The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution

by Alexander Wallis

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Purtur shouted. ‘He’s paid to protect us!’

  Hem was ahead of them, rushing his carriage into the shadowed pockets of woodland ahead.

  Daimonia trembled with fear and anger. She longed to be there with Goodkin, fighting the Baoth horde even to her own death. But she could barely move her fingers and the cart was cascading away from the clamour and violence.

  From the cover of bushes a figure ran out, waving desperately to hail the speeding carts. ‘Please!’ The man shouted, ‘Stop!’ A whole family began to emerge from the thicket, crawling from their hiding place.

  ‘I beg you,’ the young father called to Hem. ‘Can you spare a little food? And if you’ve room, please take us with you!’

  Daimonia watched Hem’s concerned expression as the boy slowed his cart to survey the family. The man’s wife was a fair-haired Visoth, snuggling her newborn baby to her breast. Two young children raced around impatiently, competing to get close to the horses.

  ‘Father, we must help them!’ Hem hollered from his cart.

  ‘You’ve a generous heart, son,’ Purtur called back as he pulled up alongside. ‘But there’s always greedy fingers looking for a free handout. I call them lazy who can’t make their own prosperity.’

  ‘But the Baoth took everything,’ Hem pleaded. ‘They didn’t ask for that!’

  ‘Are you going to help all the poor of Dalibor?’ Purtur challenged bitterly. ‘Are you going to give to everyone who asks until you have nothing left yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Stupid boy!’ Purtur spat in the air, his face raspberry red. ‘What would you be if we gave everything away?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be fat.’

  ‘As an affiliate of the Seidhr, I cannot see this family go without support!’ Svek stood and whipped off his hat. He smiled at the children, coils of skin ringing his lips. ‘We simply must assist them, Purtur.’

  ‘You didn’t even have the coin for your own journey,’ Purtur reminded the courier.

  ‘They can ride with me,’ Hem determined.

  ‘We have coin.’ The young father weighed a pouch of silver. ‘What we need is a safe place for our children. If you can take us as far as Chalkwater, we have family there who can help.’

  Goodkin rode into the clearing, eyes dark beneath his visor. His armour was slick with blood; his horse scratched and slashed, its beautiful mane torn out.

  ‘Get into the carts,’ he told the family breathlessly.

  ‘They ain’t climbing all over my cart.’ Purtur had the look of a disgruntled boy.

  The Way Knight rounded on the merchant, his voice brimming with murderous rage. ‘Yes, they are!’ he bellowed. He dismounted and began hefting the children up.

  ‘Much obliged.’ The father grinned as if he had already arrived in Chalkwater and was enjoying a bottle of ale. ‘I’m Fletcher,’ he told them. ‘This is my wife, Isolde.’ He took the baby as she climbed onto the cart. ‘Is anyone alive back there?’

  Goodkin brushed debris from his tabard. ‘No,’ he replied.

  Masks of the Seidhr

  Daimonia awoke to a child’s hands on her cheeks. Big blue eyes stared into her own as the girl laughed at Daimonia’s surprised expression.

  ‘Wakey,’ the girl said, patting Daimonia’s forehead with a fat palm.

  ‘Hello, little one.’ Daimonia grinned. She rubbed her eyes and sat up from her crunchy bed of leaves. A gorgeous dawn lit the forest, lifting her heart with renewing radiance. The chubby child took Daimonia’s arm, encouraging her to rise.

  Daimonia stood, rising to her tiptoes as she stretched and shook loose her fatigue. Her nightmares had been stranger than ever: grandfather Jhonan transformed into a sad old tree that no one loved. The dream had filled her with a melancholy that the morning made ridiculous with its truth-giving light.

  ‘Pray,’ the child instructed. She held her hands up to the sky as her wispy hair tickled her forehead and nose.

  Daimonia sang the morning prayer alongside the girl’s stumbling recitation. Swords of dust cut through the high branches to illuminate their faces.

  Chrestos, be my brother

  When the morning light ascends.

  Be my shield, my torch, my armour

  Guard until my journey ends.

  When I’ve wandered into darkness

  Lost within the perilous night

  Will you follow me, my brother?

  Brother Chrestos, join my fight.

  ‘You’re crying.’ The child was concerned. She imitated a sad face, scrunching her hands into fists and rubbing her round cheeks.

  ‘I’m not,’ Daimonia assured her. ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘Who is Chrestos?’ the infant wondered.

  ‘He’s the brother and friend of the Goddess.’

  ‘Like my brother Bran?’

  ‘Yes.’ Daimonia lifted the girl up. ‘Just like Bran.’

  ‘Have you got a brother?’ the child questioned, running her little fingers through Daimonia’s leafy hair.

  ‘We’d better find your family.’ Daimonia lowered her tone. ‘Everyone will be wondering where you’ve gone.’

  Returning to the group, Daimonia was met with a singular sight. The forest was full of strange gleaming faces; silver-masked women in fine purple robes glided around the camp, questioning everyone. Daimonia’s first instinct was to hide, quickly slipping behind a tree.

  ‘Who are those women?’ Daimonia asked the girl.

  ‘Pickle.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pickle!’ the girl shouted insistently. She poked her thumb towards herself.

  ‘Hush!’ Daimonia raised a finger to her lips. ‘Who are those ladies, Pickle?’

  ‘Cider,’ the child attempted.

  ‘Seidhr?’ Daimonia’s eyes widened as she peered around the tree. So these were women of the Seidhr Order, she realised, staring at the tall figures. They moved with imperious grace and asserted themselves with complete confidence. Around each waist was a leather belt containing small satchels, an ornate seal of office and a sheathed blade.

  Daimonia found Hem on the fringe of the group. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘Seidhr workers,’ he told her anxiously. ‘They’ve just inspected the Fletcher children, but I don’t think they’ll take them away.’

  ‘Why would they take them away?’

  ‘Well, in case they’re in danger and all that.’ Hem stumbled over his explanation. ‘I don’t know if the children are all that safe with us, to be honest. I’m a bit worried about–’

  ‘Take them where?’

  ‘I don’t know. To the baron, I suppose. But listen, about Svek–’

  She was already walking away, leaving Hem gaping mid-sentence.

  There were four women in the clearing, along with their horses, a cage-carriage and the brawniest Accord Knight Daimonia had ever seen. The women were in discussion with Svek, who seemed to be quite in his element discoursing with the workers.

  ‘I doubt you’ll find any orphans in Garst,’ he was telling them with an amiable smile. ‘The whole place has been reduced to a Baoth cesspit.’ He pulled at the folds of skin beneath his chin. ‘As for the Fletcher family, I’ll see that the little ones get to Chalkwater safely. You can rely on me. I’ve plenty of experience with children.’

  ‘What happens to the children?’ Daimonia demanded. She walked up to confront the tallest Seidhr worker and stood close enough to see her own reflection in the silver mask.

  ‘Who is this youth?’ the woman asked with the merest tip of her head. Her mask was designed to pretend the most benevolent and beautiful face imaginable.

  ‘I’m Daimonia Vornir.’

  ‘Vornir?’ Behind her ornate mask the Seidhr’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sisters, isn’t Vornir one of the names in the Book of Traitors?’

  Daimonia felt her face redden, though whether from fear or anger it was hard to say.

  ‘Catherine Vornir holds a cap
taincy in the Accord and is, I believe, the castellan of Khorgov Fortress,’ Svek informed them respectfully. ‘If the name is familiar, might I suggest it is because this is the famous lady’s daughter.’

  ‘I see.’ Eyes relaxed behind the mask. ‘Well, Miss Vornir, I can assure you each child we gather will be fed and looked after. Our work is the most important in all of Dalibor, although we are rarely thanked for it.’

  ‘Why do you have that huge warrior with you?’ Daimonia pointed to the Accord Knight, who was supping greedily from his wineskin. ‘In case the children don’t want to leave?’

  ‘You’re being facetious. No one travels the coast without–’

  ‘And who decides where the children go?’

  ‘A council of senior authorities–’

  ‘You mean the baron!’ Daimonia’s thumb caressed the dagger at her belt.

  A firm hand gripped Daimonia’s arm and dragged her away. The terrible face of the Way Knight leaned in closely. For the first time she became intimate with the savagery of his facial wounds. She morbidly imagined tracing a finger through the valleys of his flesh.

  ‘Remember the rules of travel,’ he murmured, squeezing her arm sharply. ‘Provoke no enemy, nor do any trespass against the Accord.’

  ‘And stay with you. Yes, I remember!’ she complained, pulling herself away.

  ‘Well, I think we are done here,’ the senior Seidhr announced. ‘There are families desperate for our intervention.’ She shot a sharp look at Daimonia before leading her group away.

  ‘Mount up,’ Goodkin told everyone. ‘Enough time wasted.’

  Along the forest trail the carts rumbled, venturing through wooded tunnels of green and gold. All day Goodkin chose to ride out in front, patiently leading the procession as day became night.

  Daimonia was caught by the treasury of light above. The Eye of Ceresoph was bright tonight, twinkling with mischievous radiance. Daimonia fancied she could hear its roaring intensity. The gleaming Eye was the point through which the curious Goddess had gazed into the universe and inadvertently created all life. Her seeds, the stars, were cast into every heart and within them a longing to return to her bosom.

  ‘Best not let you take the reins,’ Purtur teased. ‘Or we’ll crash into those stars.’

  ‘They’re our brothers and sisters, our missing fathers.’

  ‘You believe all that stuff?’ Purtur weighed the girl with his stare.

  ‘I believe the Goddess promised to free us from this world one day.’

  ‘I hope that day doesn’t come soon.’ Purtur winced. ‘I’ve money to make!’

  ‘Money!’ Daimonia chided. ‘What is money anyway?’

  ‘What do you mean – what is it? Everyone knows what money is! And everyone wants it!’

  ‘Imagine I’d never heard of it and then explain to me what it is.’

  Purtur shook his head as if indulging a simpleton. ‘It’s something that the more of it you have, the happier you are.’

  ‘Is that really the relationship between money and happiness?’

  ‘Of course!’ Purtur chortled. ‘Why else would I be risking my life, even risking my son’s life, to travel around making more of it?’

  Lights appeared along the forest path. A caravan was approaching from the east. The foremost carriage was illuminated by the homely radiance of a glass lantern giving glow to the fashioned wood.

  As the strangers drew near, Daimonia observed their harried faces. They were looking ruefully at Goodkin and seemed disturbed and afraid.

  ‘Turn back,’ an old driver warned. On his lap he cradled a young man whose tunic was sopping with blood. The boy clutched at something in one crimson hand, a mess of fleshy debris. ‘John Grobian and his sons own this road, or so they say. You should find another way if you can.’

  ‘You should have paid the Way Knights’ fee,’ Goodkin told them.

  ‘We did.’ The old man took off his hat respectfully. ‘Grobian’s sons were making bloody sport of our Way Knights when we escaped! I ain’t never seen such cruelty before. By the Goddess, I can still hear their screams in my head!’

  ‘Who’s Grobian?’ Daimonia asked.

  ‘John Grobian used to be an enforcer in the pay of the prince. Did all kinds of dirty work not appropriate for knights. Enjoyed it too, from what I hear. But there was some kind of violent disagreement and Grobian ended up on the other side of the Accord. Course he still had all the men and weapons he’d been supplied with.’

  Daimonia’s eyes were on the groaning boy, who met her stare with something like need. She climbed over onto their caravan and stroked his curly hair from his face.

  ‘There’s nothing to be done for him now.’ The old man sighed.

  ‘Is he your friend?’

  ‘My son.’ He smiled weakly. ‘He’s always been mad about stories of knights and adventure. I tried to get him to read sensible books, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Silly boy imagined he wouldn’t be a real man if he didn’t stand up to those Grobians.’

  Daimonia’s fingers were warm and red as she drew away from the dying youth. She looked wide-eyed at Goodkin, who stared expressionlessly from his mount.

  ‘You will be avenged, I swear it!’ Daimonia squeezed the young man’s arm. ‘Let’s go, Goodkin. Hopefully your brothers-in-arms are still alive. I’m keen to see what happens when these brigands pit their will against yours!’

  ‘No.’ Goodkin was unmoved. ‘We’ve travelled far enough tonight. We camp here.’

  ‘What?’ Daimonia’s brows knotted into a fierce curl. ‘Your own comrades are left to the mercy of robbers and you want to sleep?’

  ‘Now, now,’ Svek intervened. ‘Goodkin’s job is to keep us alive. Not to avenge every crime on the journey. Let us take rest with these fellows and we will all be the safer for it.’

  ‘No offense, but we must continue,’ the old man told them. ‘The company of Way Knights is seen as provocation to Grobian’s boys. That much I learnt today and shall never forget.’

  ‘Why is everyone ignoring the truth?’ Daimonia looked to each man, her head turning quickly like a bird’s. ‘What if those knights were being murdered right here in front of us? Would you ignore it then?’

  ‘I’ll care when it’s happening to me or my family,’ Purtur interjected. ‘What’s the sense in getting killed over other people’s disputes?’

  ‘If my mother were here, she would not stand idly by.’

  ‘Come on, girl!’ Purtur waved away her assertion. ‘Female knights are for parades not wars. And war is what we’ll have if we start killing the sons of Grobian.’

  Goodkin had already dismounted and was preparing to camp. He cared for his wounded horse, tenderly stroking the beast’s head and whispering encouragement. Daimonia marched over and stood in his way, hands on hips, head tilted to the side questioningly.

  ‘What does it mean to be a Way Knight?’ she challenged, thumping her fist on his armour.

  ‘We persevere.’ Goodkin told her. He took off his helmet as if his face would fend her off. ‘We persevere or die.’

  ‘I’m going to help those knights.’ She began to turn, still meeting the Way Knight’s stare. ‘I’m going and you’ll be forced to help me.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ He took a silver piece from his purse and offered it back to the girl. ‘Take it and leave if you must.’

  Daimonia’s hand hovered tentatively over the coin, but she made a fist instead and struck the Way Knight in the mouth.

  Goodkin flinched in surprise, wiping his lips with the back of his gauntlet. There was a sliver of blood between his teeth. The encampment fell to silence as everyone looked aghast at the knight and the girl. Hem was shaking and Fletcher led his children hurriedly away from the scene.

  Goodkin growled at his attacker. Hurt swam in his eyes but quickly fermented into bitterness. ‘I told you. Provoke no enemy.’ Angrily he threw the silver denarius into the sky; it lit like a star for a moment and then disappeared into the deep wood.
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br />   Daimonia stared at the knight unapologetically, her chest rising with hot breaths.

  ‘Let’s everyone calm down,’ Hem suggested. But Daimonia had already gone, following the trail of the coin.

  The Sons of Grobian

  Daimonia had never named the dead watchman’s horse. The beast’s history was too unknown, its journeys indiscoverable. More than that, she never felt the horse belonged to her, in the way that some horses and their riders seem joined. Not until tonight.

  ‘Chrestos,’ she called him, smoothing his mane and the barbarian muscles of his back. ‘Chrestos, guide me through the night.’

  She didn’t need Goodkin or any of them. They were like scripted actors, stuck in their roles, not even aware they were alive. She let them fall away from her mind, like floundering ghosts, as she rode.

  The warlike thump of Chrestos’ hooves was the pounding of her heart. Storming through the darkness, an exhilarating freedom blew through her soul. Where was she going now? Perhaps she had no destination. She unsheathed the watchman’s sword and let it slice through the night. She was Cere-Thalatte, riding into battle, the avenging Goddess despoiling her foes! A terrible laughter filled the night, erupting from some secret place within.

  ‘I am the flaming sword!’ she rejoiced. She rode on, smelting her anger into steel, until at last she found her prey.

  In a wooded clearing the torso of a dead horse roasted over a greedy fire. The Grobians camped openly around the warming flame; drunk as militants, they snored into their shabby beards. There were almost a dozen men, surrounded by axes, swords and spears. Discarded armour and clothes were strewn about.

  Two prisoners were kept here. A blood-drenched Way Knight staggered pitifully around the campsite, as far as his noose would allow. A crude mask of spiked metal was clamped tightly around his head. He roared agonisingly as blood leaked from the device and flowed down his crimson tabard. Desperately, he thrashed and jerked, trying to throw himself into the fire.

  Another Way Knight had been stripped and tied to a tree, his skin pouring with sweat. His wavering cries encouraged a young torturer, who worked on the knight’s body.

  The young Grobian had an inordinately fat head, thick limbs and haphazardly chopped hair. He swaggered, arms held out to exaggerate his biceps, as if the forest were too small for anyone but himself. From the waist down he was naked, his speckled bottom bulging obtrusively.