“Aye, Warder. Brierley, the last place this murderer spent much time. Wish we could be more help.”
“That’s plenty,” Dech replied. “It gives me a place to start.”
Dech set off after McGrew. He paced himself and his horses, alternating gaits from walk to trot and then canter while occasionally dismounting and walking on foot while leading the pair of equines. Knowing he might be on the road for some time, endurance and a steady pace would gain far more ground than riding himself and his horses into the road.
Reaching Brierley a day after McGrew had departed, he learned the mage was on his way to Fridley after a stop in Mersom, a hook shaped route that would allow Dech to gain much ground on the mage and be waiting for him in Fridley when he arrived. It also allowed for taking a day’s rest, a rest as much for his horses as himself.
The trip began with little of note. Late in the morning he caught up to a King’s Legion commander on his way to Fridley, the two agreeing to travel together.
Late in the afternoon, they neared the city and discovered a disturbance near a bridge that led into the city walls. A man saw the pair and ran at them waving a hand.
“There are brigands or madmen blocking the bridge,” the man said. “Just nobles they be hindering though, but many have gathered to watch.”
The legion commander grumbled. “Did anyone mention the term, ‘passage of arms’ by chance?”
“Not that I’ve heard. I’m not going over there until they leave. They just fought a battle against several knights and it appeared they defeated them.”
The commander shook his head with a pained expression. “I fear it is a passage of arms. All the rage in Fromaer I hear.” Dech’s face expressed his unfamiliarity with the term. “It’s a grand game where they block a road and challenge any knight or noble that comes along. Man, woman, or child, if one holds one of these positions they’ll joust or melee the men and require the others to surrender a piece of clothing like a hat or glove. Should they want it back, a knight must return and fight for it.”
“And what if a knight were to refuse to fight?”
“They take the spurs of said knight to shame them. King Harold has forbidden the practice here.”
“Then we need to look into this.”
“That we do. I’m glad you came along because the Legion quarters is inside the city walls. Until someone alerts them….”
“It’s just us then. Perhaps we can convince them to leave.”
“I doubt they’ll listen to the likes of me, King’s Legion or not.”
“We might need to use some creativity then.”
The two brought their horses to the trot and soon saw a tangle of people, animals, and wagons of various sorts near the entry to the bridge. As they wound and barged their way through the congestion, Dech could see a blond man ahead, one he felt sure was Robert Moore. A turn of the young man’s head confirmed it as he and a few other youths in mail spoke heatedly with another group of armored men, foreigners if the arms on their surcoats, shields, and standards were any indication.
“Everyone calm down,” Dech uttered in a parade ground voice as he loosened the tie on his saddle borne war sword—a slightly larger version of the sword carried on the waist and intended for fighting from horseback or on foot when combat was certain.
Most of those within earshot looked at the source of the shout, with Robert’s surprise to see the warder evident on his face.
“And who might you be, sir knight?” one of those opposing Rob’s group said in a cheery tone, his voice tinted with the sharp accent of the lands well north and west of Arataine.
“Warder Dech of the Order of Contrition Knights. My companion is a commander with the King’s Legion.”
“Ah, a military order. Finally one that might prove a challenge. We intend to break one hundred lances or win a like number of melees before we cede this position. Thus far, these boys in armor are all that have challenged us and only the handsome blond one put up a credible fight. The only belted knight here surrendered his spurs and ran for the shelter of the city walls. Disgraceful.”
Dech stared at the knight for a few seconds before saying. “Stay where you are. I’ll return.” He looked at Rob and gestured for him to follow. “Bring your friends.” He walked his horse several paces away and stopped, noting the legion commander dismounting and walking to a carriage with three finely attired women aboard.
Dech leaned over toward Rob and his four companions. “What is happening here?”
“We rode up on these men blocking passage into town and found them demanding an item of clothing from the older woman in the carriage. She is a countess, and the men—Fromaerian knights—said she could have it back if someone would fight for her honor and win. That—”
“That was when the knight they mentioned surrendered his spurs!” one of Rob’s companions spat. “Like he said, disgraceful.”
“So you took it upon yourselves to redeem Aratainian honor by contesting them?” he asked noticing one of the young men nursed an obviously broken arm.
Rob looked away for a moment before replying, “Yes.”
“And what did you lose?”
“Our mounts. When you appeared, we were trying to convince them to engage us on foot, but they—”
Dech raised a hand to silence the young man. “Are any of you sworn knights?”
All five shook their heads.
Dech sighed loudly as he loosened the lead to Otto before passing it to Rob. “Stay here,” he said sternly. “All of you.”
He rode Ridan at the walk to the knights and saw a long scarf fluttering in the breeze from its place next to a pair of spurs. “You consider yourselves victorious in your last engagement?”
“We do. Most certainly we do. Resoundingly and absolu—”
“They are not knights,” Dech said with a condescending smile. “It would be considered shameful to notch such an affair as a victory here in Arataine, but perhaps you have lower standards and lower skills in Fromaer. But you have bigger worries just now.”
The knight’s eyes narrowed. “You would insult a knight such as—”
“I said you have bigger worries just now. You are breaking the king’s law. This may be legal where you hail from, but not here.”
“Knights of Arataine fear to joust or melee?”
“No, we do it on approved tourney grounds under the authority of a lord. I’ll ask you, sir knight, to return the horses, spurs, and scarf to their rightful owners and be on your lawful way.”
“We will not. Do you and the legion commander intend to force us to comply? Mayhap you enlist the boys who wish to be knights as well?”
Dech could tell the five men were serious about resisting. Seeing no help coming from the city and wishing to resolve the situation without death, he pursued a risky strategy.
“Then I challenge you.”
“I accept,” the knight replied.
“Not you,” Dech said. “All of you.”
“All at once or one at a time?”
The other men laughed.
“I’ll let you decide,” Dech said coldly.
“Lances first. Pieter,” he said over his shoulder. “Break this arrogant fool’s lance and be done with it. Leave him in the dirt.”
One of the men smiled harshly and trotted to swing aboard his horse, a destrier—a war horse of similar height to Ridan, but of heavier build and nervous temperament. On tourney grounds that might be an advantage, but for Dech’s purposes Ridan’s steady disposition and nimbleness was a factor in his favor.
Another knight brought a jousting lance to Dech, longer than the fighting version and tipped with a cronel—a crown-shaped lance-head with protruding prongs designed to bite into shield or helm without penetrating.
Dech turned and trotted to stop near Rob’s group. He left the fighting lance he carried on his horse with them before he donned his padded cap and mail coif. His helm came next. “Let’s see if I have any skill left. I haven’t jouste
d in more than a decade,” he said as he moved down the road.
Rob was a little baffled at Dech’s upbeat tone.
Riding what he felt was an adequate distance, Dech wheeled and saw his opponent waiting, his destrier skittish with nervous energy. Dech smiled unseen within his helm and brought Ridan to speed, surprising the Fromaerian who hurriedly spurred his mount into motion. The people who lined the road flared away as the two closed, but neither rider noticed as each focused on their opponent.
Lance in right hand, angled left to project between knight and horse’s neck, shield up and held firm, Dech sought to discern his opponent’s tactics and skill. The knight hid his intended target well, leaving the warder to guess where his lance would strike, but the skill was apparent and Dech knew without a doubt that he faced a competent, but not exceptional knight. His smile grew as, All I need do is pull it off, passed through his mind.
When the moment came for the jousters to steel for impact and rise in the stirrups to lunge forward in strike, Dech did neither. He raised his lance tip and timed his opponent’s thrust, deflecting it from his shield as if it was no more than a tap. Swinging his borrowed lance much like a club, he hoped he timed it correctly. A solid and jarring shock traveled up his arm as the lance struck the knight just below the edge of his helm from behind. Dech’s momentum twisted his torso allowing him to see his opponent fall from his horse and tumble to an inert stop in the middle of the road.
He kept Ridan at the gallop until he neared the four remaining Fromaerian knights at the end of the bridge. He slowed to a stop and hurled the lance into their midst, scattering them. He grasped the leather grip of his war sword and drew it from the scabbard just before leaping from the horse.
“Melee?” his voice boomed from the helm.
The four snarled and without donning helms, they drew swords. A pair of them didn’t bother with shields. A mistake, Dech thought. One pays for mistakes.
The thrill of combat welled within him. Another unseen smile crossed his face as he waded into the four, something they didn’t expect.
Two of the knights engaged as the others circled behind the warder.
Dech feigned a blow at the knight on his left who counterstriked from behind his shield as the other Fromaerian cut with his sword. Fending off the strike from the left with his shield, Dech did the same to the right with his war sword followed by an arcing kick to the knight’s knee. A grinding crack and groan of pain dropped the Fromaerian to the road.
Dech pivoted to his left knowing the two circling him must be close. A kick to the downed knight’s bare head removed him from the fight.
He backed away a few steps to gauge the three remaining opponents and felt the Fromaerian to his right—the man he’d fended a blow from already—was the most skilled of the trio, now wary but unafraid after the initial exchange.
The other shield-equipped knight circled to the left as the other two closed. Dech allowed them two steps before he moved, a lunge left before darting right, a move that froze the leftmost men and provided a brief moment for him to engage the remaining knight. He closed rapidly as did his opponent, the two meeting with a dull thudding of leather-covered wood when their shields clashed together.
The Fromaerian struck with an arcing stab hoping to clear Dech’s shield, but expecting it, the warder deflected the blow as he pressed downward on his opponent’s shield with his sword arm. The knight backed away, the warder bulling forward and driving the shield down farther. Trying to stop Dech’s advance, the knight braced his feet and drove against him.
As the knight’s face came forward, Dech’s mailed elbow did also, but in the opposite direction over the knight’s lowered shield. The impact sent the knight reeling into the path of one of his comrades who backed away and used his shield to avoid becoming entangled with his falling and glassy-eyed comrade.
Using the confusion to his advantage, Dech turned and moved hard at the other Fromaerian and saw trepidation in the man’s eyes. Apprehensive or not, the knight followed his training and closed as well, feinting a thrust low before lunging at the warder’s face. Tilting his head, Dech let the strike rake down the side of his helm and with a bash of his shield drove the man back into the low wall that bordered the bridge. As Dech rushed forward, the man swung his sword in a horizontal sweep where it met the contrition knight’s shield. Stepping past the weapon, Dech pounded the side of the Fromaerian’s head with the flat of his blade. The knight crumpled to the road surface.
Dech spun and closed on the last Fromaerian standing as the knight backed away toward Rob and his friends. Tossing his shield away and holding his sword by blade and hilt, he dropped to a knee and raised it before him. “I yield,” he said. The man’s eyes looked past Dech. A glance at those nearby revealed everyone looked in the same direction as well.
Dech backed away and turned. Looking across the bridge, he saw a combined force of mounted knights, King’s Legion personnel, men-at-arms, and town guards armed with glaives and bows.
“If you’d but talked a little longer,” the legion commander said, “you might have saved yourself the effort.”
Dech lifted his helm from his head and gave the legionnaire an unappreciative look that prompted a laugh from the commander.
“Well, you provided quite the show for all of these people,” the commander continued. “You’ll be the talk of the town.” He paused to laugh again. “And better you than I.”
Dech shook his head and crossed to where the Fromaerians had placed their spoils. He waved at Rob and company to come recover their mounts while he took the spurs and scarf. He walked to the carriage and dipped his head. “I am told this is the property of a countess,” he said presenting the scarf.
“It is,” a sharp-featured and attractive middle-aged woman said taking it with a smile. “We are grateful you have freed us from this clogged mess. I shall mention your actions to my husband, Archibald, Earl of Swifton.”
“It may remain this way for awhile longer,” Dech said with a gesture at the force closing on them from the bridge.
“Quite,” the countess replied. “I am Countess Amelia. These are my daughters, Hermione and Lucille.”
Dech inclined his head at the two young ladies, each a teen whose looks favored their mother. “Milady,” he said to each in turn prompting them to blush.
“Perhaps this order knight requires lodging, mother?” one of the girls asked. It was abundantly clear the countess did not like the idea.
“A gracious offer,” Dech said, “but I must decline as I am on order business. It was an honor to make your acquaintance, Countess.”
The countess returned a grateful smile. “And ours that you could come to our aid.”
Dech inclined his head once again and strode to Rob and his companions.
“You might go pay your respects to the countess,” he said as he removed his mail coif and padded cap. “She has a pair of fetching daughters.”
Rob’s companions smiled and eagerly made their way to the carriage, but he stayed. Most of the force from the city turned around and headed for the gates once they saw the foreign knight issue appeared to be settled.
“I did say we might cross paths again,” Rob said.
“You did at that. Still following in your father's footsteps I see.”
Robert smiled sheepishly. “I'm afraid so. I'll attribute it to hereditary destiny.”
Dech nearly laughed, but smiled instead. “You might do well to find companions with greater skill, or acquire more of them.”
“That part of my father's past I seem unable to repeat. I have yet to find my Seneschal Allan Fairdale, or Sir Dech. These friends of mine are as true as you’ll find, but not as skilled as my ability to find trouble.”
“Then they need to acquire skills it seems.”
“They must. It’s unlikely I’ll suddenly become wise.”
“What brings you here?”
“Allan commissioned us to run messages for him. We have but one left and th
at is for my father in Cruxford. We thought we would rest here for the day before setting out tomorrow, but we encountered this situation.”
“I see. You may need to rest your mounts if they were exerting themselves during the melee.”
“I fear we did press them. We have coin enough to stay another night.”
Not long after, Rob’s comrades returned, three of them complaining about their injured member garnering most of the attention from the ladies.
“Is this the same contrition knight of whom you keep speaking, Robert?” asked one of his companions.
“Yes. Lucky for us he likes me.”
“Sir Dech,” asked another of the young men, “might you do us the honor of dining with us?”
Dech nodded. “What contrition knight would pass on a free meal? But first, I’ll need to speak with some people,” he said gesturing at a gathering of King’s Legion members and a few knights.
One of the knights smiled and met Dech as he walked toward the gathering.
“I understand you have my spurs, sir knight?”
“I do,” the warder said as he handed them to the man. “The force from the city was your doing?”
“It was. An unnecessary action it seems.”
“A wiser course than mine.”
The knight laughed. “I am Sir Michael of Haye and you are Warder Dech, of the Order of Brothers of the Contrition House. Everyone in the city of Fridley will know your name within a few hours.”
“Renown was not my intention.”
“It is unavoidable for a man of your skill I fear. The legion commander wishes to discuss the disposition of our Fromaerian guests.”
Dech’s suggestion was to confiscate all of the knights’ equipment but one horse per man and allowing them their armor and swords. The rest he proffered be sent to the capital and let the king determine what should be done with it. If the knights wished to contest it, they could take it up with King Harold. The legion commander found the idea very much to his liking, and Dech soon rejoined Rob’s band to make their way into town.
. . .
“I’ve not met a member of the order before, and a warder at that. The highest field rank within the order, is it not?” asked one of Rob’s companions as they conversed after dinner.
The Warder Page 7
