Even as that first week passed and we watched the mood of the garrison change, I remained troubled by the glaring soldier I observed on that first day. I saw little of him for the greater part of the first week, even though I sought to locate him. From time to time, I would spot him watching me from the periphery. Or I thought I did. When I would turn in the direction, I believed I saw him, he was always gone.

Towards the end of that first week, I spotted him at the edge of the garrison with a small group of soldiers talking in hushed tones. One of the soldiers spotted me and soon the entire gathering of soldiers glanced my way and then quickly dispersed. Damian, who had not left my side since I told him about the glaring soldier noted their response and quickly urged me to turn away and head back towards the center of the garrison. Like me, he sensed trouble brewing and desired to keep me protected and guarded from it.

Finding the commander in the command center, Damian informed him of our suspicions that something was amiss. Barack was not surprised and even knew who the soldier was.

Pausing in his task, he took a deep sigh and looked at us. “You refer to Markus. I am aware of his…. position. He has been to me daily since your arrival. He, and it would seem a few others, do not believe the good will of the king that you speak about. They seem to believe that the king is actually coming to punish us for the defection of soldiers and our failure to stop it. He is extremely unhappy about your presence here and has sought to compel me to expel you and send you packing back to the king.”

Damian and I stood in shock at the commander’s words.

“Punish you!” I stammered. “Why would he think that? Why would the king send a delegation to warn you of punishment? And even if he was coming to do so, why send us in the guise of goodwill only to cover his real intentions in subterfuge?”

Barrak just raised his shoulders, tossing his hands up in an expression of confusion and lack of understanding. “Markus is just angry. He believes the king should have sent help sooner or come sooner. You are wise to avoid him. I suggest you continue to give him a wide berth. I have my guards keeping an eye on him, but he is a crafty man and not one to be trifled with. Be cautious.”

Damian and I left the command center troubled by the commanders’ words. Markus had led the commander to believe that he was angry, believing that the king was coming to punish the garrison for their failures. But was that really true? Was that just a cover to hide his involvement with the defectors. We felt it was but had no proof to back it up. Just a gut feeling. Even as we tried to give credence to the commander’s words about Markus’ anger, we shook our heads. Even if Markus was not connected to the defection, we could not reconcile how he could make the conclusion he gave to the commander. No matter how hard we tried, we could not imagine how his line of reasoning could bring him to punishment rather than aid as the reason for the king’s arrival. I realized, however, that void of any relationship with the king, void of any knowledge of the king, what other conclusions could they come to? It only increased our sense of urgency to make this king known and make those soldiers see and know their king. Our suspicions of Markus’ involvement with the defectors remained and we were wary and alert even as we continued to spread knowledge of and build hope in the king.

The next week proceeded without event and the same as the one before. Toward the end of the second week, the four of us began to mentally prepare to ride out in just two days’ time to meet the king. We would ride out to meet him about a half a day’s journey from the garrison. We were excited at the prospect of being reunited with the king and in returning with him, banner high, to the garrison.

The day before our departure, Damian, Benner, Cormac, and myself were returning from rebuilding one of the burned barracks. The work had gone well and we were in a lighthearted mood. Benner was amusing us with another story from his early days as a soldier. He had us chortling in merriment at his embarrassing flaws the first time he sparred. So distracted by our merriment were we, that we almost missed it. As we approached our tent, suddenly Damian stopped dead in his tracks and moved in front me, pressing me back with one hand on my chest. Cormac and Benner, immediately alert, their training stifling their laughter, took of positions of guard on other side of me. Alert myself, I glanced around looking for the danger that I had missed. I chided myself for letting my guard down knowing that there was still danger present, even inside the garrison.

I saw no immediate danger and threat. What was noticeable, however, was that which was absent. The guards no longer stood at the entrance to our tent. The flap stood open, and even from the outside, we could see that our tent had been ransacked.

Weapons drawn, alert and tense for danger, the four of us cautiously approached the tent. Stopping several steps from the partially open flap of the tent, Damian motioned for us to stay put where we were, and he moved forward cautiously. Keeping his sword poised in his right hand, he reached out with this left to pull back the tent flap so that he could peer in the depths of the tent. No deadly strike came. Damian did not see anything that posed a danger and so stepped inside the tent. Moments later, with his sword lowered, but not sheathed, he motioned for us to enter and join him. Benner and I entered the tent. Cormac, deciding it unwise for no one to have eyes on the outside, remained at the door of the tent, outside in order to have a better vantage point to be alert for any unseen danger.

As I surveyed the interior of the tent, my heart sank. Everything had been shredded and destroyed. The cots, our bedding, our packs…all of it had been strewn about the area. The contents of our tent had been thrown about as if by the force of a violent wind’s brutal grip of rage, being ripped and shredded in malice before being cast aside as useless and meaningless.

Sudden fear gripped my heart! THE BANNER! I began to paw through the mess, chucking destroyed articles of clothing aside as I searched frantically. In the scattered debris, I began to spot the various tools and supplies that had once compromised my so carefully and meticulously tended repair and maintenance kit. Scissors, needles, thread, cleaning solution, pieces of fabric. Piece by piece, I retrieved them. Spotting the storage bag, I began to carefully place each of the retrieved items carefully back into the bag until all were once again neatly stowed. After a careful search of the tent, not an item of the kit was left unclaimed. The banner, however, was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank. The object of the looting and the purpose of the raid had now become abundantly clear.

So many questions began to spiral in my mind.

Where were the guards? Why were they not standing guard anymore? Who would do this? Why would they do this? Were Markus and his crew behind this?

Anger and rage filled me at the clear dishonor to the king’s name that this raid presented. Turning to the others, I stated what they clearly already knew. “The banner is missing.”

Even as the sentence cleared my lips, a warning cry went up throughout the garrison. One of the watchmen sounded an alarm that rang across the camp. It was coming from the east wall. Clutching my kit, the four of us sprang into action and darted toward the source of the alarm. Upon reaching the east gate of the wall, the commander met us with a grim look. Without a word, he motioned for us to follow him, seemingly unsurprised by our presence.

We followed him out the gate and immediately saw this source of the alarm. There, outside the gate, outside the garrison, standing in the open field, was a dead and mutilated deer ceremoniously staked into the ground in a standing posture. Its head removed and laying in a bloody pile on the ground. The king’s banner, shredded to ribbons was protruding from holes meticulously drilled through the body of the deer. The largest portion of the banner was dangling from the open neck wound where the head had once stood. The sight of the spectacle was grotesque and horrifying. My stomach churned, threatening to lose whatever contents it contained. The anger I felt at the ransacking and destruction of our tent boiled now into a rage. My rage was not for my own sake; not for the loss of my meager possessions or the violation of my space, but for the name of the king whose honor and dignity was so disgraced.

Damian, Benner, and Cormac, not having been far from me, drew closer still now. I sensed their presence more than saw them. Without a word, they took up defensive positions behind and beside me. Together we stood gaping at the scene. The air seemed to turn frigid and the stark reality of the meaning of this spectacle became clear. Staring now at the mutilated carcass and desiccated banner, the message was loud and clear.

Death to the King

What was once only speculation now clarified into cold reality. The defectors were still amongst us in the camp.