The Ransom Knight

by Jonathan Moeller

  Gerald fell silent for a moment. “Do you really think it will come to war?”

  “I doubt it,” said Mazael. “Mitor’s a fool, but a slug as well. He’s too much a coward to rouse himself against the likes of Richard Mandragon the Dragonslayer.”

  “I hope you are right. I have seen enough of war,” said Gerald.

  Mazael nodded. He had fought alongside Gerald when Lord Malden had invaded Mastaria. They had survived the bloody battles of Deep Creek, Castle Cateron, and the Siege of Tumblestone. The slaughter had sickened Mazael, yet some part of him had found it beautiful. He had relished the fighting, reveled in it. No enemy, common soldier or Knight Dominiar, could stand against him, and he had danced laughing through their bloody blades.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Mazael. “Mitor might hate Lord Richard, but Lord Richard terrifies Mitor. And all anyone has heard are rumors of mercenaries and bandits. Most likely Mitor is simply hiring whores.” Mazael laughed.

  Gerald frowned. Lord Malden Roland’s youngest son had a pious streak that Mazael often found wearisome. Yet the young knight was the best friend Mazael had made since leaving Castle Cravenlock, and Gerald was one of only four people to whom Mazael would entrust his life.

  “I see lights up ahead,” said Gerald.

  Mazael saw the lights, and heard the rush of water. “The inn, most likely. At least, there was an inn here fifteen years ago. Just past that is the Northwater bridge, and then it’s only another three days to Castle Cravenlock.”

  “Finally,” said Gerald.

  Full dark fell by the time they reached the inn. It had changed little from what Mazael remembered. A high wall of sharpened wooden logs surrounded the rambling stone building, and torches burned in scones atop the wooden palisade, casting a circle of light around the wall. A pair of crossbow-armed mercenaries stood guard before the crude gate.

  Mazael could have killed them both before they reacted.

  He reined up instead. “Ho, the inn!”

  The mercenaries trained their crossbows in Mazael’s direction. “Who’re you, and what’s your business?” said a mercenary with a broken nose and a shading of beard stubble.

  “A traveler,” said Mazael, “and my business is with a bed, hot food, ale, and a whore.” Gerald frowned, while Wesson looked intrigued.

  “You’ve the look of knights,” said the mercenary. “Pardon the questions, sirs, but in these dangerous times the innkeeper’s hired us to keep peace.”

  “That so?” said Mazael. “Danger from what?”

  “People have been disappearing near Lord Mitor’s castle. It’s the wood elves, I say,” said the mercenary, making the sign to ward off evil. “Lord Richard has stirred them up to make war on Lord Mitor. I’ve even heard tell that Lord Richard treats with dark powers, and has the Old Demon himself as an adviser.”

  “No,” said the second mercenary. “It’s the barbarians, come down out of the mountains. They’re the ones behind this. Lord Richard will raise his vassals and that black-hearted son of his, and smash them the way he smashes everyone who crosses him.”

  “Such fine tales,” said Mazael. He flipped them a copper coin. “Tell them in the common room and you might get a few more coins.”

  The mercenaries laughed, but Mazael heard the unease in their voices. “Aye, so we might, but everyone in these parts tell the same tales. People have been disappearing, and it’s the work of those wood devils, taking them off for their dark rituals.”

  “No, it’s the barbarians,” said the other mercenary. “They eat babies, my grandfather told me so when I was a lad.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Old Demon and a troop of barbarians sacrificing people to the god of serpents,” said Mazael. “I want my ale, my bed, and my food.”

  “Very well, milord,” said the first mercenary. “Make no trouble, and we’ll make no trouble for you.”

  Mazael nodded. He rode through the gate, Gerald and Wesson behind him.

  “Do you think it’s true?” said Gerald. “Peasants have been disappearing?”

  Mazael shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Most likely Mitor has ordered virgins kidnapped for his bed.”

  The two knights dismounted, and Wesson received the task of stabling the mounts and carrying the armor and weapons into their room. Mazael did not remember his own years as a squire with any fondness. He pushed open the inn’s door and stepped inside.

  The common room was crowded with mercenaries and landless knights. Many looked drunk, and specks of fresh blood marked the floor. A bartender and a half-dozen serving girls hurried back and forth to the kitchen. Mazael marked some of the prettier ones.

  A man playing a harp stood atop a stage against the far wall. The jongleur wore simple clothes for one of his craft, plain boots and trousers and a tunic. Gray shot through his black hair and beard, and a hooked nose rested above his smiling lips. Mazael frowned, thought he recognized the man for a moment, then brushed away the odd feeling.

  The bartender came over. “What’ll it be, my lords?”

  “A room, and food for three,” said Mazael.

  The bartender licked his lips. He squirmed beneath Mazael’s gaze, something people often did. “First room at the top of the stairs. As for food, I’ve got a few joints of beef left, and some fresh bread...”

  “That will be fine,” said Mazael. He left some copper coins on the bar and went to find Gerald. Wesson lurched through the door, bearing an armful of armor. Mazael directed him to their room, and the boy clambered up the steps, huffing.

  Gerald had claimed a table near the jongleur’s stage, and Mazael joined him.

  “Look at this place,” said Gerald. “It’s packed full of mercenaries and ruffians of every stripe, and they are all making for Castle Cravenlock. It seems the rumors of your brother hiring men are true after all.”

  “I wonder why,” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock can only raise four thousand knights and armsmen. Swordgrim can raise eight thousand, and Lord Richard can call ten thousand more. If Mitor thinks to use this rabble to stand against the likes of Lord Richard, well, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

  “Perhaps he’s hired them for use against the wood elves,” suggested Gerald with a laugh.

  Mazael snorted. “What, the Elderborn? Hardly. They wouldn’t venture out unless Mitor devoted himself to burning down the Great Southern Forest. Besides, the Elderborn would cut through this lot,” he gestured, taking in the mercenaries, “faster than even the Dragonslayer.”

  “I was joking,” said Gerald. “Elderborn are a children’s fable, like faeries and Demonsouled...you’re not joking?”

  “No,” said Mazael. Wesson descended the stairs and sat at the table, panting.

  The jongleur ran his fingers over his harp and began another song.

  “Heart of darkness, soul of sin,

  a murderer’s bloody grin.

  So came the boy to his fate,

  dark son of a demon great.”

  The crowd’s boisterous enthusiasm dampened. “The Song of the Demon Child” was not often sung in busy inns.

  “I say, I detest that song,” said Gerald.

  Mazael looked up at the jongleur. “Why is that?” The jongleur's gray eyes gleamed keen and intent, his fingers dancing over the harp in accompaniment to his deep, rich voice.

  “Father Marion would always recite a few verses when he saw me, citing the fate of wicked children,” said Gerald.

  “The child met his dark father,

  before the church’s altar.

  ‘My dark child,’ said the demon.

  ‘Your glory has now begun.’”

  “I hope you didn’t let it bother you,” said Mazael. “Most priests couldn’t find their manhood with both hands.”

  Gerald frowned. “That’s hardly an appropriate example to set for Wesson.”

  Mazael shrugged. “If he wants to take a vow of chastity, let him become a monk.”

  “‘Your demon soul has power,
/>
  curse the gods, curse Amater.

  Take that which is your dark right.

  Spurn heaven; claim your demon might!’”

  “Sing something else!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry.

  The jongleur stopped. “My apologies, good sirs!” he called out, smiling. “What shall I sing for you instead? ‘The Song of the Serpents’, perhaps, or ‘The Fall of Tristafel’?”

  “What’s this, a funeral?” yelled a drunken voice. “Sing something good! ‘The Virgin with Five Veils’!” The jongleur took a flourishing bow and began to sing. “There was a girl with raven hair and the curves of a goddess...”

  “What a morbid fellow,” said Gerald. “It’s a wonder he’s able to earn his bread. ‘The Song of the Demon Child’ and ‘The Fall of Tristafel’ indeed! I’ve never heard ‘The Song of the Serpents’, though. Probably some dreadful story of demons, to judge from this fellow’s tastes.”

  “No,” said Mazael. “Snakes. It tells how the god of the serpent people rebelled against heaven, and in punishment the other gods took the arms and legs from the serpents and made them crawl through the dust.”

  Gerald shuddered. He hated snakes. “Gods be praised, the food is here.”

  A plump pretty barmaid in a tightly laced dress gave them their food. Gerald thanked the woman. Mazael sent her off with a silver coin and a pinch on the bottom, earning a frown from Gerald. The jongleur continued “The Virgin with Five Veils” and soon had the mercenaries roaring along to the song. “The virgin girl danced and giggled, her body bounced and jiggled..."

  Gerald admonished his squire against such revels. Mazael downed his ale and called for another.

  The jongleur finished his song to thunderous applause as a storm of copper coins rained upon the stage.

  “Another song!” called out a man.

  “Grant me a short rest first, my generous friends!” said the jongleur, sweeping up the coins. “For you all have mighty voices, and I fear I shall ruin mine if I dared compete!” The assembled ruffians laughed and went back to their drinking. Mazael took a drink of ale to wash down some beef, draining half the tankard in three big gulps.

  When he looked up, the jongleur stood over their table, a smile on his bearded face. “Pardon, my lords...but have we met before?”

  Mazael frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But...are you not Sir Mazael Cravenlock, my lord? And is your companion not Sir Gerald Roland?” said the jongleur.

  Mazael’s teeth clenched. He had wanted to reach Castle Cravenlock unseen. “How do you know who I am?” A quick dagger thrust between the ribs could kill the jongleur...

  The jongleur tapped a finger against his jaw. “It...was at an inn in Mastaria, I believe, during Sir Mandor Roland’s march against Castle Dominus. A village called Deep Creek, as I recall...”

  Mazael frowned. “I remember! It was the night before the battle. That fool Sir Mandor—pardons, Gerald, but he was—spent the night celebrating at the inn. You were the jongleur he had brought from Deep Creek for his entertainment.”

  “I remember now,” said Gerald.

  The jongleur smiled and executed a florid bow. “Mattias Comorian, a simple musician, at your service.”

  “How did you come to be here?” said Mazael, indicating for Mattias to take a seat. “Mastaria is on the other side of the kingdom. I had thought most the villagers of Deep Creek slain in the battle.”

  “Most were,” said Mattias. “I suspected that ill fortune would soon fall upon Sir Mandor. I slipped away after the noble knight had gone to bed. Not long after, the Knights Dominiar struck. I watched the slaughter for a while, then escaped to the north.” He paused. “Did Sir Mandor chance to survive?”

  “No,” said Gerald. A shadow crossed his face. “He...ah, rose, and rallied the defenders, but he was wounded, and died soon after.” Mazael concealed his contempt. Mandor had lain snoring in bed when the Dominiars attacked, and Gerald's older brother caught two arrows in the gut and another in the leg. Mandor died three days later, weeping and feverish, as the remnants of his army straggled north.

  “Ah,” said Mattias, sipping at his ale. “My deepest condolences, my lord knight. At any rate, Lord Malden - and Sir Mazael here, I might add - prevailed over the Dominiars, and I resumed my wanderings. I visited Swordor, and spent some time in Redwater and Ravenmark shortly before the old Lord of Ravenmark disappeared. I performed in the Crown Prince’s great city of Barellion for a time, and fortunately left before those riots burned down half the city. Dreadful, that. Then I traveled across the Green Plain during the succession struggle, and just in the last year made my way to the Grim Marches.”

  “Quite a journey,” said Gerald.

  Mattias laughed. His gray eyes glittered. “Ah, my lord knight, it is nothing. In my time, I have visited half the world, I fear.”

  “You seem to have had singular bad luck in your travels,” said Mazael. “The war in Mastaria, the succession troubles in the Green Plain, the uprising in Barellion...why, it’s as if troubles sprout where you walk.”

  “I pity I cannot make wheat and barley sprout where I walk,” said Mattias, grinning. “Why, the lords of the Green Plain would shower me with riches to tramp about their fields, and I never would need work again.”

  Mazael and Gerald laughed. Wesson even smiled a little.

  “And now, it seems, my bad luck has struck again,” said Mattias. “Rumors of war sprout in the Grim Marches.”

  Mazael grimaced. “You must hear more than most. All we’ve heard are peasants’ gossip, each word more outrageous than the last.”

  Mattias laughed. “I fear knowledgeable peasants are as numerous as flying sheep, my lord. Every mercenary in the kingdom is making for Castle Cravenlock. The rumors say that Lord Mitor plans to rise against Lord Richard, the way the Dragonslayer rose against old Lord Adalon.” Mattias frowned and continued. “Those living near the Great Forest claim that the Elderborn—” Mazael thought it odd that a jongleur would use the wood elves’ proper name, “—plan to march from their forest and take bloody vengeance. And the closer you get to Castle Cravenlock, my lord, the wilder the rumors get. I met a peasant who swore that a malicious wizard was stirring up trouble. I have heard tales of ghosts rising from graveyards, and of snake-cults worshipping in cellars.” Mattias snorted. “To believe these fools, you’d think that the Old Demon himself haunted the Grim Marches.”

  “Aye, well, my father sent us as his emissaries,” said Gerald. “I know not what is happening, but with the gods’ blessing, we can end these disturbances without bloodshed.”

  Mattias sighed and rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard. “Ah, your hope warms my heart, my young lord, but I know otherwise. When lords quarrel, the law is set aside in favor of swords. You know those peculiar blood roses that bloom in the Grim Marches? Well, the peasants say that only blood can irrigate those flowers, and we’ll have blood roses as far as the eye can see before this business is done.”

  Mazael blinked. For a moment, it seemed as if he could see blood; not drops or pools, or even streams, but a sea of blood stretching as far as his eye could survey. He blinked again and shook away the disturbing vision.

  “What makes you say that?” he said at last.

  “Your family, my lord knight, and the Mandragons have hated each other for centuries,” said Mattias. “Every child in the Grim Marches knows as much. Should it come to war, and I do hope that it does not, these proud lords will settle their differences with arms, not words.”

  “We’ll not know until we try,” said Gerald, crossing his arms, “and I am determined that we shall try.”

  Mattias smiled. “Ah, forgive me, for I am an old, old man, and I have forgotten the hopes of youth. I wish you the best of luck, my young lord, and hope all goes well with you.”

  “If the gods will it,” said Gerald.

  Mattias’s eyes glinted. “I find, my lord, that the gods favor those who make their own luck. In that spirit, let me pass al
ong a tidbit of news to you. Sir Tanam Crowley is in the area.”

  “Sir Tanam Crowley?” said Gerald. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I have,” said Mazael. “He’s Lord Richard’s most trusted vassal. When the Mandragons rose against my father, Sir Tanam was the first to join the Dragonslayer.”

  “Indeed,” said Mattias. “And Sir Tanam would like to make the youngest son of Lord Malden and Lord Mitor’s brother his master’s ...enforced guests, no?”

  Gerald’s tankard slammed down on the table. “Is that a threat? Are you asking us to buy your silence?”

  Mattias spread his hands. “You wound me, my lord knight! I might believe that war is coming, but that does not mean I do not wish for peace! Lords have markedly short tempers in war, I fear, and an incautious jongleur might find himself shorter by a head.”

  “Very well,” said Gerald. “I trust you’ll not spread news of our meeting?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Mazael. “He could shout our names from the rooftops. If there’s trouble between here and Castle Cravenlock, it’ll find us one way or another.”

  “Then once this business has blown over,” said Mattias, “I can tell my grandchildren that I spoke with two knights of the mighty noble houses of Roland and Cravenlock.”

  “You don’t look that old,” said Gerald. “You have grandchildren?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mattias. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Many, in fact.”

  “Jongleur!” bellowed a mercenary in a boiled leather breastplate and dirty furs. “More music, I say, more music!” The crowd took up the cry. The assembled freebooters roared for music.

  “Ah, duty calls,” said Mattias. “I must say, it was a pleasure speaking with you. It is good to know that someone survived the carnage at Deep Creek.”

  “You as well,” said Gerald. Mazael nodded.

  Mattias Comorian hopped back onto the stage and strummed the strings of his harp. “Let us make merry, my friends, for the past is gone and the future is dark, and all we have is today!” He pointed into the crowd. “You sir, you have a drum, and you, yes, you with the lute. Come up here, my friends, and let us make music for dancing!” The two men climbed onto the stage. Men shoved aside tables and chairs to make room. Mazael saw a good number of peasant girls from the local farms. The girls eyed the mercenaries, the mercenaries eyed the girls, and Mazael supposed that many of the girls would lose their virtue tonight in the grass behind the inn or in the hay of the stables. He hoped they stayed away from his horses.