The Warder

by D K Williamson

  The man at the counter laughed. “That settled, what of the shin guards?”

  Two steel strips of about a forearm’s width adorned Dech’s high riding boots, running from just below the knee and ending just above the ankle. Called scinblohs in one of the old tongues, they were a commonly worn item for knights, but especially those who served the order and traveled light. The man behind the counter noticed a steel plug that slightly protruded from the otherwise smooth surface low on each of the guards Dech wore.

  “It was an idea one of our armorers had. A short spike as an extra weapon. I liked the idea and volunteered to try it,” Dech said.

  “And it didn’t work?”

  “Yes and no. The spike penetrated mail and other armors well enough, but I had one snag during a fight. I was fortunate that it merely resulted in extracting my boot from an armored corpse. The armorer is working on a better design when he has the time.”

  “A shaft with a point at the tip, these spikes?”

  “Yes, but the shaft flared out before the taper as you see with some bodkin point arrows.”

  “There’s the problem I think. Some poll-axes and poll-hammers have the same issue. A spike that tapers from the mounting point would serve better, but that’s a guess. Perhaps mount it so it might detach if stuck.”

  Dech nodded and smiled. “Sound advice. How did an experienced, honest, and knowledgeable man like you end up doing this?”

  “I used to matter when I was a man-at-arms. An armored sergeant and a damned good one. I mattered so long as I could wield a sword or glaive. One day I found I couldn’t do it anymore. This happened,” he said as he raised the stump of a right arm long ago severed below the elbow. “Eight years ago at the Battle of Fall River. It didn’t kill me, sorry to say. Didn’t grow back either. Now I sell blades to keep a rich man rich and myself from starvation. My wife passed before all this, so I’ve only myself to feed. The roof keeps me dry, but what I wouldn’t give to curse the skies as rains came down on the eve of battle. I’d rather freeze to death on a march than die of old age doing this.”

  “And how did you end up with a soft spot for elvan things?” Dissy asked.

  The man blinked sadly a few times. “My wife. Elvan she was. Healer with an expedition I was on and it turned out we fit. Only objectionable thing she ever did was die in the outbreak at Limodan. Damnable plague.”

  Dech’s jaw clenched as he pulled a coin purse from his pouch, but he made no mention of his connection to Limodan. As he opened it, he said, “If the owner of this place decides he no longer wants your services, head for Creator’s Rock. The Fortress can use a man with your knowledge.”

  “I’m a widower and missing pieces, but I’m not dead yet. Not interested in being gelded and taking an oath of poverty. What little I have I’d like to keep.”

  “Your knowledge is lacking in some areas then,” Dech said. “No gelding, no oaths, and decent pay. You’ll work for the order as an extern freeman, no induction needed. Leave when you will.”

  The man canted his head. “That right? I’m Bertrand Phidias and I just might consider that. Might set your armorer straight on shin spikes and such.”

  “You just might at that,” Dech said as he placed the coin purse on the counter. “If you do take me up on the offer, tell them Warder Dech sent you.” He pointed at the items on the counter. “So, what’s the damage?”

  . . .

  Dissy said nothing as they left Houda Arms. Her silence held for a time as they walked toward the church until she grasped Dech’s arm and they stopped.

  “How much of that back there was pity?” she asked.

  “Pity?”

  “The coin spent on me? The offer of employment to a crippled soldier who lost his wife in the same manner as you? His cutting the price because I’m half the race of that wife? That’s what I mean.”

  “Do I feel for the man? Yes. I have some idea of his experience. He also has value that might be cast aside if his employer deems it will save him coin. I provided an option, one that might benefit him and the order. As for you? He might have done us a favor on the price of bow and blade, but it wasn’t the pity of contempt. I think he honestly wanted to see that bow and sword in the hands of someone who would appreciate them and has the skill to use them well. There is a great deal of contempt in this world, but it’s not universal. The friar, Phidias, me, that’s three people in two days you’ve spent time with that haven’t shown you a bit of contempt.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel hopeful?”

  “High hopes lead to a long fall, but you might try having a little faith knowing that not everyone you cross paths with is a stupid or detestable bigot.”

  Dissy rolled her eyes. “No promises, but I’ll try.” She gestured at the church and the two resumed the short journey.

  “The order pays you enough to lavish the needy with gifts?” Dissy said tilting her head at her newly acquired equipment.

  “The order doesn’t pay at all. Those of us that patrol or work away from the Fortress receive a stipend. Nobles are required to provide contrition knights with lodging and food when requested. I tend to be stingy so I have—had, a surplus of coin.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “It’s not my gold, but it is mine to spend as I or others might need,” he said moving past one of the large open doors leading into the church. “Maybe those arms make your survival more likely. If so, you need them.”

  The pair found Friar Theo in the church packing his two satchels. He smiled when he saw them and said, “Ah, and here I was beginning to think you weren’t going to say farewell.”

  “You’re still heading for Cruxford?” Dech asked.

  “I am. Setting out this very hour.”

  “I’m going there myself if you wish to travel with me.”

  “Splendid.” Theo looked left and right before saying in a hushed tone, “The priest provided me with a full wheel of a most delightful local cheese.”

  Dech sighed and shook his head. “Can you ride?”

  “I most certainly can if it means having an armed and able companion. Just give me a few minutes to convince someone to lend me a horse.”

  “Before you do, let me say farewell,” Dissy said. “You are truly a strange holy man.”

  Theo laughed deeply. “And you are a most spirited being. I wish you a safe and satisfactory outcome to whatever it is you embark upon. I also hope we cross paths again sometime.”

  “Odd as it might sound, I do as well. Maybe you can be the one who’s disrobed next time.”

  Theo laughed again, louder this time and drawing an irritated look from the priest. “Oh no. No, no one wants to see such a sight. Go with the Creator young lady and do so clothed.”

  “I’ll meet you at the legion guardhouse,” Dech said as Theo departed.

  Dissy poked the warder on his mailed chest. “One of these days you need to let me help you.”

  “You do not—”

  “Not a word, Dech. You’ll be seeing me again soon enough. Count on it.”

  Dech held his hands up conceding the point. “Only if you survive whatever it is you’re headed toward. You take care.”

  “I will. I may not owe you, but you just might need a friend or two down the road. You take care as well.” She held the bag of coins Dech had given her earlier. “Here, it still has a bit of a jingle in it.”

  Dech tapped the pouch on his waist. “So does the coin purse in here. Take that. You may need it. Odd things can happen along the road.”

  “Tell me about it. Still looking out for castasides.”

  “Cast aside long ago and no longer a castaside. I have few enough friends, Diz. You’d do the same for me.”

  “I would and I will. I said it before, count on it.” She reached into the neckline of her shirt and pulled the fine chain and pendant over her head. “Take this,” she said holding it in the palm of her right hand.

  “You—”

  “Take it. It’s my one prized
possession. Return it when next we meet.”

  He nodded and held out his hand.

  Dissy placed it on his palm and turned to leave, then stopped. Facing Dech, she hugged him. “I’m glad we crossed paths again.” She pushed away and swept up her newly acquired gear before rushing through the church’s large doorway.

  “As am I,” Dech said quietly.

  He looked at the pendant and recognized it: a trinket given to him along with a laurel by an earl’s daughter at a tournament near the city of Shadow. Given as an honor for his skill at knightly contests, the pendant meant little to him and he’d given it to Dissy when she was eleven or twelve years old. He looked at the pendant for a minute before securing it in his belt pouch.

  He made his way to the contrition knight post and retrieved his horses. Standing outside while waiting for Brother Theo, Dech’s thoughts returned to the people, places, and events from his past that continued to revisit him, with Phidias and the tournament pendant being the most recent in the string. It must mean something… but what? he thought.

  A short time later, Theo arrived with a well-appointed road horse. Dech knew better than to ask how the friar obtained it. With mounts, gear and provisions ready, the two men and three horses set off for Arataine’s capital city, Cruxford.

  Not long into the trip, Theo spoke.

  “I won’t pry, but you seem troubled,” he said. “I am not much good as a counselor. Education, history, and chronicling the events of our time is my pursuit, but I’ll listen if it helps.”

  “Not troubled, unsure. It’s an odd thing that has not happened to me before,” Dech began. Without delving into details, he gave the friar a quick explanation.

  “I know Abbess Dealan,” Theo said. “Not well, but we have met and conversed a few times. A fiery woman, truly. You know her background?”

  “Much of it, yes.”

  “Dealan is not her given name. You do know that?”

  “I do. I know she is a powerful mage and something in relation to that led her to the order. I know King Harold was involved in her placement. Beyond that, I know little else of her past. I won’t pry. Such is the way within the order.”

  “I know. I won’t divulge much but to say she was a mage of some renown before she took the oath. If she holds the opinion your returning past means something, I would listen to her. Convergences come in many forms and for many reasons. History is rife with convergences, the sagas as well.”

  Dech grunted. “I’d prefer to avoid becoming involved in saga-worthy events. Those that do often fare poorly.”

  Theo laughed. “Ah, but they are immortalized for the effort. The sagas often exaggerate, add literary embellishments, and create drama, but nearly all are based on truth. Not all die in heroic pursuits.”

  “I will stand by my statement.”

  The pair stopped well before dark to prepare a camp and eat a meal from Theo’s bounteous satchel of victuals.

  “You are a historian?” Dech asked as they ate.

  “I am indeed. Among other things, I currently I toil on a chronicle of the Crusade of the Barons.”

  “Another? There are several already. That’s just in Arataine alone.”

  “A learned knight?” Theo asked with pleasant surprise. “Every land in the Southerlies has at least three, in fact. Many a crusader wrote of their mighty deeds. Many a sovereign commissioned men such as me to pen works of even loftier claims. I seek to create one that does not read as heroic saga, rather a version of the true events. While it brought great wealth to the Settled Lands, especially the Southerlies, it was not remotely heroic. Many falsehoods and legends still hold and it may spell trouble at some point.”

  Dech nodded. “The rumors of Sarantine retribution.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think after all this time they seek revenge?”

  “Less than four generations have passed since the crusade. Our good king’s great-grandfather was one of the crusaders as were those of all of who hold ducal titles save for Frederick. Every land of the Southerlies shares this heritage. Recall the crusade was called over a century after the end of forty-one years of the Third Cataclysm. One raving cleric started the crusade, one, simply because the Second Cataclysm unleashed the avatar of the Lord of the Vile in Sarantium centuries before that. Madness! Tell me the same fervor might not prompt the Sarantines to act in similar manner because the avatar emerged here in Arataine in the following event.”

  “I won’t because you make a good point. How far along is this work of yours?”

  “Not very,” he said as he dug into one of his bags. “I have copious notes and require far more, but I do have an encyclopedia entry I am working on that summarizes my thoughts.”

  Pulling a sheet of paper from a leather-bound folder, he passed it to Dech.

  -A Chronicler’s account of the Crusade of the Barons-

  The Third Cataclysm was thought to have been brought on by the peoples to the east across the Caladian Sea, specifically the Sarantines. Believing this, the inhabitants of what would later be called the Southerlies launched a crusade and all manner of vessels were procured or built to transport knights, their equipment, and their mounts.

  Soon after landing, it became apparent Sarantinium and those nations near her had suffered as badly as the Settled Lands had, but the crusade went ahead. Not for justice or vengeance, it was now simply greed that drove the crusaders. Seeing the vast wealth and bounteous treasures of Sarantinium’s capital, Cyranople, temptation drove them to perform dangerous deeds worthy of sagas, had they been done for a noble cause. Alas, this was not the case.

  The crusaders returned, their vessels low in the water weighted with loot and sin. Many of these crusaders used their new wealth to carve out sections of power. The Destrian, Maradoran and Aratainian royal lines chief among these. New powers arose as well, among these the Aratainian duchies, with Byrmont later using its wealth and aid from Destria to successfully rebel and attain independence.

  “Loot and sin?” Dech said with a smile as he looked up from the page.

  “I rather like that,” Theo said with a grin. “The monk serving as head scribe cut the phrase, ‘butchery, barbarism, and buggery’ from the entry though.”

  Dech laughed quietly. “You got your point across. You risk losing your head if some of those peers and royals mentioned take umbrage.”

  “Of that I am fully aware, but few know we lowly scribblers. Control of knowledge and ideas is the way of evil. I do hope you will keep this in confidence.”

  Dech passed the paper back to the friar. “I am just a poor man-at-arms destined to use sword and shield. Such scholarly works are beyond me.”

  Theo jiggled with laughter. “You, sir, are a most unusual knight.” Looking upward at the darkening skies he said, “We must prepare for slumber.”

  Once a clear-skied full dark took hold, the two slept with the intent of departing soon after dawn.

  . . .

  Chapter 9

  A pounding on the door interrupted the writing of Andre Fillister, alchemist, barber-surgeon, Royal Mage at the head of the Mage Council, and advisor to King Harold. He gently set his quill pen aside and stood, passing a hand in the air to extinguish the candles burning on his desk before making his way to the balcony that overlooked the main entrance to his tower.

  Two men-at-arms stood below, their surcoats bearing the colors of the King’s Household, the torches the men held revealing that much.

  “What is it?” Fillister shouted. “It is late in the day and past normal calling hours. This is no fit time to be bothering me.”

  The men looked up at him. The taller of the two said, “Royal Mage Fillister, we have been sent here to guard you.”

  “Guard me? Protect me you mean. From what?”

  “Protect, yes. There is a plot afoot to kill the king and most of his retinue, including you.”

  “I see.”

  “Might we come in?”

  “You bear proof of your s
ervice with the King?”

  “Of course, good sir.” The knight pulled a rolled paper from his surcoat and held it toward the mage. “Parchment with the king’s signet in wax.”

  “Wait there. I’ll be down.”

  . . .

  “Sit,” Fillister said gesturing at some seats as he walked past several in his living quarters. “No one will enter my tower without my knowledge or consent.”

  “That’s very kind, sir, but we need to be watchful. It was made quite clear to us that—”

  “Sit. Should we be attacked, you’ll have ample time to take up arms. I’ll fix some victuals for us. I have ham, vegetables, and bread. Quite a cook I am.”

  A short time later, Fillister bid the two men-at-arms to take seats at the dining table when the food was ready. Pouring wine in a cup, he then passed the bottle to the taller guard.

  “Sir Mage, we can’t be drinking such whilst on the job.”

  “We’re on duty, see. Ale or beer is all we might take,” the other added.

  “Diligent. Good, good. I have some fine ales and beers. Beyond the kitchen on the left is the buttery, take your pick.”

  “Most gracious. You live without a staff? A cook at least?”

  Fillister laughed. “This tower was built to my own plan. It allows me to handle nearly everything myself so I can toil unbothered and without disturbance. A small and self-contained kitchen as you shall see serves me quite well though I have servants that come during the day when needed.”

  The two men stood and made their way to the kitchen. As they reached the doorway, Fillister called out, “Might you bring the jug sitting on the table within the buttery. The jug with a label, not the bottle you’ll also see there mind you. It is a wine I just decanted today and would like to taste it.”

  “Certainly,” the taller guard replied.

  “How is it so bright in here?” asked the other guard. “Outside of the capital, never seen the like.”

  Fillister smiled good-naturedly and waved a hand through the air. The illumination from the candles throughout the room dimmed considerably. “Howson’s Star, a simple persistent spell.” Another wave of his hand brought the lights up again. “Transmuting alchemy applied during the production of the candles helps as well.”