by Jeremy Craig
Regarding the Count, yes, he is the Countess’s estranged husband, and yes, he’s definitely a Vampire. Yes, he’s unspeakably old and dangerous. On an interesting note, he’s personally banned from almost every casino in the world (he owns the ones he’s not banned from) as he’s a degenerate gambler, a cheat, and impossibly rich to the point that his stakes tend to bankrupt a game table when he wins, and he almost always wins, fairly or not. Usually not.
Also, he owes White Owl a substantial amount of money he absolutely refuses to pay. Rather hypocritically accusing the old Master of cheating him in a game of poker they’d played at a tavern/gin joint named The Jolly Ho in the Old West, evidently with none other than legendary Wild Bill (who unconfirmed rumor has it was himself a Darkling) at the table.
There were introductions, the Countess advised that The Doctor regrettably was unable to join us as he had “pressing business,” and we were all over sweetly invited to sit by our disagreeable host, Sir Becket. Well—almost all of us.
“I’ve arranged for my…err…relative, young Ben here to join the squires to learn what a day in the life of a non-pampered unspoiled little Darkling who doesn’t live in a hunting lodge is like. I hope he will find it…educational.” Gramps froze halfway into his chair and looked thunderous and both Aunt Milly and Fazool had a look of deep concern, but Sir Becket merely laughed and snapped his fingers.
The door the others had entered the hall from slammed open with a loud bang and in marched the heavily muscled, never smiling Sergeant at Arms of Camelot, Greggory Blake in crisp military looking tight black shirt, trousers, and laced up boots so shined that you could see your reflection in them. He sported a crew cut on his balding head, dog tags with what seemed to be Orc tusks added to the chain, a heavy equipment belt from which swung a broad bladed sword and several daggers. He came to a halt before the table and offered our host a salute that was met with an eye roll.
“Get it out of my sight,” Sir Becket ordered with a dismissive wave and with a nod and another salute the huge man grabbed my arm in an iron grip and half frog-marched half dragged me from the table. He came to a wide-eyed halt when Manx blocked his path, a low, deadly growl rumbling in the Witchound’s throat as his heckles and fur about his shaggy back stood dangerously on end.
Sergeant Blake didn’t move a muscle save to ever so slowly release my arm and take a cautious step back. Both of his hands moved wearily up in the air as Manx padded forward and plopped down into a sitting position at my feet, daring the man to make another move as he stared at him, fangs bared, drool looping and dribbling to the carpet.
“You brought Manx, I see,” Sir Becket stated the obvious uneasily, eyeing the dog as he took a sip from his glass of water. “I hadn’t noticed until now. I wasn’t aware demonic war dogs were customary to bring to a conference, or that yours had inexplicably claimed a new Darkling, Father.”
“As you well know, boy.” The last was spoken by Gramps with such venom that the air chilled. “Manx goes where I go, and he makes his own choices. Tell your gorilla to not lay a hand on my grandson again, or quite probably my dog will have his unmentionables for a squeaky toy.” The sergeant gulped his understanding and stared down at Manx, who chose just that moment to wetly lick his chops.
“Be that as it may, we have things to discuss that are NOT for children’s ears. Will he accept my invitation, or do I need to have one of you summon up a portal to send the brat back to that silly log hovel you call home to play with that old Indian of yours, Father?” Sir Becket glowered as he poured himself another glass, a wicked sneer on his thin lips. Gramps looked from me, to the sergeant to his son then back to me.
I nodded. “I’ll go, but Manx comes with me for protection.”
“Oh, please.” Sir Becket cackled dismissively. “Camelot is the safest place in all Feydom. Always has been. No child needs a war dog to walk about my castle or streets safely.”
“So, the silver masked assassins that attacked our coach, killed our driver and his poor horses… They were there for what, exactly? To deliver us welcoming baskets and travel guides?” Fazool chuckled as he put his expensively booted feet up on the table and smiled unabashedly at him where he stood at the head of the table, the water glass half to his lips and looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. “Perhaps you sent them to give us all a nice massage with those pointy swords of theirs? No harm was meant, just some relaxation and murder to pass the night, is that it?”
The glass shattered in Sir Becket’s hand.
“What harm can it do that the boy brings the dog?” Matron Malice asked in her heavily lilting accented purr, like for all the world she just wanted to get on with things. “I know Manx, as do you. He will be no trouble if there is no trouble.”
“Oh, very well,” Sir Becket grumbled as he wiped his hands on an embroidered golden silk handkerchief and refused to meet anyone’s gaze until he raised his chin from his chest and glared at Fazool. “But never again, Halfling Witch, will you question my honor.”
“Oh, darling,” Fazool giggled with a dainty hand over his lips. “You’d have to have something for me to question it.” At this Sir Becket clamped his mouth shut, looking like he might explode by the many colors and shades of red and purple his face shifted through, but he seemed to not have the words to retort.
After offering everyone a shaky, embarrassingly week smile I allowed myself to be led from the room with Manx at my heels and Sergeant Blake glancing back periodically at the watchful and protective Witchound uneasily at the lead.
“Life for a Darkling squire in Camelot is purposefully difficult, challenging, and full of training, study, and exercise,” Sgt. Blake explained with his hands behind his back as he walked me down a torchlit hall of stairs with measured strides that had his bootheels clicking on the damp stone. “From your age on each squire is baptized in combat and drilled to be soldiers.”
“Just the ones here?” I asked, my question pausing the sergeant in his stride as he eyed me.
“No, all the houses are the same.”
“Even ones like me born outside one of the houses?” I asked curiously. This seemed to pain the sergeant who worked his jaw and hung his head a moment before answering.
“Outside of the banished, The Hydratic Order and Forsaken, there ARE no others, lad—and those of that kind tend not to live long past their awaking. Fey hunt them you see.” Sgt. Blake answered softly as he shook his head and frowned as if remembering something ugly and unsettling. “It’s a kind of sport to them. We try to find them, but it rarely ends well. You’ve been lucky.
As a bit of background, the Banished are those thrown out of a Darkling house for some reason or another. In regard to the Hydratic Order, not much is known. Other than that they hail from Japan, dress like ninjas out of the movies and have a very strict belief/honor system that roughly translates to “The Code,” (that they will literally die to keep the tenants of), the feared Order is a complete mystery.
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed coldly. “I’ve not been so lucky.”
The sergeant’s angry frown softened, and he nodded. “True. I’m sorry to hear of what befell your family. We tried to help.”
“You tried?” I asked, my little fists balling up.
“I did. I led the expeditionary scouting unit myself to fetch you and yours, until your grandfather called us off.” Sgt. Blake’s words left me speechless. “’Aye, lad. Your parents’ blood is on your famous grandfather’s hands. Didn’t tell you that, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Not surprised,” Sgt. Blake grumbled. “In his time Artur was a fierce and noble Darkling. Guess he forgot he’s been nothing but a glorified groundskeeper to a colonial preserve for decades and thought he could save you all himself. Old fool.”
“Grandfather isn’t a fool,” I snapped. “There has to be more to this. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why would a Darkling Lord of Camelot, a King nonetheless, give up his enchanted sword,
abandon his people and run off to shack up with a whore Witch, then let the family he built die all because he hates his first-born son and heir and ignore his duty to the Blood by keeping you from us? You’re right,” Sgt. Blake agreed scornfully. “It doesn’t make sense. Not a lick of it.”
“Gramps ruled Camelot?” I asked dumbfoundedly.
“Indeed, loved by all and Camelot prospered until our Lord’s mother died. Artur’s wife, that is. Poisoned she was, and Artur lost his mind. Gave it all up just like that and became a disgrace, even once got drunk and told some tales of Feydom to an idiot mundane author who got the thing published. What a bloody mess.”
Sgt. Blake came to a stop and unhooked a ring of keys from his belt, fiddled through them a moment until he found what he was looking for and with a rumbling “click” inserted it into the keyhole of one of many iron studded oaken doors lining the wall.
He pulled the heavy door open with a groaning creak by the rusted rung, loosing a torrent of martial sounds, shouting and clunks of wood on wood along with a gust of stale air and gestured for us to head though. “Welcome to the Wolves Den, lad,” he said with a curt nod. Manx sniffed and padded in, tongue lolling from his jaws as per usual, me just behind him.
The room was round and lit by torches. The walls were lined with racks of training weapons, shields, and armor and in the center a giant brass ring filled with sand was surrounded by long rectangular training mats where about half a dozen squires most stripped to the waist, sweated and sparred with round shields and wooden weapons.
A stern instructor dressed identical to the sergeant wandered among them watchfully with a cane rod in his fist he used to correct stance, form, and belligerence with violent ferocity and diligence.
“ATEN-shun, you lot of slack jawed, useless bastards,” the instructor yelled out with a thwack of his cane on the nearest youth’s shield that sent the lad tumbling. In moments the trainees of four boys and two girls in tight, short black training tops as well as their fatigue pants and boots dropped their gear and offered dutiful salutes by pounding their chests with their fists at their Sergeant at Arms then standing stiffly with hands at their sides like tiny toy soldiers.
“At ease,” Sgt. Blake barked. “This here, is Benjamin Bright. Welcome him.” Again, the group pounded their fists onto their chests in perfect unison at which the instructor and sergeant both nodded in approval at. “He is your family. What do we do here with family?” he growled.
“Break them and make them, Sir!” the squires thundered in unison.
“Indeed, we do,” Sgt. Blake agreed coldly. “Get the pup suited and circled.”
Twenty minutes later I was fitted in matching gear as the squires that itched horribly and into a pair of boots that hurt my feet and led back out to the “Den” to be “circled” which I had an uncomfortable suspicion had something to do with the sand pit at the room’s center. I wasn’t wrong.
Manx had taken up a comfortable position atop a bundle of rolled mats and was watching everything from between his paws as he munched on a huge beef bone someone had brought him as I was handed a leather wrapped stave and gently shoved into the pit.
An Asian boy, roughly two years my senior stepped into the ring, introduced himself, and bowed, his stave whistling as he spun it in his hand in complex patterns used to confuse an opponent who hadn’t spent weeks drilling with Gramps who simply found the practice annoying and silly.
I just stood there watching him as everyone else watched me, loose and attentive as he started to circle about me making odd noises that sounded stereotypical of ninja movies I’d seen once or twice with my parents at the local cinema.
He lunged and found himself hitting nothing but air and eating a mouthful of sand as I stepped aside at the last moment and stuck out my foot, as I whipped my stave across his shoulder blades for good measure in a well-practiced, smooth motion.
“Next,” Sgt. Blake called, as he offered me a raised eyebrow as his instructor took a new interest with eyes narrowed as his fists tightened on his cane with a creak of protest from the wood. He flashed an angry, almost hateful look at me as he spat out a clump of sand, wiped his face with his sweaty arm and stalked sulkily out of the ring.
A pretty girl with short blond hair named Natalie offered me a bow and smirk as she stepped in. She didn’t circle—her strategy was simple, come in swinging. Ok then, I rapped her knuckles like Gramps had done to me many a painful time after ducking the first wild air whistling haymaker and stepped in to follow through with a thrust to the midsection that sent her to her knees, doubling over. She, too, glared at me but the glare turned into an impish half smile as she got up, nursing her injured hand and Sgt. Blake again called for another contender.
The next one to step into the sand was a tall dusky skinned fellow with a shaved head who stood stalk still and studied me calculatingly for a moment before bowing and introducing himself as Arjan. His weapon of choice was a leather wrapped staff.
I knew without a doubt I was in trouble when he gave me a wicked smile and dropped into a wide footed stance, wielding the long stick like a spear. His lunge was perfect and nearly took my head clean off.
Impossibly fast, he recovered and swept the staff at me in a blur of wood and leather—again almost taking off my head, I felt the hiss of protesting air as it buzzed viciously past my ear and ruffled my hair as I dove to the side. As Gramps taught me, I rolled to the side, just in time to have the stave tip driven lance like, deep into the sand where I’d been mere heartbeats before.
I eyed the dark young apprentice from a crouch and offered him a nod, which he returned as he spun about in a blur and brought the staff whistling down like an axe into the sand. Once more it only barely missed me as I rolled forward this time slashing out with my much shorter stave, only barely missing his ankles as he twisted away and brought his staff to the ready and again dropped into a wide footed stance.
The exchange hadn’t even lasted a minute, but I was breathing hard and my heart was thundering as I struggled to catch my breath against a much more conditioned and trained opponent. Again, Gramps’ words echoed in my head, and I knew what had to be done. Arjan seemed to know it, too.
He came at me savagely in another blur and ended up cursing loudly as I tossed the sand I’d grabbed and secreted in my hand as I was crouched into his eyes and dove to the side. Choking and whipping at his eyes he never saw my strike that toppled him like a chopped tree landing with a pronounced WACK off the side of his head. The Wolves Den went silent. You could hear a pin drop if Manx wasn’t panting and munching so loud on top of his matts.
I’d cheated. It was dishonorable and wrong and poor sportsmanship, yeah, I know. But guess what—I was standing, and he wasn’t and in combat that’s what matters. Gramps had drilled that into my head. The apprentices were furious, fists white knuckling on the grips of their wooden weapons as the whole lot looked like they wanted to rush me in a mob and beat me to a pulp for my antics.
“Get that waste ah’ air off me sand and stop bloody well embarrassing me ye’ pack of worthless shite stains!” The instructor bellowed to snap them out of their glaring, punctuating it with a smack of his cane rod onto his palm that sounded like the crack of a whip. Chen and a freckled boy I hadn’t sparred yet scurried forward and dragged their groaning, semi-conscious comrade out of the circle, glaring at me murderously the whole time.
“So, Artur hasn’t been lax in training you, eh lad?” Sgt. Blake chuckled, a wicked twinkle in his eyes even if his face was set in a perpetual frown. That bit of information had the other squire’s interest as they stared wide eyed from their Sergeant at Arms to me, especially Natalie who was eyeing me oddly as she cradled her hand to her chest.
“Yup, you useless pack of ingrates, standing before you is Darkling royalty… The grandson of Artur Von Bright himself,” Sgt. Blake explained in a sardonic tone that made the word royalty when pertaining to my family sound like something filthy and squirmy that needed to be stepped on.
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The day wore on with me being run through the paces in martial drill, some of it I was good at—mostly the sword drills and target shooting at the Wolves Den’s underground range. The rest went just ok or abysmally and all summed up with the lot of us being marched exhaustedly to the mess hall, Manx at my heels.
All the squires save Natalie seemed to like the Witchound more than they liked me which was fine by me until they started prattling on about what they knew or had read about the infamous breed and then started up asking me questions on the subject.
Honestly, I just wanted a tall glass of coke and maybe a cheeseburger (and was fairly sure these things weren’t going to be on the menu but had resigned myself to chowing down on whatever was offered as hungry as I was), but the trip seemed all the longer with each of them arguing about breed specifics and such while my head was aching. I itched from the uniform I’d been provided and every part of me hurt from drills.
At that point I was pretty sure that every inch of me was covered in welts and ugly black and blue splotches with all the hits, tumbles, and thrusts it’d taken under Sgt. Blake’s and the instructor’s tender care. I had zero patience just then for debating dog haunches, breading lines, jaw strength, and shoulder breadth. Though Manx seemed to be drinking it all in, sickeningly even letting himself be petted and fawned over.
The mess hall, lit by humming lights that hung from the ceiling was a long low room lined with very familiar long, all in one bench tables that I’d seen in school. This only added to my unease as I remembered the antics I’d suffered through in the cafeteria so often over the years.
Even the frumpy looking old lunch ladies who stood behind a sneeze guarded glass lunch buffet table waiting to serve wielding ladles like clubs looked pretty much the same—bad perms, hair nets, blue long skirted uniforms, aprons, and grumpy demeanors. They saw us, then noted Manx and all three of the women’s eyes bugged comically as they nudged one another and gripped their ladles all the tighter.
