The Rune Knight

by Jonathan Moeller

  Her scowl sharpened. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like?” said Mazael.

  “Sir Calvin is a knight errant like you used to be,” said Atalia, “but he’s not like you. Sir Calvin is a bandit, a highwayman, though sometimes he rides with a lord’s host in a proper manner. I didn’t care. The people we stole from didn’t deserve their money, after all. Rich merchants and lords deserve whatever happens to them.” Her mouth twisted. “But he was so…brutal, so violent. He would kill everyone so there were no witnesses.”

  “And that bothered you?” said Mazael.

  “Of course it bothered me!” snapped Atalia. “I’ve been a thief, yes. I’ve been an outlaw wizard. I’ve killed to save my life, I’ve done that too. But I’ve never killed someone in cold blood. Not the way did Calvin did. He robbed a merchant once, just north of the Stormvales. The merchant was traveling with his seven children, and Calvin would have killed them all to cover his tracks. So I let them go, and ran for my life.” She shrugged. “I met Trocend, and…well, you know the rest.”

  Mazael said nothing.

  “Oh, fine,” said Atalia with disgust. “Don’t look at me like that. How many women have you been with before me? I’d ask, but I doubt you would remember.”

  Mazael’s anger flared again. “I’ve been penniless, but I’ve never been a brigand and a thief.”

  “Penniless?” said Atalia. “You’re still a knight. You can just ride up to a castle gate, and the lord will be obliged to lodge you. That’s what happened here, isn’t it?” She scoffed. “Why do you think I want to learn more magic? I ought…”

  “You ought,” said Mazael, grabbing her arm and pushing her along to a narrow alley between two large tents, “not to talk about it here.”

  She glared at him. “Why not?”

  “Because if some passing Justiciar Knight happens to overhear you talking about magic, they’ll arrest you and that will be that,” said Mazael. “Do you think I want you hurt? Or killed?”

  She kept glaring, but some of the glare softened as her brain caught up with her anger. “I…yes, you are right. Yes. I should have guarded my tongue better.”

  “I might have a problem with my temper,” said Mazael, “but you have a problem with magic.” She started to protest. “That’s the real reason you want more magical power. So you can lord it over men like Calvin Astarre.”

  “It is not,” said Atalia. “I want magical power so I can be safe and free, so…”

  “No, it’s not,” said Mazael. “You want it for revenge.” He snorted. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? I like to fight, and you want revenge. Do you want me to challenge Sir Calvin to a duel? Will that make you feel better? I…”

  Atalia was laughing.

  “What?” said Mazael, irritated.

  “Why are we doing this?” said Atalia. “Fighting like this? I mean, we are what we are, and neither one of us is likely to change. You like to fight, and I like power. I’m still glad I met you, though, and not just because you saved my life.”

  “And I’m glad I met you,” said Mazael. “And I can prove you’re not a whore. I’ve never once paid you for sleeping with you.”

  “High praise, indeed,” said Atalia.

  “Unless you count listening to the rough side of your tongue,” said Mazael. “If we do, then I’ve paid and paid and paid…”

  She laughed a little but lifted her hand to slap him again. This time, Mazael saw it coming and caught her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he was a lot stronger than she was. He tugged, and she lost her balance and fell against his chest, his other arm coiling around her back to keep her upright.

  “But I’m not going to pay for what we’re about to do,” said Mazael.

  He gave her a hard kiss on the mouth. She resisted at first, straining against him, but then melted into the kiss, her free arm wrapping around his back.

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” she gasped, breaking away from his grasp.

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Go. I won’t stop you.”

  She didn’t go.

  “Damn it,” said Atalia, tracing his lips with a finger. “How are you so persuasive?”

  “That tent,” said Mazael, tugging at the tent flap behind him. “No one’s inside it.”

  Her smile was wicked. “We’ll put it to better use.”

  They did. Atalia’s skirt did have one advantage over her usual trousers and heavy boots. It was a lot easier to get out of the way in a hurry.

  After they had finished, Mazael and Atalia left the tent and walked arm-in-arm through the crowds again. Mazael felt far calmer than he had before, and Atalia had a smile that was half-dreamy, half-smug.

  “You needn’t be jealous of Calvin,” murmured Atalia.

  “Oh?” said Mazael, wondering why she wanted to talk about that now.

  She flashed a grin at him. “I never need to fake anything with you.”

  Mazael laughed, and she laughed with him.

  “Suddenly,” she said, “for no reason at all, I am quite hungry.”

  “Here’s a surprise,” said Mazael. “So am I. That one fellow on the north end of the tournament grounds sells fried bread that isn’t too foul, and he doesn’t charge overmuch for it. Let’s…”

  She came to a sudden stop.

  “What?” said Mazael, wondering what had come over her now. Had some other forgotten lover from her past turned up? The irritation vanished when he saw her expression. She looked tense, alarmed, the way she did when a fight threatened.

  The way she did when they were in danger.

  “What is it?” said Mazael, lowering his voice.

  “That booth on the left,” said Atalia.

  Mazael glanced at the booth. It looked like a common gaming booth, where the customers paid to throw small wooden balls into glass bottles. Undoubtedly the balls were imbalanced, and the bottles had been fashioned to have deceptively small mouths. Mazael had seen similar cons in a dozen fairs across the realm. The gamesman running the both wore extravagant finery of red and white and black, and a variety of prizes hung in his booth, mostly garish swords and daggers and bad jewelry.

  “What about it?” said Mazael.

  “You need to win it,” said Atalia.

  “Me?” said Mazael. “If you want to throw your money away at a rigged game, why do you need me to do it?”

  “Because you throw better than I do,” said Atalia. “Mazael, I think something is wrong.”

  Mazael started to ask if the gamesman was another former lover, or if she owed him money, but he kept the remarks to himself. Something was wrong. They had fought alongside each other in a few battles, and she was only like this in a crisis.

  He shrugged. “Very well, then.”

  Mazael walked up to the booth, Atalia trailing after him.

  “Welcome, noble knight, welcome!” said the gamesman with a bright smile that made Mazael want to punch him. “My name’s Monchard, and this is my booth. Care to try a test of skill? Three balls for a copper coin. You can win a pretty necklace for that pretty lady.”

  “At least he has a keen eye,” said Atalia with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Mazael reached into his belt pouch, produced a copper coin, and slapped it on the counter. Monchard made the coin disappear and produced three wooden balls painted a bright red.

  “One copper buys you three throws, noble knight,” said Monchard.

  Mazael tossed the balls to himself, feeling their weight and balance as he eyed the glass bottles. The little balls felt as if they had a lead weight against one side, which would throw off their balance, and the bottles had been crafted so their mouths were more of an oval shape rather than round. Both “modifications” would conspire to make it nearly impossible to land one of the balls in the bottles. Monchard likely turned a pretty profit at these merchant fairs.

  Fortunately, Mazael knew the trick.

  He flicked his wrist, aiming past the bottle and for the wooden wall behind it.
The ball struck the wall, deflected, and bounced into the bottle. Monchard’s white smile flickered for a moment, and then returned to its full brilliance. Mazael flicked his wrist twice more and landed both remaining balls in the bottles. Atalia laughed and clapped her hands.

  “My champion,” she said.

  “Well, noble knight,” said Monchard. “You’ve won a prize. What would you like?”

  “So,” said Mazael. “What do you want?”

  “That black ring,” said Atalia.

  Monchard’s smile flickered again. “Are you sure? You have such pretty eyes, noble lady, and this necklace has a setting of amber that would offset…”

  “The black ring, please,” said Atalia.

  “Very well,” said Monchard, reaching for a box on the counter and passing a ring to Atalia.

  It was an odd piece of jewelry for a gamesman’s booth. It was solid black, made from some dark metal that Mazael did not recognize. Enameled steel, maybe? A green stone had been set in the band, and it had been carved with a peculiar angular symbol that seemed oddly familiar.

  “The ring comes with a message,” said Monchard.

  “I’m sure it does,” said Atalia, sliding the ring onto the middle finger of her left hand. It was the only finger she had large enough for the ring.

  “The old piers along the Riversteel, east of Castle Town itself,” said Monchard. “The third pier. The rest await you there.”

  “Thank you,” said Atalia, affecting that cold, aloof mien once more. “You have rendered worthy service. Come along.”

  She turned and strode away without another word, and Mazael followed her.

  “Ugly ring, that,” said Mazael.

  She gave him an incredulous look. “Don’t you know what this is?”

  Mazael shrugged. “The symbol looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  Atalia shook her head. “You should read more.”

  “I prefer riding,” said Mazael. “So what is that ring and that symbol?”

  “Remember Francis Tymbalt and Father Colchard?” said Atalia.

  Mazael felt a sudden chill. He remembered both men well enough. Father Colchard had been a false priest. Worse than that, he had been a necromancer, a member of a mysterious organization of necromancers called the School, and Trocend had been looking for evidence of the School ever since. So far he had been unsuccessful.

  “That symbol,” said Mazael. “I remember now. Those scrolls we burned in Colchard’s workshop. They had that symbol at their top.”

  Atalia nodded. “Trocend thinks this rune is the symbol of the School.”

  “Rune?” said Mazael. “Isn’t it a sigil?”

  “No,” said Atalia. “A rune. Different from a sigil. The difference is...oh, I’ve explained it to you before, and your eyes got glassy every single time. But it’s not important. If this is a symbol of the School, we can use this rune to track them.”

  “A meeting,” said Mazael, following her line of thought. “That’s the whole point of the game and the ring. There’s a meeting of the School happening here at the Cloth Merchants’ Fair, and the ring and the game are a sort of…password, aren't they?”

  “I think you are right,” said Atalia. “That fraud Monchard is probably a patsy or a hired dupe of the School. You should probably have Mandor arrest him. Then we can alert Trocend, and he can send men-at-arms to arrest all the rats of the School at once.”

  Mazael considered for a moment. “No. Not yet.”

  Atalia frowned. “Why not? Surely you’re not considering letting them go.”

  “Of course not,” said Mazael. “But think about it. The School knows that Trocend has been looking for them. Monchard might be a dupe...but he might be a lookout as well. I bet someone is watching him. If he disappears or gets killed, the School will hide again, and we’ll miss our chance to take down the necromancers.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” said Atalia.

  “We take a look around the old piers ourselves,” said Mazael.

  Atalia frowned. “Alone?”

  “Yes,” said Mazael. “We’re less likely to be discovered.”

  “And if we fail and get ourselves killed,” said Atalia, “no one will know what happened, and the School will get away clean.”

  That was a good point.

  “Fine,” said Mazael. “Can you get a message to Trocend?”

  “Yes,” said Atalia. “He has informants at the Fair, and he gave me some of his code words and signs. I can command them to take a message to him.”

  “All right,” said Mazael, rubbing at his chin as he thought. The hairs of his beard rasped beneath his hand. “Get that message to Trocend. Tell him to meet us at the old piers with some armsmen. Meanwhile, we’ll take a look around the piers so we can tell Trocend what to expect.”

  “I need to change clothes,” said Atalia.

  He wanted to make a remark about how she looked better without any clothes at all, but this wasn’t the time. Mazael had seen the horrors in Father Colchard’s workshop, had almost been killed by the old wizard’s necromantic spells. If the School was allowed to operate unchecked across Knightreach, the gods only knew what kind of horrors they would unleash.

  “Ten minutes,” said Mazael. “Meet me at the northern end of the tournament grounds.”

  ###

  A short time later Mazael and Atalia left the Cloth Merchants’ Fair and headed east along the bank of the Riversteel. The river here was broad and wide and deep, the waters still and placid. Several loaded barges drifted west towards the piers of Castle Town, while other barges rowed upstream towards the portages of the Green Plain to the north.

  Commerce never stopped, not even for the Fair.

  Mazael had discarded his doublet and surcoat for chain mail and a leather jerkin, longsword and dagger at his heavy belt. Atalia had changed to her usual costume of boots and trousers and vest and hooded cloak, a heavy dagger at her belt and a wooden staff in her right hand. She had made the staff in Trocend’s workshop, carving sigils (or was it runes?) into the side, complaining about the effort the entire time, but she had kept at it. Evidently, the thing let her focus and augment her magical power.

  “You didn’t bring your squire,” said Atalia.

  “No,” said Mazael. “I sent Gerald to help Mandor. The boy had a good head for organization.” He also did not approve of Mazael’s relationship with Atalia, but that wasn’t Mazael’s problem. “He might wind up holding lands for his father, so he needs to learn how to rule.”

  “He also needs to learn how to fight,” said Atalia.

  “Aye, why do you think Lord Malden made him my squire?” said Mazael. “But he’s not ready for this kind of fight. He can’t learn to be a knight and a lord if some damned necromancer kills him with black magic first.”

  They walked in silence for a while. Further down the southern bank of the river, Mazael saw stone ruins squatting by the water.

  “Do you ever think about the future?” said Atalia.

  “I try not to,” said Mazael.

  “I know,” said Atalia. “But the rest of your life...”

  Mazael scowled, his temper threatening to burn again. “If this is about my brother and Castle Cravenlock...”

  Atalia snorted. “No, I’m not that stupid. I know you don’t want go back to the Grim Marches. But...do you really want to do this for the rest of your life?”

  “Do what?” said Mazael. “Fighting, you mean?”

  “Lord Malden’s little wars and little errands,” said Atalia. “Chasing woman after woman. I’m not under any illusions that I’m going to be the last one to share your bed.” Mazael started to speak, but she kept talking. “Don’t you want lands of your own? A wife and children? Power and authority and riches?”

  What Mazael wanted was to fight and kill. But she probably knew that already.

  “What do you want?” said Mazael.

  “Deflecting the question, I see,” said Atalia.

  “No,” said
Mazael. “Not this time. I really want to know.”

  “Power,” she said at once. “Magical power, preferably, but any kind of power. Power enough that I will never be hungry again, and that I will never be dependent,” her mouth twisted, “on a man like Calvin Astarre again.”

  “Or me?” said Mazael.

  “I’m not dependent on you,” she answered at once. “Trocend, yes, but not you. You’re...” She considered for a moment. “You’re not as bad as you could be.”

  “Such high praise,” said Mazael. It stung more than he had expected.

  “No, I didn’t phrase that well,” said Atalia. “I think...you could be a much worse man than you are. There’s something in you that likes killing too much. But you don’t let it out.”

  Mazael shrugged. “I had good teachers. Sir Nathan and Master Othar. They...did a good job of helping me to learn to control my temper.” He had not seen them since he had left the Grim Marches years earlier. He wondered what they would think of what he had done since. He knew they would not approve of his womanizing and heavy drinking.

  They almost certainly would not approve of Atalia.

  “So what do you think of the future?” said Atalia.

  “I think,” said Mazael, “that we should stop talking about it.”

  “Because you don’t want to talk about it?” said Atalia.

  “Because we’re almost there,” said Mazael, pointing.

  Atalia blinked. “Oh. That is a good argument.”

  They had reached the ruins of the old piers. In centuries past, the Lords of Knightcastle had required barges coming to Castle Town to dock here, outside of the town, lest raiders sneak into the town from the barges. The piers had been destroyed during one of Knightcastle’s wars with the High Plain or the Green Plain or Old Dracaryl (Mazael forgot which) and the merchants had convinced the Rolands to rebuild the piers in the town proper. The warehouses which had once stood here had been demolished and forgotten, but the stone piers still jutted into the waters of the river, and Mazael knew that there were cellars and chambers beneath the ground that had once stored goods. Most of the cellars were flooded, but some of them were still usable. Lord Malden really ought to have them sealed up. From time to time bold bandits hid here...and it was possible a gang of necromancers had done so.