Bandits dispersed from the fire as Jack’s voice rained, “To arms! We can’t let those meddling knights steal our prize!”
CHAPTER ONE: THE SANDPIPER
A PEBBLE WHIZZED through the air and smacked a sandpiper in the face. The tall bird collapsed to the ground beside its family. Dozens of wide wings took off towards the sun, harrying the foliage as Sir Phillick, a lanky knight clad in steel from the neck down, leaped out of some bramble, skipping and yipping with cheer. “I got it right in the face! You owe me another shinning, Prestings!”
The family of sandpipers had been spotted from the rugged, rutted moorland road before the bet for the shinning had been made. Sir Prestings, a knight with a burnished sallet, was trotting ahorse following Lord Spywater’s slow tail, a retinue of twenty-four steel-clad knights astride war-hardened chargers. Prestings straightened in his saddle to peer over some gorse and shrug. “I believe that’s a total of twenty shinnings now, Phillick. You’ll be rich before this war’s over.”
Phillick sprinted back towards his horse on the road, whirling the dead sandpiper above his head like the sling he had used to kill it. “I told you I’d get it, Prestings!”
Lord Spywater ignored the whole scene, leading the trot with his blue cloak hanging over the rump of his horse. Sir Medgard, a knight with a shiny bascinet, was trotting beside Prestings near the middle of the column. He hollered over the shrubs, “Phillick’s winning the war one bird at a time!” Every man in the retinue chuckled at that, except for Lord Spywater.
Spywater never laughed. It was said his personality was colder and bluer than his cloak and surcoat.
Phillick rubbed the snout of his horse and stowed the sandpiper in a saddlebag. He enclosed a hawk-faced armet over his head and mounted before he spurred off to catch up to his cronies. When he reined up beside Prestings, he retrieved the sandpiper to dangle it about once more. “This one’s got meat enough. We’ll be eating well tonight, boys.”
“We’ll eat well if Spywater actually gives the command to camp for the night.” Something in Prestings voice said he didn’t believe that would happen. “I overheard one of his leal knights tell it true. This mission mayn’t be the glory-free lark we all thought it’d be. Spywater fears his banners no longer fly at Castle Spywater. He left her with a garrison of five when the king called him to war. The worst part is he left Sir Fezzcheck as castellan.”
“Spywater’s sure trotting slowly for a man with a worry,” Phillick noted as he stowed the sandpiper again. “I’d be trotting a bit faster if I were him, especially if he left Fezzcheck in charge. Fezzcheck’s way too nice to everyone. Castle Spywater’s probably an inn for travelers now. At least we’ll be greeted with food and music when we arrive.”
Prestings leaned over in his saddle to expand his concern. “You have quite the imagination, Phillick, but you don’t understand the point. With all the burnt and gutted farms around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fezzcheck allowed a few survivors into the castle, though I think Spywater’s more worried he let in a few hundred enemies.”
“I bet it’s fine,” Medgard said. “I just hope Fezzcheck let some wenches through the gate. Women would be a treat after all this traveling and camping, even if all I get to do is flirt with them.”
“That’s my hope, too.” Prestings bobbed his sallet. “Though I doubt it’s the case.”
Phillick’s stomach grumbled. “My hope is that we get to camp tonight. I want a roaring fire to roast my sandpiper. I’m tired of chewy pork.”
The column of horsemen trotting down the road created a paean of clops and claps that filled the vast country. So far there was no wind that day. The sun seemed twice as big as it was when Spywater had first set off from Wellimgale a fortnight ago. The little triangular flags on the horses’ caparisons hung limp like dog hair. Only the great banner emblazoning Spywater’s unicorn sigil was sturdy enough to show its full colors. That white unicorn before a sea of blue was held high by the standard-bearer riding beside his lord.
All their baggage was held by one flimsy wain. It was being pulled by a scraggly mule that had seen more country than Phillick and Prestings combined. Medgard had japed about it, saying he wasn’t sure whether they should worry about the mule collapsing or the wain falling apart. Many knights had the habit of looking back to check if the baggage was still there whenever the road got rough.
“I think it would be asinine to camp in these parts tonight,” Medgard affirmed. “Everywhere I look lies a sign of enemy activity. Look at that burnt windmill way over there. It’s the perfect symbol for this wretched war. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I swear the stench of death keeps finding its way into my bascinet. It comes and goes like a chill in the night.”
“I smell it, too.” Prestings’ bright eyes glowed through his visor. “That can either be the smell of defeat or the smell of loss, but it’ll never be the smell of victory.”
“Don’t get poetic with us again, Prestings,” Medgard chuckled. “Next thing you’ll be telling us another story.”
“I love your stories, Prestings.” Phillick was staring off at the scorched windmill on the distant knoll. “I could use a good story right now … a jolly one.”
A moment of silence prevailed as the retinue of horsemen passed a monstrous oak that made a bower over the road.
“I heard someone say they could use a good story,” a voice fell from above. The knights trotting under the bower tilted their heads to see a jester in motley seated on an oaken bough. The jester was juggling multihued balls and had a queer grin under dirty mustachios. “I know stories to make a madman cry.”
Spywater completely ignored the man as he trotted beneath him. Other knights followed suit, but Phillick could never let a good story slip. “Come,” Phillick beckoned the jester down. “Ride pillion for a while and tell us a good story.”
“Leave the man be,” Medgard grumbled.
Before another objection could be shared, the bedraggled harlequin dropped from the tree and landed on Phillick’s pillion, still juggling his colorful balls and grinning. “I got a good tale for you, sir. But what do you got for me?”
Prestings couldn’t hold back his chortle. The sight of a man in motley juggling on the back of Phillick’s horse was an odd sight to see. Even Medgard chuckled briefly, along with a few other knights down the line.
“I got a fresh sandpiper in my saddlebag,” Phillick offered. “It’s yours if your tale pleases me.”
The jester hastened his juggling. “You still settled on a jolly one?”
“The best story you have would do,” Phillick answered.
“Alright then, let me think.” The jester started juggling his balls with one hand to stroke a mustachio. “Ah, I know one for you.”
“Hold the story for a minute,” Medgard interjected. “How long have you been up in that tree?”
“Almost a day.”
“Great.” Medgard was pleased. “Then you can tell us if you’ve seen any warbands pass by, any odd banners? Tell us everything you’ve seen and tell us true. For a good report, we’ll give you more than a bloody sandpiper.”
“Hmm.” The juggler looked skyward pensively. “I’ve been sleeping most of the day because I like to travel by night, but my ears did catch something odd on my way down here.”
“What did you hear?” Medgard was curious. “Horses? Voices? How many?”
“It was nothing like that.” The juggler had a quizzical look as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say next. “It was nothing human, whatever it was. At first, I thought I was just hearing things. It sounded like some ominous music as I came through a meadow. It was the faint pealing of bells. When I reached the top of a hill, I saw Deadman’s Church and the sound of her bells wiped over me like a chilly breeze. Never before had a noise been so … touchable.” The jester shivered as he said the word. “The church is just up the road a couple leagues. I don’t know if her bells are still ringing but they were when I left. Whoever was rin
ging them must’ve had a portent reason. The damn things wouldn’t stop.”
“Are you sure it was Deadman’s Church?” Medgard couldn’t believe it. “That place has been abandoned for hundreds of years. I thought her bells would’ve been scavenged a long, long time ago.”
“It must’ve been Deadman’s Church.” The harlequin was confident. “There was a skeleton tied to the steeple spire, just like the famous painting of it.” He started juggling his balls really high, throwing them way up in the air. “You might want to check it out if you’re going that way.”
“Sounds like a setup.” Prestings was a prim man and very polite most oft, but he didn’t trust strangers.
Medgard had been practicing how to keep an open mind. “If the bells are still ringing by the time we get there, I’ll try to talk our lord into letting us have a look. It could be a damsel in distress, after all. We could never leave a damsel in distress behind.”
“You’ll be staying with us, jester,” Prestings affirmed, eyeing the juggler’s pompous lip hair. “If we find out you’ve tried to set us up, we’ll rip those mustachios right …”
“That’s fine with me. I understand.” The juggler interrupted, but he didn’t seem offended at all. He was still grinning. “If your lord deems it, I’ll stay for the fire, the sandpiper, some stories and laughter, but I’ll have to move along when the sun’s down. I’m trying to get to Wellimgale before the tourney begins. I heard it’s a good place to find work now that The False King’s dead. I want to take a shot at being a mummer.”
“That was a good report,” Phillick yawned. “Now tell us a story.”
Medgard slapped the story idea out of the air again. “Forget the damn story. Tell us why you like to travel by night, jester. I’m starting to share Prestings’ suspicion.”
“So you want to hear my story, eh?” The jester finally stopped juggling his balls. The giant oak tree was far behind them now. “Alright, but I’ll warn you; my story’s a sad one.”
“Damn all hell, I don’t want to hear your whole life story.” This was far from the first time Medgard had lost his patience suddenly. “I don’t even care what your name is. I want to know why you travel by night!”
The jester gave a sad sigh, still grinning as he tucked his balls away. “The truth is, I’m not allowed to stay in the sun for too long. That’s why I wear this giant floppy hat.”
“Is that supposed to make me grin?” Medgard straightened in his saddle. “What sort of man can’t handle the sun?”
“Leave the man be,” Phillick protested. “He’s just an innocent jester. What’s your name, fellow? Why aren’t you singing in some lord’s court?”
The man in motley bowed in the pillion. “Thanks for asking, sir. My name is Jisus, though I’m also known as The Gallivanting Guru in other lands because of my many beneficial services. I was a jester in my youth but only for a rich merchant family. With my growing age, I decided to see the world. I’ve since learned many of life’s secrets. Feel comfort in knowing there’s nothing I can’t fix.”
“Is that right?” Prestings raised his visor, revealing a handsome snout. “Could you fix a broken jaw? A mother’s pain?”
Jisus tilted his head to the side, growing his grin. “The passing of time allows all that is mortal to heal.”
“What’s this dribble?” Medgard asked. “A poem?”
“I can tell a poem if you like.” Jisus still had his hands in his pockets, fondling his balls.
“Save it for the fire,” Medgard spat. “I want silence for a bit. I thought I heard something.”
Jisus puckered his lips and blew out his cheeks. His lips were sealed. Prestings closed his visor as an unfriendly quietness prevailed. Spywater’s blue cloak led the knights around a bend in the road where a breeze picked up. The lances’ pennons and all the flags on their reins and caparisons began to flap for the first time that day. Their pretty colors weren’t near as bright as they were at the beginning of the war, but they were still a deal brighter than the surrounding shrublands. Every now and then a fat spot of black appeared on the horizon, some burnt and abandoned structure along the road.
“I think I hear what you were hearing, Medgard,” Prestings announced. “It does sound … ominous.”
Phillick nodded. “I hear it, too.”
Some more concerned voices mumbled from within the retinue. Spywater reined his charger to a stop and put a horn against his ear. He only held it there for a moment before he let it fall back to his breastplate. He then spurred his charger to a canter.
“Finally, we pick up the pace,” Medgard cheered.
“Your lord’s a careful man.” Jisus put a hand on Phillick’s spaulder to keep steady. With those calm eyes of his, it seemed the jester understood everything there was to see.
Medgard turned to look deep into those calm eyes again and found no words to say.
“The noise is getting louder!” Phillick exclaimed. “Those are the bells you were talking about, right Jisus?”
The harlequin curtly nodded.
“This doesn’t make sense.” Medgard shook his head. “I may just scavenge those bells myself. I bet there’d be enough bronze to make us each a light suit of armor.”
Phillick said, “We’d need a stronger mule, not to mention another wain.”
The knights who had heard him looked back to see if their baggage was still there. The wizened mule slobbered its tongue back at them all as if to say, “Yes, I’m still alive, fuckers!”
“Are you kidding me, Phillick?” Medgard laughed. “We have the best mule in the world.”
At that, a few knights chortled and turned their heads back towards the approaching horizon. The pealing of bells grew crystal clear. It was a musical melody of reverberating knells, a multitude of synchronized tolls that together created a repetitive riff.
“I haven’t heard this song in years,” Prestings reminisced as the grandiloquent belfry of Deadman’s Church rose into view.
As the elevation in the road got higher, the tumbledown chapel on the faraway brae revealed itself slowly. Soon the aged building showed itself completely and Spywater’s retinue cantered down a descent towards it. The tall grass on either side of the riders blew in a sudden breeze, then a big gust came to warp the noise of the nearing bells.
The front door of Deadman’s Church was missing. Shrubs hanged out of its windows. The skeleton girdled to the tine of the steeple looked sadder than the famous painting of it. The wooden fence that once surrounded the whole property was now a mere ring of splinters and stubs poking out of the ground. The windows of the dim bell chamber up high were covered with intricate latticework. Spywater reined his horse to a halt before the church and dismounted.
The rest of the retinue caught up and halted their horses as well, studying the dilapidated structure with narrowing eyes. The rattling baggage wain trundled down the descent behind them. Spywater raised the visor of his sugarloaf helm and shouted into the church’s doorway. “Whoever’s in there, do not fear us! We are keepers of order, all of us chivalrous men of honor! Is everything alright in there? We offer help.”
The bells instantly stopped pealing. After the last ringing echo died, the only noise left for the knights to hear was the wind blowing through the breaths in their helms. Spywater turned to his men to give demands. “Sir Medgard, choose two men to help you search the place. Report what you find as soon as possible. I want to know how many people are in there and why they were ringing those damn bells.”
Medgard made no reply and dismounted. Phillick and Prestings followed suit as if it was clear Medgard had already picked them to help. Medgard unsheathed the rondel at his waist and waited by the doorway as his cronies unstrapped scabbards from their saddles and withdrew long glimmering greatswords.
“Let’s make this quick,” Medgard said as he entered the church foyer. His companions were already breathing behind him, eyeing every corner and shadow with caution. The ground beneath their feet had once been hardwood.
Now it was dry dirt with patches of grass hither and thither. A rusty iron switchback staircase in one of the left transepts went up through the stone ceiling and out of sight. So far, there was no soul to be seen.
Medgard pointed his rondel towards a doorway behind the chancel. “Prestings, check that backroom. Phillick, follow me. We’re going to search the tower.”
Outside, Spywater and his knights could hear hobnails clattering up an iron stairwell. A moment later, a gauntlet punched out the latticework that covered the bell chamber’s window. A bascinet leaned over the balustrade to gaze down at all the curious knights in the yard. “It’s just like I suspected,” Medgard reported. “There’s not a single bell up here! They’ve clearly been scavenged a long, long time ago. There're no people up here, either.”
Spywater stared blankly as if the report was a jape. “There’s no time for larking, Medgard. Tell me true. How many people are up there?”
Medgard raised his visor to give his lord a truthful glare. “There’s not a single form of life. I swear.”
“Nor down here,” Prestings declared as he stepped out of the foyer and into the sun.
“That’s irregular.” Jisus stroked a mustachio.
Spywater was beyond dubious. “If there’s no bells or people, then explain the cause of that awful pealing. Everyone heard it.”
Medgard shrugged. “I’m just as puzzled as you are.” He shook his head and turned out of sight to make his way back down.
“There’re stories about this place. I bet you’ve all heard at least a few.” Jisus talked to no one specific, but all the knights outside could hear him. “I’ve heard stories of phantoms and floating lights. That’s why I was too scared to check the bells on my own.”
Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1) Page 2
