The Warder

by D K Williamson

  . . .

  “I think Allan’s assessment may be wrong, Rob,” Greve Gerald Moore said as he and his son left the keep and walked across the inner bailey. “The Dech of earlier days is still there.”

  “His prowess is as Allan described, Father,” Rob replied. “You may be right though. He managed a jest or two while my companions and I were with him. I’ve heard several people here mention he is a rather humorless, dour, and imposing man of sharp tongue.”

  “I have heard the same over the years, but I suspect it sources from those we would not be inclined to favor either. I dearly regret missing his visit, but if he is the Dech of old, even a shred, he’ll visit again. I’ve known many a knight, but none better than Dech. Pay heed to what he taught you. I suspect it was a favor to me as well as you.”

  “He risked censure aiding me and my companions, did he not?”

  “He did,” Gerald replied. “Do not think he took that decision lightly or did so without considering the personal risk. It is telling and typical of the man Allan and I knew. Yes, I think the man he was still resides within… whatever surcoat covers his armor.”

  . . .

  The keep’s steward led Dech and Wace to the king’s private office. Inside they found Lord Arundel there as well, both men dressed in finery that clashed sharply with the travelers’ road worn attire.

  “Come in,” King Harold said from his position leaning on the front of his ornate wooden desk. “Did you find something of value? Sir Oliver seemed to think you were chasing a cold trail.”

  “He may be correct, Sire,” Wace replied as he dug into a bag. “Though there is considerable evidence that needs to be proven untrue before we can reach that conclusion. I for one believe we may be onto something.”

  “A politic way of saying Brundell is wrong,” Arundel said. “So you did uncover something.”

  “I should like to hear this,” King Harold said, “but first, why was Andre killed?”

  Wace looked to Dech, prompting the warder to nod.

  “Fillister had notes on his person the assassins failed to destroy,” Dech said. “Based on these notes, it seems his research may have resulted in his being targeted. We believe he may have been killed to suppress his knowledge of a form of magic called derkunblod. Fillister was—”

  “Derkunblod?” Arundel spat. “This again?”

  “I know something of this magic,” Harold said. “Why was Andre looking into this?”

  “He sensed what he believed to be the presence of Olk Mirkness,” Wace replied, “His notes are rather cryptic as they were reminders to himself, but it seems he was sure Mirkness was alive and practicing the magical form called derkunblod. Based on what Sir Dech told me, there are some indicators others with knowledge of derkunblod have been targeted. This is part of what we need to investigate. On top of that, we—”

  “It does seem this way,” Lord Arundel said. “The hermitage incident in Byrmont… it must connect to the report concerning Olk Mirkness and Malig. Do you feel confident in Andre’s ability to sense Mirkness?”

  “I do, milord,” Wace said. “There are others on the council that should be able to confirm this. But—”

  “Sir Dech,” Harold said, “this informant in Byrmont who relayed the information to you. Are you confident he spoke true?”

  “I am,” Dech replied. “There was no proof Mirkness was at the inn or eliminated the hermitage, but if this derkunblod was the magic used in those places, it certainly points that way. High Mage Wace has something you need to see.”

  Conway’s look conveyed his appreciation for Dech’s help. He held up the copy of Cataclysma they had recovered. “This, Sire, is the only work of Andre’s that survived. We feel there may be more at play than derkunblod. Andre’s notes mention a plot that ‘endangers all.’ Given the topic of this work and the fact Andre acquired it shortly before his death, well, what if Mirkness seeks to bring about the Fourth Cataclysm?”

  “Is there any connection between derkunblod and past Cataclysms?” Harold asked with blatant skepticism.

  “I am not an expert, but none that I know of, Sire.”

  “I am doubtful, but bring this up with the council tomorrow. The derkunblod issue should be our focal point.” Harold rubbed his chin for a few seconds before he stood, turned suddenly, and rifled through a stack of papers on his desktop. Pulling a page free of the pile he turned back to the pair and said, “This came to me this afternoon. A recent incident in a town within Nevar called Arcer. An attack upon an arcane library. Some townspeople were killed including all of those who toiled in the library, which they burned to the ground. Wace, have you any knowledge of this place?”

  “I do not, Sire, save for its existence.”

  “I want you to work with McGrew on this. Derkunblod is a dangerous thing. If Malig is attempting to employ it in his bid to regain the throne, I want confirmation of this.”

  “I will speak with McGrew first thing in the morning.”

  “Do that. Sir Dech, I task you with pursuing this as well. Find out all you might. Take any force or monies you might require.”

  “I need no forces, Sire. There are those that ferret information for a living that might be of use. I am acquainted with a reliable few.”

  “Of course. Whatever you require.” Harold turned to the mage. “Wace, Lord Arundel and I need to speak with the warder alone.”

  “Of course, Sire.” Wace bowed and then picked up his bags. “Your Highness, milord, Sir Dech,” he said in departure.

  Harold waited until the door closed before speaking. “Speak with Abbess Dealan. She knows something of this and may be of use to you.”

  “Derkunblod or the Cataclysm, Sire?”

  “The former,” Harold said with some irritation. “Until we have more to indicate another Cataclysm, we pursue the derkunblod issue. That is madness enough. Speak with the abbess.”

  “I will, Sire,” Dech said.

  “Detail the situation and she will assist you,” Arundel said.

  “Pursue this with vigor,” Harold said. “I will have letters of authorization of authority for you in the morning as well as notification to Order-Captain Niall and the Grand Master.”

  “I will be ready to depart as soon as they are ready, Sire.”

  “I know, Sir Dech. Do not let me keep you from sleep.”

  Dech clicked his heels and inclined his head. “Good evening, Sire. Lord Arundel.”

  He turned sharply and walked briskly to the door.

  “Derkunblod,” Arundel muttered as the door closed.

  “Oh that we could find who is behind Malig,” Harold said. “He has acquired monies from somewhere.”

  “It may be too late to do anything about that now.”

  “True enough, but it may not. In any case, we must prepare for war.”

  “Setting Sir Dech on the trail is a fair start, Sire.”

  . . .

  Dech was up at first light. Having prepared to depart before he slept, it took little time before he was ready. He found Order-Captain Niall in his office.

  “Ah, you have timing, Warder Dech,” Niall said. “The king’s documents arrived a short while ago.” He slid a folded and sealed parchment packet across his desk.

  “Unhindered travel, authorization to commandeer personnel and draw monies in the name of the king. Authorization to take and hold members of the peerage should such measures be necessary. Our Majesty sees a threat in this. A serious threat.”

  Dech nodded.

  “Authorization is one thing,” Niall said, “taking a duke or earl by the collar is another. Be most deliberate and thorough before pursuing such action.”

  “I will only do so if I deem it dire. Otherwise, I will present any evidence to the king’s people.”

  “Please do. Word is on its way to the Grand Master as we speak. If your travels take you near Creator’s Rock, be sure to check in with him.”

  “My travels shall and I will.”

  “Then may the
Creator be with us all, Warder.”

  . . .

  As Dech checked the packsaddle on Otto, he heard soft footfalls approaching. A look showed him it was Conway Wace and Otis McGrew.

  “Off early,” McGrew said.

  “Too early,” Wace added.

  Both appeared to be weary with reddened and shadowed eyes, their voices creaking with lack of sleep and a night’s worth of talk.

  “We were up most of the night seeking references to derkunblod,” McGrew said. “It was an exhausting and almost fruitless enterprise.”

  “Almost? So you did find something.”

  Wace presented a folded and sealed parchment to the warder. “Scant as it is, the information within may assist you.”

  “And us,” McGrew added. “We seek any source of information, be it books, scrolls, lore, legend, or even practitioners of the form. There must be some. Those places that might hold such knowledge are noted.”

  “The hermitage in Byrmont was unknown to us,” Wace said. “There must be others unnoticed and unseen.”

  “I will try, but magic is not a strength of mine. Will you be seeking more concerning the Cataclysm?”

  “We will,” Wace replied. “Magic need not be a strength. We’ll delve into the details if you can find the sources.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “The name Andre mentioned, Granum, only appears once within the council archives. What little information we have is within the parchment as well.”

  “I thank you for your efforts. I will seek him out.”

  “It may not be a pleasant experience,” McGrew said. “You’ll see when you read.”

  . . .

  Dech followed a large merchant’s wagon out of the gate in the city wall and once clear, saw a familiar quintet of youthful men-at-arms halted a short distance away.

  He stopped next to them.

  “Off for home?”

  “We are,” Rob said. “Might you be going the same direction?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I head elsewhere. May you have a safe and swift journey.”

  “And you as well. My father’s seneschal expects us so we travel directly and swiftly.”

  “I hear he is a most unpleasant man. Best do as he expects.”

  Rob laughed. “I will tell him you said so.” Rob touched his forehead in parting, his companions doing the same.

  Dech repeated the gesture and the five young men with their trailing packhorses were soon off.

  “We have a long day ahead of us,” Dech said to his horses. Setting off at a walk, Dech cracked the seal on the package the mages had provided. Most of the entries were locations where strange magic practices had been reported. Some were small arcane literature collections that might contain works the mages sought. The listing for the person known only as Granum read,

  GRANUM - Is reported to be an alchemist and mage that attended a conference in Cruxford fifteen years ago. It was said he had a rather heated argument with several other mages about their lack of knowledge concerning an unknown subject. He contended this constituted a lack of authority on the subject. Considerable damage to three tapestries, two chairs, and a table were reported as a result of this discussion. Referred to by others at the conference as ‘a crazy hedge-mage seeking attention,’ Granum left soon after. He was said to hail from the area near Croton, but that is as far as the information goes.

  What sort of mage this Granum might be is unknown. A single mention of him in council records is rather odd and would be concerning save for his apparent relationship with Andre Fillister.

  Based on Fillister’s note, Granum must still be alive. There is no record of Fillister making a trip on Mage Council business, so if he did visit this person, it would have been a private matter.

  —McGrew and Wace

  The town of Croton was beyond Creator’s Rock, so Dech decided to head for Cashel Abbey first and then the Fortress.

  Without needing to refer to a map, Dech knew he had three days of travel ahead. A camp the first night and a stop at an inn he was familiar with for the second was his plan. Dech stowed the information and gave his attention to the road ahead.

  . . .

  Chapter 12

  Allan exited the keep and found Rob passing the reins of his horses to a stable boy.

  “You have both mounts and all your limbs,” Allan said as he walked toward the young man. “Any extra holes?”

  Rob laughed and began a rattle of words describing the trip.

  “So much for a boring journey,” Allan said with an amused smile as the two started toward the keep.

  “I saw Sir Dech fight. At Fridley, he bested five Fromaerians. Not in lethal combat, even though it seemed they were keen on killing him. He downed one with the lance, the rest with sword and shield and they all lived to limp their way to Cruxford to beseech the king for pardon.”

  Allan laughed. “Did you tell your father?”

  “I did,” Rob said with a grimace. “We had little choice as word reached him before we did. He was not as angry as I thought he might be though. He was happy and relieved to hear Sir Dech was there.”

  Allan laughed again. “He’s got no cause to be too mad, just a father’s concern. He knows you follow in his bloodline, brash and prone to mischief. Dech and I bear scars from some of his trouble.” He tapped the left side of his jaw. “That’s where Dech’s comes from.”

  “And yours?”

  Allan loosened his belt and pulled up his tunic above his breeches exposing a horseshoe shaped scar on the left side of his abdomen. “There it is, lad,” he said as he pulled the tunic down. “A Nord the size of an ogre did that. An inn fight fit for a saga. Three young buck Aratainian knights agin a horde of villainous whoresons from across the realms.

  “The inn was a den of the worst sorts, but was said to have the finest cider in the shire. Being young and dim enough, we dared to enter. Gerald said something that caused offense before we were even served. Whether he meant to he’s never said, but offense was caused and violence came on its heels. Your father only saw the beginning. He cut down three men who were the first to bring steel to bear before a flying barstool put him down.

  “Two Northlanders came at us from the south, a host of others from the north. I took the Northlanders, Dech the rest. I fought my opponents to a standstill and then managed to kill one, but he took my sword with him when he fell. Fortunately, for me, I’m as skilled with a chair as I am a sword and I managed to remove the remaining Nord’s axe at the cost of my chair.

  “It came down to daggers and a test of strength. He stabbed low, me high, and ended up grappling with hands locked on wrists with my back against a wall. He had an inch of blade in me and I intended he’d get no more. The point of my dagger was but a finger’s width from his face and he intended I’d get no more. In the struggle, he cut a course in me.

  “When I could, I managed a look Dech’s way hoping he was doing as well as I and found he’d finished his part. Weaponless and blood streaming from a torn face, he came my way, a trail of foes felled behind him. Ah, you should see him in a real fight. It’s like a one man landslide or a raging flood rolling over opponents. He wrapped an arm around the Nord’s neck and started choking him.

  Well, now I’m sure the Northlander knew he was in trouble what with two of us contesting him, so he tried a desperate move. He thought to reverse his blade and cut Dech low, but when he tried, he slackened the slightest bit with his other hand and that was that.”

  “What happened?” Rob asked.

  “He died. People generally do when a dagger goes through their head, even Nords.”

  Allan sighed. “Of course, the local lord didn’t care for a tavern brawl the size of a small war taking place in his domain, so the three of us were told to depart forthwith. Your father was out cold, his leg smashed while the fight raged; my guts were trying to exit my body; and Dech’s face looked like it wanted to visit the floor as well, so we were in need of a barber-surgeon or a mage with healing righ
t soon. We found a young lass named Muriel down the road, more girl than woman who knew some spells and she saw that we lived to fight another day. Young as she was, she knew enough and likely saved my life. And that’s how your father acquired his limp and learned how to hold his tongue.”

  “Was she comely, this Muriel?”

  “As I said, she was more girl than woman then. You know her in fact. The Muriel I speak of is Muriel Durham. So yes, comely, but married. Ale, lad. Ale is what we need. Regale me with stories from the road and I’ll bedazzle you with tales to match.”

  . . .

  Dech rode uncontested through the gateway in the city wall of Gryspen and headed for a clean and well-run inn with which he was familiar. He kept Ridan and Otto at a slow walk due to the heavy traffic on the streets, mostly people on foot, but much horse, wagon, and livestock were present as well. Dech learned the next day was the start of a local three-day religious holiday so the market and local mercantile concerns were busy before suspension of such business held for the duration.

  Dech stopped at a muddy intersection while a band of men led a long string of young horses through. As he waited, a hooded man with a pack slung over one shoulder came to a halt just to his right. Every few seconds the man looked over his shoulder to the rear. Once traffic cleared, Dech moved on, the man keeping pace with him, an action the warder found suspicious. After several seconds, Dech directed Ridan to veer toward the man, her shoulder knocking him off his stride.

  “Mayhap you watch where you steer that thing, friend,” the man said in irritation. “There are people about.”

  “Mayhap?” Dech said. Hearing the voice, he was certain he knew the hooded man. “You wouldn’t be a wandering bard, musician, and troublemaker by chance?”

  “Me? No, never. Mayhap you have me confused with someone else,” the man said as he looked up before quickly lowering his head. A moment later, he looked up again. “Dech?”

  Recognizing the man, the warder halted his horses. “It was the mayhap that gave you away. What are you doing here?” he said knowing enough not to use the man’s name.