“If the king doesn’t summon us by tonight,” Jax said scornfully, “I may just storm his chambers uninvited. I have a hundred questions for the man. He sent us off with some crazy lord to die, and now that we’re back with reports, he has no time to see us? Why does everyone call us knights if we’re treated like common footmen?”
“There’s never a moment Kilwinning isn’t brooding over some stratagem.” Medgard stared out of the window as he talked. “Soon enough, one of his stratagems will include us. Until then, waiting won’t be so bad. Are there any good gambling halls here? You should show me around. I’ve explored Wellimgale from the other side of the walls, more often than not. I want to see the city. Let’s go out and relax, Jax, get some drinks, some food.”
Jax sat on the bed, fidgeting. “I have too many questions to relax, but I’m trying. I’ve been trying for two days now. But the questions keep bothering me. Did you see that mural on the gatehouse? It said Kilwinning has placed a bounty on Black Blade’s head. Do you know what that could mean?”
Medgard sat on the chair by the window. His eyes followed something moving outside before he replied, “It means some lucky bastard is going to get rich one day.”
“It means a lot more than that.” Jax was annoyed Medgard wasn’t looking at him. “It means the man I killed at Deadman’s Church really was Lord Montese. It means Wittinberry really is taken and Wellimgale will soon be besieged. It means everything Lord Montese said was true. Everything Bob Redmand said … true. We’re fucked, man. We’re fucked! I never should’ve switched sides. I never should’ve left Lacey’s arms!”
“Calm down.” Medgard chuckled at Jax’ intensity, glaring at him with a grin. “As far as I know, King Spiderwell’s been dead for over a month. Black Blade killed him when we took this city. His son, The False Prince, may’ve crowned himself, a few lowly banners at his side, but Wittinberry is still perfectly ours. That’s the truth I know, anyway. I won’t believe otherwise until I hear it from Kilwinning’s mouth. That bounty on Black Blade is most likely for some other crime he committed, something we have yet to learn.” He looked out of the window again. “Besides, even if all these rumors and conspiracies are true, it’s not for us to worry about. We’re not kings; we’re knights, trained to fight, take orders and lead lesser men to battle. After we’ve given Kilwinning our reports, my mind will be elsewhere. If we have to face a siege, so be it, but I won’t stress myself worrying about what I can’t prove. The way I see it, Kilwinning broods all day so we don’t have to. The only thing you should be concerned about, Jax, is keeping your sword sharp and your dick wet.” Something outside must’ve given Medgard an idea because he stood up and pushed the chair in. “Life’s too short to worry about all this behind the scenes backstory bullshit. You can pay attention to it if you want, but I’ll just be off happily in a different room anticipating the next time I get to watch my sword flash through the air.”
To that advice, Jax took in a deep breath, trying to clear his head from worries. “Maybe you’re right, Medgard. I should just let the king do all the worrying.” He rose from the bed and licked his fingertips. Slicking back his eyebrows, he consoled, “Now let’s get out of this stuffy cell. I’ll show you my favorite tavern. There’s a lass there I’ve been dying to see. Lacey’s her name. She’s for me.” Jax led the way into the hall. “But don’t worry, there’ll be other wenches for you to lay your charms on.”
“Now you’re thinking like a knight.” Medgard laughed as he followed Jax into the hall. It was a long hall, seeming to stretch on and on like a street. On either side of a limitless red carpet, lifelike paintings hung on stone walls. Betwixt the odd mounted lantern that lit their way, ornamental suits of armor stood humbly on wooden pedestals.
The knights had only passed a couple suits of armor before a voice called out from behind, “Sirs, wait up!” Medgard and Jax turned around to see a small man rushing down the hall towards them. It was a steward, the blue and yellow steward that had shown them to their rooms two days before. “Sorry it took so long, but I managed to get your concerns to His Majesty. He’s just given me his words.”
Jax crossed his arms, aggrieved, shaking his head as he watched the mousy steward make his hasty approach. “Almighty, give me a break,” he cursed. “You came at the worst time, steward. I had just rid my head of such concerns. Now spill whatever it is you have to say.”
“Forgive me.” The steward stopped before the knights and bowed. “I told His Majesty everything you’ve told me. He’s very sorry for your losses. He hopes your friends Prestings and Phillick return safely.” The steward’s overly amiable smile made crescent creases across his cheeks. “Like you, His Majesty doubts that Lord Spywater is still alive. He doesn’t hold it against you. He knows Castle Spywater isn’t worth your lives.”
Medgard looked puzzled. “So is His Majesty going to see us now?”
“Unfortunately,” the steward showed sympathy with hands folded together, “His Majesty cannot see you.” Then his crescent creases returned. “For your bravery, however, he’s decided to add a bonus of silver to your wages, which you’ll receive soon, I’m sure.”
“Does Kilwinning really have no time to see us?” Jax was baffled by the notion.
The steward waved a finger back and forth as he said, “No, no, no. It’s not that he doesn’t have time. I’m afraid it’s a whole other matter. You see, His Majesty’s in no state to see anyone. He’s far too careworn, far too dispirited. All he does is brood over his books and maps. He’s working with some new inventors to figure out a way to strengthen Wellimgale’s defenses. He’s creating a new design of cannyn that may give us a chance.”
“A chance at what?” Jax asked.
“Yes, you still don’t know.” The steward made another little bow to express his apologies. “When I showed you to your rooms, I wasn’t able to give you the answers you wanted. I didn’t want to misinform you. The news hasn’t spread out of the castle yet. So I’ll urge you not to repeat it.”
“Just tell us!” Jax growled.
“Certainly, sir. It would seem that whatever you heard this Lord Montese say, the bits you shared with me anyway, it’s all true. I didn’t believe it until His Majesty told me himself; Black Blade really did betray us all. That’s why there’s a bounty on his head, although everyone believes it’s because he murdered an innocent merchant family before he disappeared, which is also true. That cowardly assassin, I just can’t believe it. Forgive my fervor, sirs. It just tears me apart to know Black Blade had us all believe he killed King Spiderwell, knowing well that the man he really killed during the siege of this city was just a false pretender. Wittinberry really is taken, and now King Spiderwell has numbers gathering to take back Wellimgale, too. I’m talking numbers greater than anything this war has seen before. Many of His Majesty’s lords have betrayed him during this past month. They’ve all joined The False King, riled by his sudden return from the dead.”
“So Kilwinning seeks a chance to hold Wellimgale against The False King, a chance to survive.” Jax cringed at Medgard. “I told you it was all true, man.”
“Yes,” the steward went on, “King Spiderwell wishes to take Wellimgale back while we’re still settling in. Unfortunately for him, we’ve already had enough time to settle a little. The only question is, are we settled enough? If we lose this city, the war for us is over. His Majesty knows that better than anyone, that’s why he’s so distraught. He’s barely slept at all since you’ve returned. His sketchbook is riddled with scrawled maps, notes and tactics. He won’t be coming out of his chambers until he’s satisfied with his plans. Let’s hope that day comes before The False King arrives with his armies. From the descriptions I’ve heard, that could be as little as a fortnight from now.”
Jax shivered in his livery, his fists clenched at his side. He looked like a man who knew what was coming. “We’re fucked!” The words were throwing knives whizzing down the hall. “If Spiderwell’s gained half of Kilwinning’s banners, th
ere’s no way we can hold this city. We’re going to need a fucking miracle!”
Medgard patted Jax’ back, seeming to be unconcerned about the whole ordeal. “That’s all the more reason to quicken our pace.” He gave the steward a curt bow. “Thank you, friend, you can run off now. Come on, Jax, your favorite tavern awaits. First round’s on me.”
With a raging cuss, Jax turned on his heel. “Almighty be damned, war is everything but easy!” He punched one of the suits of armor as he passed it. It crashed to the floor, falling apart into pieces. The steward just shook his head as he watched the knights lumber away. Before turning a corner at the far end, Jax yelled, “Lacey, I’m coming!” Picturing the bosom of his favorite tavern wench was the only thing that stopped him from ripping out his hair.
When her bosom was finally there, sweating in his hands, he told her everything was going to be fine. They were naked in one of the tavern lofts, florid under the dim, ruddy light of a single flickering flame. Faintly through the wooden floorboards, they could here Medgard laughing at his own japes in the beer hall. Jax ignored them as he laid atop Lacey, caressing her every curve with wandering hands. It was hard to imagine his doom when he was inside her. Everything else but this moment was a non-existent dream. The bed beneath them moaned as he worked her. He thrust deep and hard. Her groans were moist against his ear as he kissed her neck.
“Oh, Lacey Doll!” Jax exclaimed mightily, releasing all he had to give. “Will you marry me?”
Twitching beneath him, Lacey cackled and replied, “Of course not, silly head. But you’ll still get your discount. Don’t worry. Now don’t stop!”
CHAPTER TWENTY: THE RAVEN
WHEN SHE LEANED forward to kiss him, his chin nestled betwixt her pudgy dugs like an egg in a bird’s nest. Highcross was on his back in Foulmouth’s giant black pavilion, illumed by the farrow glare of several lanterns. The robust servant wench bouncing on his lap had never fucked before. She howled as much as she flicked her hair back, sliding her teats across his tongue. She finished before he did and rolled away with a noisy bustle across the black bed, panting. She tried to hide an enormous smile with a sticky hand.
Highcross sat up, frustrated by all the gunky slime on his lap. Never had he popped a cherry backed up by so many years. Blushing, the wench pretended to fall asleep to avoid the awkwardness. Her mind was in rapture. Highcross stood from the bed to wipe himself off. Whispering a quiet curse, he dressed and let the wench sleep.
With his black maille and white cloak donned, he egressed the flap that Spywater had cut with his blade. It was a faster route to the latrines. Highcross stared off into the farm-riddled country as he watered his horse. All the grass looked red in the light of the morning gloam. Across the farmlands, above the coppices and forests beyond, a gauzy sheet of clouds covered the sky. It was just thin enough to let the rising sun show a darker side of its light.
He turned back towards the pavilion, the camp, the castle looming behind it all. There were only a few people that weren’t asleep. They were quietly whispering around campfires, passing wineskins and preparing breakfast. The smell of coffee drove Highcross towards one of the fires. Like rum and black powder, coffee was one of those new things that weren’t around a decade ago. Now many men couldn’t go a day without it, Highcross especially.
The steamy black liquid pouring into his cup reminded him of Spywater. He drank it back quickly to kill the sudden shiver.
The clops of a galloping horse came resounding from down the road. Highcross stood from the fire and glared towards the village, one hand in his cloak gripping the hilt of his sword. Faintly in the fog, he could see a rider approaching. When his eyes caught the plumes on the rider’s helm, he grinned and let his cloak conceal his sword again.
Highcross walked out onto the road as the rider neared. “Welcome back, Charles,” he greeted him cordially. “What’s your report?”
Before his lord, Charles reined his horse as if into a stall. “They’re almost at the village, milord.” He twisted in the saddle to point towards the lake. “You can’t see them through the fog, but they’re making their way around. It won’t be long before they’re here.”
“Numbers?”
“More than we thought, milord.” Charles closed his eyes to remember what he had seen. “There must be almost a hundred knights, all of them completely clad in steel with horse and lance and all. They have more wains in their baggage train than they have footmen walking on the ground. It’s hard to say how many wains carry black powder, but I did see a lot of barrels. A few small cannyns as well. At the end of it all, they have two mangonels on giant casters being pulled by mules. I think they have everything we need and more to blow Lord Spywater’s castle to bits, milord.”
“Great news,” Highcross exclaimed. “Now go kindly wake Lord Lafender and the rest of the camp. I want everything looking orderly when we greet these knights. They won’t be happy when they hear what happened to their lord.”
“Aye, milord.” Charles spurred onward and clopped into the camp.
Alone on the road, Highcross tried to peer across the lake, but a collecting mist made that task impossible. He did, however, glimpse a spectacle in the sky. Mocking him with its great white wings was Spywater’s raven, its blue streamers fluttering in the wind. It was soaring over the village towards the castle. Highcross’ hobnails shifted on the roadbed as his body turned with the raven’s flight. He watched it until it reached the castle. “I can’t wait to eat that fucking bird,” he whispered.
The raven’s golden eyes glimpsed Foulmouth’s rotting corpse as it soared into the bailey. The green lord was still bonded to the flagpole, looking verdant as ever. The raven chortled as it flapped its wings on upward towards the castle’s donjon. Its talons landed on a stone windowsill and its beak tapped a leaded window. Behind the murky glass, the raven could see a blue glove moving. With a click, the window opened and the raven fluttered in. Holding a lantern in one hand, Spywater closed the window behind the bird. Wings beat across the circular room until talons alighted on a coatrack.
“They’re here already?” Spywater asked as he strode to his desk.
With a squeal, the raven gave a great nod of its head.
Spywater understood all too well. “Thank you.” He bowed fleetingly to the raven before he seated himself and placed the lantern down. His fingers found a quill to fiddle with as he held his head pensively. “All the defenses are prepared, but,” his voice shook and he took a moment to swallow his doubt, “I’m not sure how this will end.”
The raven made a soft squeak as it gazed at Spywater caringly. Its wings fanned the coats hanging beneath it as they raised high. Its talons lifted off the black iron, cut through the air and landed on Spywater’s desk. While making a sound similar to Mystery’s purr, it rubbed its cheek against Spywater’s cheek. It croaked shrilly, “Arrrrrr! You can do it. I believe in you.”
The soothing gesture was enough to make Spywater smile. He stroked the bird’s brow gently and whispered, “Without you, I’d be a madman.” He could see himself in the reflection of those large golden eyes. He could see himself shaking his head. “Sitting up here in this donjon right now is beyond suicidal.” The raven was really enjoying his rubs. “However, thanks to you, to still be sitting here tomorrow is not entirely impossible. I shouldn’t doubt our plan.” He held out his arm for the bird to perch on. It hopped on gladly and he stood to walk back to the window. After he opened it, he held his arm out and finished, “You know what to do. There’ll be a feast of fish and berries when this is over. Stay wise, dear friend.”
To those words, the raven bobbed its head and took off. The wind rushed under its wings and Spywater watched it soar downward towards the siege camp. With a whisper he knew the bird couldn’t hear, he wished one more time for it to stay wise. When the bird became a white blotch in the distance, he closed the window, his blue glove again blurred by the murky glass.
After flying over the black pavilion and the surrounding ten
ts and fires, the raven reached the village and alighted on the roof of Good Sons’ Inn. A plump, blind woman with a kerchief was rooting for something in a back shed. The clamor of her search was disturbingly loud for this early in the morning. The raven could tell as much from the scowls neighbors were giving from their windows. Whatever the blind innkeeper was searching for was obviously made of metal. Over the din of all her rummaging, the raven knew there’d soon be a much more disturbing noise to wake the village.
The noise was just arriving now. It was the beat of a hundred horses slowly trotting down the road. Down at the end of the village where it all came from, the road was hidden by a rolling fog. The fog had been growing rapidly. It blanketed the surrounding farms and hovered over the surface of the lake like a legion of ghosts. On the village road, the first thing to puncture through the wall of fog and show itself was the steel head of a lance. The lance’s shaft grew longer and longer and then the snout of a warhorse came through, steam rising from its nostrils. A knight on the saddle was eyeing all the passing houses through the visor of a sallet. Behind him, a row of four lances pierced through the wall of fog. Four more ugly snouts bearing curious knights came into view, and the white raven watching from afar chortled quietly. Four at a time, a train of lancers came trotting into the village. The sixth rank was a portly standard-bearer. The man was languid, holding the shaft of Foulmouth’s banner slantwise over his shoulder like a spear.
The glaring eyes of villagers poked through cracks and shutters and holes to watch the parade pass. After the show of countless beasts and steel men, the grand wheeled displays rolled in, emerging from the fog perfunctorily. Wooden wains with large wheels, spokes painted green and white, trundled behind mules that looked fed up with the world. Each wain had a knight on either side, and each knight was slouched in his saddle about ready to fall asleep. Aside from the one knight at the front with the sallet, nearly all of them wore bascinets. As they got deeper into the village, the miasma of nightsoil made a few of them queasy. In other places, the fragrance of coffee perked them right up. A small girl with flowing blonde hair and freckles came darting out of a house. A knight lurched in his saddle only to chuckle when the girl offered him a steaming cup of the wonderful dark drink. He took it from her gladly. With the shaft of his lance locked in his elbow, he raised his visor and sipped, winking at a blushing mother in the doorway.
Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1) Page 21
