegate Sword

  Copyright © 2014 by Harry James Fox.

  Published by Foxware Publishing LLC, 1156 Cave Springs Trail, Las Cruces, NM 88011.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. Except for brief quotations in books, articles, and critical reviews, no part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Scripture quotations marked (HCSB) are taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible ®, Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Holman Christian Standard Bible ®, Holman CSB ®, and HCSB ® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers. Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trade-marks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™ Scripture references marked (KJV) are taken from The Authorized, King James Version, The Holy Bible.

  Editing by Carroll Fox and Amy Tevault

  Cover Painting by Giang Nguyen

  Cover by Jay Nathan Jore

  Map by Silvia Dobreva

  Cataloging Information:

  Dewey Decimal Classification 813.6

  To

  Carroll

  Si vis pacem, para bellum.

  (If you want peace, prepare for war)

  — Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus

  Map of Stonegate

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter 1

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  Chapter 2

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  Chapter 3

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  Chapter 4

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  Chapter 5

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  Chapter 6

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  Chapter 7

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  Chapter 8

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  Chapter 9

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  Chapter 10

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  Chapter 11

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  Chapter 12

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  Chapter 13

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  Chapter 14

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  Chapter 15

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  Chapter 16

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  Chapter 17

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  Chapter 18

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  Chapter 19

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  Chapter 20

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  Chapter 21

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  Chapter 22

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  Chapter 23

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  Chapter 24

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  Chapter 25

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  Chapter 26

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  Chapter 27

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  Chapter 28

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  Chapter 29

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  Chapter 30

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  Chapter 31

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  Chapter 1

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  The Lost World

  Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight … Psalm 144: 1a KJV

  So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David. 1 Samuel 17: 50 KJV

  A grove of spears suddenly sprang from clumps of bare willows, keen-edged points flashing in the hard afternoon sun. The blackened shafts were held by a mob of grim-faced men, who sullenly reformed themselves into a long march file. They then resumed their plodding course upstream, following a time-worn trail next to the river.

  Swift and cold the river ran, carrying the mountain’s frost in its deep, grey eddies. Down from the frozen canyon, through granite gorges it had come, foam-flecked and savage. Lower, then, through broader valleys it flowed, through stands of leafless aspen and cottonwood to the openness of grey brush and tawny grass. Oblivious to the humans, it shot on, rushing to its own separate destiny.

  The sky was brilliant blue and the chill air crisp and clean. A black speck coasted before a gauzy wisp of cloud, then swerved lower, gliding over a juniper-covered knoll. The March wind gusted briefly over the scattered patches of snow, then died.

  With a convulsive leap of fright, a young cottontail reacted to a rushing sound and a feel of danger. The redtail hawk, talons spread, flared out of his dive with a shrill cry just before the strike. A thud, a high-pitched shriek, and a quick struggle followed. Then silence returned. Satisfied, the bird lifted his proud head to scan the surrounding valley floor. His gaze took in the ranks of nearby sage and the more distant saltgrass plain. The shattered seedheads of a nearby clump of wheatgrass nodded lazily. But another movement caught his eye; a dark smudge was moving next to the distant river. He clutched his prey, as his whole being tensed in quivering concentration, his pinions and hackles raised. A minute passed, then two. Then he abruptly relaxed, gazed for a moment at his near surroundings, then dropped his head and began to feed. Greedily, he filled his crop with hot, sweet flesh and his body with energy. The movement drew further away, toward the blue and white peaks to the east. M
etal rang distantly, but the bird disdainfully ignored it. He cared nothing for tax collectors or any other human affairs.

  †

  Clunk! The stone slammed against a fungus-covered stump. Gray slivers flew in a spray, leaving a yellow streak of rotted wood. A slender figure knelt at the edge of a green clearing and selected another smooth stone from a small bed of gravel. A cheap canvas satchel lay flat on the grass next to a carelessly folded cloak. Around him the black pines stood in a circle like silent spectators.

  The whirring noise broke the stillness as a rawhide sling cut the air. With an expert motion he rolled one thong off his forefinger and made his cast. Another missile streaked its way across the little clearing and thudded into the yielding bark.

  The boy holding the sling was about fifteen years old, with raven-black hair and brown eyes. His gray-brown tunic, frayed at the hem and splattered with damp mud, reached to half way between his knees and sandaled feet. His face was oval, with a button nose and ruddy cheeks, and his bare forearms were burned walnut brown. Brushing aside his unruly shock of hair, he filled the sling pouch with another pebble and sent it on its way. The stone arced gracefully across the clumps of sedge and fescue and slammed into the center of the yellow scar that was his target.

  “Ahh …” he released his breath with a smile. In his mind’s eye a dark villain, face twisted in a mask of hate, fell backwards to the ground. In quick succession he released the rest of the stones he had selected toward the battered wood, decimating an imaginary enemy gang. Then he stopped, breathing rapidly. With a wince, he rubbed his shoulder with his left hand as he sat down beside the satchel. Perhaps that was enough practice for one day.

  He reached into his pouch and pulled out an oval, leaden bullet. He was tempted to throw just one, but they were too expensive to be used for practice where he might lose them. He replaced the dense missile, then rolled over on his stomach. He watched a black beetle moving proudly among tufts of grass like a lion in its own small jungle. Shadows began to lengthen. Finally, he picked up his satchel, looped the carrying strap over his shoulder, and tucked the sling into his belt. It was time to start for home.

  As he walked the narrow trail through the pines, he thought back to his old teacher and the long winter he had spent in the boring classroom. Why did his father want him to waste his time every winter listening to endless chatter from a magpie in a room more akin to a barn than a proper schoolhouse? The other boys would not miss him over-much. Most of them were villagers, merchant’s sons and the like. His father was a blacksmith and did some farming. And that was another problem. There were no other farmer’s sons in the school except for him, though there were a few that held broad acres and large fields with many sheep and cattle. He had little in common with the others, and they had let him know it.

  He shrugged as he walked. Maybe this would be the last year. It would soon be time for spring planting, and the forge would not cool during the night. His father would repair a stream of ploughs, harnesses, wagons and hoes, both for himself and his neighbors, and yet plough and plant his own fields besides. Philip (that was his name) would help, of course, along with the hired men of the household. He knew also that it would not be too long before his father would talk about arranging a marriage for his only son. While he wasn’t interested in such a thing himself, if marriage was a way of escaping the school, he was willing to consider it.

  As he passed deeper into a dark grove, he thought of the old teacher. His name was Benjamin, but most called him “Old Ben.” The students also called him “Skinny Benny” behind his back. More skeleton than flesh, he was keen on the Classics and the Empire and the Thoughts of the Ancients. Philip found some of it interesting such as the stories of the roads and how they were built. Old Ben believed that the ancients were men just like anyone, and no smarter, but with great knowledge. “With knowledge comes power,” he always said.

  Philip didn’t know, but it all sounded doubtful to him. The straight roads still lay stretched across the land, slicing remorselessly through hill and vaulting over stream. Matthew, the barrel-chested farmer south of the village, said such roads were the work of giants, and magic as well, and his words sounded sensible. How could mere men slice through a granite mountain like one would a rotted cheese? And to the east, some said the Great Highway went through the heart of a mountain, though that was hard to believe. And the cites, with their ruins, and statues and great buildings, some still standing—how were they built? Surely the ancients must have had the strength of gods or a pact with the underworld if they, rather than giants, had built these things.

  Old Ben had a library full of books, more than anyone. Perhaps even a hundred, maybe more. He had read them all, of course, and even written some of his own which his servant had carefully copied. He had commented to his class that if he was lucky, perhaps a few hundred people might read one of his books in his lifetime, though he had sent copies to teachers in other villages. “In the ancient days, many thousands of people might buy a book,” he explained, “and a man’s fame made if he was the author.”

  Philip remembered how the class had snickered behind their hands. “How could a man seek fame through marking hides?” one asked, with a slight hint of mockery. But Benjamin had ignored the comment, his eyes fixed on the distance. Of course, the Fall of the Empire occupied much of Benjamin’s attention, and he often discussed it at length with the class. Only last week he had asked Martin, one of the older boys, to speak on the topic. He asked the tall teenager, “Why did the Empire fall?”

  “All men know that,” answered Martin. “It was destroyed by war—by the evil barbarians.”

  “Yes … yes,” returned their teacher, “All men do say so. And they are not wrong. War was a part of the reason. War destroyed some of her great cites and her commerce, so you answer well. But was war the only cause? Did not war build the Empire as well? What do you say, Philip?”

  Philip had thought for a moment. “Perhaps they built too high like a man stacking hay,” he suggested, hesitantly. “They built higher and higher and a wind came along and toppled the whole. The same wind would have done no harm when the stack was lower, earlier in the day.”

  “Very good!” exclaimed Benjamin. “I have not heard the thought better expressed. His point, class, is that the more complex they became and the greater their advances, the more fragile their society became. But in the past weeks, we have talked about a war, destruction, famine, a civil war, a plague, and a collapse of society. Who else can see the root cause of why it all happened as it did?”

  No one could answer, it seemed. Silence had hung as heavy as his father’s hammer. “Very well,” concluded Benjamin, finally, “Discuss it among yourselves. I have folios for you to read for the rest of this day, and my library has several volumes that you may use if you are careful. By Monday you will have an opinion that you can defend. Bring me back some thoughts based on logic and the evidence. You younger students may draw a picture on your slate of some worthy structure that the ancients built.” Then he tapped the time-darkened lectern with his rod. “Class,” he said formally, as he always did, “You are dismissed.”

  †

  So, now, Philip was walking home and though the school was several miles behind him in evening shadows, the problem still clung to him like a woodtick. The old books had given no real help, though some scrolls told of the plague, the fall, and the terror of fire in the great cities. Other writings told of the death of many through disease and the struggle for survival on the part of the few survivors. And now grass grew in the streets. Why could they have not rebuilt? Why did the sinews of their world melt away like the snow in spring? Did they build too well, so that it just became too hard to repair?

  The trail left the woods and joined the rutted road that led by his father’s farm and smithy. The western sky gave only a dull red glow, with darkness fast falling. He had tarried along the way, and
he yet had chores to do at home. His tame rabbits had to be fed; there was wood to split and carried to the kitchen hearth. He was hungry, too. His steps quickened.

  There was one other thing. He did not like the road after dark very much. Many men traveled the road in the daytime, but few did so at night. Those traveling late usually had reason, and they were often unwholesome ones. And then there were the trolls and the witches, the giants from the north, the red ones from the south and the dwarves from the hills. The sling would be a poor weapon against such as these. Perhaps he would be caught and eaten or charmed and made into a mindless slave. His steps went faster and he broke into a jog.

  The evening star shone bright in the dark blue-black sky. Philip stopped for a minute and whispered a charm toward the star, for luck. “Star bright—keep me safe tonight!” Then he touched the cross he wore on a cord around his neck. He strained his ear for footsteps behind him, but heard none. He decided he was being silly. Like a girl! He forced himself to slow his steps.