‘My grandfather bears a scar from the side of his mouth to the hollow of his ear,’ Daimonia told Goodkin one night when Purtur was asleep. The Way Knight had allowed a campfire and the warm radius of light made a discreet chamber in the woods. ‘Many of grandfather’s fingers look like little nailless toes,’ she continued when the Way Knight made no acknowledgement. ‘He has many war wounds.’
Goodkin did not respond to these enticements to speak, except to fix the girl with a deathly stare. He lay against a towering ash, his fists clenched like a child refusing to part with a toy.
‘I imagine you must have some stories to tell,’ Daimonia tried again. She gestured to her own relatively unblemished face. A scar had formed across her lips, but her bruises were now mild discolourations.
‘We’re not friends,’ he told her abruptly. ‘Neither am I some curiosity for you to enjoy.’
Daimonia hid her embarrassment behind her tattered sleeve. The Way Knight had caught her presumption, exposing her implacable curiosity, which had already been the source of so much sorrow. Nevertheless she felt herself moved to anger. Who was this man to presume his suffering was so much greater than hers? What of all she had lost? Might yet lose?
‘You’re not the only one in pain!’ She returned his harsh stare. ‘My brother was murdered and my love for him was beyond the horizons of all the roads you’ve ever travelled!’
‘Do not,’ the Way Knight told her, raising his palm like a shield.
‘Do not what?’
‘Do not try to draw me into your story,’ he growled. ‘Do not try to know mine. We have an agreement, a simple contract; that and nothing more.’
Daimonia bit at her lip and dug her nails into her skin as her heart broke away from her. ‘You must have loved once,’ she managed to reply, a little weepily.
Goodkin’s expression transformed from stone to astonishment. His scars created unfamiliar patterns around his eyes and mouth. It seemed the exchange was completely off the path.
For the longest time only the fire had voice, consuming the weathered wood with a fervent crackle.
‘Passengers.’ Goodkin broke the silence. ‘That’s what we call you. Those who pay the Way Knight’s fee in return for our protection.’
Daimonia said nothing in case she might spoil Goodkin’s willingness to speak. Instead she sat attentively, wrapping her cloak about her.
‘I’ve had passengers die before,’ he told her flatly. ‘Sometimes all of them. Whole families falling prey to raiders or harsh conditions. I’ve had passengers steal from me, try to deceive me, even try to kill me. There is pain at the beginning, but you learn. You learn to feel nothing.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Daimonia challenged.
Goodkin looked incredulous. ‘What?’
‘I think it is you who are the passenger. I have purpose, a cause, and you exist only to accompany me on it. I am alive with hopes and vulnerabilities and, yes, with pain. But you who feel nothing’ – she raised a trembling hand to point at the knight – ‘you are dead!’
The Slaughter Gardens
‘This world is a story and our lives nothing more than the musings of a playwright.’ The white-haired speaker was perched upon a broad tree stump, his hands working as if fashioning an invisible pot. ‘It feels like we have free choice, but most of us cannot divert our own stories once the initial stage is set.’ A crowd clustered around the speaker, some making the sign of agreement while others booed and laughed.
Across from the old man a glaring woman tried to sway the crowd to her own tree stump. ‘Each of us is the captain of our own ship,’ she argued. ‘We decide the destination and choose the course.’ A good many listeners agreed with her while others floated between the two stumps. ‘We have both choice and accountability,’ the woman concluded. ‘No good blaming our problems on anyone else.’
Daimonia followed Goodkin and Purtur through the busy garden. She wondered at the fervent disagreement, noting that each competing voice seemed compelling and sincere.
‘I was a drunkard, a whoremonger and a thief,’ a new speaker admitted, taking his place on a stump. ‘My wife had left me and my children would not speak to me. I became a spice addict, living on the streets and hurting people just to get a few denarii. I frightened little children, stole from temples and was generally the most unlovable shit imaginable. But then Chrestos gave me rest in his shadow. He chose me to shout his holy words at you.’
A derisive laugh cut the air. ‘The gods are nothing more than images of parental authority,’ a man replied. ‘Symbols designed to keep us obedient and to stop us thinking!’
‘Who are all these people?’ Daimonia asked.
‘Idiots!’ Purtur sneered. Arriving at the thriving town of Knave had reawakened him. ‘The Slaughter Gardens used to be a place for the condemned to make a last speech before execution. Now the whole place is overrun with pointless arguments and debates!’
‘How can I make sense of all these ideas?’ Daimonia wondered. ‘By what means should I accept or reject the arguments?’
‘Eh? What?’ Purtur scratched his head.
‘Some know in their hearts what is true,’ said Daimonia. ‘While others say that ideas must be tested.’
‘I just use my own common sense.’ Purtur yawned. ‘As long as you have food in your belly, there ain’t any need to wrestle with all these philosophies.’
Daimonia frowned. ‘A good question is better than a poor answer.’ She turned to the Way Knight. ‘What do you believe?’
Goodkin looked away, searching the crowd for dangers.
‘The Accord is a lie!’ someone was yelling.
‘Hah!’ Purtur snorted. ‘Sounds like someone has just made their last speech!’
The speaker was a young man whose pronounced brow and protruding lower lip gave him a look of determined defiance. ‘The Accord is a lie!’ he insisted. ‘We’ve warred with the other princedoms so that the Guldslags can grow rich, selling swords and spears to both sides! We’ve provoked the Baoth, raiding their islands for resources, and when they retaliate, we call them barbarians! We live in a time when the Duke of Khorgov paid a thousand denarii for a single hat while others can’t even afford to eat! Why is this allowed to happen?’ Words poured hurriedly from the youth’s mouth as if they might be stopped at any moment. ‘The so-called nobles want us to blame petty criminals, the poor and Visoth migrants for all the problems they themselves have caused. The prince wants us to hate each other while he drinks the sweat of our labour and the blood of our sons!’
Some were ignited by the young man’s speech, while others booed and made the sign of the crucified traitor with their fingers.
‘No one is disputing the prince’s lack of virtue,’ a bushy-browed elder responded. ‘A virtuous prince would be weak. He would be crushed by his enemies. A prince must be ruthless and strong; he must demonstrate his superiority to other men.’
‘You freely admit the prince lacks virtue,’ the young man replied. ‘Why then do you consider it right and proper to obey him and abide by the Accord?’
A squad of militants shoved through the crowd, advancing on the youth from each direction. Upon seeing them, he laughed and threw his arms around the first to reach him, shouting, ‘Hug a militant!’ They dragged him off and beat him with their clubs until his face swelled and his hands dangled loosely from his wrists.
‘Stop them!’ Daimonia shouted, already fighting her way towards the men.
‘No!’ Purtur tried to grab her sleeve, but she was already gone, leaving him holding a fragment of lace. ‘Stupid girl!’ the merchant called despairingly after her. ‘Come back, you bloody idiot!’
The militants began to heft the youth into a carriage cage whilst he writhed against their efforts. Daimonia threw herself into the scene. Trying to protect the young man with her own body, she seized him in a tight hug. ‘I won’t let them take you, brother!’ she said.
The boy was not her brother, but he held her just as tightly fo
r a warm moment. Daimonia’s thoughts lingered on a heartbreaking memory: she and Niklos cuddling by the fireplace at Vornir Manor. She clung to the boy, as if to the past, until the militants wrenched them abruptly apart.
‘Get off!’ Daimonia protested, trying to pull free. She recoiled at the hardness of the men’s expressions; their faces seemed devoid of life, like flesh decorating bone.
One militant put a hand under Daimonia’s chin and the other on the back of her head. He twisted her neck, forcing the girl to the ground, where the other men began to bend her legs and arms.
‘I’ll kill you!’ she screamed as they incapacitated her. A boot pressed down on the back of her head, making her swallow the earth. She tried to draw a breath but could not force her face back. ‘Help!’ she blubbered into the mud.
She burst free to see Goodkin in the midst of the men, battering them with his shield. A guttural roar erupted from the Way Knight’s throat as he beat them back energetically. Each savage strike led to another from shield, elbow and fist. He was a beast within armour, striking wildly with no thought of defence.
The militants wailed and tumbled like chastised children. Surrounding debates ceased as the whole crowd became entirely focused on the brawl. The spectators’ faces raged as if they themselves struggled in the fight.
The militants were caught off guard, one man freezing even before Goodkin smashed a gauntlet into his stupefied face. Another was crouched low, protecting his head with his arms and trying to scurry away. Goodkin drove his armoured boot right into the coward’s backside.
More militants were ploughing through the crowd, clustered together like a many-headed beast. Their white-haired leader shoved gawking peasants out of his way and strode up to confront Goodkin. The man’s rank was apparent from the hefty pauldrons that exaggerated his shoulders. He was a sergeant, a veteran with a knowing, canny look.
‘Right then, you dirty chitter.’ The sergeant’s voice had the low authority of a common street thug. ‘Get your foot out of Vlad’s arse before I hack it off and shove it down your neck.’
Goodkin took a single step forwards. He pulled off his helm and spat blood from his mouth. The crowd did not react as badly to his ruined face as they might have done. Many were encouraging him to further violence, daring him to piss or shit on the defeated men.
Daimonia found herself holding to Goodkin’s arm; she was trembling and fixed herself to the steadfastness of her armoured protector. Metal and muscle felt firm beneath her fingers. However, the boy she had tried to save had gone, scarpered away in the melee. Once again the consequences of her intervention were rolling out of control.
‘I apologise,’ Goodkin stated thickly.
The sergeant looked confused and suspicious. ‘You what?’
‘I did my duty.’ He nodded to Daimonia. ‘To protect my passenger, the girl.’
The crowd were unhappy with this exchange, their blood roused to see more violence. Some shouted, ‘Coward!’ Others called, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’
‘I’ll pay the fine.’ Goodkin threw a pouch of coin to the sergeant. He parted with the money as if it was a small matter, but his unblinking stare warned against any further incitement.
The sergeant grabbed the pouch and squeezed it in his palm. ‘Coin’ll soothe some wounds,’ he said. ‘But it won’t pay for your crime. For violence against the Duke’s militants you face either thirty days or thirty lashes.’
‘Lashes,’ Goodkin decided.
‘Better you choose the days.’ The sergeant offered a rueful smile. ‘Men fail under the lash. They cry and soil themselves. They die.’
‘And what of these men?’ Daimonia pointed to the injured militants, who were rising from the mud, checking their teeth and bruises. ‘What penalty does the Accord prescribe for their violence?’
‘They were doing their duty.’ The sergeant looked affronted. ‘And now I’ll perform mine. But if you want to make a speech about it, you’ve come to the right place.’ The sergeant looked to the dispersing crowd. People were already hurrying off to secure a good view for the lashing.
The militants grabbed Goodkin’s shield and stripped him of weapons. They pulled off his gauntlets and fastened his wrists so tightly that his hands looked ripe to burst.
Goodkin turned to Daimonia. ‘Stay with Purtur. I’ll find you.’
Daimonia had only the vaguest sense of what the lashes would involve, but she understood that Goodkin was to be brutalised for her sake. No reason or argument would circumvent these men, their law and the violence at their disposal. She shook with anger and futility, wishing she had the power to assert her own justice.
‘Stupid girl!’ Purtur’s face was sour. ‘I’d have left you in the dirt!’ He bravely wedged himself between the militants to offer Goodkin a swig of ale. ‘Perhaps our ugly Way Knight has soft feelings for the pretty girl?’
‘I feel nothing,’ Goodkin replied bitterly. ‘I am dead.’
The Hurting Post
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Purtur was shaking like a storm-struck tree. ‘Are you determined to kill us all? Do you really have no idea how to live?’
‘No.’ Daimonia frowned. ‘How should I live?’
‘STOP TRYING TO CHANGE EVERYTHING!’ he shouted in her face.
‘I’m not!’ Her fingers drifted through her face and hair, making warpaint of the mud.
‘Are you going to be there when I get home to my wife? Are you going to tell her?’ Purtur’s hands twisted as if wringing Daimonia’s neck. ‘Are you going to tell her that Hem is dead?’
‘It wasn’t me who killed–’
‘And as for what they’ll do to Goodkin now. Don’t you look away, not for a moment! Every lash will be because of you!’ His eyes narrowed, as mean as a rat’s. ‘I can promise you this; I’m not travelling another mile with either of you!’
Daimonia had already left Purtur behind. She pushed, slid and squeezed her way to the front of the crowd. The mob had gathered around a tall hurting post, the head of which was chiselled to resemble Prince Moranion’s perfect face. The wooden likeness was very appealing to the eye, with strong symmetrical features and an expression that implied courage, fairness and kind humour. Beneath the royal face the post was thick with red and brown stains.
Goodkin was marched into the shadow of the wooden prince. The militants tried to yank him around, but he retained his firm posture. Instead they made a great show of removing the Way Knight’s mail, stripping him of all armour and clothes, intending to humiliate the fighter. The act revealed a formidable body brandishing muscles embattled from years of martial living.
The militants compared themselves unfavourably with the Way Knight’s disciplined shape; even unarmed and naked he seemed to overpower them. In their contempt they struck and spat at him, but succeeded only in further exaggerating their relative impotence.
Daimonia looked at him anew; the truculent knight robbed of all his protection. His steady presence held the mob enthralled; no doubt any one of them would have wept and begged had they shared his fate.
However, the Way Knight’s nonchalance provoked resentment from many observers. The crowd was growing substantially and Daimonia was alarmed to see how their sympathies had transformed. During Goodkin’s fight with the militants, every man watching had wanted to be him, taking vicarious pleasure in his savagery. Now those same men wanted to see Goodkin punished and humiliated. A belligerent anticipation gleamed in their callous stares, like animals waiting to be fed.
An especially rosy-faced drunk swayed next to Daimonia. His eyes were stupid with ale, gleaming with a delirious ignorance that Daimonia felt furious to observe. As Goodkin was shackled to the post, the drunkard smiled and cheered. When the flesh-splitting whip got to work on Goodkin’s back, the drunk laughed and made the sign of buggery with his fingers.
Daimonia’s hand found the long handle of her dagger. She closed her eyes and slowly caressed its smooth finish with her thumb. It dawned on her that the weapon was a dark and
sacred thing. Forged in distant Viland, the dagger had been the ceremonial weapon of a Visoth warlord, until that owner had met Jhonan on a battlefield. Daimonia’s grandfather had felt a strong affinity with the jagged blade, preferring it to a Dallish knife. In Daimonia’s hand it was a sharp shard of power.
Anguish emanated from her stomach to the tips of her fingers. She looked only at the crowd, cringing at the joyous whoop that followed each resound of the whip. Daimonia realised that people would side with whoever was most dangerous in any situation. She swam in this thought, staring only at the drunkard’s face, hating his arousal at Goodkin’s grunts.
Her dagger was inside the man’s belly. The blade had opened the drunkard up and the bawdy joy in his face was usurped by agony and horror. He fell silently and without spectacle; sinking into the turbulent crowd, he seemed to drown among them. Whoever he was, whatever experiences he might have had were trampled underfoot.
Daimonia had murdered him. She had killed him right here in the midst of everyone and not a single person had witnessed it. As strangely as a dream, she felt outside her own actions as she sheathed the blade and wiped her wet palms on her dress. Only one set of eyes were upon her, watching and judging what she had done. The pain in the Way Knight’s stare was great and terrible.
The Duke’s Hospitality
Geld Knight Conrad Ernst lay stoking his desires until his mind became a black miasma of lust.
The Duke of Knave had proved an adequate host. Conrad had been provided with dinner, a well-furnished room and the use of one of the duke’s daughters. Sadly the girl was nothing to brag about and had been overused by previous visitors. Conrad set her to polishing his armour while he lay, energetically contemplating the duke’s wife.
At dinner he had been drawn to Lady Knave, so elegant, so knowing. Conrad had barely acknowledged the boring duke at all, preferring to idle his attention in the jewelled eye winking between Lady Knave’s breasts. How she reminded him of the capable Elena-Beleka.
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