“We’ll see that it’s sharpened and polished then,” the knight-armorer said.
. . .
Chapter 25
Dech and his companions were ready to leave Cruxford by first light and after introducing Adelbert Granum to those that had yet to meet him, the six prepared to mount. Order-Captain Niall and Bertrand Phidias were there to see them off, the young knight-armorer joining them with De Vasten held almost reverentially to present to the warder.
“She’s as able as I can manage, Sir Dech. I do not know of its material, steel certainly, but something more. Try as I might, burnishing did nothing to remove the streaking on its surface. Stranger yet, the axe edge became sharp from my wiping it with nothing more than an oiled cloth.”
“I’d say it be something crafted into the steel by mages then,” Phidias said. Passing a small wrapped bundle to Dech, he continued. “Spikes for your shin guards. One pair steel, one pair silver. Should one stick in a target, they’ll come free of the guard. Tested in the shop, but not the field. I’m confident they’ll do better than the last you used.”
Dech took them. “These may come in handy.” Looking at both Phidias and the armorer he said, “I thank you both.”
Granum moved beside Dech to look at the poll-axe, an act not unnoticed by the warder. Seeing the man was smiling expectantly, Dech said, “Do you think you might be able to shed some light on this weapon?”
Granum nodded. “I hope so. Mysterious enchantments and wards? A delightful pursuit! Your man there has some instincts does he not?”
“I’d say that he does.”
“I’d say your mage-scholar there has some steel in his spine,” Phidias said. “He’s stared down fear a time or two.”
“I’d say he probably has,” Deck said with a smile.
“When time permits, I’ll see what your strange arm has to say for itself. The abbess will certainly have insight as well.”
Dealan pulled herself aboard her mount. “I am no weapons expert. Not in any sense.”
Granum laughed. “Not the weapon, Abbess, the magic. I’ve not touched it, but I sense spells, incantations, wards, and… something else. It sings.”
Dealan pursed her lips and then smiled. “I sense something as well. That is for another time is it not. We have an army to catch.”
“That we do,” Dech said. “Last chance to part ways. It is a near certainty we must travel into Nevar. I think we are all up to it.”
“What about Erie and me?” Mayhaps asked. “City bred, remember?”
“I do,” Dech said with a smile. “I also remember several forays through forests in the past where the two of you were present.”
“No worries about me, Dech,” Erie said. “I’m your man.”
“Well, that settles it then,” the bard replied. “If I’m not along, who’ll keep an eye on Josip?”
Dissy’s expression told Dech all he needed to know and he nodded and smiled at her.
After swinging aboard Ridan, he loosened the ties securing his war sword from the front of his saddle and pulled it free. As he leaned to swap weapons with the armorer, Mayhaps cleared his throat.
“If you won’t be needing that, I’ll carry it,” he said. “Unless the order forbids it.”
“There is no stricture preventing it,” Niall said. “A war sword is noticeably heavier than a standard one. You have training of some sort?”
“I do,” Mayhaps said with irritation. “I’d prefer not to elaborate or lie to you.”
Niall shrugged. “These are the beginning of trying times. As you are on an order mission serving Creator and king, take it if you have need.”
“Just do not forget where you acquired it, bard,” Josip said.
Mayhaps rolled his eyes. “Oh, the irony, thief.”
“Trying times make for strange destinations and odd companions,” Niall said. “May the Creator be with you all.”
. . .
The group made good time despite considerable traffic on the roads coming and going as they rode west-southwest. The signs of an army on the move were evident all along the route. The cobbled road surface showed no signs of distress, but marring each side of the road was rutted and churned ground, refuse, and waste matter left in the wake of the mass of people who trudged toward a fight with Malig and cared little about what they left behind.
Stopping at an inn to feed and water their horses and mules before seeking a campsite, they discovered the place had lodgings available.
Dech was reluctant to stay there feeling they would be able to provide better security on their mounts and gear in a remote camp, but after assurances from Granum and Dealan that no larceny would occur once they cast wards and spells, he assented.
“Our stocks are slim,” the innkeeper said when the group gathered in the tavern to eat. “The marchers near cleaned us out. Do not fret, we still have victuals and spirits.”
After eating, Granum asked to examine Dech’s poll-axe, the others interested in it as well.
“Four hundred and fifty years old?” Mayhaps said. “Is that not what you said?”
“At least that old,” Granum said. “If it was in fact used in the so-called Second Cataclysm.” Holding his hands over the poll-axe where it rested on a table, he furrowed his brow. “I sense more than I did earlier,” Granum said. Contorting his fingers into a scrying sign, he furrowed his brow again. “It’s not just the poll-axe I sense, it is something else.”
Looking around the room his eyes finally locked onto the lute cradled in Mayhaps’ arm. “That’s it,” he said with a point at the instrument.
“Enchanted? I have always suspected it was,” Mayhaps said. “No wonder it sounds as it does.”
Granum shook his head. “I suspect it is purely craftsmanship and your own talents that make the lute play so nicely if your reputation is an indicator. The enchantment is named ‘never-blunted’, a keenness chant performed during the crafting of a blade made of steel. It would not serve your instrument to have such an enchantment. Most odd.”
Erie laughed. “Not so odd if there was a blade concealed within.”
“That might explain why I’ve never had need to sharpen the edges,” Mayhaps said.
“Might?” Dissy said.
“Now that we know which is which and what is what, let us delve into this poll-axe from the past.” Granum rubbed his hands together vigorously before gently laying them on the weapon.
Placing her hand on the poll-axe as well, Dealan said, “I sense ancient magic, enchantments and wards against infernal foes specifically. I recognize little of it, but the mere presence of the weapon will lessen any spells or powers of infernal source. Those who crafted this piece were masters of their craft, be that smith or enchanter.”
“I concur,” Granum said. “Study of this work would take months of effort. An experienced enchanter and access to an archive of chants and wards would be what is truly needed. The institute has such. We should avail ourselves of it when we return.”
“When we return, he says. An optimist!” Mayhaps said. “Keep it up and I might join you.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” a wildly dressed young man passing by said with a slightly slurred voice as he placed his hand on the bard’s shoulder. “Join you that is. What are we drinking?”
Mayhaps looked up at the man and laughed. “Ah, young Harpswell. Musician extraordinaire. Harpswell, everyone. Everyone, Harpswell. How are you?”
Waving drunkenly at those seated, he said, “Well. That’s how I am, Thrillwort, well.” Steadying himself on the table he looked back and forth across the tabletop before continuing. “Not a drop to be had! What sort of imbibing is this?”
“One of knowledge and the seeking of old secrets,” Mayhaps replied.
Harpswell shook his head in disgust. “Bah. My brain has too much knowledge and too many secrets already. No matter. I’ve not seen you for some months, Thrillwort. Heard there was some trouble that followed you, but it looks like you’re free.” looking at De
ch he shook his head vigorously and blinked, forcing his eyes to focus. “A contrition knight? Not so free after all.”
“A contrition warder no less, but free I am. We also have an abbess in our band,” he said with a gesture at Dealan. “Join us if you will,” Mayhaps offered knowing the response.
“I fear I cannot. I seek a different sort of spiritual enlightenment. It’s spirits bottled on youthful breath, spirits prayed for upon his death. I’m not dying just yet, so it is the bottle I seek.”
“Well, our loss then. The music field treating you well?”
“I cannot complain. Will you be here tomorrow when I sober up?”
“I fear not. I have an audience with the king.”
“He heads for war. Bah. I head the opposite way. That’s why I stick to lute and song and leave the tributes and tale-telling to stout men like you. Well, I wish you and yours all the best,” he said pushing himself from the table. “I have things to drink.”
He waved wildly before weaving his way to a table near the counter. Falling into a chair across from another patron eating a meal, he located the tavern keeper and said, “A bucket of something sudsy and a bottle with some kick. I’ve coin to spend, a thirst to slake, and a mind to benumb.”
“And what is your name, son?” the older man seated across from Harpswell asked.
“Thrillwort… no, no that’s not it. It’ll come to me, but probably not ‘til next afternoon.”
“Drunk and brain-addled is no way to go through life, lad,” the man scolded.
“It’s not? Well, I’m doing fairly well so far. More wine than I can drink, more gold than I can count, and more women than I could ever possibly disappoint… think I’ll stay the course if it’s all the same to you. Should you not concur, you, sir, can depart my table!”
Mayhaps elbowed Erie in the ribs and pointed at the young musician, muttering, “I think I’m doing it all wrong. Wine, gold, and women? He didn’t once mention sword fights, angering barons, fleeing from city guards, riding into Nevar, or taking on a Cataclysm. I’m certain he’s doing it better than me.”
Erie laughed. “He’s merely a hero of the lute. You are a venture bound legend of song and story. Larger than life and every bit as ugly.”
Mayhaps pondered Erie’s assessment for a second before saying, “That may be the best and worst thing ever said about me.”
. . .
The next day’s journey was a slow one. Wagons trained south to keep the army supplied while others were empty and northbound, headed for another load.
Two hours south, they encountered a King’s Legion patrol that informed them the army was encamping at a castle normally just a two hour ride farther, but not on this day.
They arrived well before dark, but winding their way through the encampments was also a slow process.
Dech led the six through a unit of armored sergeants setting up tents. Slowing to a walk in an effort to prevent trampling anyone, they drew some looks, particularly the warder.
“Look at the prisoners the contrition knight has gathered,” a man-at-arms commented as the six rode past.
His comrade leaned a mallet against his hip and wiped his brow as he looked as well. “He’d know a criminal when he sees one, hey?”
“Find something worthwhile to do or I’ll find something for you,” An older man-at-arms said to the pair before looking at the warder and dipping his head in greeting. “Warder,” he said.
Touching his helm in reply, Dech slowed to a halt. “Is King Harold in the castle?”
“A tent within the walls around the keep I hear. They’ll likely want you to go afoot when you get to the bridge. Might corral your horses or keep a watch on them if you all go in.”
“Much thanks,” Dech replied. “Have you seen any other order knights here?”
“You’re the first.”
Dech dipped his head before they moved on. Nearing the castle, they saw rows of sizable tents just outside the walls. Not far away were several corrals containing horses with tents for the storage of tack and other equine accoutrements.
A wide bridge spanning a dry moat led to the main gate, the portcullis raised and the gatehouse fully manned.
Hanging like a gonfalon near the gate was a large cloth emblazoned with,
Once again
Cometh the darkness and its foul hordes
‘Tis prophecy, not mere legend or lore
So tack thy horses and hone thy swords
String bow and prepare sharp heads of war
Prepare grimoire and spell and sign
Don helm, stout shield, courage, and mail
Gather kin and fellows to form up the line
‘Tis our downfall and doom should we fail
Shall dark forces hold the field at sun’s rise?
Let our intent—nay!—our oath, be fight until slain
Give all, for all we love and honor is victory’s prize
Do this and find only we, in brave triumph, remain
Once again
-Aethelward’s Call upon the Eve of the Third Cataclysm’s Fall, 13th Autumn, 949
“Over three hundred years old that is,” Granum said with a gesture at the cloth.
“I am thinking those here are thanking the Creator, the universe, and any other unseen power they’re here and not in Byrmont looking up at a Great Rift,” Mayhaps replied. “Maybe that’s why they hung that here.”
“I’m surprised you are not penning such a piece,” Dealan said. “Poet is one of the arts you practice, yes?”
Mayhaps turned in his saddle and smiled. “Should we find ourselves on the eve of the end of this Cataclysm, I will put pen to parchment.”
Once inside, they located a member of the local lord’s staff who assigned them a tent in the outer bailey before they saw to their horses.
They found the tent more than adequate for their needs, furnished with lanterns, cots, and a central table.
Knowing he needed to report to King Harold as soon as possible, he looked to the two mages. “At least one of you should come with me to see the king. He will have questions.”
“I will go only if ordered,” Dealan declared.
Dech sighed and nodded in understanding and looked at Granum. “And you?”
“Haven’t met the man. I suppose I can go. What’s his name again?”
“Harold,” Dech said with an amused shake of his head.
“Ah yes. Met his father once. His half-brother as well. I’ll not hold relation to either against him.”
The two learned Harold was staying in the keep and once there, they were led to a second level room where they found Lord Arundel and Knight-Commander Oliver. Through the unglazed windows they could see the sky darkening as the sun went down in the west.
Introducing Granum to the two men, Arundel was cordial, but Oliver simply acknowledged him with a quick nod of his head.
“Has Duke Roger’s force joined yet?” Dech asked.
“No,” Arundel said. “Tomorrow.”
Dech nodded with a grimace. “I suppose that means no contrition knights are present?”
“None that I know of I’m afraid. I do have several reports from your brethren,” he said with a point at a table. “Feel free.”
While Arundel and Granum spoke with one another, Dech read through the reports and found something intriguing. An account of one knight’s reconnaissance of Malig’s camp in Nevar.
Report of observation, Malig Tancar’s encampment, Eastern Nevar.
Sir John of Lindsey, Contrition Order, Sir Giles’ Section.
Training continues. No new forces coming in over the last two days. Little change since last report save for one occasion last night. All seemed normal until shouts and movement indicated something was occurring within the camp. A tall, robed, and hooded figure walked through the tents and those gathered near fires. Considerable deference was paid to this figure, notable fear as well. Stopping near a tent I believe is used by Tancar, the hooded man turned and looked ove
r the camp. Within the hood I observed two glowing eyes of a red hue. What manner of being this robed figure was I cannot say.
Dech realized the knight might have seen Olk Mirkness based on the information gleaned at Sinfor’s holding. If the robed figure seen in both places was indeed Mirkness, the warder felt confident it was he who paid for the work party at the old castle. Bringing this up with Lord Arundel, they could only speculate how Olk’s actions tied in with Malig’s.
“All the more reason to rid this world of the man… if that is what he remains,” Arundel said. “Yours is a hazardous path, Warder Dech.”
“There would be little need of knights if there were not hazards,” Dech replied.
Arundel laughed.
“You know hazards well,” Oliver said in a bitter voice. “Is it atonement you still seek after all this time? I hear the tales. Five highwaymen and at night no less. Contesting a siphon mage with just sword and shield. Perhaps you regret walking from the gallows rather than having the rope cut after the drop. Your recklessness will bring your end if that is indeed what you quest for, but it is not just you your actions harm. Your example leads young knights to folly.”
Dech bristled at Oliver’s comments, but didn’t show it. “A knight should never back away from a just fight if there is the expectation of success. You know this. You once pursued this. It was why you were asked to serve the king’s household.”
“I am not a young and foolish knight errant any longer. Neither are you. There is more to knighthood than seeking glory.”
“I never mentioned glory. Many do pursue it. Many do not. Each of us must choose our paths so much as we can. I walk the path I have always followed, but it has taken me places I never hoped to see. Perhaps we both are in places we did not think we’d find.”
“Speak for yourself,” Oliver said acidly.
“Enough,” Arundel said. “As you and I serve in our own way, so does Sir Dech.”
The Warder Page 37
