by Damien Black
He’d been worried at first – Branas had warned him he’d have to tread carefully after killing a noble. But then he’d got to thinking about it after they notified the peasantry at the next village. The killing had technically happened during a duel of honour. It wasn’t unknown for squires to second their masters during such affairs and square off against each other. In that case any fatality was legitimate. Low-born or not he was still a squire of the realm – that meant he hadn’t broken any law. There was no way a stickler for form like Branas would have ordered him to finish Derrick off otherwise.
Of course that didn’t mean Derrick’s family might not take matters into their own hands and seek revenge – the same went for Anrod’s too. But if that was the case then so be it – let them try their luck. Nothing like a good old-fashioned blood feud to spice up your life.
Descending the rickety wooden steps two at a time Vaskrian emerged into the taproom. The shutters were flung open despite its being a miserable drizzly day outside; patrons were already clogging up the common room, getting stuck into Vagan’s famous ale. Rudi, his harassed assistant, was struggling to take their orders in the innkeeper’s absence. Two serving wenches were also on duty. Vaskrian had an eye for one of them. He was fairly sure she had an eye for him too, but he hadn’t found the time to make something of it.
He felt a pang of longing as he took in her buxom curves and dark wavy tresses. It had been a while... but then he was so busy training hard every day he hadn’t had much time to think about girls at all. And there was precious little opportunity for him at Hroghar, now that Rutgar had personally seen to it that he was the laughing stock of the castle.
There were a couple of more distinguished arrivals at the inn – two more knights serving the Jarl of Hroghar. Sir Rudd and Sir Ulfius, if his memory served him – both landed vassals. Both the kind of person he wanted to be one day.
Pushing open the side door leading into the stabling yard he stepped deftly over the slick cobblestones and went to check on their horses.
They seemed contented enough. Rudi had made sure they were well fed, and the straw was fresh and clean. That was to be expected – Vagan ran one of the tightest ships for miles around. Vaskrian knew that his guvnor was just finding excuses to keep him busy. To keep him out of trouble. Honestly, what kind of trouble could he possibly –
‘Hey, look who it is – Hroghar’s greatest imaginary knight!’
Vaskrian stiffened as he registered the half-recognised voice. Turning he saw Edric – Sir Ulfius’ new squire. Edric was a commoner like himself – he hailed from the Brenning Wold, and had come south seeking service after his old master passed away. Or that was the story he told. More likely he had been let go for unruly behaviour – he’d already been in plenty of brawls since arriving at Hroghar last year. He’d won all of them too.
Why Sir Ulfius had taken him on was uncertain – the other knights had muttered something about the old fellow trying to be charitable and give an opportunity to the less fortunate. Or perhaps he just wanted a squire who knew how to fight and didn’t care much for the rest. At any rate, Edric was certainly obsequious enough around his master: like all bullies, he knew just when to knuckle under.
Edric had quickly learned of Vaskrian’s ambitions upon joining the castle retinue, and taken an instant dislike to him on that account. One of many enemies he had Rutgar to thank for, he supposed.
‘Well met, Edric,’ said Vaskrian cautiously, remembering his guvnor’s admonition. Edric was accompanied by Cedric, Sir Rudd’s son and heir. Unlike Edric he was of noble birth, but there his superiority over his fellow squire ended. Edric was tall and thick-limbed, with a bull neck and a face to match. No charmer, but not one to pick a fight with lightly. Cedric on the other hand was pale, sickly looking and weak. What’s more he knew it.
Edric brayed with laughter. ‘Well met? Hah, he even tries to talk like a proper knight! You’re no knight, Vaskrian – you’re a commoner, just like me. What’s your problem, eh? Always got to put on airs and graces – just who do you think you are, eh?’
Edric edged forward through the drizzle towards Vaskrian as he spoke. There was an unmistakeable menace in his tone. Cedric hung back, looking confused and worried.
Vaskrian sized him up. Edric was dressed in a leather jerkin crisscrossed with iron studs. He wore a long poignard at his belt.
‘All right, Edric,’ said Vaskrian, stepping from the shelter of the stables and into the rain to show he wasn’t afraid. ‘My guvnor told me not to fight – not until we get to Harrang at least, so why don’t you - ’
‘Why don’t you shut your hole?’ Edric snarled. ‘I’m not taking orders from the likes of you – you might think you’re better than other folks, but I know damn well you’re just a common squire like me!’
Vaskrian felt the familiar anger stoke his breast. He clenched his fists at his sides as struggled to keep his composure.
‘Look, Edric, I don’t know what your beef is, but I’m damned if I’ll dance to your tune! Now why don’t you be a good lad and get out of my way – before I see to it that you lose your first fight in Efrilund.’
He hadn’t intended to say that. But as usual, his impetuous nature had got the better of him. Well, he was who he was. If it came to a fight, so be it. At least this time he’d make sure it was a fair one.
Edric’s face cracked into an ugly grin. ‘Aw no, d’you hear what he just said to me, Cedric? Think I’m gonna have to show him a thing or two, think I’m just gonna have to...’
Cedric had turned paler. ‘Um, Edric, is that really such a good idea...?’ his voice trailed off. Vaskrian thought him utterly contemptible. Rutgar and Derrick were second-rate – but this one was positively frail. Was this the kind of person they guaranteed knighthoods to? The thought of it made him sick. At least Edric looked like he had some fight in him.
‘Don’t worry yourself none, Cedric,’ said Edric without taking his eyes off Vaskrian. ‘This’ll be over quite soon.’
Without warning he launched forwards, coming at Vaskrian with ham-like fists. He’d seen Edric beat his last opponent, the blacksmith’s assistant, leaving him with two missing teeth and a broken nose. He knew that if one of those hams landed on him he stood to meet a similar fate.
Vaskrian darted to one side as Edric closed on him. His fists hit rain and thin air. Stepping in quickly he caught him in the ear with a swift hammer punch.
Edric howled in pain and rage as he whirled around and aimed a blow at his face. Vaskrian ducked it, then dodged a second punch, before stepping in again and delivering a vicious uppercut to Edric’s chin. It should have felled a normal man but Edric was tougher and stronger than most. He staggered back spitting blood, but quickly regained his composure.
Vaskrian was content to let Edric come at him again. He always fought well from the defensive, counter-punching came naturally to him. He nimbly dodged another flurry of blows before stepping in again and delivering a solid punch to Edric’s right eye. He grunted with the force of the impact. That would bruise nicely come morning.
Vaskrian could have gone for another attack but again he pulled back, circling his foe, goading him to try another onslaught. This time Edric seemed wary, but he soon lost his patience. With a roar he came at him again, fists flailing...
Whack! Again Vaskrian sidestepped and caught him another bruising blow, right on the nose. This time he followed it up instantly with another one in the same place. Edric staggered back, blood streaming down his face.
Vaskrian pressed forward, ready to deliver the knock-out punch...
In his eagerness to finish the fight he forgot his footing. Slipping on a wet cobblestone he suddenly found himself flat on his back.
He struggled to regain his feet in time but it was too late: Edric was down on him, crushing him back to the ground with his weight. Desperately Vaskrian reached up and closed his hands around Edric’s wrists, but it was a straight contest of brute strength now and one he could not hope to win
. With an evil smile the bloodied squire wrenched his right hand free and curled it into a huge fist...
‘All right, that’s enough!’
Both squires froze then turned to look at the speaker. It was Sir Ulfius, standing at the doorway, the innkeeper Vagan just behind him frowning disapprovingly. Cedric had backed off, a fearful expression stamped across his weakling face.
‘I said, that’s enough!’ repeated Ulfius with a growl. He was a well-made knight in middle age, and had a stern patrician manner. You didn’t disobey a man like that, especially not if he was your benefactor.
‘Forgive me, Sir Ulfius,’ said Edric, lurching to his feet and grovelling in the rain. ‘But the churl Vaskrian cheeked your house – I had no choice but to teach him a lesson!’
‘That’s a damned lie!’ yelled Vaskrian, also getting up. You weren’t meant to curse around your superiors, but the false accusation and adrenalin from the fight had robbed him of his self-possession. Not that he had much at the best of times.
Luckily Sir Ulfius was having none of it. ‘All right, that’s enough from both of you! A pair of hot-heads, and no mistake! Why can’t you learn to conduct yourselves like the gentlemen you’re supposed to be – like Cedric here? I should’ve known that common blood runs thicker than water! You belong in the stables with the horses, both of you!’
Vaskrian had to bite his lip to stop himself from saying something foolish. Glancing sidelong at Edric he could see the big man trying to suppress similar emotions, panting heavily as blood streamed from his nose.
‘Edric – I sent you out here to check on my horses, not roll around in the dirt like the peasant you are! So get to it – and then clean yourself up, for Reus’ sake! You disgrace my name, and the name of my house!’
‘Yes sire,’ replied Edric, glowering, before turning to do as he was told.
The knight fixed Vaskrian with a steely glare. ‘And you, master Vaskrian – never far from trouble! At least Edric has the excuse of being a Wolding churl – but your father served Hroghar’s garrison with dignity and honour his whole life! A poor successor to him you are – I’ll be having words with your master, mark that! Sir Branas has evidently been far too lenient with you.’
With a sneer Sir Ulfius turned on his heel and disappeared back into the common room.
Vaskrian was left standing in the rain, trembling with rage. Vagan eyed him not without sympathy from the doorway. Cedric looked about him with a face like a hooked fish, before stumbling back indoors past the innkeeper.
‘Aye, c’mon lad,’ said Vagan in a kindly voice. ‘Get thee indoors – the rain’s hardening and you’ll catch your death. I’m sorry I called the knight out now – but I can’t have brawling on the premises, you understand. This is a respectable establishment.’
‘I don’t see much in the way of respect,’ retorted Vaskrian bitterly.
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. ‘Heavens, lad, you’re making mountains out of molehills now! This’ll all blow over, don’t you worry – I’ve known Sir Ulfius and Sir Branas both for many a year now, their bark’s worse’n their bite. Come inside – I’ll shout you a stoop of ale, on the house. It’s Old Whitsom’s Finest – a good drop for a fevered head, do wonders for your choler it will.’
Sighing, Vaskrian decided to take the innkeeper’s advice – and his offer of a free ale. Vagan was gruff enough but a kindly soul too, he had no quarrel with him.
Back inside the taproom he saw no sign of Sir Ulfius. Probably off upstairs to speak with his guvnor. That would land him right in it and no mistake – the last thing Sir Branas wanted to hear in his state was that his squire had succeeded in doing exactly the opposite of what he’d been told. Vaskrian tried not to think about it as he took another pull on his ale. It was frothy and sweet – by far, the best thing yet about his day.
Just then he caught sight of the serving wench with the dark hair. She was bringing a tray of empty tankards back to the counter, where Vagan had resumed bartending, much to the evident relief of the hapless Rudi.
Taking her in, Vaskrian reflected that maybe his day was about to get better. Gulping back another swig of strong beer he screwed up his courage and caught the girl’s sleeve as she was passing by.
‘Hey... what’s your name?’ he asked bluntly. Well, subtlety had never been his strong point.
‘Kyra,’ she replied, a quizzical look on her winsome face. He felt her dark eyes on him. Oh, she was interested alright.
‘Kyra... I’m Vaskrian. I know you’re working right now, but how about you join me for a drink later on?’
She smiled prettily, her eyes flashing. ‘Vaskrian? Esquire of Hroghar?’ she asked.
‘That’s me,’ he replied, elated that she knew who he was.
She laughed. A merry dismissive laugh. ‘Oh no! I know all about you – you’ve just been fighting in the yard, haven’t you? I can see the mud on your brigandine. Sorry, Vaskrian, but I’m a nice girl and I don’t go in for brawlers. Shame really – you’re quite handsome as it goes.’
Without another word she breezed off. Slumping over his beer the squire shook his head disconsolately. When oh when would his luck change?
CHAPTER X
The Hunter In The Dark
The two friars took their leave of the cave after a snatched breakfast of biscuit and raisins. Hungry as he usually was, Adelko could barely force down even this meagre fare; he had spent a sleepless night, his half-waking dreams troubled by frightful visions.
The strange and horrible cry lingered in his mind long after they had set off along the muddy trail taking them down into the Brenning Wold. Only when they stopped for another bite at noon did his jangling nerves begin to ease.
The terrain they were now travelling through afforded little comfort; its rude low-lying hills lacked even the harsh beauty of the Highlands, with just the odd distant hamlet or forlorn copse to break the monotony. The weather too was unsparing, and a mean drizzle blown by a steady wind gradually permeated his habit and undergarments, spitting derisively in his face with a maddening persistence.
Their first day’s journey across the lowland wilderness ended in a wretched night spent under an old chestnut tree that ill afforded them shelter. Worse still, the infernal howling returned to plague them, although thankfully it was less loud than on the previous night. All the same, it set Adelko’s teeth on edge, and his body tensed and shivered with renewed vigour under his rain-soaked blanket. The following day they rode hard, for Horskram was clearly troubled and in no mood to tarry. The rain mercifully abated, although the clouds remained densely packed, rubbing their shoulders together menacingly like brooding giants.
As they journeyed further south, the novice began to notice more signs of habitation, espying on a couple of occasions a stout wooden hall that signified a knight’s residence. But the sight brought him little cheer, for with it came thoughts of food and shelter, of which there was little to be had – Horskram was determined that they should speak to no strangers, refusing even to stop at the few villages they passed through.
Feeling the resentful eyes of their unfortunate inhabitants as they trotted briskly past, Adelko was glad of that much at least. Their stunted malnourished forms were shockingly less sturdy than those of his highland brethren: clearly his father’s old stories of their mistreatment by the Wolding barons had been no lie.
Around late afternoon they reached a crossroads, where a grisly sight greeted them. From a makeshift gibbet overlooking the intersecting trails two corpses slowly turned in the breeze. Their bodies had been coated in tar to delay decomposition, but even so a cluster of enterprising flies could be seen circulating about the remains of the two unfortunates. Looking up at their ghastly faces, contorted in the awful rictus of strangulation, Adelko blenched.
‘Wolding justice,’ said his master in a scornful voice that also betrayed a hint of sadness. ‘The barons take all they can from their miserable peasantry, and then hang them when they dare to resist or take to thievery to feed
their families. Let us not tarry here Adelko, there are fairer places in the world in which to linger – but perhaps now you begin to understand why I am so chary of seeking the Wolding nobility’s hospitality.’
Taking the south-west road, the pair made good progress before finding a burnt-out priory in which to spend the night. Semi-ruined as it was, Adelko was more than grateful of its scant shelter as the wind and rain started up again. As the pair hunkered down in a corner of the priory’s single room beneath the sole surviving section of roof, Adelko found himself wondering what had befallen it. Asking his mentor, he was by now not surprised by his answer.
‘It was robbed and burned, years ago,’ said Horskram grimly.
‘Who did it? Highwaymen?’
‘No. Local robber knights.’
‘But... why would knights rob a place of holy sanctuary?’ he asked, shocked.
‘For the alms money,’ replied his master. ‘I used to know the perfect who administered here. He was a good and pious soul, who devoted his life to helping the poor and disaffected in these parts. As word spread of his good works, travellers would stop by and donate money, perhaps hoping to receive a blessing in return from a true priest. Then, one day, the local baron got wind of what was happening. He sent some of his men to make him an offer: half of his takings, in return for... protection.’
The adept fell silent, staring out of a nearby window at the deepening gloom.
‘So... what happened?’ pressed Adelko.
Horskram sighed. ‘The perfect refused. Said it was an insult to the Almighty to spend money given freely in His name on filling the coffers of a corrupt and loathsome overlord. So the baron’s men killed the priest, and all his lay followers, before robbing this place and burning it down – as a warning to the rest of the perfecthood in the area not to get ideas above their station.’
Adelko was aghast. ‘But surely that couldn’t happen... what about the King? He would never permit such a thing on his lands – that’s what my father always said!’
