Geld business had been conducted satisfactorily. The tax ledgers were in order and riders were sent to Kraljevic to announce Sir Conrad’s victory over the notorious John Grobian. This was a lie that Conrad had started to believe was true. He could vividly recall the battle he had never fought.
The Geld enforcers were scouting the streets of Knave for the, apparently terrifying, Way Knight who might claim otherwise. ‘Find this rough Way Knight,’ Conrad had urged them. ‘Ensure he doesn’t claim my glory.’
‘Knave is a busy place,’ Fotter had challenged. ‘There might be half a dozen Way Knights here. How will we know the one?’
‘Most Way Knights are second or third sons trying to scrape a living with no inheritance,’ Conrad said. ‘But we’re not looking for some foppish noble. This Goodkin will be a well-travelled veteran, a true warrior of the road.’
Conrad sighed and let go of himself. The bed was uncomfortable and reminded him only of how much more generous the duke might have been. He pulled on a long nightgown and noticed the duke’s daughter, who knelt polishing his steel codpiece. ‘I want to be able to see my own face in it,’ the Geld Knight encouraged her.
He arose and took the door handle in his sweaty palm, opening the way with the merest creak. The cool dark corridor was adorned with paintings of the duke’s ancestors and Conrad tentatively crept past their accusing stares. His mind boiled with stimulation, anticipating the heady mix of lips and lace, of perfume, thighs and tresses of chestnut hair.
How long had it been since Conrad had seen a woman he had truly desired? There had been the innocent Vornir girl. Almost a pity to think of her now, burned to death with her grandfather. But the debacle at Jaromir brought back painful memories threatening to shrink his enthusiasm.
Conrad took the stairs and tried to sniff out Lady Knave’s bedroom. Each floorboard contrived to creak noisily under his weight, announcing him like a robber. ‘Please,’ Conrad invoked the Secret God. ‘Lead me to your pleasure.’
Something detached from the wall and moved swiftly towards him. Conrad froze, caught between lust and fear. The shape was the Duke of Knave, and by the murderous grimace on his face, he knew Conrad’s intention.
‘My lord.’ Conrad bowed awkwardly.
‘Do you think I don’t know where you’re going?’ the duke challenged. ‘I saw the looks you exchanged with Janina. A beautiful wife is a curse!’
Conrad tried not to blink, blush or swallow. The duke was an important man, a cousin to the prince. His enmity would be a political disaster.
‘You mistake me.’ Conrad forced his lips into a seductive grin. ‘You mistake my intention.’ He gently cupped the duke in his hand and felt the weight there. ‘It is you I wish to serve, my lord.’
In the dreary morning Conrad wandered the gardens with the duke’s daughter as his squire. She was attentive and kind, carrying all the Geld Knight’s bags as he wandered.
‘You’ve not complained once,’ Conrad told her. ‘I should keep you as an example to my enforcers.’
‘If it pleases you, Sir Conrad.’ She blushed. Despite a droopy eyelid and sullen features, she was at least strong and obedient. ‘No man has been as kind to me as you.’ She had a simple goodness that was almost sinister.
It occurred to Conrad that the girl was doting on him. A thousand ways to hurt her swam through his mind, but wasn’t he evolving beyond such petty amusements?
‘What do you see?’ he asked her with genuine curiosity. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’
‘I see Chrestos Lightbringer,’ she declared without hesitation. ‘I see a god.’
Conrad was astounded. He felt a burning in his bosom; the girl had seen the divinity within. He took her jaw in his hand and lifted her face. ‘What is your name?’ he asked with a sudden grandness to his manner.
‘Dobra,’ she answered. Her voice was short of breath. ‘Dobra Knave.’
‘You will be my first disciple,’ he told her solemnly, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead.
‘Sir Conrad!’ An infuriating voice interrupted the sacred exchange.
‘What is it, Cain? Calm yourself.’
‘I ran here.’ The huge brawler leaned on his knees, catching his breath. ‘We found the Way Knight. And you won’t believe who he’s with.’
The Enforcers
‘We don’t have to leave yet,’ Daimonia argued. ‘You need time to recover. You can’t even wear your armour!’
‘I will get you to Khorgov,’ the Way Knight determined. ‘You won’t defeat me.’
‘Defeat you?’ Daimonia froze. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘You’ve provoked vicious criminals. You’ve insulted Seidhr workers and interfered with militants in their duties. You’ve strayed from every rule of travel. But you won’t defeat me, Daimonia Vornir. I will get you to Khorgov, even if it kills me.’
‘There’s really no need to take that tone–’
‘So short a journey and just the two of us to make it. You won’t break me before we get there.’
‘This is very perplexing!’ Daimonia helped the Way Knight down the tavern steps. A series of black archways lined the streets, portals to nowhere. ‘I was beginning to warm to you, Goodkin. But I’m not sure what to make of this outburst.’
‘Won’t break me,’ Goodkin muttered. ‘I’ll see my duty done.’
They continued in silence through the drizzly streets of Knave, looking like a pair of shabby outlaws. Goodkin wore a loose tunic and his tabard over his ravaged torso. His broadsword was sheathed on his hip and he held his worn shield loosely. Beside him, Daimonia stepped lightly through the puddled streets. Her dress was a crusty ruin adorned with muddy stains.
A meagre rain spat upon the rooftops as the militia changed shift and traders set out their pitches. Birds departed the looming towers, flocking to better fortune elsewhere. Daimonia mused that the gloomy morning was the perfect epilogue to the evening before.
Throughout the night she had tended Goodkin’s wounds, cleaning the brutal cuts across his back. He had resisted, of course, but in the still room she had tended him by candlelight. ‘Why choose this life?’ she had whispered in the darkness. The prying question had died unanswered.
At breakfast, Purtur had met them with a bitter face. ‘Like I told the girl, I ain’t going another step with either of you.’ Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, adding years to his face. ‘It was ill fortune that brought us together.’ When the Way Knight offered no reply, Purtur grew angry. ‘Worst silver I ever spent!’ He overturned the table as he left.
At the stables the groom was whistling cheerfully, hands shoved into his pockets. Seeing Goodkin and Daimonia, the groom waved and adjusted his cap. He led the couple across the courtyard, where stable boys mucked out stalls and travellers prepared for departure. Goodkin’s and Daimonia’s horses were together, each looking at the other uncertainly.
Daimonia was distracted by a fidgeting figure who was watching them with narrow eyes. He was a lean man with long greasy hair and a slick moustache. Their eyes met and the figure began to stroll over. His grin revealed two oversized teeth, like a rabbit’s.
‘She’s done some miles,’ the man told the Way Knight with a wink.
Goodkin protectively stepped in front of Daimonia.
‘Talking about your palfrey.’ The stranger nodded towards the horses, but his eyes were on the girl. ‘Wouldn’t mind a go on her myself.’
‘I know you,’ Daimonia said. ‘You’re a Geld enforcer.’
He made a small bow. ‘Fotter’s the name, trapping’s the game!’
‘You’re in my way,’ Goodkin told him.
A sneering youth swaggered up to join them, thumbing the pommel of his sword. Fotter seemed emboldened, moving closer. ‘Scorcher and I are here for Miss Vornir. She owes Sir Conrad a debt.’
‘What debt?’ Daimonia’s brows curled with irritation. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten how my grandfather answered the Geld Knight’s claim.’
‘Sir
Conrad is on his way right now. He is very keen to see you both.’
‘No time.’ Goodkin shook his head and turned away. ‘I’ve been paid to take the girl to Khorgov.’
Fotter patted Goodkin’s shoulder with a conciliatory smile. ‘There’s been a change of plan.’
Goodkin’s shield exploded into Fotter’s face. The trapper tumbled back drunkenly, clutching his nose as blood soaked his moustache. Goodkin grabbed a fistful of Fotter’s straggly hair and dragged him about, pounding him barbarically.
‘Geh the fuh off!’ Fotter spluttered as his teeth cracked.
In a flash young Scorcher drew his sword and leapt at the Way Knight. The boy’s attack was a graceful slice delivered with a flourish. Goodkin grabbed the boy’s cloak and slung him into a pile of horse dung, where he slid and slipped over.
‘Over here!’ Fotter began shouting between gasps. ‘They’re over here!’
Hoods were thrown back and brawny figures emerged, a gang of men-at-arms revealed from hiding places in the courtyard. These were worthless blackguards and mercenaries scraped up from Knave’s underbelly. These degenerate killers brandished weapons as mean as their faces; there were hooks and hammers, crude clubs and sharpened axes.
‘Go!’ Goodkin shoved the girl toward the horses.
Daimonia’s heart fell through ice. Had these savages followed her all the way from Jaromir? She pictured the Geld Knight dragging himself ingloriously from the mud after her grandfather’s triumph. She should have seen it then in Conrad’s rancorous stare; he would be an implacable enemy.
Now she would die in this courtyard, brutalised by these weapons and the men wielding them. Her body became a thing awkward to control, her courage withering and flying away like an old leaf.
‘Kill that scar-faced bastard!’ Fotter was yelling with one finger lodged up his gushing nose.
Goodkin charged at the mercenaries, a war cry welling up from his throat. His opponents were disorganised, undisciplined and cared nothing for the men at their side. They faltered at the Way Knight’s fearless advance. He shrugged off a mallet strike and capsized the first man who tried to grab him. They came at him in twos or threes as he blocked, slashed and slaughtered.
Fotter reached out to Daimonia. ‘Come here, little bird,’ he coaxed.
Daimonia began edging backwards towards her horse, unsheathing her Visoth war blade as she retreated.
‘Silly little bird,’ he cautioned. ‘There’s no need for that!’
Daimonia saw the apprehension in his face and decided they wanted her alive. She feigned a lunge and Fotter flinched like a coward, making an awkward shape with his arms and legs. Before the trapper could recover, Daimonia snatched his sabre from its scabbard.
‘Give that back right now!’ he scolded.
Daimonia advanced with both sabre and dagger, hatred arousing her senses. She jabbed and stabbed at Fotter, chasing him as he tried to dance away. A chance strike went straight through his palm, splitting the flesh and muscle. He whined terribly and stuck his bleeding hand under his armpit.
‘Dirty chit!’ Fotter snarled.
Daimonia decided to kill him. She tried to scissor his head off, but he ducked away with a petrified shriek. Daimonia persisted, snapping at him again with the blades, but succeeded only in puncturing his throat. Fotter began the work of dying with extreme reluctance, screeching and shaking around the stables.
‘Ride!’ Goodkin bellowed as he fought. His enemies closed and withdrew like a dragging tide. One advanced to strike while others sought openings as Goodkin defended. Stepping over the falling bodies of their allies, they gradually forced him back.
Young Scorcher had cast aside his reeking cloak. He raced to catch Daimonia, but she was already freeing her horse from its stall. He jabbed at the animal’s face to drive it back.
‘Bastard!’ Daimonia yelled. Rage burned inside her, stretching its fiery wings, making her feel huge and powerful. She fought like a mummer’s dance: a jab with the dagger, a slash with the sabre, a spin and stab. The blades tinged and twisted, finding their way through Scorcher’s guard to pierce his chest.
‘What?’ Scorcher’s fingers went to his reddening shirt. His head was tilted in confusion, amazed at his own mortality.
Daimonia mounted and rode as if spurring the horse with her will. She hurtled through the courtyard, knocking a vomiting warrior aside in her escape. Her heart and the horse were one, fleeing for precious life. All that was at stake drove her: the hope of her mother’s love, the vengeance due her dead brother, the punishments she wanted to inflict. But even these passions were secondary to the need to survive.
The wind became precious, even the rain was a luxury long undervalued. The sensation of limbs and life was more priceless than the finest silks. She had barely begun to live, to experience life beyond the boundaries of her birth.
Passing unfamiliar buildings, Daimonia realised she was clear of danger. The panic was almost immediately superseded by euphoria; she had escaped, she would live.
She slowed the horse by a bridge, taking time to regain her breathing. Passing townsfolk gave her a wide berth – the wild girl mounted on a great steed. Daimonia didn’t care about their disdainful glares; they knew nothing about her story. She was mere days from Khorgov, close enough to imagine bathing in maternal love. She could make the last leg of the journey alone, without the Way Knight’s grim company.
Thoughts of Goodkin troubled her mind. He alone had understood the territory and what was required to traverse it. Time and again he had given of himself to protect her. But the Way Knight had frustrated Daimonia with his adherence to duty, his disinterest in fighting evil if it lurked the least bit off his path. Nothing had stirred him from servant to champion. Nothing except her.
The Geld Knight Conrad Ernst rode into the courtyard, announced by a regal anthem. He wore a look of special purpose; his fair eyebrows raised high with importance. The music summoned the attention of the combatants, the cowering stable hands and even the dying. Beside Sir Conrad, his disciple Dobra Knave blew gustily into a trumpet, her belly round with air. They were accompanied by two of the duke’s finest cavaliers riding proud white stallions. The hulking enforcer Cain trailed behind, weighing down an old nag.
An aroused smile brightened Conrad’s features. He surveyed the many dead mercenaries, satisfied that they had died instead of him. With some pleasure he noticed that Fotter had choked to death on his own blood. I wished it and it was so, Conrad reflected.
The great and terrible Way Knight was close to death. The man wore no armour, aside from a battered shield, and was barely standing. The few surviving mercenaries edged carefully around the tortured knight with ridiculous caution. Clearly the fight was over.
‘Where’s the girl?’ Conrad asked Scorcher. The youth was the colour of chalk, leaning against the gate in his blood-saturated shirt.
‘Escaped,’ Scorcher replied breathlessly. ‘She killed Fotter and then–’
Conrad strapped the boy across the face with his horse whip. It made such a satisfying impression that he did it again. The boy yelled and fell back weeping.
‘Stop!’ Conrad commanded the mercenaries. He caught the nasal sound in his voice again, but this time he didn’t care. He was completely in control; life and death would be subject to his instructions.
The Way Knight was on one knee, staring up at him defiantly. His sword was thick with blood, as was his ragged tunic. Conrad noticed that the man was extremely harsh to look upon, adding to the impression of a formidable and implacable fighter.
‘Get him up,’ Sir Conrad instructed. It was unnecessary; the Way Knight was already rising, waiting for the inevitable.
Conrad dismounted and walked a full circle around the injured Way Knight, giving the wounded warrior time to behold his resplendent armour and bearing. ‘I don’t have a speech prepared,’ Conrad said, ‘and you look like a man who has seen the world as it truly is. Suffice to say, we are two men at cross purposes.’ Conrad me
t the Way Knight’s gaze full on. ‘It is imperative you tell me Miss Vornir’s whereabouts. Where she is going, what her intentions are and so forth.’
‘Won’t break me,’ Goodkin grunted, more to himself than to Conrad.
‘You’ – Conrad pointed – ‘tell me’ – he imitated a talking mouth with his hand – ‘where the girl is.’ He made the sign of a whore with his lips and fingers.
The Way Knight stared blankly and then spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground.
‘Cain, can you help our friend find his tongue?’
Cain lumbered up to the Way Knight and the two burly figures locked eyes. Cain was a good head taller and a great deal meatier. He rocked Goodkin’s head with a punch that split the scarred skin in two.
Goodkin faced the ground, watching his blood spill upon the earth. An odd flap of skin dangled from beneath his nose, revealing his teeth and gums to ghastly effect. The enforcers jeered and laughed.
‘Again,’ Conrad ordered.
The next hit sent Goodkin sprawling across the ground, his sword spinning away from him. He crawled to retrieve it.
‘No, let him,’ Conrad declared when the mercenaries went to intervene. He watched the derelict figure grab his weapon and resume a fighting stance. Conrad recognised the opportunity to redeem his reputation.
‘Come on,’ the Way Knight goaded insolently.
Conrad unsheathed his sword with a look of holy majesty. He held it before his face, observing his own faultless reflection before focusing on his enemy. He glanced at the men who were watching, awaiting the contest between the two rival knights. He ran over and, with a yell of triumph, drove his sword at Goodkin’s throat.
The Way Knight deflected the attack so violently that Conrad was face-slapped by the flat of his own blade. Embarrassed and smarting with pain, Conrad back-stepped quickly. Blinking copious tears, he wiped his seeping eye and glanced at the observers. His men believed in him, he could see it in their zealous stares. The only doubt he had to overcome was his own.
The Way Knight was drawing his strength, preparing for Conrad’s next attack. He raised his sword above his head, tip down in a ready stance.
The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution Page 13
