The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution

by Alexander Wallis

  Wandering through Khorgov’s streets, Daimonia saw her own struggle reflected in the faces of strangers. It was in the canny gaze of the too-wise child and in the curled back of the menial worker. It was present in the prison cages and wrapped around the hurting posts. It all drew to the same inevitable conclusion: the Accord was a lie.

  She sobbed, passing a gang of brightly robed boys lounging upon every conceivable surface. The young men wore looks of well-rehearsed meanness, offering beady-eyed stares to each stranger. She avoided a pathway where a patrol of grunting militants took turns punching and kicking someone’s head.

  Hours of misery passed before a rare and enticing sound caught the girl’s attention. It was the ring of happy voices, laughter and applause. Hungrily she followed the strand of sound through the dark archways and canopied streets, longing to know its source.

  A company of players were staging a lively theatrical drama, rousing their audience with feats of voice and posture. Their outlandish costumes made their roles immediately recognisable as characters from the cosmic myth. A smile warmed Daimonia’s face as she recalled the acting troupe whose performance had delighted her at Jaromir.

  The Khorgov players wore masks shaped in leering expressions. They were enacting a series of lewd situations and innuendos that reduced the story of the Goddess to a series of crude and violent encounters. Wandering in the labyrinth, Ceresoph was portrayed as a tempestuous youth beset by lecherous predators. The actors bent and thrust as the street audience clapped and chuckled. Daimonia felt her interest waning and pulled away in disgust.

  On the opposite corner stood a stocky Urothian wearing a velvet cap, silver rings and a robe with fur-trimmed sleeves. He was smirking at Daimonia, rocking on his heels with his thumbs tucked into his belt.

  Daimonia found the foreigner both strange and striking. The Urothian’s cheekbones were extraordinarily pronounced and his jaw wide and square. Three exquisitely delicate women were pressed around him as if he were a prince. Their smiles and raised eyebrows appeared fixed in place.

  The Urothian beckoned to Daimonia, calling her towards the colourful group. ‘I think we are in terrible trouble,’ he told her in his deep, dark accent.

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘If you insist on parading your beautiful hair around Khorgov, who will pay to look upon Astur’s famous beauties?’

  ‘They pay?’ Daimonia began, but then sensing this was a flattery, she blinked with embarrassment.

  ‘Such adorable eyes.’ The Urothian laughed. He put his mouth to her ear. ‘These streets are a bad place for a girl alone at night.’

  ‘I have nowhere else to go,’ Daimonia admitted. ‘I have been cast out by my mother.’

  ‘Come, little princess.’ He grinned. ‘Come into the safety of Astur’s humble palace.’

  Daimonia allowed Astur to lead her through the veiled archway and into the busy parlour beyond. The sweet-smelling hall was filled with silk drapes, wooden chests and armour painted to look like treasure. Turbaned musicians played a delirious melody, their pipe music masking primal sounds from the outer chambers.

  Daimonia’s heart thrilled at the charming attention, rich scents and entrancing sounds. ‘This is lively company,’ she found herself saying.

  Astur laughed and led Daimonia through a thin candlelit corridor, teasing her with questions and compliments. He touched suggestively shaped ornaments and blew into them, making Daimonia laugh at the noises. Small figurines were everywhere, depicting little people and creatures.

  ‘Do Urothians revere the Goddess?’ Daimonia enquired.

  Astur shrugged. ‘We do not venerate the three-in-one Goddess. That story is just a cautionary tale for girls. In our culture we celebrate Rakasha, the spirit of all living things. Sex, birth and death – they are the fangs and horns of Rakasha.’ He widened his eyes and showed his teeth, as if he himself were the deity.

  Daimonia laughed again.

  They came to an internal gate and Astur took a key from around his neck. Daimonia hesitated. ‘What’s through here?’

  ‘For special guests,’ Astur assured the girl with a firm hand on her back.

  The lock clacked open and another Urothian greeted them on the other side. Daimonia found this man less pleasing than Astur. He was all belly and muscle, sweat dripping down his bald head.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the new man grunted.

  ‘Daimonia Vornir,’ she replied defensively, emphasising her family name. She took a step backwards to find herself pressed against Astur’s hard chest.

  ‘That’s a truly lovely name.’ Astur’s voice was warm and deep. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s like flourishing, becoming – that kind of thing.’

  ‘I see. Well, excuse us, Traegor. Miss Vornir and I are going to look at the paintings.’

  Traegor let out a snort that fell somewhere between a cough and a laugh. He swaggered out of their way, revealing a set of stained steps beyond.

  ‘I should probably go,’ Daimonia decided.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Astur led her by the arm. ‘I have something you won’t believe.’

  At the bottom of the steps a torchlit gallery shone in eye-catching colours. They stopped to admire paintings of sultans, palaces and fabulous creatures native only to Urothia.

  ‘Is this real?’ Daimonia stared at the foreign scenes, admiring a great cat in the plains.

  ‘Very real,’ Astur assured her, ‘and as dangerous as it is beautiful. Just like a Visoth shield-maiden.’ They had arrived at a small bedroom, where a fair-haired girl snored beneath an embroidered blanket.

  ‘Dreja! Wake up!’

  The girl’s apple green eyes eased open sleepily. Her face was tired and puffy, half stuffed into a pillow. ‘I’m tired,’ she moaned.

  ‘Please excuse Dreja.’ Astur smiled, twisting an ornate ring on his finger. ‘She works so very hard, but there’s always more work to be done. Isn’t that right, Dreja?’

  Dreja drew herself up from the bedding, revealing a round and appealing face. Her cheeks were soft and rosy and her lips were shaped like a kiss. Shaking off a waking grumpiness, the girl stared quizzically at Daimonia.

  ‘This is our new friend.’ Astur placed a hand on Daimonia’s shoulder. ‘She’s nowhere to go, but I’ve decided to take her under my wing.’ His fingers caressed her black hair momentarily.

  ‘Oh,’ said Dreja.

  ‘Perhaps a little spice to celebrate?’ Astur took a pouch from his pocket, holding it close until Dreja tried to snatch it. He teased her back and forth, until he could steal a kiss. He bit the girl’s lip lustily before allowing her to claim her prize.

  Daimonia watched Astur bow and leave, unsure whether to follow. She turned to appraise the girl whose room she appeared to be sharing. Dreja’s attention was entirely focussed on the pouch. Her body was athletic, even muscular, but her forearms were covered in a criss-cross pattern of scars.

  ‘Who cut you?’ Daimonia asked.

  Dreja put her finger into the spice and licked it. She sat strangely, all legs and hair. ‘I did,’ she finally replied.

  ‘Why?’

  Dreja rolled her eyes. She looked Daimonia up and down, studying her gown with a look of displeasure. ‘You shouldn’t be here unless you have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘I don’t. And this doesn’t seem like a bad place.’

  ‘How can you be such a fool?’ Dreja mocked. Her heavy Visoth accent lavished extra scorn on the question.

  ‘I’m hardly a fool.’ Daimonia’s brows scored a dark line on her forehead. ‘I can read and write. I can hunt and ride. And I’ve even killed. Does that sound foolish to you?’

  Dreja stretched out her strong legs and yawned. Since waking, she had not been still for a moment. ‘Do I seem impressed?’

  ‘You shouldn’t mock me. I’m a Vornir.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’ Dreja shrugged. She grabbed a comb and began to draw it through her fine hair with a bored expression.

  Daimon
ia’s chest tightened with irritation. Her eyes studied Dreja’s bright features with displeasure. ‘My grandfather says too many Visoth are coming to Dalibor now. There will be no room for us Dallish.’

  Dreja forced a laugh. ‘Do you think we like being in your grey land? Who would choose this dreary place if they had any other choice?’

  ‘Anyone would,’ Daimonia answered. ‘Our towns and cities are the best in the world.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but remember that for every gain there is a loss.’

  ‘Is that what passes for wisdom in Viland?’ Daimonia hid a smile with her hand.

  Dreja put down her comb and stood. ‘Where I come from, the Baoth invaders kill the men and feed the children to their mothers. I do not think you know anything of the world beyond your soft Dallish life.’

  Daimonia winced. Dreja was right, she knew little of the wider world, but she was not a stranger to horror. ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you.’ She sulked. ‘Sorrow isn’t a competition.’

  Dreja turned and grabbed the bag of spice, dipping her finger into the white dust. In a nearby room someone was crying.

  Daimonia went to leave, but the door was bolted from without. She tried again as if force of will might make it open. When it didn’t, she stood there for a long time, hovering between panic and surrender. Finally she sighed and sat upon the bed. There were bloodstains on the sheets.

  ‘Why would you turn a blade upon yourself?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Who else is there to hurt?’

  ‘You should never let an enemy defeat you,’ she encouraged.

  Dreja examined the many scars that creased her arms. ‘Thank you for the unwanted advice. But you should spend your energy escaping this place.’

  ‘Why? I’ve just got here.’

  ‘And you won’t be staying for free.’ Dreja raised glistening fingers from the pouch. ‘Come,’ she whispered, running her fingers over Daimonia’s lips and gums. ‘This will help.’

  Tears welled before Daimonia’s eyes like crystals. Her fingers and toes tingled, as if dipped into snow. She felt warm and whole, connected to everything, an ecstatic rush of intimacy and affirmation thrilling her.

  But Dreja was squeezing her arm tightly, nails biting the skin. ‘Forgive me!’ she shrieked. ‘You have to get out of here.’

  Stone

  Long before the sun could show its face, a slight figure limped through Khorgov’s puddled streets. Barefoot, she shuffled, her wet gown stuck to her trembling body. The Visoth dagger glistened darkly in her hand.

  Is this my blood? Daimonia wondered, lifting her arms like a dancer. She searched herself for wounds, finding her torso bruised but not pierced. A clump of hairy scalp lurked on one sleeve and she brushed it off abruptly.

  How did I come to be here? Her memory was foggy, her stomach heaving. So invasive was the feeling that it seemed preferable to die than live another moment.

  The night’s events were disordered in her mind. She recalled numbness crawling up her arms and legs, her voice becoming slurred. She remembered uninhibited laughter bellowing from outside Dreja’s room, the sound of men anticipating some pleasure. She had tried to rise but had fallen awkwardly by the foot of the bed.

  They had grabbed her and she had fought back, unable to feel their blows. They had tried to hurt her and she had laughed at them, too numb to feel anything. And when she unsheathed her dagger, she had made them scream.

  ‘Is this the worst you can do?’ she asked the towering city. Her voice sounded like an old woman’s, crackling and coarse. Khorgov’s only reply was the ceaseless lament of voices.

  The girl sank to her knees, retching by the side of a reeking cesspool. The sound echoed in the mouldering pit. Pulling her hair aside, she checked her teeth with her fingers, searching for new cracks or chips. Behind her something barked in the dark.

  Daimonia turned to see a shadow striding towards her. The figure was bulky, hurrying forwards, hair a choppy mess. She crouched cautiously, ready to flee, but relaxed when she saw the man’s eyes were crowded with friendly laughter lines.

  ‘Oh dear.’ The stranger took off his gloves and extended a hand. He was smiling, his cheeks round with kindness. ‘What happened here?’

  ‘Some men.’ Daimonia sniffed. ‘They thought they might force me.’ She accepted the stranger’s help and pulled herself upright. His hands were thick and strong like her grandfather’s. She found his strength reassuring, although his breathing was hard and laboured.

  ‘You poor thing,’ the man consoled. ‘Where’d you live?’

  Daimonia opened her mouth to reply, but his hands were on her face, smothering her. She could taste the sweat and dirt on his palms, the tang of his unwashed skin.

  ‘Now I don’t mean to hurt you, really I don’t,’ he told her, pressing a blade to the side of her neck. ‘But I need to feed my sons.’ His hands searched her belt for a coin purse, and finding none, he grabbed her necklace. ‘We have nothing, you see, and we all need to eat.’

  Daimonia let out a cry of despair. Could an entire city be mad? Could a whole world? Fear was dead to her, but frustration and anger were giants. She reached for her dagger, but he snagged her wrist.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, pulling disgusting faces as if some creature writhed inside his brain. ‘A fancy weapon of some kind? Expensive, I bet.’

  Daimonia bit his hand furiously, her eyes as wild as a cat’s. She chewed as the man screamed, grinding his flesh.

  He ripped away, shaking his arm up and down as if afire. An inhuman wail loosed from his mouth.

  Daimonia scrambled to her feet and shoved him with all her weight. He toppled, arms spinning, and plunged into the cesspit with a phenomenal splash. Waste spattered profusely.

  Daimonia laughed.

  The neighing of horses announced a patrol of city militants riding through the deep streets. She fleetingly considered approaching them but instead made use of the dark, waiting in the shadows for the horsemen to ride past. They rode in silence, a body dragging behind them, soggy and twitching.

  Daimonia turned her eyes to the sky, tasting the blood on her lips with a gasp. The starry constellations felt so familiar tonight, like a song made out of light. The city was so strange and alien by comparison, a huge scab on a beautiful world. Such places built unfinished men, brick people who had no hearts. She did not belong here. Instead she was soothed by a peaceful desire to die, to surrender to Great Mother Cerenox and be the smallest part of something divine.

  The Goddess did not claim Daimonia’s life. Instead the girl crept through the city until the sun revealed the debris of the night, like a tide drawing back over wreckage.

  She knew it was not her home, but Daimonia was drawn back to the fortress. Across the bridge the great edifice stood waiting, its courtyards already busy with the labour of smiths, farriers, porters and watchmen. Here lived the family of knights Daimonia would never be a part of. She found her way back to the squire’s door and banged on it with light but hurried knocks. ‘Magpie! Let me in!’

  Magpie appeared in a sleeping hat and a nightgown. He frowned at the sight of her. ‘What am I – some kindly idiot?’ He bent away, making to escape.

  Daimonia caught his sleeve. ‘Please, I just need my things!’

  ‘I’m under strict instructions not to admit you.’ Magpie shook his head. ‘Captain Vornir has been telling us how difficult you were to bring up. The poor lady practically gave up her life for you!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, you idiot!’ She grabbed him and pressed the tip of her dagger to his throat. ‘You know nothing!’

  ‘You make a persuasive point!’ Magpie conceded. He snuck the girl through the corridor and into his own quarters. ‘I don’t normally entertain,’ he explained as they entered a dingy room. The walls were covered with paintings of nudes of every shape and size, a fruity forest of breasts and bottoms.

  ‘I see you enjoy art.’ Daimonia folded her arms tightly.

  Magpie followed her gaze. ‘I ge
t what I can,’ he admitted. He quickly set his candle down before a painting of an open-legged priestess. ‘Do you want to see a portrait of me as a younger man?’

  ‘No.’

  Magpie found it anyway. ‘I was quite a handsome fellow, don’t you think? Good chin and lots of hair.’

  ‘That doesn’t look anything like you.’ Daimonia turned away. ‘Is my mother home now?’

  ‘Yes. Catherine will be resting with young master Kasamir.’ Magpie squinted at the girl. ‘I’m not sure it would be a good idea to disturb her. But she’ll be up to organise the night patrols later. Maybe we can sort something out.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to her.’ Daimonia helped herself to an apple. ‘I’ll collect everything when she is gone.’

  ‘Well, I’ll pour you a bath, then. Looks like you’ve been to Archonia and back!’

  ‘No need.’ She took a candle and began exploring as he tailed her.

  ‘By the way, I never married,’ Magpie declared as he followed her backside. ‘What with working for the knights and everything.’

  Daimonia evaded the squire, feeling her way along the time-worn stone. She pursued silence, avoiding all the sounds of life until candlelight discovered the ornamental entrance to a forgotten hero-chapel.

  Opening the engraved bronze door, she let herself inside. She found peace and solemnity within, as if the world had been abruptly left behind. The chapel was filled with cobwebbed debris, broken urns and scurrying rodents. She paused to relish the darkness, to let it cocoon her. I’ll live here in the dark, she mused. I’ll haunt this chapel with ghoulish cries, and when the knights come to investigate, I’ll scream!

  She laughed but then let out a yell as her flame exposed an unexpected shape. A stone knight with a decayed face emerged from the dark as if advancing to meet her. The figure was frozen in a moment of battle, shield raised, sword poised to deliver a strike.

  ‘Good morning.’ Daimonia curtsied once her heart had stopped racing. She waited for the stone to respond, and when it didn’t, she grew bolder. She moved towards the antique thing, peering at its cracked visage. ‘I thought you had abandoned me.’ She touched the decaying face, savouring the gritty texture upon her fingers.