Knight's Creed

by P. J. Cherubino

  “I broke my vows by allowing myself to fall in love.” Moxy looked up at him with shock. Tarkon continued. “I wandered from place to place for nearly a decade after my exile. All I had were my weapons and my training. I had no purpose.”

  “Sounds familiar…” Astrid quipped.

  “But now you do,” Gormer said, serious for once.

  “I now have many,” Tarkon said, glancing at Moxy. “I know now that I can serve the Forge and the world that it produces.”

  They walked on in silence until they got to the Western Toll Road near the border with Ungur. Their informant was very specific. He even described the red color of the wagon wheels. They would be red because that was the color of all the wheels in the Ungur protectorate.

  They took their positions on either side of the road. Gormer, Tarkon, and Moxy stood on one side, along with two bandits. Astrid, Vinnie, and the rest of the bandits were to stay on the other side.

  Since Gormer was such a crazy trick shot with a bow, he would be in charge of planting the “scare arrow” somewhere on the cart.

  That was usually how they did it. Gormer would peg the cart with an arrow. While most of the guards were focused on the direction of the shot, the others would spring some other sort of trap, or simply rush in and overwhelm the guards.

  Hardly anyone ever got killed, but there was usually some blood. Bandits and guards had been at it so long, it was almost a ritual.

  They had a few hours to wait. Astrid sat among some ferns behind a tree and meditated. She was happy to find that everyone maintained good, sound discipline in spite of the long wait.

  But then, the wagon finally came. Astrid crouched down behind a berm near the road. Everyone got into position. The wagon trundled by.

  Usually, the guards chattered away among themselves. That’s how they usually heard them coming. This time, they were silent.

  THOCK! went Gormer’s scare arrow. The bandits prepared to pounce.

  “Astrid!” a voice shouted. “I know Astrid! Is she there?”

  Chills ran down her spine. It was a trap.

  “It’s the guard you met that night… with Alisa…” the man shouted. “Don’t shoot!”

  On the mention of Alisa’s name, the bandit beside Astrid made an animal yell and jumped out from cover.

  “Don’t shoot!” the guard shouted. “Crossbows down, dammit!”

  “Hold your fire everyone!” Astrid commanded. If they weren’t shooting, neither would she. Astrid jumped up with her arms above her head and caught up to the raging bandit.

  “Who fucking said her name!” the enraged bandit said, axe held high.

  Astrid grabbed his arm and spun him around. He swung at her with his left fist. She ducked it like a bad joke and gave him a quick jab to the gut.

  “OOOF!” the bandit said and dropped to his knee.

  “Stay where you are, everyone!” Astrid shouted into the woods. “If this is a trap, kill them all!”

  The guards gasped. “I told you this was a bad idea Marty, you stupid pissant!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Marty said.

  Astrid recognized Marty as the shorter guard who helped her get Alisa down from the lamp post.

  “I’m sorry about Alisa,” Marty said to the bandit who was trying to catch his breath.

  “Say her name again, and I’ll—”

  “It’s true,” Astrid said. “He is. He risked his job and his life to let me take her down.”

  “What is this?” the bandit said, towering over the guard.

  “I wanted to give Astrid this shipment of beer. Fuck the Protector and his whole stupid fucking system.”

  “Beer, you say?” Vinnie called out from the brush. “What kind of beer?”

  All discipline went out the window. The bandits laughed first, including the big man Astrid had punched. Then the guards lowered their crossbows and joined in.

  “Do you all feel this way?” Astrid asked the guards. They all grumbled their assent. “Come on out!” Astrid shouted. “I trust these men.”

  Just to make sure, she skewered Marty with a meaningful stare. He just smiled back, and she knew he was a hundred percent.

  The bandits stepped out warily, and the guards looked completely nervous.

  “This better be good beer,” Vinnie said. He had a huge mug in his hand.

  “You brought a fucking mug on a raid?” one of the bandits asked.

  “There’s beer here!” Vinnie shouted back, heading over to the wagon. “Do you really have to wonder why I carry this?”

  “On the smallest chance you might find beer…” the bandit said.

  “I have to drink some from each keg,” Vinnie said. “To make sure it’s not poison.”

  “You’re immune to poison?” the bandit asked.

  “I happen to be, yes,” Vinnie said as Marty hopped up on the wagon with a beer tap.

  “I can tap them, but…”

  “Just the easiest one,” Astrid said. “He can test the rest later.”

  Vinnie licked his lips while two other guards tipped the keg over. Marty hammered in the tap. Seconds later, Vinnie’s mug was running with froth.

  “Hurry up!” one of the bandits said.

  “Excellent head,” Vinnie remarked, holding up the mug to the sunlight.

  “You’re fucking killing us!” a bandit shouted.

  Vinnie tipped the mug up and drained it in three huge pulls. He took in a deep breath and let it go. Everyone else took in a breath and held it.

  He stood there considering his next words while he stroked his long beard and adjusted his handlebar mustache.

  “It’s not poison,” Vinnie said. “And it is excellent!”

  “You better have mugs,” Astrid said, as bandits pushed and shoved their way to the keg.

  Marty scrambled to the front of the wagon and frantically unpacked the mugs and handed them out.

  “One each!” Astrid shouted. “We have work to do! That means you, Vinnie!”

  “That was just a taste!” Vinnie protested.

  Astrid made a fist and waved it at him with a threatening glare. Vinnie backpedaled and held up his hand. He looked like a spanked puppy.

  Astrid took Marty aside.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Making a start,” Marty said.

  “I don’t understand,” Astrid replied.

  “After Alisa, after Jank and Clarence planned to slaughter men, women, and children—we’ve had enough. Some of the people who make a lot of money off the villagers don’t care. Some of us just can’t watch it anymore. We can’t be a part of it. Now, with even Krann and the Commissioners willing to hear grievances…”

  “But you’re putting your families at risk,” Astrid said.

  “I’m the only one of this group with a family,” Marty said. “I made sure of that.”

  Then, it dawned on Astrid. “Where is your family?”

  “Hiding,” Marty said. “Waiting on word from me.”

  “I think I can find them a place,” Astrid said.

  “And the rest of the men?” Astrid asked.

  “They’ll have to prove themselves.”

  “They already did once to become Keep Guards. They can do so again. Most of them left village life for a better living.”

  Astrid thought for a moment. “Will their villages take them back?”

  “They’d be deserters. Their villages would suffer.”

  Astrid nodded her head. She turned to the defecting guards. Some of them were already sharing mugs with the bandits.

  “This did not go as expected,” Astrid smiled.

  Gormer walked over with a nearly full mug.

  “Taking your time, I see,” Astrid said to him.

  “This is to be savored,” he replied. He nodded toward the men. “They’re telling the truth.”

  “We have a couple day’s ride to talk about this,” Astrid said.

  Somewhere in the Woods of the Western District

 
The first moment of truth came when the raiding party went back to get the horses. They returned to the Toll Road to find the wagon, and all the guards waiting for them.

  It took a while for them to find a trail big enough to accept the wagon. It led them in the wrong direction, but at least it was off the Toll Road. They went to an abandoned village that only a few knew about. Marty said it would be safe, and Astrid believed him.

  The only thing approaching an argument occurred when one of the guards exclaimed. “Shit! You crafty, sneaky fuckers! That’s how you covered your tracks? I can’t even see the wagon marks anymore! I spent half my career trying to find you in the damn woods!”

  There was a tense moment, but when the guard heaped on genuine praise, the bandits were more than happy to show him how it was done.

  The bandits were wary at first, but as they drank more beer, trust grew between them. It helped when some of the guards decided to let the bandits have target practice with their Protectorate-Issue crossbows.

  There was no possible way this could be a trap if the former guards were willing to just hand over their weapons for shits and giggles. Most of them took off their daggers and left them hanging on the cart.

  The only thing Astrid worried about then were drunken, wound-up boys accidentally shooting each other. She and Moxy stuck around each other for safety for a while.

  Astrid let them have their fun. She took a calculated risk in letting them party. She knew that she and the Core would be ready if trouble found them. Astrid herself began to relax and allowed herself more than a few drinks. They didn’t have enough mugs to go around, but they found a couple of pitchers in the ruins of the village.

  “There’s only one thing better than stealing the Protector’s beer,” Gormer chuckled after another gulp. “That’s drinking it. This was a righteous haul.”

  “But what do we call ourselves?” Astrid asked, taking one of the three pitchers making laps around their rough campfire circle. “We need a name with impact, so when the Protector complains about us in his Fortress, it will cut his tongue.”

  “The Blood Whispers,” Trarkon declared, with glassy eyes glinting in the fire. He slurred a bit, giving the words unintended parody.

  “Always so serious, Tarkon,” Moxy said, shaking her pixie head.

  Astrid marveled at the amount she could drink and still stand. Her tiny frame remained solid as a rock while the larger men surrounding her already teetered as they sat hunched on rocks or stumps, or leaned on their weapons.

  Moxy belched and giggled like a wind chime, then rested a hand on Tarkon’s shoulder. He kissed her hand.

  “Why do we need a name at all?” Vinnie replied, leaning on the wagon wheel. He stayed close to the kegs at all times to fill pitchers and especially to drink. He made his point with a bubbly belch. “Oh, this one’s down to the dregs.”

  “I hate that,” Tarkon grumbled. “You’re making me drink yeast piss now.”

  “Actually,” Vinnie replied with a cocky sniff. “The dregs are essentially yeast shit and dead yeast cells. The beer itself is yeast piss.”

  “Who cares,” Gormer said again, intercepting every transit of pitchers. Astrid could tell the vessels were much lighter when he was done. “Shut up and drink.” He passed the beer along again.

  “You left me the dregs again,” Tarkon exclaimed when the pitcher got around to him.

  “And again I say ‘who cares.’ Why should that matter? Just enjoy this beer made righteous by its liberation from the clutches of evil. Tomorrow we all might die. All we have is this very moment, the fading glory of our deeds, and each other.”

  “And these righteous dregs,” Tarkon said, then emptied the pitcher right and proper. “You are so right.” He belched self-consciously. “Tastes good now.”

  For the first time since they met, Astrid saw Tarkon come over to another way of thinking. The most stubborn man she had ever met was somehow sold on the idea of drinking all the beer to the last.

  What a strange thing to finally agree on, Astrid thought. After weeks of constant growling from the bitter former monk, he finally said ‘yes’ to something.

  That’s when it hit her.

  “You said it,” Astrid exclaimed, rising to her wobbly legs. “Tarkon, you magnificent, grouchy bastard. That’s us. We are the Righteous Dregs.”

  FINIS

  Author Notes - PJ Cherubino

  Written February 25, 2018

  Greetings from the Writer Shack (TM).

  If you’ve gotten this far, chances are good that you’ve read the whole book. Thank you for making a lifelong dream come true.

  I’m more grateful to you than you know.

  Two years ago, I left my job, cashed in my meager 401k and bought a small cabin on a little piece of land in West Virginia. My ruleset was very simple: become a professional, full-time writer or go broke trying.

  Before then, I followed very solid advice: don’t quit your day job and always have something to fall back on.

  I still believe that advice is good. Adhering to that wisdom led me to several careers. I’m proud of a hard-earned skillset. I can build and maintain computer networks, fix cars, and I know how to build an off-grid solar power station.

  It turns out that, after all these years, all those things were the fallback.

  What I truly wanted all that time was to become an author. All the skills and experiences I accumulated over the years pointed me towards writing.

  So, with my homebrew solar setup and my laptop, I holed up in the Writer Shack (TM) and became an independent author.

  It didn’t go so well.

  I learned two things very quickly: I’m better at computers than carpentry, and writing is not, or should not be, an entirely solitary thing.

  I had to write six books to learn what I needed to know. While I’m proud of those novels, they didn’t find a large enough audience to support my writing habit. But writing them did lead me to the Indie Author community.

  I found friends and friends found me. Indie Authors are a strange and fiercely loyal bunch. My newfound compatriots let me surf on their couches, invited me to into groups, listened to my ranting and raving and generally showed me the way.

  Those intense, early writing struggles paid off in a massive way. I was invited to write in the Kurtherian Gambit Universe.

  It’s still hard for me to grasp my good fortune. Michael Anderle’s act of radical generosity has literally opened up new worlds.

  I have the opportunity to serve a huge and intensely-engaged audience.

  With the help of people like: Amy Hopkins, Lee Barbant and CM Raymond, I’m rising to the challenge.

  But the most important thing is that I’m having a blast doing it.

  Why wouldn’t I? I’m living the dream.

  With hard work and dedication, my hope is to write the books that you want to read.

  New worlds await.

  Gratefully,

  P.J. Cherubino

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Written February 25, 2018

  First, THANK YOU for not only reading this story, but these author notes as well!

  With all things Kurtherian, it’s often who knows who and how they helped each other and met each other in the past to find out who comes up on our radar.

  PJ has been working with us for a little while now, dealing with the new reality that is LMBPN Publishing, Kurtherian Gambit and our Age of Magic managers CM Raymond and LE Barbant.

  When a new collaborator gets engaged, they have a LOT of information to start taking in. PJ came to us through a relationship with another Age of Magic collaborator, Amy Hopkins. PJ worked on a LitRPG book (Realm of the Nine Circles) he calls her his ‘younger yet wiser sister.’ I’m laughing to myself because I’m surprised he didn’t ™ that in his message, more on that later.

  Anyway, PJ has been fun to work with, and is so damned appreciative for the opportunity, you just about forgive him for anything he does… almost…

&n
bsp; During this time of work on his own Kurtherian series, PJ was reading a fair amount of my author notes and I happened to mention calling myself an “Indie Publishing Outlaw” during a conversation.

  Which he liked so much he was trying to abscond with it.

  I had to quickly put the kibosh on that effort, or risk shenanigans with something I’ve been talking about for almost two years now.

  You have to be careful with those guys who go and live in the woods. He doesn’t have to worry much, because there isn’t a freaking way I’m going to find him if I ever had to.

  Here is the SLACK communication between us, so that I have PROOF of his underhanded (yet very understandable) effort(s) …

  PJ Cherubino [3:15 PM]

  Hi there... What was the phrase that you used when we chatted the other day? It was something like "Indie Author Rebel" ... I think it was something better but my damn squirrel brain can't recall. I'm asking because I'm going to steal it.

  michael [3:35 PM]

  Yes, Indie Author Outlaw.

  PJ Cherubino [3:35 PM]

  That's the one! I'm glad I coined that term and taught it to you...

  THIS HAPPENS A LITTLE WHILE LATER:

  PJ Cherubino [5:43 PM]

  No worries. That's the Indie Author Rebel (TM, C PJC, 2018, all rights reserved) ethos.

  michael [6:29 PM]

  Sorry, nice try but too much pre-existing (printed) use of the term in existence lol

  PJ Cherubino [6:30 PM]

  Nah, all I have to do is say it a few thousand more times and It'll be mine. It's like licking all the cupcakes. That makes all cupcakes mine.

  michael [6:47 PM]

  You sir, are a diabolical genius....

  I think I admire that.

  I had to re-read his effort twice when he sent it to me. I admired him for the stones it took to try it before his first book came out.

  However, I didn’t cave. I’m now thinking that I’m dealing with a psychologist of some sort when we work together. I’m antsy, not sure what the hell PJ is up to but pretty sure I should check my pockets and look around to see where my keys are.