The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution

by Alexander Wallis

  Goodkin climbed to his feet shakily, his shield in bits around him. He gripped his sword in both hands as John Grobian charged. The great hammer swung from sky to earth, fetching a clod of mud into the air as Goodkin leapt aside. The Way Knight drove his blade to the giant’s neck, but the attack was broken by an intercepting kick. The massive foot propelled Goodkin backwards and the hammer swung again, glancing Goodkin’s helm with a resounding clang.

  Another Grobian fighter seized the moment to chop at Goodkin with his war axe. His reckless attacks were as audacious as his warpaint, which depicted the cock of Chrestos on his chest. The lunatic howled as his axe clashed against the knight’s mail. Goodkin leapt into a powerful headbutt, breaking the Grobian’s skull with his helm.

  John Grobian barked out a series of rutting noises as he hefted his hammer in a great arc, forcing the Way Knight to retreat. Goodkin threw his sword at Grobian, pursuing it with a charge. The giant dropped his weapon and both men met in a wrestler’s grip. Their faces contorted as they strained to gain advantage, eyes bulging and teeth grinding. Their hands clenched around each other’s veined and reddening throats.

  John Grobian’s strength prevailed. His powerful arms swelled as he forced Goodkin down to his crotch with a gloating cluck. Daimonia ran to Goodkin’s aid, but the giant swatted her away, splitting her lips like crushed fruit.

  As Grobian watched the girl fall, Goodkin drew back his arm and stove his gauntleted fist into the big man’s testicles. Grobian crumpled, hacking snot and blood down his face.

  Goodkin pulled off his helm and fought for breath, sweat streaming down the tracks of his scars. He took up the discarded war axe and with a roar brought it down on John Grobian’s neck. The head rolled to land upright on the ground, staring at Daimonia.

  ‘We did it,’ Daimonia gasped.

  ‘Did what?’ Goodkin growled. ‘Got Hem’s brains smashed in? Look at him! This is your doing!’

  Daimonia’s lips trembled. The spirit of war was fading and all there was to see were dead men and a foolish boy’s unrecognisable head.

  ‘Curse you, Daimonia,’ Goodkin spat. ‘I should never have allowed a Vornir in my company. All Vornirs are animals and, from what I hear, traitors!’

  Daimonia ran at him with the dagger. She lunged for the terrible face as Goodkin raised his forearm to block the strike. The Way Knight had underestimated her skill and the dagger scratched across his face, opening an earlier scar.

  Daimonia cried out, as if it were she who bore the wound. Goodkin seized her wrist and pulled her sweaty body against his, bringing the blade to the girl’s throat.

  ‘I told you not to leave me.’ His eyes watered. ‘I told you not to provoke enemies!’

  ‘I’m not your property.’ She twisted and pulled away.

  ‘We had a contract.’

  ‘I’ll go the rest of the way alone.’

  ‘No. Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll help me take Hem back to Purtur. You’ll look after his body until we can find an adjurator. And you’ll do nothing, nor say a single word until we reach Khorgov and go our separate ways.’

  Their enemies were left to the crows, a grievous insult among the Dallish. No one had the inclination to see they received the final rites. The Svek-thing was thrown into a ditch where even the Goddess might not find it.

  A day later Hem and the two young Way Knights were burned on the hill above Chalkwater. Smoke bellowed into the immense ocean of sky above, where a tumult of thunder answered the departing spirits. The rustle of flames offered a peculiar calm.

  Purtur was on his knees, drawn up into himself. Around him the Fletcher family gathered supportively, the children’s energy temporarily subdued by the alluring pillars of fire. They would travel no further with Goodkin’s company.

  The Way Knight stood beside them, his helm removed respectfully and his head lowered in respect. It was clear he counted it a personal shame to lose a life on the journey. He had ensured his dead comrades were burned in their Way Knight tabards, saving one of their shields to replace his own.

  Daimonia felt bruised and unwanted. Tenderness had replaced the furnace in her heart, and she was weak again, limp and cold. The ritual droned on, but she did not listen to the babbling words of the adjurator. The real prayer was around her in smoke, storm and sky.

  Wanderers on the Vale

  A slender virgin walked through the twilight as eager shadows stroked her body. She carried a flaming sword before her, gripping its handle firmly with both hands. Her arms were painted black and stained with trickles of candle wax; her hair was extraordinarily long and topped with a wooden crown. The ever-burning weapon illuminated her rapturous expression and the intense fervour of her eyes. She wandered continually onward as if in a dream.

  The virgin was followed by a long train of Thalattist monks trudging dutifully through the vale, one hundred devotees following the winding river. Each wore a modest habit tied with a woollen belt and had long hair, uncut since initiation. They carried ceremonial weapons: a bow, dagger or sword as required by the Goddess of War. As the holy warriors journeyed, they repeated the sacred chant of their order:

  Thalatte, Thalatte, bellum dea Thalatte

  Nox Thalatte

  Bellum dea Thalatte

  The Geld Knight Conrad Ernst observed the monks with a kind of admiration. Like him they felt an affinity with the divine. Like him they knew they were special, set apart from the rest of the world. In another life Conrad might have joined them, given himself wholeheartedly to their zealous cult. Like the monks, Conrad understood what it was to need an all-consuming purpose.

  Conrad’s men were less appreciative. The Geld enforcers laughed at the religious fanatics, but this was to be expected. Such men could not look beyond their basest desires; a connection with the sublime was incomprehensible to them. The oafish Cain went as far as pissing right in the virgin’s path. A puddle formed and the Thalattists splashed their bare feet right through it. Conrad predicted the monks would not react to this provocation. Their faith did not permit them to fight until the end times.

  The Geld Knight’s mouth twisted into an expression of disgust. Not for the first time, Conrad was repulsed by the barbarity of the men he needed to employ. He longed for one more day with his master Pavel and the aesthetes of Kraljevic.

  ‘Cheer up, sir. It’s not the end of the world!’ Fotter jested.

  Conrad resisted the urge to bludgeon Fotter to death. The revolting trapper had become increasingly bold in assuming familiarity with the Geld Knight. Whatever feelings of camaraderie the animal-molester was experiencing were entirely unreciprocated by Sir Conrad. Perhaps the men needed reminding that he was their master.

  ‘Cain.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  Conrad rode out in front of the monks until his horse blocked the path of the sword-wielding virgin. She stared up at him with skull-black eyes and looked ready to strike him from his mount. Behind her the holy warriors lined up, some wearing their anxiety and hatred more obviously than others.

  Lumbering up beside the Geld Knight, Cain let out a mischievous cackle.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ Conrad told the girl. ‘Cain, you seem to have urinated on the holy virgin’s feet.’

  Cain was almost doubled over with laughter now, holding his stomach as he guffawed.

  ‘Lick them clean,’ Conrad commanded.

  ‘But, sir–’

  ‘Do it!’ Conrad wore the look of a man barely able to restrain his own fury. He did not have to ask again.

  Cain fell to his knees, gagging as he licked the girl’s wet toes.

  Watching the Thalattists, a kind of revelation descended upon Sir Conrad. What a potent thing religion was for bridling the will of man. These devotees would do anything for their Goddess. They had consecrated their entire lives to mastering her sacred war arts and would voluntarily lay down their lives in her name. Perhaps the Thalattists were an exceptional example, but every peasant fro
m here to Archonia acknowledged some aspect of the Goddess and allowed themselves to be guided by the adjurators.

  The merest seed of an idea began to incubate in the Geld Knight’s mind. Looking down the long row of monks, Conrad observed their expressions, from the most placid to those whose hatred for the Geld was thinly concealed. His eyes were drawn to a broad pair of shoulders heaving with unbridled emotion.

  It occurred to Conrad to try an experiment. He rode over to confront the passionate monk. The young man was firm with years of conditioning in the Thalattist temple; his hair was gathered in an untidy knot and his face was long and resolute like an indignant horse.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ Conrad demanded. Conrad knew these Thalattists did not recognise the authority of the Accord and to compensate he tried to muster his most authoritative voice. Instead he noticed again the nasal quality of his own enunciation, diminishing the command he ought to have.

  ‘Blackthorn,’ the strapping warrior told him anyway.

  ‘Well, Blackthorn.’ Conrad exaggerated the unlikeliness of the name. ‘You realise that this little procession is a direct affront to the prince and may be perceived as treason by the courts of Kraljevic?’ Conrad leaned back on his horse, allowing a tingle of pleasure to stir his crotch. He was confronting a small army held in check by their convictions. ‘Cere-Thalatte is chaos; she is death. Is that what you wish for, boy?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ Blackthorn replied insolently. His voice was steady, but his stormy glare and heavy breaths revealed the slayer within.

  Conrad lashed out with his horse whip. A crimson gash blemished the youth’s handsome face.

  An immediate ripple of discontent spread through the line of Thalattists. It was like sticking a pin in a caterpillar. They spat and scowled, some holding back the others, but none lifted a hand against Sir Conrad. The Geld Knight allowed a smug grin to erupt as the young monk was forced to subdue the rage within.

  ‘There is no Goddess,’ Conrad informed them. ‘There is no Chrestos. There is just us.’ Satisfied with their silence, the Geld Knight turned his horse away, but there was a shimmer of movement behind him.

  Blackthorn leaped into the air and buried a kick into Conrad’s gut. Pain exploded in the Geld Knight’s torso and he toppled from his horse with a great expulsion of phlegm. The marsh rushed up to greet his surprised face.

  The Geld Knight lay still, his ringed fingers sucked into the muck. It occurred to Conrad that, despite all appearances, this was a kind of victory. He had proved that beneath the pious façade, the religious were just as petty and vindictive as anyone else.

  Conrad rose up, his armour again clotted with muck that would require hours of cleaning. His golden hair was in disarray. Nevertheless he wore a look of triumph on his face. Half-smiling, palms open, he gestured in a way that seemed to say See, I told you so.

  Every Thalattist monk assumed a fighting pose with bow, dagger or sword. Along the vale one hundred warriors stood ready to defend each other.

  Conrad laughed. In any ideology there were always clauses and loopholes as to why it was permissible to aggress against enemies. Conrad knew this better than anyone.

  The Geld Knight looked to his enforcers. Only the Afreyan had unsheathed his blades, the others preferring to hold themselves or wave their hands in the air as if to ward death away.

  ‘Kill them,’ Fotter encouraged the enforcers weakly, although he himself had not drawn a weapon.

  Conrad adjusted himself and regained his composure. Once again he had lost face with his uncomprehending men. ‘Leave them,’ he commanded as if he were sparing the monks’ lives. ‘This treason will not go unpunished.’

  ‘They will rue the day,’ Fotter felt the need to add.

  The Geld circuit had led them on a convoluted route, winding from Jaromir to Sophir and then through an even poorer shithole called Muddy Bottom. From there they had crossed the vale heading towards Chalkwater, aiming to arrive in Knave in a few days. The meandering monotony of the journey tried Conrad’s patience sorely. How much longer must he endure these mundane duties and humiliations before the Secret God reached out to him?

  Along the Chalkwater trail, the distinct smell of death teased Conrad’s senses. He was familiar enough with the stink. He had known it all his life from his mother’s brutalised corpse to the rotten game they called food in the shires.

  ‘Either something’s died around here, or Cain has farted!’ Fotter cackled.

  Conrad waited while his men examined the scene ahead, no doubt they were helping themselves to any coin or valuables as well.

  ‘All clear, sir,’ Scorcher announced. The lad was standing to attention like a dull-witted militant.

  Conrad rode ahead lazily to inspect the corpse-streaked trail. A lively battle had been fought here, and since then the animals had enjoyed a charnel feast.

  ‘John Grobian.’ Fotter lifted the giant’s half-eaten head. ‘Had a few drinks with this maniac once. Before he became an enemy of the prince, of course.’

  ‘Maybe he ran into some Way Knights?’ Cain suggested, scratching his arse.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh!’ The Afreyan swordsman strode around the bodies, his eyes darting guardedly into the woods. His tattooed hands clenched the handles of his paired scimitars. ‘John Grobian never be falling to some pitiful Way Knights! Must’ve been something far worser than that!’

  Conrad tapped his codpiece, ignoring all the mundane speculation. His mind was oozing possibilities and patterns. An opportunity had fallen into his lap. The clouds drifted and a spear of indescribably brilliant light illuminated the Geld Knight’s face. Was the Secret God reaching out to him?

  ‘I want a courier sent to Kraljevic immediately,’ Conrad insisted. ‘To carry the following message: Geld Knight Conrad Ernst has defeated John Grobian in the prince’s name. Put that part about the prince first.’

  The scir of Chalkwater flinched at the command. ‘Sorry, Sir Conrad, buh-buh-but we have nuh-no courier.’ This stuttering refusal was delivered amid a great deal of fidgeting and sweat.

  ‘Then send one of your sons!’ Conrad found it was often necessary to state the very obvious to these serfs.

  ‘Buh-but, Sir Conrad,’ the scir protested. ‘They would nuh-never make the journey alive!’

  Conrad shook a goblet of wine in the Chalkwater scir’s surprised face. With complete detachment he watched the man’s blinking confusion. ‘No, I should go personally,’ the Geld Knight decided. He would stand before Prince Moranion and present Grobian’s head as a trophy.

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ the scir’s unfortunate-looking daughter interrupted. ‘But a terrifying Way Knight passed through here recently.’

  ‘Terrifying?’ Conrad raised an eyebrow, half wondering why the slovenly girl was addressing him personally.

  ‘She means Sir Goodkin,’ the scir explained. ‘A reliable Way Knight buh-but a bit rough on the eye.’

  ‘He must be rough indeed,’ Conrad mused, staring at the odd-looking father and daughter.

  ‘I heard it from the adjurators,’ the girl continued. ‘It was Sir Goodkin killed those Grobians and he left them out there to rot.’

  Conrad blinked a few times. He even felt a little tear encroach upon one eye. The implication was clear and all that he had to gain or lose teetered on a single Way Knight and some loose-lipped idiots from Chalkwater.

  ‘What are you doing, my lord!’ the scir was shouting.

  Conrad’s hands had closed around the girl’s throat and he was watching her bloated, bewildered face as he squeezed and squeezed the life out of her. The scir was trying to pry them apart and even Fotter had rushed in, trying to extricate Conrad from his madness.

  He released the girl and she fell to the floor, gasping desperately. The impressions of the knight’s fingers were still hot on her neck.

  ‘I slew John Grobian,’ Conrad told the horrified scir. ‘Spread the word.’

  The Silence

  Summer winds drifted
with the travellers, chasing them through woods and hills, through fords and fertile pastures. From a gusty peak they witnessed lawless horses storming through the uncharted plains. They crunched juicy mouthfuls of apple on a flinty bridge, watching fishes glide through their reflections. Beyond the veil of a waterfall an immense stone brooded like a giant’s discarded head.

  They passed strange wanderers, considered wise for their homes were the boundless land itself and they paid no taxes. They met outlaws ganged together in crude families, parading beards and weapons like a priesthood of thieves. The Way Knight was the shield against which these strangers would not test their courage.

  Goodkin knew the territory like an old enemy to be sought out and reconquered. He never lost his way nor flinched through storm or flood. His scars were the only map he referred to, sometimes probing the valleys of his flesh with gauntleted fingers.

  Despite the wild beauty, Daimonia followed as if through a mausoleum. Ghosts accumulated in the crypt of her imagination, spectral accusers following her progress. Her beloved Niklos was now joined by the knights she had failed to rescue and the foolish son of Purtur. Their funeral had submerged her vindictive passions and birthed confusion and regret. Who was she to challenge and defy? She was not Cere-Thalatte or even Captain Catherine.

  Daimonia drove the second cart, avoiding Purtur as best she could, though their party had shrunk to three. Bereaved beyond words, the merchant had become a thing Daimonia feared to see. His face seemed to cave beneath his brows, morose like failing clay.

  Beyond her frailty of heart, Daimonia was also less practically prepared for the travails of the journey than she had imagined. Her frayed and blood-blotched dress offered faint protection during the shivery nights. At times she even wished the Way Knight would hold her in the dark. Instead he remained distant and cold, hiding behind his wound-masked face.