The Warder

by D K Williamson

  The man squinted as he looked at Dech. “You’re not the typical knight my kind encounters. Quite the feat deflecting a bolt and getting one off yourself.”

  “I was barely swift enough.”

  “Maybe not quicker than flight, but quick enough,” the mercenary said begrudgingly. “You didn’t poison the bolt?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then I’ll likely survive, as you said. If you’ll allow me to reach my pack, I have healing gear within. I think today may be the last time I ever offer an out.”

  “Do not take this the wrong way, but you show chivalry.”

  “Bah,” he said looking at his wound. “See what it brought me. Next you’ll suggest I take up errantry and perform good deeds across the realms.”

  “Your thought, not mine.”

  He gave Dech a sour look. “And suppose I do? Who might you be so that I know who to thank?”

  “I am Warder Dech of the Contrition Order,” he said baring the order emblem and rank marker on his left breast.

  The man looked skyward and laughed. “Oh, what a jest the universe is having on me this day. An order knight and a warder at that.”

  “You would be the man that aided fleeing workers when others from your company sought to kill them. They described a man with a scar much like you possess.”

  The man nodded. “So they survived? That’s some decent tidings. Mercenary I may be, but murderer I am not. I take pay to fight. I may plunder and loot, but I won’t kill the defenseless. I won’t kill woodcutters trying to see home again either. Aiding those that would is the same thing.”

  “An odd way for a sell-sword to think. Chivalry again,” Dech said with a smile as the mercenary glared. “The woodcutters said you prevented those with you from harming them.”

  The mercenary pointed at the dead near him. “Those lads you killed were not all bad. They’d stay in line as long as they had someone to guide them.”

  Dech saw a small pile of gear nearby and gestured at it. “Is that your pack?”

  “It is.”

  Dech said nothing as he lifted the pack and a pair of drawstring sacks placed next to it and carried them to the downed mercenary. Noting their weight, he asked, “Is there clean water in these?”

  “There is.” Looking at the bags and then at Dech, he shook his head once more. “So between the two of us, true chivalry is not quite dead then? You are a foe I’ll never forget.”

  Dech dug into his belt pouch and withdrew a small drawstring bag made of thin treated leather. Handing the pouch to the man he said, “That contains a mixture of onion, garlic, wine, and cow stomach bile. It—”

  “Is just what I’ll need to stave off infection. You won’t need it?”

  “I have more.”

  “Well, then I’ll be thanking you.”

  “There many animals at night here?”

  “Not much, but we’ve heard some.”

  Dech nodded and retrieved the bowman’s shield, light crossbow, and glaive. “Just in case trouble comes to visit,” he said placing them next to the mercenary. “As soon as you are able, I would suggest you head east.”

  “Why might that be?”

  “Something most foul may begin soon. Quite soon in fact.”

  “Rumors of the Cataclysm are true then. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Partly. The Great Rift is near Ke-Ammar. There may be more than just a Cataclysm to contend with.”

  “More?” The mercenary studied Dech’s face and grimaced. “I believe you. Watch the trails west. There are supposed to be patrols out. They might shirk, but then again they might not. Maybe we cross paths again, knight. If so, I hope it’s not on a battlefield. Not much honor in our line.”

  “Perhaps not, but there is more than you might think. May you avoid working for the likes of Captain Terny again.”

  “Indeed. I am done with the man. Name’s Morlix. Ever Morlix. I’ll not forget the kindness, Sir Dech.”

  . . .

  Dech passed through the opening in the old wall and followed the trail down the ridge. Despite many decades of neglect and ravages by weather, the sections of steps were still quite serviceable. A short time later, he found Dissy sitting atop a low stone wall that edged a steep drop.

  Hopping to the path, she smiled. “I was getting a little worried. We thought you would be waiting for us down there,” she said with a point to the west. “When we didn’t find you, I came looking. I could hear you talking with someone. It didn’t sound hostile, so I waited here.”

  “It took longer than I intended.”

  Diz nodded. “Our way through was clear. The sell-swords didn’t cover their tracks to the road and we found the path with ease. The old defensive wall is down over there, but not visible from the road. Dealan, Adelbert, and Mayhaps are preparing some food. Erie went west to scout the area.” Narrowing her eyes, she gestured at Dech’s left side. “You’re bleeding.”

  “No doubt. I’ll see to it when we get to camp.”

  With a disapproving glare, she shook her head. “No, you won’t see it at all unless you can contort like a cat. Lift your arm, let me take a look.”

  Dech did as asked and after a few seconds of pulling apart damaged mail and the clothing underneath, Dissy said, “It’s still seeping. I can clean it up and stitch it closed. It’ll do until the mages can work on it.”

  Dech said nothing as he set his helm aside and unbuckled his sword belt.

  “No argument?” Diz said.

  “Would it do any good?” Dech replied, pulling the gloves from his hands.

  “Not one bit,” she replied.

  Dech smiled. “I thought as much.”

  Pulling the surcoat off first, Dech loosened the ties at the ends of his hauberk’s long sleeves before bending at the waist and shedding the mail like a second skin, a maneuver he’d done countless times in his life.

  “I’ve always wondered what knights wore under the armor,” Dissy said as he stood and lifted the mail to examine the damage.

  “A gambeson and a shirt, that’s about all you’ll find under the hauberk.”

  “I think you’re forgetting about the flesh and bone being under that.”

  “Most have forgotten about this pile of flesh and bone.”

  Dissy snorted as she took the hauberk from him. “Some of us thought you dead, but we didn’t forget you. At least I didn’t.”

  “Well, you’re not most,” he said as he pulled the gambeson over his head. “Never have been.”

  Draping Dech’s hauberk over the nearby wall next to the surcoat, she grimaced at its weight. “This weighs more than it appears seeing how mobile knights are.”

  “Many knights spend more time in harness than not. Wear it long enough and one becomes accustomed to it, even to the point of forgetting about its encumbrance. Not wearing it begins to feel strange at that point.”

  Dech pulled the butternut colored shirt off last, feeling the cloth sticking to his side. Seeing a sizable stain of blood around the cut, he placed it beside his mail and gambeson.

  Dissy grimaced again at seeing Dech’s scarred trunk. Round puckered remnants of piercing wounds were crowded between tracks of slices and cuts and patches of burns.

  “How many times have you been wounded?” she asked as she cleaned the most recent injury.

  “I’ve been a knight for well over half of my life, so quite a few. Most of these scars are from just one fight though. An incident that led to my joining the order.”

  “Duke Philip’s doing. The sword Mal-Hoarfrost, you nearly died in the fight. Mayhaps and Dealan told me.”

  “They talk too much.”

  “And you are too taciturn,” she said gently swiping matter from the gash. “And not just your past either. Most people would be hissing or crying in pain just now. Speaking of your past, it is not forbidden knowledge, you know.”

  Dech shrugged.

  “Taciturn. See what I mean?”

  “Pain is a common companion to a knight
.”

  “Frustrating those close to you seems to be a common companion as well.” While daubing honey on the wound, she saw a row of four nearly parallel scars low on his back. “Claw marks. You fought a bear or dragon maybe?”

  “Wyvern. Few survive encounters with hostile dragons.”

  “Outside of tales, I doubt any survive. I’d venture there’s a saga’s worth in scars here,” she said with a shake of her head. “Let me stitch this closed.” Dissy worked quickly and as she cut the long ends of the stitches said, “I’ll cover this in spider’s web. It should do until the abbess or Granum can look at it.”

  Dech reached around with his right hand and felt the results of her work. “You’ve done this before.”

  “A time or two.”

  “Feels like nice, clean work.”

  “You’d know.”

  “I would and I thank you.”

  “Let’s make you decent once again,” Dissy said as she passed Dech’s shirt to him. “It wouldn’t do for a churchman to traipse through the woods half naked.”

  “I’m a knight, Diz, not clergy,” he replied before pulling the garment over his head.

  “I’ll remember that. You do not speak enough to be an effective preacher anyway.”

  . . .

  Chapter 30

  “You are in Arataine?” Olk’s hollow voice said from the amulet dangling from Malig Tancar’s hand.

  “We are. Still following the road through the Helsh Forest. Our scouts have yet to locate Harold’s army, but they have seen his scouts and his have seen ours. It is simply a matter of time.”

  “They are east of you if the casting I sense emanates from Harold’s mages. Beyond the town of Taller.”

  “Then we may yet see battle this day. What of the Contrition Order?” Malig asked without an effort to disguise his hatred. “Do those demons travel with my brother?”

  “A handful, no more. You need not worry about the Contrition Order interfering with our plans. The bulk of their number heads for the Great Rift. As planned.”

  “I hope some of them survive. I would dearly love to send them to oblivion myself.”

  “Before then, you must defeat Harold.”

  “I intend to do more than defeat him. I’ll have his crowned head on a pike should the gods of war stay their hands and let us fight unfettered.”

  Mirkness uttered a breathy, choking sound Malig had learned was a chuckle. “There are no gods of war.”

  “If that be so, I’ll be king soon enough.”

  Wrapping the amulet around his wrist, Malig stood in his stirrups and looked east. “We must make Taller and with haste.”

  . . .

  “We won’t make it to the castle by nightfall,” Dech said as Granum looked at the wound Diz had treated.

  “That means no reconnaissance?” Dissy said.

  “There will be some moonlight,” Dech replied. “It will have to do.”

  Adelbert straightened and looked at Dissy. “Fine work, girl. Thoroughly cleaned, good stitches. As good as it can be done in fact. If you can learn spells, you could be a marvelously skilled healer.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Is that so? Ever try learning magic? You may be surprised.”

  “Doesn’t one need to be a child to begin learning magic?”

  Granum snorted a laugh. “Who placed that in your head? I was your age when I began the thaumaturgic arts. I was but a simple scholar until then. The potential is within you, I can sense it. All you need be is willing and energetic. Put in the effort, and cast you shall.”

  Dissy snorted in return. “I’ll say this, if we survive this time in history, I’ll consider it.”

  “Fair enough. If we do not, no worries.”

  . . .

  Dealan and Granum’s healing casts hurried Dech’s wound into a serviceable condition and other than an itching sensation, he felt nothing from the injury.

  After eating and resting, Erie led the way west with Dissy trailing to cover him with the bow.

  The cobbled path here was much the same as on the other side of the ridge, but the terrain was markedly different. Far more undulations and rocky outcroppings were the most obvious and the lesser amount of tree cover was noticeable as well. As they moved farther west, the tree cover grew heavier making detection of threats a difficult proposition.

  Through one stretch of heavy tree cover, they encountered a presence, the scent of decaying flesh on a large scale. Stopping, Erie said, “It’s the slaughter of those woodcutters. It must be.”

  “What slaughter?” Dealan asked.

  Dech provided a quick summary of what occurred.

  “They killed them so close to a trail?” Dealan said. “That must mean they hold complete dominion over this area, yes?”

  “They did,” Dech replied. “No longer. We could look for a way around, but I do not think we have the time.”

  “Any spells for smells?” Mayhaps asked hopefully.

  “There are some,” Granum said, “but the closer we get to Mirkness, the more likely he might sense such casting. Small spelling and signs will pass, but what you seek would draw attention.”

  “How about we pass through as fast as we can then.”

  “I’ll go as fast as is safe,” Erie said. “Let us proceed.”

  Erie led out and it soon became apparent they encountered the smell long before the source of it came into sight, dozens of bodies strewn throughout a clearing and air reeking bad enough to bring tears to the eye.

  Small carrion eaters took to flight and scurried away into the underbrush at their approach. There was no time to wonder why larger scavengers were not present.

  “This is what the woodcutters were talking about,” Mayhaps said sounding as if he had a bad cold. “We should have skirted this, whatever time we might have lost. As bad as the sight of it is, the smell is worse.”

  “Make note of the insects and ravens, bard,” Erie said. “Details like that will make your telling of it sing.”

  “Thank you for the advice, thief,” he replied with a glare.

  “We’re not far from the castle,” Dissy said. “The smell is apt to keep patrols from the area.”

  The road gained a slight incline as they exited the clearing and the smell behind them seemed to diminish. A few hundred paces farther, Erie stopped once again. As the others closed, they saw a swarm of insects on the right side of the cobbles.

  “More woodcutters?” Mayhaps asked.

  “Sell-swords,” Erie said as he fanned the air in front of his face to clear the bugs away.

  Dech joined him and found a dozen mercenaries piled in a bloody heap. Looking to Granum he said, “Can you tell us what manner of creatures did this? Those are not the wounds of blades, hammers, or arrows.”

  “They’re claws and teeth,” Adelbert said. “Unless some of the Brosalean’s more ferocious residents ranged this far, I must think this to be infernal creatures.”

  “They died recently,” Erie said, “whatever the cause. We proceed?”

  “We do,” Dech said with a nod.

  The trail leveled out and they soon walked clear of the tree line, but doing so brought them to a halt as Josip pointed at the darkening sky.

  An oblong stretch of black hung high above them. Ugly brown puffs of smoke fell from the hole and dissipated into the air while red-orange light within the opening flashed and arced.

  “A rift?” Erie asked as the others joined him.

  “I think not,” Granum said. “It’s something else.”

  Dealan nodded with a look of great concern. “I think he is correct. I sense Mirkness. It is a result of his casting.”

  “It’s magic drawn from the Gout,” Granum added. “I am certain of it. It cannot be a rift.”

  “You’re right,” Dealan said. “It’s derkunblod, but not a part of it I know. A passage of some form.”

  Granum nodded. “Yes, an orifice to another plane of existence much like rifts, but different. The question is:
which plane?”

  “An infernal one,” Dealan said. “The Ifrunn I suspect.”

  “And what issues forth from this orifice?” Mayhaps asked with trepidation.

  “Nothing good,” Granum said.

  “We’ll forego the reconnaissance,” Dech said pointing at the hideous blotch in the sky. “That says we need to stop whatever it is that occurs inside the castle.”

  Arcing red-orange bolts shot from the orifice, striking somewhere beyond the trees.

  “The castle lies in that direction,” Dech said.

  More bolts flashed and dark objects too small and too distant to recognize fell from the vent. The objects altered their paths and seemed to fly, swirling downward, dozens of them until obscured by the trees.

  “I fear those are infernal creatures,” Granum said. “Likely Brynstone demons based on the way they descend.”

  “Here, on our plane, they are mortal, yes?” Erie asked.

  “Of course they are. They are mortal on their own plane as well. Their lives are quite long though. That creates the belief they are immortals.”

  “Long-lived or not, we can end them,” Dech said.

  “So we fight infernal monsters instead of mercenaries,” Mayhaps said glumly. “Makes me wistful for the days when all we had to deal with were possessed basilisks.”

  “That’s today, troubadour,” Erie said.

  “Fully aware of that fact, thief.”

  Dealan laughed at the exchange and thought it a good sign. “I must assume you are of a noble upbringing?”

  Mayhaps shrugged. “Unfortunately yes. An heir to a title that I escaped. Best mistake I ever made.”

  “Mistake?” Dissy asked.

  “Nearly everyone said so. For most, that makes it true.”

  “Even without the title, you are the epitome of nobility, milord,” Josip remarked. “That said, don’t we have a task to see through?”

  “That we do,” Dech agreed. “As fast as we can, Josip.”

  . . .

  “Scouts coming in, Sire,” a clerk announced as he opened a flap on the tent. “Two of them. The light cavalry pickets report they’ve driven off Malig’s reconnaissance.”