The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution

by Alexander Wallis

  The storm subsided into a miserably dull morning and Daimonia returned to life with an exhausted sigh. Her eyes were puffy as she sniffed the moist morning air, her skin creased with the shapes of awkward sleep.

  Invading rainwater streamed down the old stone walls and a troublesome leak splashed tears upon her mother’s statue. A single raven lurked at her window, its black feathers glistening in the damp air.

  Niklos is a traitor. The memory found Daimonia like an arrow and with it the conviction that her brother would be put to death. The fleeting joy of yesterday’s festivities had drained away, like rain through the manor’s archaic gutters.

  Daimonia was tired, weary of her own weakness. She imagined there was an unsheathed sword within her heart, but she could not reach and draw it. Instead she seethed and ripped her dress, tearing it from her body, just as she might cast herself aside. ‘I hate you,’ she told the world.

  She arose with stiff, frosty movements as if climbing from a crypt. Pale and trembling, the girl dressed in a simple robe and tried to tame her hair. It was a smoky tangled mess, defying the efforts of her fingers and comb.

  Daimonia slipped from her room and descended through the draughty tower, her long legs picking a path down the uncertain steps. She drifted into the hall, where her grandfather still slouched and slumbered.

  ‘Grandfather, wake up!’

  The old man revived slowly, advancing from blinks to twitches, gradually gathering the momentum to awake. Daimonia watched him patiently. She knew better than to disturb the old warrior before he recovered a sense of when and where he was.

  Jhonan nodded an acknowledgement once his eyes found her. His stare then went to the shadows, seeking hidden threats in the dark.

  Daimonia moved closer. Ignoring the searing stench of liquor, she hugged him, intimate with his rugged skin and wiry beard.

  He held her briefly. ‘What is it, Dai?’

  ‘Nik was here.’

  ‘Was?’ He released her, hefting himself from the chair.

  ‘You were asleep.’ Her voice wavered between accusation and retreat.

  Jhonan’s face became a frightening thing met on a battlefield. He looked around for an enemy to destroy.

  ‘Grandfather, I’m so worried,’ Daimonia interceded, letting her lips tremble weakly. ‘I think he’s being led astray by some revolutionaries.’

  A roar of laughter burst from the old warrior. ‘Gentle Niklos a revolutionary?’ The derisive guffaw echoed coldly through the hall. ‘Our helpless Nik, a Vendicatori conspirator? If he had the courage for it, that would at least be something.’

  ‘Grandfather, I’m serious!’ Daimonia felt her cheeks redden. ‘He’ll get himself killed!’

  ‘Silly girl!’ Jhonan waved the idea away. ‘Don’t you see this is exactly what Niklos wants? He hopes to hurt me with this foolish lie.’

  ‘No, this isn’t about you!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Jhonan toyed with the silver beads in his beard. ‘He’s been a guest in my home without a single word to me. He has put the fear of Baoth into you and now threatens to disgrace the Vornir name? The boy will do anything to rouse sympathy and attention.’

  ‘Why would he want your attention?’ Daimonia bared her teeth. ‘Does he hope for another beating?’

  ‘Boys need to be hardened else the world eat them!’ Jhonan defended. ‘That’s how my father was and it did me no harm!’

  Daimonia said nothing until they had both cooled. Once any Vornir’s shield was up, there was little space for reasoning. When Jhonan had unclenched his fists, she chose her moment. ‘Niklos claims the Baron of Leechfinger is corrupt.’

  Jhonan turned his face and strode towards the fireplace. Once a powerful knight, his muscles and tendons now bore the penalty of age. With slow strength he leaned against the wall, glaring at the embers with a distant eye.

  ‘I met Volk Leechfinger once. I didn’t like him.’

  ‘Why would Niklos be afraid for the orphans?’ Daimonia persisted.

  ‘The baron is capable of any atrocity. I’ll concede that.’

  ‘We’re going,’ Daimonia decided. ‘We’re going to Leechfinger today.’

  ‘Leechfinger is no place for you. If Niklos must be found, I’ll be the one to go.’

  ‘Is the world beyond Jaromir really so terrible?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the issue here. This’ll go better if I’m not worrying about you as well.’

  ‘Is that all there is for me? To be a weak and sheltered thing, hiding here, afraid to live?’

  ‘No, Daimonia.’

  ‘Then let me help my brother. I too am a Vornir!’

  Jhonan’s horse was an ill-tempered mare. Despite much whistling and coaxing, they lost an hour chasing her around the field. Eventually they got the creature bridled and ready to lead their old wagon.

  As they trundled through the village, they saw the travelling players packing up to leave. The fancifully dressed performers sang as they worked, reprising a song from the beginning of the heroine’s journey. Daimonia stared at the exotic characters longingly; theirs was the life she wanted for herself, a colourful adventure with interesting companions. Why did she have this terrible heartache instead?

  Her eyes sought the powerful actress and found the woman lifting and labouring, easily keeping pace with the strongest men. Daimonia wondered whether to call out but felt afraid of somehow diminishing the perfect moment they had shared. After a brief indecision, she started waving, increasing her enthusiasm anxiously when the actress did not notice. A familiar and lonely ache teased her heart. Daimonia wished she could see her own face and know whether she was lovable.

  ‘Stop that,’ Jhonan said, lowering her hand.

  ‘But, Grandfather, you didn’t see the performance! You don’t know the wonderful story.’

  ‘I know the myths.’ Jhonan licked at the spaces between his sparse teeth. ‘You’ll have story enough to tell when I get hold of your foolish brother!’

  Daimonia noticed two armoured knights helping the actors to prepare for departure. They were young and clean-shaven, smiling and joking as they disassembled the fabulous tents.

  ‘Way Knights,’ Jhonan sneered. ‘Looks like the players intend to tour the coast.’ He spat abruptly. ‘What fools! Who would attempt that journey for the sake of a story?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we employ Way Knights too?’

  ‘Chrestos’ beard!’ He raised a black eyebrow. ‘What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t get my own granddaughter to Leechfinger? Now take the reins while I have a drink.’

  That night they hunted game together, prowling through the bountiful wood. In a star-bright clearing a single deer stood breathing the invigorating air.

  ‘So beautiful and proud,’ Daimonia whispered, her hands trembling on her bow.

  ‘Take the shot.’

  ‘A stag is a feast for ten people,’ said Daimonia. ‘Not two.’

  ‘The Goddess is generous.’

  They ate at first in silence, Daimonia’s imagination returning constantly to her fear. What would become of Niklos? A repetitious cycle of prayers rolled around her mind, imploring the Goddess to show her the way.

  ‘You were a child when you last left Jaromir,’ Jhonan recalled. ‘You probably don’t even remember.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ Daimonia’s face became childlike. ‘We went to Littlecrook for a fair. Niklos and I cried when it was time to leave, and Mother became so angry that she ripped out chunks of her own hair, shrieking at us.’

  Jhonan said nothing. The night fell from cold to cuttingly chill.

  ‘We must bring Niklos back home,’ Daimonia declared after a long think. ‘Keep him out of trouble. He was never cut out to be a knight. In fact, he would never have even left if it wasn’t for–’

  ‘He can’t come home,’ Jhonan interrupted.

  ‘Can’t?’ Daimonia recoiled as if slapped.

  ‘He can’t come home. He is sworn to the Accord and he must serve where an
d when instructed. Just like your mother.’

  ‘Then what do you intend to do?’

  ‘Kill him, of course.’

  ‘I don’t like it when you talk that way.’

  ‘You think I should let him destroy my name? Destroy your mother’s reputation?’

  ‘You wouldn’t kill your own grandson.’

  Jhonan tilted his head, appearing to turn the suggestion over in his mind. He held his hands before the campfire as shadows rippled across his body.

  ‘There’s a thing that lives in some men.’ Jhonan stared through the fire, his mouth turned in disgust. ‘It covers itself in flesh so as to pass for human, but it is not. It can feign our emotions, but it does not feel them. Instead it stares out through our eyes with a greed that is never satisfied. And if someone frustrates that greed? Then the terrible thing will show itself.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Daimonia admitted.

  ‘Know this,’ Jhonan told her. ‘If Niklos provokes the baron, the consequences will find us all.’

  The Cage

  The bridge to Leechfinger was a clogged artery, clotted with people, horses, cows and pigs. Running from Littlecrook village, it struck across the great river and into the tiered city whose turrets poked rudely at the heavens.

  Daimonia and Jhonan left their horse and wagon with the Blightwaters of Littlecrook and joined the funnel of shuffling travellers. Here traffic from all the southern villages fought to get either in or out of the city. As the Vornirs tried to advance among the shoving crowd, Daimonia found herself in close proximity with scores of strangers, becoming intimate with their elbows and breath without the exchange of a single pleasantry.

  ‘Stay close,’ Jhonan instructed as they bore forwards. ‘And keep your purse closer.’

  Traders had established an inconvenient cluster of stalls all along the parapet, leaving barely a wagon’s width for traffic. Nobles and peasants jostled on the slimy thoroughfare. Horses defecated. The reeking stench of sweat and dung permeated everything, exacerbated by the brown river churning beneath.

  Stuck in the tide of bodies, Daimonia tried to squeeze her way forwards. How different this was from the wide-open spaces of Jaromir, where it was rarely necessary to come within two paces of another person. She wanted to weep with frustration but noticed that Jhonan seemed faintly amused by the arduous task. The old man’s eyes glistened as he used his shoulder to force a path steadily onward. He clutched Daimonia’s wrist in one hand and pulled her along in his wake.

  Daimonia felt her cheeks redden and surrendered any sense of autonomy to her grandfather. He was strong and decisive in this place, where she felt wrong-footed and weak. She allowed him to drag her up through the mob, captive to his determination.

  ‘So many people,’ Daimonia worried. ‘How will we ever find Nik?’

  ‘We’ll try the Garden of Shame.’

  Daimonia scowled. ‘That doesn’t sound like somewhere we’d find my brother!’

  Jhonan nodded grimly; he drew the girl close. They might have been in their own world. ‘There’s an inevitability about some men. They set their sights on self-destruction, but when she shows her face, they greet her with surprise!’

  ‘You can’t be talking about our Nik.’ Daimonia pulled her wrist free from the old man’s fist.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  Their progress along the bridge slowed when they fell behind a strapping Visoth, whose straw-coloured hair draped over a cloak of tanned skin. The foreigner used his size and broad shoulders to block the Vornirs whenever they tried to pass.

  ‘We won’t make the city before nightfall,’ Jhonan grumbled. ‘Not stuck behind this slow ox!’

  ‘Perhaps Nik is at the barracks. I assume the Knights of the Accord own property here?’

  ‘Property? Hah!’ Jhonan blew snot from one nostril. ‘You’re not wrong about that!’ He tried to advance but again was blocked by the hulking figure.

  ‘Stop kicking!’ the Visoth turned around to holler in Jhonan’s face. His accent was strange to Daimonia’s ear, each word so heavy it could have been the end of a sentence. ‘Be patient, old man, or I’ll ride you up and down this bridge!’ The Visoth stooped towards Jhonan until their foreheads were touching. His eyes were an ardent green and would have been alluring on a face not twisted with anger.

  Jhonan yanked the outlander’s beard, yielding an expression of anguish from the throbbing face. He tugged hard, swinging the man into a stall crowded with hanging meat. Flesh, canopy and customers collapsed, haunches of beef plopping into the river below.

  ‘Bloody migrants!’ Jhonan fought through the crowd with renewed vigour.

  Finally they reached the gate, where armoured militants swaggered and drank, demanding a toll for every creature entering. A green flag above the gatehouse depicted the Leechfinger heraldry – a severed hand with one finger pointing skyward.

  ‘What’s your business in Leechfinger?’ the militant captain asked Jhonan.

  ‘I’m here to kill my grandson.’

  The captain snorted and waved them both through.

  They emerged from the shadow of the portcullis to witness a slow struggle between construction and nature. Great paving slabs lay across the length and breadth of the plaza but had been thrown into disarray by the intrusion of thick implacable roots. The result was a hazardously uneven walkway around which buildings sat crookedly and visitors stumbled.

  A gang of beggars, some twenty or thirty strong, worked these city outskirts. They dressed in hooded cloaks covered with dozens of haphazard pockets.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Daimonia challenged as they entered the busy plaza.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘This talk of killing Niklos.’ Daimonia glared at the old man. ‘I don’t find it funny.’

  ‘I already told you. If Nik is pronounced a traitor, the whole village will be punished. I can’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘Scuse me,’ a coarse voice intruded. ‘D’ya have jus’ a few coins to spare, miss?’ The beggar’s eyes were all over Daimonia as he approached with cupped hands. He took inventory of the eye-shaped brooch on her cloak and the buttons on her dress.

  Daimonia reached for her purse, but Jhonan intervened, shoving the hooded figure back. The beggar tripped on the paving, landing on the back of his shoulders as his legs kicked the sky. Stolen treasures spilled from his many pockets.

  ‘I’ll cut ya!’ the beggar howled. ‘Cut ya, dirty bastard!’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ Daimonia rounded on her grandfather.

  ‘Keep moving,’ Jhonan urged as others began to take notice. They turned into a crooked street, avoiding pits, pickpockets and brazen rats. The old man tried to take Daimonia’s hand, but she turned away, folding her arms across her chest.

  ‘I tried to guide your brother,’ Jhonan complained. ‘Tried to avoid a day like this one.’

  ‘Yes, it takes a great warrior to beat a child.’

  ‘Not this again!’ Jhonan threw up his arms in protest.

  ‘The person with the most power is always right. Is that what you wanted Nik to believe?’

  ‘You’re shoving words into my mouth.’

  A unit of Knights of the Accord marched past, intent on some decisive purpose. They wore tailed iron hats, chain armour and white heraldic tabards. Pounding through the street, they battered anyone too slow to move aside. Daimonia stared at each shadowed face, hoping to see her brother among them. She found only the hard stares of strangers.

  ‘Is there some relationship between might and virtue?’ Daimonia wondered aloud.

  ‘These questions of yours.’ Jhonan began to shake with irritation. ‘They don’t connect to the world I know. They’re not useful in the panic of battle or when you’re wearing the remains of your comrades.’ His lips frothed with bubbles of spittle. ‘They belong to a world of ideas, not the true world of mud, blood and men.’

  Maybe this will connect, Daimonia seethed inwardly. Hurt my brother and I hurt you. Can you
understand that? Does that ring true for you? But she had the sense not to say it.

  A towering wall divided the city, a second gate defending the higher tier. Huge bald faces were engraved in the stone, their mouths open to vomit streams of refuse upon the streets below. The waste collected in open gutters, bulging right before the Vornirs’ feet as they approached.

  ‘I can’t stand it,’ Daimonia gasped, pinching her nose. The obscene smell, evident since their arrival, had become overwhelmingly nauseating. She pinched her nose and stuck out her tongue at the dire stench. ‘I won’t stay a single night in this place.’

  ‘Find strength,’ Jhonan demanded.

  They negotiated their way through the inner gate with a show of Jhonan’s knightly insignia and some denarii.

  ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands,’ a militant told them as he jingled the small bribe. He tipped his head towards a large stone hand-bath, the sides of which resembled giant petals.

  Daimonia stared into the dirty water – a broth of mud, blood and saliva. Odd shapes floated in the grisly stew. The militants were watching her, frowning against the sunlight as they stared. She dipped her fingers into the warm liquid fleetingly before shaking them dry. She felt polluted by the little ritual, poisoned by the taint of other people’s filth.

  Jhonan strolled past, contributing only a pearl of phlegm to the pool.

  A great stairway rose from the lower districts, ascending towards magnificent columns framed by sky. Jhonan found a different curse for every single step of their ascent and the Vornirs were both heaving with sweat before they reached the top. Their ordeal was rewarded by cool, clear air and a panoramic view of the contorted streets below. From here the lower city appeared a grey and grotesque maze in which thousands of tiny people were trapped. Daimonia wanted to break down the walls and let them all escape.

  ‘Don’t let yourself get carried away,’ Jhonan cautioned. ‘If Nik is here, I mean.’

  Daimonia turned to regard the high gardens of Leechfinger. Here the elegant homes of the city aldermen were wreathed in rippling foliage. Nobles toured the grounds, fat with health and attended by trains of servants.