The Dawn of Unions

by J P Corwyn

  Next came Barnic, Jastar, Aethan, Raegus, and Gordan - all from Knell's Stone, squires and grooms of Sir Valad's household. That worthy knight had been their third casualty. His death had been a devastating blow to the Countess's remaining force of men. Kaith had expected the news of his loss to unman her entirely, given what he and Valgar had seen in the Throne room. Strangely, she had taken the news in cold, stoic stride, only commanding that his sword be brought to her before his body was wrapped for burning.

  It was clear that she’d been affected by his death, and deeply, but her resolve and acceptance had been too unnerving to have seemed entirely natural.

  Valad's end had not come during a siege, or raid, or any other form of normal attack. He died in single, and what according to tradition was somehow considered honorable combat before dawn yesterday morning.

  His opponent, or perhaps it would be more accurate to call him his executioner, had been Sir Anden - a man twice his size, half his age, and as supremely disinterested in what others thought of him, as most common mousers were...

  ✽✽✽

  TWO

  Kaith had only recently left the warm comfort of his bed. He'd stood in the jakes, having just finished his necessaries. He was suddenly aware of a noise. He’d been hearing it for some time actually, and it simply hadn’t registered. It was the muted jingle of armor coupled with the sound of horse’s hooves walking slowly from around the west side of the manor house, toward the bridge.

  He’d frozen midway through the act of tightening his belt: listening.

  Valad, Kaith knew, stood a watch with his men. They were all mounted upon or stood by their horses near the bridge. He'd heard a booming voice which was instantly recognizable as Sir Anden's. Initially; he seemed encouraged, thinking that Valad would be eager to flee with him.

  “Great minds, Sir Valad. Thou and I are too wise to simply await death when there is a window, are we not?” Anden’s voice was full of false good humor: as if he and Valad were in on some private jest.

  Valad turned his horse so that he might face the younger man.

  “Of what window do you speak, Sir?” came Valad’s dry reply. “And where, if I may ask, are you three brave knights bound? For my watch will last for an hour yet, and in any case: three worthy knights and their collective armsmen seems to me a wasted watch by day when all of Westsong is awake.”

  “Come now,” Anden said. “Surely you see that we cannot stay here in this curse-ed place.” The upward lilt at the end of this assessment made his words almost a question. “We must ride in haste while daylight lasts, cover as much ground as we can.”

  Valad sat silently in his saddle for a long moment, allowing the predawn breeze to ruffle his salt-and-silver hair. At length; he spoke anew.

  “And where might I inquire, are we to ride in such haste?" His speech was halting, allowing each section of his question to eke out slowly and deliberately. "Surely you would not abandon the Countess to weather this storm alone?"

  Anden’s face darkened. He sounded affronted: as if he’d been caught by an unkind word from an unexpected quarter. He pressed on, valiant to the last, but it was clear from his falling tone that he no longer expected to win the older knight to his cause.

  Valad sat silently in his saddle for a long moment, allowing the predawn breeze to ruffle his hair. The moon gave his normally iron-gray waves a salt-and-silver cast. It made him appear somehow otherworldly: as if an outrider from the vanguard of the Coach Devour had, at last, revealed himself. At length; he spoke anew.

  “And where might I inquire, are we to ride in such haste?" His speech was halting, allowing each section of his question to eke out slowly and deliberately. "Surely you would not abandon the Countess to weather this storm alone?"

  Anden’s face darkened. He sounded affronted: as if he’d been caught by an unkind word from an unexpected quarter. He pressed on, valiant to the last, but it was clear from his falling tone that he no longer expected to win the older knight to his cause.

  “We must ride for reinforcements!” He was blustering now. “How else are we to defeat the evil that plagues these lands?”

  “And what does the Countess say with regards to your plan?”

  “Her Excellency knows nothing of defense or battle,” Sir Giles cut in. His voice was a gout of greedy fire, a bright inferno of rage and entitlement. “She would rather sit idly by, trying to devise some addle-pated plan as to how to defeat this curse! The lands of Westsong have obviously been claimed by the Shivering Song or her servants – I expect to catch sight or sound of the Coach Devour at any moment, but does her Excellency make preparation to save those who can be mounted or carted? No! She waits to see how the Falx falls. Her loyal knights and their households are expected to wait so that she can save her precious peasants and serfs. They bleat and her heart bleeds …much as yours, old man.”

  “Peace, Sir Giles,” Sir Dorian mock-simpered as he lay a hand on the burly knight’s bright-arm. “One day, you may be as aged as this good knight. You will remember this day, then, when you two are doddery and venerable – your arm barely able to lift a sword, no longer able to make iron for the forge.”

  Sirs Anden and Giles laughed uproariously at this, as did the eight men who followed in their train – squires, and grooms, men-at-arms, all.

  Sir Valad said nothing, his men holding equally silent.

  As the laughter died away and it became clear that neither the insults nor the jeers of Anden’s cronies would serve to cow Sir Valad or his men, Anden tried one final gambit.

  “I shall not waste another minute discussing this matter with you, Sir. Either stand aside or be moved.” His voice was full of a childish, bullying greed that Kaith didn’t much care for.

  Supremely unconcerned, Valad asked, “Do you mean to challenge me to single combat, Sir?”

  Delighted, Anden said, “I do, old man…for talk sours, and my sword begs my hand!” Then he dismounted.

  Kaith had exited the jakes in time to witness this byplay in its entirety. At the call for single combat, he’d wasted no time moving to the rack of long spears which lay to the west side of the manor house’s great door and plucked one up.

  Anden’s combined force had nearly doubled that of Sir Valad – eleven men to six, and Kaith had thought to do something to even those odds somewhat.

  One more spear might not matter, but...as the aggressive Sir Anden and his men currently had their backs to Kaith, he’d thought he could do some damage if it came to that.

  “Make the circle!” Anden said. His voice held not just a note, but a veritable symphony of savage glee.

  “If nothing else will wake you up to your sworn duty…” Valad dismounted in a single, practiced motion, drew his sword, and walked straight into the forming circle, never so much as slowing his pace.

  All but one of his men (Kaith thought it was Jastar, but couldn't be sure) dismounted. This last man, without being asked, led his horse, and those of his fellows, away. The rest joined the circle.

  A moment later, having seen to all horses, the final man dismounted and joined the others, completing the ring. It stretched across the bridge road. From the outside, its thirty-foot diameter seemed large, but on the inside, it was a tightrope, a seemingly ever-shrinking cage where the faint of heart faced ignominy at tournament, and death during duels.

  “To the death, old man?” Anden spoke with naked hope.

  “A childish, mewling tantrum…If you’ve decided that only death will shut your milk swilling mouth…” Valad nodded. “So be it.”

  With a growl, Anden charged. The swords of the two knights were little more than sparks from where they connected within the blur of movement.

  They bore no shields. Anden wielded an over-sized bastard sword; Valad, a curiously thick, shorter, more tapered blade that seemed to take the finest qualities of both broad and long sword into its makeup. Both weapons had been custom-made, Kaith was certain. Many knights commissioned such weapons once they had earned g
lory or renown in tournaments or on campaigns, as both of these men had.

  The duel was very nearly the literal representation of the age-old debate between skill and power. For a moment; it looked as if skill and experience were going to carry the day.

  A younger man full of strength and confidence, Anden rained blow after blow down upon the older man. Valad bore this patiently. He parried and redirected most blows using an aggressive, reactive defense, and outright endured others using harder, less fluid blocks.

  Valad was proving a maddeningly difficult opponent for Anden, who spat and cursed with every new attack thwarted – but he certainly wouldn't be able to continue at such a pace indefinitely.

  At length, Valad seized the combat tempo and took the initiative away from Anden. His block forced Anden’s sword upward, allowing him to step in underneath the larger man’s strike and come up between Anden’s extended arms. The end result of this was that Valad had the edge of his sword at Anden’s throat, and Anden looked as if he were attempting to embrace the older man.

  “Yield,” said Valad, his voice betraying only a hint of heavy breath. "Words in haste need not make wounds that fester. My ego is not so mountainous that I would see us lose a skilled sword-arm out of hand. Come. Yield and I will grant you parole.”

  Anden released his sword to his left hand, which was not his bright-hand, Kaith knew. For a moment, it looked as if the matter was to be settled without any bloodshed after all – but before the moment could stretch out toward that bloodless conclusion, it snapped like a pine knot exploding in a bonfire, becoming ephemeral.

  Anden raised his head, looking down his nose at the old man, his eyes flicking to his left, toward his sword. At the same moment, he brought his mailed fist to bear against the place where the hinge of the jaw rested along the left side o fValad’s head. This was a dishonorable, but not illegal blow in a duel.

  The old man staggered to the side not quite dropping his own sword. Anden wasted no time pressing his advantage, bringing both hands to bear on his sword hilt, and in three quick strokes, the fight was over.

  Anden's final blow gouged a jagged line from Valad's throat diagonally across the right side of his breastplate. It had been delivered with such force behind it that it took Anden two tries to extricate his sword from his foe's armor.

  Sir Valad lay bleeding at his feet, and a cheer went up from the majority of the small crowd.

  Wasting no time, Sirs Giles and Dorian rushed their men to their mounts.

  Kaith rushed forward, enraged. He managed to trip Anden with the haft of his borrowed spear, but Sir Giles caught his captain's arm and kept him from overbalancing. Sir Giles knocked Kaith asprawl by spurring his horse to ram into Kaith’s chest.

  With a glare that could turn falling snow into summer steam, Anden allowed himself to be led toward his horse and boosted into the saddle. Sir Valad’s men drew their swords and tried to rush at the fleeing armsmen, but managed only a few ineffectual strikes as they rode, hells bent and likely hells bound for their desertion.

  Anden continued to glare over his shoulder at Kaith as his van thundered over the stone bridge and disappeared beneath the shadow of the treeline.

  ✽✽✽

  THREE

  Kaith cocked his head to the side, coming back from the realm of memory as if he'd heard something. He'd thought, just for a moment, he'd caught a jangle of toneless, tuneless laughter that sounded too far and wee to have come from anyone here. It was gone just as quickly as it'd come if, in fact, it hadn't simply been his imagination.

  He noted a cloud of bats moving against the dim sky, out on their nightly hunting expedition somewhere to the southeast. It comforted him a little. Seeing animals move – even across the star-strewn distance – suggested that they might still be safe.

  “Are you ready, then?” Valgar’s mouth curled up into a broad smile.

  Kaith nodded, offering a dry, “I suppose. The buildings will burn right enough, and if her Excellency is correct – she tries to make a habit of that, we both know – the moat and the refuse inside should do the same, and for a good long while. As long as she’s correct, I think we should be fine. So yes. I suppose I’m ready.”

  Valgar put his hand alongside Kaith’s right cheek, patting it roughly before sliding it down to the younger man’s shoulder and half-cupping the back of his neck.

  Kaith turned his eyes to the right to get a better look at Valgar’s face, then looked back at the next group being summoned before the Countess. It would be the last, he knew. Then everyone would be sent to their positions, and they would commence the burning of Westsong.

  Hemmet and Raun, both of Southwall, were called forward by the Countess. Kaith was pleased, for he accounted both men as friends. They were followed by Samik, a broad-shouldered wall of muscle who'd only recently taken service in Sir Reginald's retinue. He spoke little, mainly due to his horrid stutter. His mind was sharp enough, but his habit was to communicate almost entirely by gesture. Edren came next handing his spear off to the newly-minted Sir Barnic with a nod of thanks. He had fought beside Lady Marcza's father, Sir Gian, and been the man's final squire before he'd passed last winter.

  Again, Kaith was distracted, almost certain he’d heard a jangle of discordant laughter from somewhere in the distance. He shuddered as a horse brayed from the manor houses stable, sounding somehow fearsome and unnatural. It reminded him forcibly of the scene that'd greeted him as he’d left the manor house just before dawn that morning.

  FOUR

  His sleep had been troubled, but that seemed to be the way of things here now. Too much had happened and in too short a period of time. They'd slept all of three nights in Westsong. The avalanche of horror and outright betrayal had cast an understandably darksome pall over the autumn festival plans. While people could adapt enough to weather such storms, they rarely did so with perfect calm and happiness.

  He’d opened the door and exited, headed for the day’s work, rather than what he’d longed for – another two hours of sleep. He’d started when Edren had called his name, voice uncharacteristically sharp.

  “Kaith! Horseman!”

  Kaith ran to the makeshift archery range they'd set up to the east of the manor-house, scooped up a bow and quiver of arrows, and dashed toward the bridge, bypassing the rack of spears some ten feet out of his way in order to save time. He'd whistled briefly at Edren. By the time the other man had spared a glance his way, Kaith had already slung the quiver and bow across his back and now held both hands out and up toward him.

  Edren stood some fifteen feet above Kaith on the balcony of the guardhouse. Nodding, he'd tossed down a long spear. The nine-foot haft made an easy target, and Kaith caught and readied it in a single smooth motion. Moving to the west side of the road; he laid his spear against the wall of the general store, drew his bow, and nocked an arrow, waiting. He had a melee weapon – an anti-cavalry weapon at that – near to hand, should he need one. For now, it would be ranged combat, if combat were called for.

  Four horses came on at a walk from beneath the gloomy, predawn canopy of the apple and pear trees. Their riders were instantly recognizable.

  Sir Cedric and three of his men-at-arms rode a diamond formation, with Cedric’s young son set before him in the saddle. As the riders came to a stop just before the bridge on the Orchard side, Kaith gave a glad cry, redirecting his bow so that it pointed downward at his feet.

  Edren’s voice was a whipcrack.

  “Raise your bow! Are you blind?”

  Kaith was astonished and dismayed, but he did as he'd been bidden. After a moment his eyes finally stopped seeing what they'd wanted to see, and he, at last, recognized what Edren had caught from the first.

  What he’d initially mistaken for light glinting off the eyes of the new arrivals, he now saw plain: a malevolent, inner glow that caused goose-flesh to rise along his arms. Their skin, too, shone a preternatural combination of starshot blue, and liquid shadow that seemed to writhe and dance beneath the
light of the half-veiled moon.

  The horses were not merely covered in patterns of shadow in the chancy moonlight. Rather; they showed the ragged, weeping wounds which had clearly caused their deaths. They weren't breathing but were unnaturally still: like gruesome statues in the garden of the damned.

  “I know you…” came Sir Cedric’s voice, ragged and raw. “You served the Countess, archer, and you on high…”

  “You speak true, Sir Cedric, and your memory is sharp. I am Squire to Sir Gian of Southwall. What business do you have here?” Edren’s tone was calm enough, but the hostility he bore Sir Cedric and his gruesome retinue was impossible to miss.

  “Your death,” Sir Cedric said.

  His tone was utterly without threat, but he spoke with a finality and simplicity that cause the hair on the back of Kaith’s neck to stand up, joining the goose-flesh on his arms.

  “You are, Sir Cedric, welcome to try, but whilst there are only the two of us on watch, I would call the entire town with a single act long before any of your men, or you yourself, could enter this house and climb to my balcony. Even if you killed young Kaith and took his bow, it would not avail you. I would have every hand raised against you, and while you would kill many I have no doubt, our forces outnumber yours by a fair bit. The town would survive."