“You know of the Black Knight?” she asks with unsuppressed enthusiasm.
Both bards are shocked at Morion’s response at the mere mention of the Black Knight.
“Yes, indeed,” Cale responds, slightly confused.
“The stories of the Black Knight were usually our most requested, but lately...” Amy speaks, then trails off as Cale finishes her sentence, “it is as though the mere mention of the name is heresy.”
“Why is that?” inquires Morion, leaning in closer to the duo.
“Well, it seems some regions have differing,” Cale starts.
“Points of view concerning the Black Knight,” Amy interrupts, finishing Cale’s sentence.
“Exactly.”
“In some lands, he is revered as a hero,” Amy continues, “ while in other, more remote places.”
“He is reviled and called a demon,” Cale chimes in, “a concept that seems to be spreading.”
“That cannot be true. I happen to know for a fact that he is a defender of the people,” Morion blurts out.
Before the bards can press Morion, a woman walks up to their table and sets down a mug of mead and a plate of roasted meat and vegetables. Morion looks up, about to protest, but the woman quickly reassures her.
“Worry not, dear. Our beloved owner thought you could do with a good meal. Enjoy.”
Morion smiles and nods in acceptance, and the woman goes back about her work. Ignoring all her sensibilities, as well as manners, Morion begins to ravenously eat the meal before her, with the occasional swig of mead. It does not take long for her to finish.
“Now that you have finished,” Cale says with a slight laugh, “mind telling us where you learned that bit of information from?”
Morion is reluctant to remember how and why she knows what she does about the Black Knight. She places her hand on her chest and looks sad for a moment before answering.
“My father. He had met with the Black Knight on occasion.”
“And who was your father that he was important enough to meet with the Black Knight?” Cale mockingly asks.
Morion does not answer and looks to Amy. The two come to the realization that many of the people in the tavern are eyeing them.
“The Black Knight, whoever he is, has had an effect on the people here,” Amy says in almost a whisper. “The phrase ‘Butcher of Theria’ pops up rather often.”
“Butcher? No. That cannot be correct...,” whispers Morion.
“Well, it is what they say, not us,” Cale tells her.
A man, wearing a hooded cloak, who had been sitting alone in the corner of the tavern stands, trouncing up beside Morion suddenly, startling the Queen.
“You should be more careful about where you speak of the Knight, lady. He is not all that well received any more, and has far more enemies than he does allies... and those who call him an ally can easily become targets before they know it. A dead ally is no ally at all.”
With that, he exits the tavern. The trio sits silent.
“I wonder what that was about,” Amy says as though deep in thought.
Morion is more than slightly shaken by the cloaked man’s words. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that she was utterly terrified. But, being a Queen, she quickly composes herself as if he had never been there.
“Well, it was nice to meet you but you will have to excuse me,” Morion says politely to the bards, “I have to get some sleep. Goodnight.”
Morion stands, excuses herself from the table, walks to the bartender and pays for a room, which another woman politely escorts Morion to.
~-~~-~
Morion is brought into a charming little room, very much to the contrary of what she had been expecting. The sight of the bed immediately makes her aware of how tired she actually is. Without a second thought she falls onto the bed and quickly slips into sleep. The sleep does not last, though, as Morion is constantly haunted by her dreams. Some dark, some prophetic, some hopeful; all unnerving for her and all involving two creatures: the red and black man-dragons. Morion lays in bed, unwilling to allow herself to attempt sleep again. Her eyes dart toward the window, seeing that it is still quite dark outside. Only a handful of hours, if even that, have passed.
She then becomes aware of a sound coming from outside. At first it sounds like the wind howling, but the pitch begins to change sporadically and she realizes it to be, obviously, music. Morion crawls out of bed, drifting over to the window. Pulling back the curtains only a bit, she peeks out to see that a man is playing a small wooden wind instrument, like a flute. The man sits on a bale of hay in front of a small shop across from the inn. He is the same one who had earlier spoken to her cryptically in the tavern. Morion feels herself calmed and drawn into the music, despite its apparent sorrow. The song could very well be a funeral dirge, but something about it is almost hypnotic, something from a deep and forgotten memory.
The man suddenly stops and pulls the flute away from his lips, lost in thought for a moment before snapping the flute over his knee and storming off down the road. As he passes the inn, he looks up to see Morion standing at the window, watching him. Morion stands immobile, looking into his eyes, barely visible through the darkness of the hood drawn over his head. She is immediately drawn back to that night in the castle when the Necromancer had looked up at her after running her father through. She might have screamed had it not been for the fact that this hooded man’s eyes were sad and somber; nearly a mirror image of her own. He lowers his gaze, shakes his head and continues on his way.
Morion lets slip the curtain from her hand then retreats back to the bed. She lay there, thinking for a moment before she closes her eyes and allows sleep to come, the music having run her fear of the nightmares away.
~-~~-~
Morion is awakened by the sound of voices in her room. At first, when the voices are incoherent, she silently curses whoever has disturbed her, having finally found peace in her sleep. As she fully wakes up, it becomes clear who has waken her: the two bards, Cale and Amy. Amy stands over Morion’s bed while Cale stands watch at the door, his hand on the pommel of a short sword hanging from his belt. Amy’s voice has a degree of urgency that makes Morion apprehensive.
“Your Highness, please. We need to leave now!”
Morion gets out of bed in such a way as to keep it between her and the bards.
“What did you call me?” Morion asks, attempting to suppress her fear and outrage at having her identity seemingly discovered through no mistake of her own.
The two bards look at one another, then Amy turns back to answer.
“We know who you are. We know that you father was killed and that you are looking for the Black Knight.”
“And how is it that you know these things?” the Queen demands.
“The events of the world travel faster than you may think,” Cale replies with a coy smile. “One person tells someone something, that person tells someone else, so on and so forth.”
Morion does not ease after hearing their answer.
“So you say. What reason do you have for waking me then?”
“In the tavern, we overheard a group of men talking. They have been tracking you, apparently,” Amy replies.
“Tracking me? What do they want?”
Amy and Cale again look at each other.
“To kill you,” Amy says grimly. “They intended to come and assassinate you when the tavern closed.”
“If you want to live, I would highly suggest we escape. Now!” Cale declares as if annoyed by the whole situation.
Morion nods, looking around the room for a moment. She takes notice of the window. She dashes over to it, pushes the panes open and discovers that the drop to the road is not all that far. She has, after all, jumped from higher windows under more dire circumstances.
“Coming?” she mockingly asks the bards before leaping out.
~-~~-~
Morion stands in the center of the road, motionless as the bards follow her lead out th
e window. When they are standing beside her, they see why she has not moved; her horse has been brutally hacked to death, and Morion’s pack, which she apparently forgot about, has been torn apart and rummaged through. Amy tugs on Morion’s arm as Cale attempts to lead the trio away from the town. Morion comes to, realizing that they are heading into the forest on the town’s north eastern outskirts.
“Why are we headed into the trees?” asks Morion uneasily.
“To avoid leaving tracks. If we followed the road, it would be a matter of only moments before they caught up with us,” Cale answers without turning to face Morion.
They continue onward, making their way through the forest, away from the city, but otherwise aimlessly. Morion stops, a chill having come over her, localized in the core of her spine. The bards notice she is no longer following and backtrack to her. They begin to protest her inaction when a loud crack breaks what in a different life might be called the serenity of the night. A series of low, deep laughs emanate from the trees around them. Morion and the bards stand back to back, unsure what to expect.
From the shadows of the trees, five gruff men emerge, dressed darkly and wielding roughly forged swords. The five men stop in a ring around the trio. A sixth man walks forward, laughing. He stands taller than the others. He points his sword toward Morion and the bards.
“Some bodyguards. Leading this pathetic little girl right where we wanted her.” Morion unsheathes her blade, but the lead mercenary busts out in laughter. “What’s that? A butter knife? Sorry, missy, that won’t be helping you,” scoffs the leader.
With dark grins, the mercenaries slowly close in. The entire world becomes silent. Morion closes her eyes, knowing full well there is no escape. Her quest has come to an unexpected end. She was going to die.
Chapter Three
The Man from Valachia
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A sound like the rustling of leaves shatters the soundless void that the forest has become. The mercenaries ignore it but then another sound, the cracking of a tree branch, causes them to stop in their tracks. The tree branch makes a final loud snap, falling down with a crash between Morion and the lead mercenary. The mercenaries look up with a start, unsure of what to expect. Morion looks too, but something catches the corner of her eye. She lowers her gaze back down to the lead mercenary, thinking she saw a shadowy shape behind him. She squints, unsure of what it is she sees, if she sees anything at all. Suddenly the shadowy figure moves decisively and a sword’s blade explodes out from the lead mercenary’s chest. The report of the metal passing through flesh and bone cries sickeningly through the trees, causing everyone to immediately divert their eyes to its origin.
The mercenaries’ stare agape with shock as they watch the blade being pulled back out of their leader. The leader falls forward, revealing the cloaked man from the tavern standing with sword in hand. The mercenaries rush to the killer of their leader, bloodlust filling them and a roar rising from their feeble, frightened gullets. The cloaked man mercilessly strikes them down with a single stroke each, the ease of which almost appears to bore him. After lasting only the length of heartbeats, the battle ends with the last mercenary falling on top of his now dead brethren.
Morion, Amy and Cale stare at their savior in awe and fear. The cloaked man swipes his blade clean on the clothes of the mercenary he just felled. Morion builds up her courage and steps forward.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demands, her voice gaining strength with each word, her arm outstretched with dagger in hand.
From under his hood the man looks at her carefully, as if scrutinizing her, deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. He looks at the two bards with a harsher eye, then back to Morion. He lowers his gaze, finishing the cleaning of his sword before speaking.
“My name is unimportant for now. All you need to know is that your father contacted me before his death and hired me to help you in whatever ways I can.”
Morion gets ready to reply, but then realizes what the cloaked man has said.
“My father contacted you to help me... before he died. Why would he have done that unless...”
“Unless he was aware of a plot on his life, perhaps?” the cloaked man finishes her thoughts as though it is obvious and common knowledge.
The two bards come to Morion’s side defensively. Cale crosses his arms, looking over the cloaked man smugly.
“You expect us to believe that?” Cale asks in the manner of one who has just been told that the sky is green and up is down..
“A spy, most likely,” Amy adds.
The cloaked man gives a sort of dark sarcastic smile and reaches into his cloak, producing a letter sealed with red wax. He hands the letter to Morion. Morion takes the letter, unable to accept its existence.
“My father’s seal?”
“He instructed me to give that to you in the all- too-very-likely event of you not believing me. His words, not mine.”
Morion breaks the seal, reading the letter voraciously. Near the end of the letter, her eyes begin to tear over. She suppresses the overwhelming urge to cry uncontrollably, wipes her eyes and quickly regains her strength.
“Fine. I shall accept your help, but only for as long as I need it. Afterwards I shall send you on your way. Is that understood?”
The cloaked man looks almost offended by her words, but ignores them with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Quite clearly, Your Highness.”
He sheathes his sword and motions for Morion to follow him out of the forest, traversing in reverse the path that the bards had led her on. She starts after him, matching his stride and walking almost shoulder to shoulder. The bards follow a few feet behind.
“Where are we going, Tristan?” Morion asks the cloaked man quietly.
“How do you know that name?” the cloaked man asks uneasily.
“It is the name in father’s letter. Tristan of Valachia.”
The cloaked man smirks slightly. The bards look to one another, shrugging at the rather unfitting, unflattering name.
“Your father has a sense of humor, even beyond the grave, that much is for sure. We are going back to town, Your Highness. We are not about to attempt escape on foot.”
“But is it safe? What if there are more of them?”
“There are no more, I can assure you. However, it will not be safe for long. Hector will send more mercenaries before long.”
“How can you know this? And how do you know of Hector?”
“There were two guards outside of the inn. I dealt with them earlier,” Tristan explains as he hands Morion a rough piece of paper, upon which is written a contract for her head, signed by Hector.
“The bastard!” Morion yells, enraged. “He put a contract on me? Hired mercenaries to kill me!?”
Tristan turns his head to Morion, his eyes softening.
“You are a threat to him. Your very existence threatens his plans, whatever they may be.”
Entering the town again, Tristan leads them to a stable, across from the inn - which Morion recognizes as the same building that she had seen him sitting in front of earlier. Tristan gently takes two horses by their reins and walks them out. The horses have already been loaded with packs of supplies and food. He hands the reins of one animal to Morion. The young Queen looks at Tristan, trying to place him. She feels as though she remembers him, but it escapes her as she attempts to grasp it. She lets it fade from her mind, fearing it will drive her mad.
“Mount up,” Tristan barks, “we are not about to walk to the Black Knight’s castle, after all.”
Morion begins to follow Tristan’s order, but Cale steps forward.
“How did you know that was her destination, Tristan?” Cale asks accusingly.
“The same way you do, of course,” Tristan begins while mounting his horse. “She talks far too much for her own good.” Morion attempts to protest, but Tristan raises his hand. “Save your energy and get on the horse.”
; Morion follows the order, clearly agitated. During the small exchange of words, Amy had entered the stable and retrieved a large draft horse, shared by the two bards. They begin to mount the animal, which Tristan notices.
“You two need not bother.”
“What do you mean?” Cale asks, astounded.
Tristan looks intently into Cale’s eyes.
“I mean you two are not coming. Obviously.”
“Yes, they are,” Morion interjects.
“No, I am afraid they are not, Your Highness.”
“They are in as much danger as myself.”
“Hardly,” Tristan derides.
“Well, they are my companions, and you are under my employ. I do believe that gives me final say on the matter.”
Tristan darkly eyes the two bards, then looks at Morion, a look of confusion on his face.
“So be it. We leave as soon as they are ready.”
~-~~-~
Hector is in the barracks of the castle keep, having transformed it into his base of operations in hunting down his cousin. He stands over a table, a large highly detailed map sprawled across it. An armored soldier walks in. Hector straightens himself, the soldier salutes and Hector motions for him to come to the table.
“Well, how did our men do, Captain?”
“I believe we should assume they failed, My Lord.”
“Why is that?”
“The secondary force that was sent found them. Slaughtered to the last and no sign of their mission having been completed.”
“In other words, she still lives.”
“It would seem so.”
“Send word to the secondary force to pursue.”
“Sir, we have no idea which way she may have gone, not to mention who she travels with. Those mercenaries were known for being a brutal lot, having never taken a single loss, and now they are all dead.”
“I do not care about that. Send the secondary force east until they find her!”
“But, Sir...”
Hector draws his sword and points the tip at the Captain’s neck.
“Did you not hear me? Send the secondary forces east. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
The Captain bows and makes his way out of the barracks, but not before Hector has the last word.
“Oh, and Captain... if you ever so much as think about questioning me again, I will put your head on a pike and hang you and your family’s bodies over the front gates.”
The Black Knight Page 3
