I Know Not: The Legacy of Fox Crow

by Ross, James Daniel

  I didn’t know why, but more importantly, she did.

  I guess I was still looking like a plate of raw meat that had been dipped in the midden when the princess came in. She stopped in the entry, gazing at my bandage-clothed chest with some amount of flush in her cheeks, as the priestess of peered in over her shoulder like a demon of retribution, I decided to pull the sheets up to cover my partial nakedness. If there was anything I did not need, it was more complications.

  “You are well, sir?” Her voice was like crystal, beautiful but fragile. Apparently, being dragged from the coach by her ladyship’s hair did not agree with her-and where in the hell did that come from? The venom and callousness simply seethed inside me from some polluted spring. “Sir?”

  I had not answered her. That same mental closet filled with almost similar copies of me yawned wide at the edge of the Fog and I desperately shoved an imaginary hand inside. I came out with something that felt gallant, polite, and servile. I put the mental clothes on like a thief donning a dark cloak and spoke, “My apologies Milady, I am still addled. Some dreadful creature took umbrage at the shape of my head and sought to remedy it with a blunt instrument.”

  A small smile cracked her brittle exterior. At about seventeen years, her hair was cut long, held up in a complex design that almost matched the knot-work patterns of her dress. She had never been party to violence or death until now, the experience did not sit well upon her. “It would seem your blade work was not affected.”

  “Not to be contrary, Milady, but I would say it suffered immeasurably, I am now dying.” My voice cracked because of a jolt of pain from my belly, ruining the care-free tone of my words. It was for the best, though, as the princess was now really concerned. Four princess' beats four clerics in any card game in the Kingdom.

  She turned to her priestess, “Nana?”

  The old woman’s demeanor smoothed to the placid calm of a still pool before the girl had turned to see. No one gets that good at holding back their emotions from their face unless they have to; A lot.

  “His condition is severe. His head has been broken along its left side, this is the reason it swells so. The belly wound has pierced his vitals and they are now leaking foul humors into his body to poison him. He has a remarkable strength, but it will not save him. If his wounds were not so severe, I might be able to help, but alas, my talents are not up to this level of mutilation.” Maybe it was just me, friends; But she didn’t sound as if it was too grievous a loss for her.

  The princess turned to me, almost catching my questing eyes. I could tell you I was questing her body in search of an appropriate cave to place my dragon, but it would be a lie. As much as I hate to admit it, I was marking the position of guards outside from the sound of their talking and judging the chances of my escape. The pavilion was expansive; Enough to fit a knight and his page, and it was furnished much better. The candelabra next to me would fetch enough to by some health from a local healer, if one could be found, but the Fog did not give me good odds.

  “Then I shall help him. ”

  “Your father purchased that potion at a dear cost for your use, not to be wasted on some drifter!”

  Her highness was properly scandalized, “Nana! How could you, of all people, deny this man, who has saved me, anything to insure his life?” A silence that weighed tons settled in until the cleric bowed her head, as if in shame. I saw only frustration there instead.

  The auburn-haired girl came forward and knelt beside me, her red dress spreading about her like a crimson halo. Dipping two fingers deep into her cleavage, she retrieved a silver vial that was carved in swirling patterns, stoppered, and sealed. She broke the red wax using one manicured nail and uncorked it with the smell of foreign lands, exotic spices, and blood. She leaned in, exposing a valley of pale flesh to me between her firm breasts as the vial clinked against my teeth. The bottle itself smelled strongly of woman and I felt my blood beginning to stir, but I could not watch her. I could not take my eyes off the cleric, who saw me and feared me.

  She could not be as afraid of me as I was.

  Lethargy stole over me, seeping in to mix with the Fog, seeming to make it bloom and envelop me whole. I’m not against sleep, in fact I quite enjoy it, but enough was enough. When I wake up, I’m not sleeping for a week.

  And as if no time at all had passed, I awoke.

  This time there were no birds and no hurting. I was grateful, honestly. The only problem, if it could be said I only had one problem, was that Gelia, priestess of Ethryal, hated me with a passion reserved for blood enemies, rapists, and tax collectors. She would not speak to me when alone, and was cool, unhelpful, yet professional to me when the others happened in. She had sewn the rent in my shirt and tossed it in my face like it was the shroud of a leper. Most of the Ethryalite clerics I have met have been much nicer.

  That wasn’t strictly true, I can’t actually remember, but I’m fairly certain. One does not usually get to be a servant of love, life, and healing by threatening the lives of patients.

  I donned the shirt and stretched to test my wounds. My balance was perfect, my belly tender but serviceable. Apparently whatever eldritch concoction the Lady had bestowed upon me, it was enough to bring my battered body back into working order. As soon as I was fully clothed, I exited the ivory colored pavilion and found the early morning sun was much weaker than it had been in living memory, which granted for me was two days. Its rays warmed my face, but not enough to take the sting of frost out of the air. My breath made tiny clouds and my cheeks ached as if being stretched too taut.

  The oldest living member of the princess’ retinue, no great distinction, they were all barely men, was apparently in charge. He was supervising three of the others manhandling a large chest made of oak and iron. It clanked as they jiggled it, making me salivate with thoughts of piles of golden coins. The eldest boy turned to me and I quickly blanked my expression and focused my eyes elsewhere.

  He was just shy of twenty years, his face unlined and unscarred. That was one new thing I had discovered about myself was the huge amount of scarring present on my body. Thankfully, that was at least one mystery solved to a near certainly: The scars, combined with my obvious talent to making armed men into corpses made me a career mercenary, and a very successful one at that from my ornate weapon. Perhaps not all the corpses I left behind belonged to the keep. Perhaps some were my own mercenary company, joining the defenders in a desperate attempt to hold the lost fort. Mercenaries are often bloodless men, bitter realists who murder for pay. Soldiers get cushy jobs. Mercenaries are too poor to be sentimental, at least that’s what they’ll tell you. That would go far and explain much…like my lack of reaction at the horror in the courtyard. I had probably seen such many times before; I had just not remembered that I had. Those exposed to violence and death eventually become inured to it, as I obviously had. All a nice, clean package, eh? A nice, logical train of thought. I couldn’t have been more wrong, well I supposed I could. I have a significant talent for being wrong.

  “Ho, Friend! I am Theodemar, guardian of the lady Aelia. I would know the name of our savior.” Theodemar’s beardless cheeks were as red as mine as they stretched into a guileless grin.

  I quickly donned the friendly mental costume.

  “So, would I Theodemar.” I flashed a smile, a hollow one that I felt carefully crafted to betray both embarrassment and a sociable demeanor, neither of which I was feeling. In fact I was feeling…

  Nothing. Not a thing.

  A thrill ran down my spine as I looked at the guardsmen gathering around the dying fire from their appointed tasks of breaking camp. They were just empty bags of blood and muscle, some rated as higher threats than others, but none seemed like people. None were quite real to me. Opportunities and threats…that was all.

  Thomorgon’s Gates, what kind of man am I? Theodemar chuckled and was about to speak when out of the pavilion to my left exited the noble lady. The guardsmen bowed, as did I, though a moment late and much mor
e uncomfortably. I hoped she would take my stiffness as a result of the now healed belly wound, but I knew it was because the Fog rankled and made the motion jerky.

  A slight smile graced her heart-shaped face-that could be very good, or very bad. “My dear savior, I expect that your tale would be some entertainment while we prepare to move on to Carolaughan.”

  The guardsmen-as-servants took the hint and scrambled back to their work, though none found anything out of earshot that required their attention. Gelia exited the tent in which I had rested and entered the princesses own, exiting a moment later with a folding chair. “I am Aelia, daughter of Duke Robert Llewellyn. It would seem-” her smile took on a cleaner edge- “I am in your debt master…?”

  The priestess put the chair down behind the princess, who sat upon it without looking. The display of noble efficiency made my teeth itch, though to say I knew why would be a lie. I cleared my throat, “I am truly not sure, milady. I…”

  Her eyes were the color of fresh heather, like a tranquil river for they too ran with a hidden strength. My mouth was open, and the truth began to emerge. She leaned forward, her slightly-too-big nose melding with the rest of her face’s perfection to put me at ease. She was not an elf, seemingly carved from marble by expert hands, and was all the more human for it. As I felt the story spill from me, her eyes twinkled knowingly. I suddenly felt exposed, like a man who stops with one foot carelessly hovering over a previously unseen abyss.

  Without causing a single eye to bat or muscle in my face to ripple, walls of steel and stone slammed shut within me. Immediately I began sifting the story, leaving out my dream at the pond, the Animal that had overtaken me in the woods, the way I almost did not help her, how her cleric had treated me, and my odd detachment from other people. Once again, she was a threat-and I had to grudgingly admit an opportunity.

  Her body was sheathed in silver velvet, trimmed in white rabbit fur. A cloak of heavy black wool with a rich platinum trim further armored her from the cold. Her jade earrings were simple and understated but worth more than their weight in gold. Only a yellowed cameo hung between the curvature of her thickly covered breasts, winking in a silver setting that subtly whispered of lineage and money. At last, I had finished “…It was then I heard your scream, and felt I had to come to help.”

  “You are mistaken my dear man, I would not scream and give the ruffians such satisfaction.” Her spine stiffened and her face bore a certain resolution reserved for the rich and ignorant. “It was Gelia who screamed in fear of my safety.”

  The cleric met my gaze, and her stern face clouded for a moment. Her pride was not injured by the revelation, but something about the account reached into her and twisted. She dismissed my story as a complete fabrication in mere seconds and her face became placid once again. Her mistress continued, “It is grave news you bring. The man you described could only be Sir Walden, Marshal of the Northern Ridge. He was adept at holding back the barbarians within the dark pines of those mountains. His death and the loss of his stronghold may prove disastrous. We must make haste to Carolaughan so the King and the surrounding nobles might be alerted.”

  I had time to be properly shocked. I had been wandering around alone on the Northern Ridge? I’m lucky to be alive. Every society has outcasts, even barbarians. The cruel, heartless men of the north and the bloodthirsty, vicious men of the west tended to force their incorrigibles into the Northern Ridge mountains in the same way a man may place a bloody axe in a closet against a future need. The peaceful journey had been a masquerade; I was safer now than I had been since I had first awakened in the keep.

  Her face made it clear she was worrying at the problem in her mind, and seemed genuinely concerned. So, the almost-beauty was not only a woman of breeding, but practical, “I can say that Walden was known for hiring mercenaries and scouts of the finest quality. He had a great treasury in the castle to pay them and always hired the best for high wages. You, it would seem, would fit his qualifications as a master-at-arms.” She turned to her nanny. “Gelia, would a head injury such as his have caused such a loss of memory even after his healing?”

  Gelia’s eyes pierced me, tried to read me even through my Fog to see my inner-most being. Good luck, grandma. Her face screwed up as an inner battle against some conflicting judgments warred. I was startled to find my hand creeping toward the hilt of my sword; I had not even realized I had brought it with me from the tent. Apparently my hind-brain knows me better than I do, no surprise there.

  “Yes, if he is speaking the truth, he may never retrieve his recollections in any sensible manner.”

  I felt like cursing and cheering at the same time. She could have poisoned my relationship with the Lady, but did not by opting for the truth. Then again, if she spoke honestly I might never fully realize who I was. My face, of its own accord, portrayed picture-perfect resigned determination. Theodemar came forward from helping harness the horses to the carriage and the lady nodded for him to speak. “Mistress, at our present strength, perhaps an extra sword would not go unneeded if Walden and his fortress has indeed fallen.”

  She set those sparkling green eyes upon me, “Well, swordsman?”

  “What waits for you in Carolaughan?” I asked.

  “My father has sent me to barter with a dwarven mining clan for iron.” The shock must have been readily apparent on my face, for she laughed at me. My estimation of her had already been thrown heavier into both the threat and opportunity scales. Sending a girl to barter in a far town spoke volumes of her talents in states-craft. This woman would not be easy to…

  What? What was I planning to do?

  “Of course milady, I would be honored to ensure the safety such a remarkable woman as yourself.” Well, I am apparently planning to protect a very intelligent and resourceful young woman with a gaggle of beardless youths in tow.

  I knew I was heading for trouble because she smiled warmly at me. It was an honest smile, one that comes from the deepest part of the soul and could make any face shine like a heavenly figure. Somehow, that alone was worth it, and that fleeting second of sentimentalism felt alien. The warmth dissolved under the withering gaze from Gelia’s pale, gray eyes. Of course it rekindled when Her Ladyship paid me a fist full of gold crowns, up front, for my work.

  History has shown that money is a salve unto itself for any malady of the troubled mind.

  4

  Vulnerability

  Well, my string of good luck was holding, the lady Aelia was quite taken with me now that my head did not look like it was distended by generations of diligent inbreeding. I was quickly being looked to as her personal guard, something between a swordsman and a whirlwind composed of razors. I just had to ignore the glowering old woman over her shoulder.

  Perhaps it was as simple as that: I did slay several men before Gelia’s eyes with almost festive zeal and no compunctions. Such a man as that may not win any smiles from a cleric of Love and Mercy, even if hers were the goiter pulled away from the knife. Within the depths of the Fog, mocking voices told me it wasn’t that I had done it, but that I enjoyed it, that bothered the nanny nun. In seconds of solitude I turned over those joyously brutal moments of mayhem, trying to dismiss the disturbing feelings of exultation, but such doubts were easy to push back with Aelia and the boys hailing me as a hero.

  The rest of the camp was broken down easily and packed efficiently, making it obvious that the soldiers were much better servants than swordsmen. Sad for me, because it soon became clear that my job was not merely ornamental. While I didn’t have to help them dig the graves for Aelia’s fallen guardians, nor did I have to string up the bandit corpses to act as a warning to others, I did have to walk alongside the carriage with the other guardsmen. It was so laden with camp gear that even though pulled by a pair of magnificent geldings it could only crawl on its round, wooden legs. Massive and obedient, their burden rattled down the heavily rutted road mile after mile until about an hour after midday.

  We had left behind the high pine
road and come down into the lower slopes of the Northern Ridge Mountains, into the forested northern bosom of the Kingdom. The trees here were exploding in cold flames, leaves of orange, yellow, and red shushing the wind dryly. It was peaceful like old age, life winding down as the growing season breathed its last.

  I caught the shadow of a tall building thorough the trees and I waved the boys back as I readied the Phantom Angel. I crept forward alone, but my caution seemed unnecessary. A charming spring spouted from the native rock of the hillside, and at some elder time had been walled up into a beautiful, flowering pool. What interested me, however, was the blackened skeleton of a large building.

  It had been sizable, with the shadows of burns along the ground marking the graves of a wooden defensive wall and stable. What was most telling were not the piles of charcoal or shards of burnt wood, but the green plants that grew through the carnage. I stood up and waved the entourage forward. I idly climbed over the cracked pile of stones that once made the foundation and lower wall to the building and poked at the dirt.

  Something was speaking to me here, amidst the fledgling saplings and resurrecting ground cover. Despite the certainty of renewed life, the echoes of devastation stripped away layers of calluses from my soul. I smelled the sour ghost of old smoke. I heard a child crying.

  I dipped my hands into the water to splash the strange ghosts from my head, but the face in the water was not mine. Short bristles of hair sprouted from his head. His eyes perched on hollow cheeks like monuments to madness. His smile was not that of a lover or a friend, he was an animal baring his teeth in preparation for battle. He reached for me. I recoiled, feet churning the earth.

  “Is it recent?”

  I looked back at the water, but the short haired man was not there. I shook off the feeling of being hunted and focused on what I knew was real. I want to say I heard the boy coming, chinking in his chainmail like an elephant made of links, but it would be a lie. Uncertain emotions wilted inside of me, frozen and shattered by the Dark Thing in the Fog. I clenched my fist, but squeezed the resentment out of my voice as I stood and turned, “No, Theodemar.”