Knight's Valor

by Ronald Coleborn

  The high vassor took his seat again and gestured to the newcomer. “Come hither, lad. Don’t stand there like a doltish ape. What news? Give me your report.”

  The scout made haste to stand before the high vassor, taking quick but awkward steps as he spoke. “If I may speak freely, sir.”

  “You as well?” said the high vassor, regarding the young scout with a furrowed brow. “The proper address is ‘my lord.’ This castle is bursting with insubordinates.“

  The scout attempted a graceful bow and nearly succeeded. “Beg pardon, milord. I’ve just returned from the fields of Aklon, and I have distressing news. We’ve failed in our quest, sir … milord.”

  The high vassor leaned forward, his face a mask of confusion. “Failed? What can you mean? Explain yourself, lad.“

  The scout cleared his throat three times while rubbing the back of his shaggy head with a twitchy hand. “Your knights failed, milord. Nearly every man among them is killed, save perhaps eight or so by my rough count. Saw them retreating just as I fled the scene of battle myself, but Riders of the Dread Order were already in pursuit, as was a pack of their Ivull dogs, so I’m not entirely sure of their fate. But if they made it back to Glyssian land and managed to reach a hamlet or village such as Killik or Heth, I believe they’d stand a good chance of regrouping and probably making it back here alive to give a further report.”

  The high vassor’s face paled as he listened to the account. Hearing it had reduced him to a statue. He was unable to move and spoke not a word in reply.

  Vayjun had no such hesitation. He gestured toward the scout and said, “Please, do carry on. I believe you were musing about the chances of our valiant survivors making it back here alive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let the Ancients smile on them and speed them on their way,” Vayjun said. “But what of the battle? What did you see during the melee?”

  The scout, who seemed less nervous now, nodded at the primus. “There were sapients in the battle, such as yourself, only these were sapients of the West.”

  “Of the West, you say?” Vayjun said.

  “Aye. They were clad in black and red, same as you sapients here—black leather breeches under red silk tunics and flowing black cloaks—but they used enchantments during the fight.”

  Vayjun opened his eyes wide. “They never.”

  “But they did. Probably shadow crafts, such as the old taletellers speak of. Knights of the Outer Guard were flying into walls as though the black funnel winds had taken hold of them. And at times, the sapients would move their hands—just their hands alone, mind you—and the heads of many of our men were twisted so hard that I heard their necks snapping like twigs, even from a distance.”

  “Perhaps too distant to see clearly,” Vayjun said.

  The scout shook his head. “I’d kept a good vantage point a ways off, and I was able to see it all.”

  “Did these sapients of the West wield weapons?”

  “No, sir, excepting their hands, which were weapon enough.”

  “What else?” Vayjun asked.

  “While the sapients conducted their fierce business, the Riders of the Dread Order and Farisin’s armored mercenaries did the rest, cutting down near everyone else. Crumbs from the table if you ask me. I seen the Dread Lord Farisin himself in battle for a time as well, only he was a deal more powerful than his sapients. I saw him lift scores of men with the wave of a hand, and then he’d drive them into the raised spears of his lancers. I tell you, I have seen nothing like it in all my days.”

  “Is that all of it?”

  “Yes, Primus.”

  “Very well,” said Vayjun, gently stroking the stubbles on his cheek with the back of his hand. “I may have another task for you before long. I’ll summon you if I have need. Make yourself available.”

  “As you will it, Primus,” the scout said, attempting another graceful bow. He was improving with each attempt, though the mark had been missed to this point.

  “You may leave,” Vayjun said, slowly getting to his feet.

  The scout moved hastily toward the door and left the room. Vayjun turned to the high vassor, who was still as pale as parchment. “I’ll take my leave,” Vayjun said.

  “I’m not through with you yet,” the high vassor said. His voice cracked as he spoke, and his eyes were unfocused. “If these men of the plain are truly marshalling, when can we expect them to reach our gates?”

  Vayjun did not hesitate in offering up a response. “At first light, on the morrow, my lord. I’m afraid I’m a little late in getting the news to you.” With that, he gave a graceful bow and excused himself before leaving the room.

  Oil lamps blazed above the doors of the modest wattle and daub homes that fronted the cobblestone street in the village of Heth. For a small village, the street boasted a half dozen near-luxurious dwellings made of brick, which stood out like gold charms on the face of a snouted horg. Commonborn folk were everywhere, some fetching fruit and fish from street vendors, others standing idle in front of the brothel that stood two stories taller than the next-tallest building.

  As soon as they entered Heth, the knights rid themselves of the cumbersome armor that did no more now than mark them as targets for their pursuing enemies. They purchased fresh tunics and breeches from the local tailor and new boots from a cobbler’s shop, and then went their separate ways. While Ellerick and Sendin craved meat and drink, and the other three knights the comforts of the bustling brothel, Jerreb was in need of a blacksmith to see about sharpening his longsword. Life Ender, he called it, and it was a fitting name. The silver blade with the river snake etching had entered more men than Jerreb could count. He had been called to most of the realm’s large cities—Flavah, Dorse, Eslig, Mayul, and others—to deal with the criminal rogues those cities had been attracting of late. He wondered if the small village of Heth was any different. He knew the place, but it had been quite some time since his last visit.

  Jerreb found a blacksmith’s shop at the end of a polluted back alley just off the main street and waited there while the smith did his work. When he left, he spotted Ellerick and Sendin standing in front of a doorstep. They were talking to a frail old woman in rags peddling olive oil there, with two small children seated on either side of her.

  As Jerreb approached the two knights, he heard Sendin ask of the woman, “All three of them, together?”

  The old woman nodded her small, gray head. “On white horses.” She pointed up the street. “Headed off that way, at a goodly pace.”

  Jerreb placed a hand on Sendin’s broad shoulder. “What’s this?”

  “I went off to fetch a decent morsel with young Ellerick here after we tied up our horses,” Sendin replied. “When we went to look in on those three flank knights of yours, at the brothel just there, they were nowhere to be seen. After asking about, I got to thinking they probably deserted, same as the others.” He jabbed a thumb toward the old woman. “She confirms it. Saw them riding off.”

  “That makes five in all,” Jerreb said.

  “Indeed.”

  Silence hung between them for a few moments, till Jerreb broke it. “What of you two. Should I be worried?” He darted his eyes back and forth between the two men.

  Sendin’s face exhibited a flurry of emotions, including surprise, worry, and finally resentment. “I … I’m insulted by the very question, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Good enough,” Jerreb said with a nod, and he turned to Ellerick.

  The young knight shrugged. “I’ve no holdings or lands in Usig. Nor ties, either. Nowt to go back to. Afraid you’re stuck with me, sir.”

  “I take you at your words,” Jerreb said. “You two had better see about sharpening your swords. Our fighting days are far from over.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sendin said, placing his hand on the hilt of his weapon.

  “But it can wait,” Jerreb said. “Given this recent news, I could use something strong to drink.” He turned to the old woman.
“Where can we find a good alehouse?”

  Sendin and Ellerick grinned like devils as they exchanged a glance.

  The Barley Gut was nearly empty, three of its four serving wenches seated idly at tables, the fourth enjoying the lap of a portly patron who looked highborn enough to possess ample coin.

  A fat barkeep was dozing behind the bar, his fleshy face resting on an open palm, when Sendin slapped a hand on the counter. The barkeep started and looked around hastily before he settled himself and studied the faces of the three strangers.

  “Tell me, barkeep,” said Sendin, “why’s this piss hole not crawling with drunkards and wetshirt brawlers?”

  The barkeep grabbed a rag and mopped the rolls of flesh at the side of his neck. “Look here, I don’t want no trouble from your kind. I seen enough of it in the past three days to last me out. If you’re here for a drink, I can fix you up. Anything else that meets your fancy will have to be found elsewhere.”

  “We’ll take three servings of your best ale,” said Jerreb. “We’re not in the business of bringing trouble to the doorsteps of decent fellows such as yourself.”

  “That there’s no decent feller,” a voice called out from the rear of the establishment. When the three men looked in the direction whence it came, they saw a large, bronze-skinned man in warrior furs tipping his tankard to get at the dregs. A wooden handle leaned against the wall behind him, a spiked steel ball fixed to one end—the famed Livleean mace. About his neck was a necklace of onyx stones, polished to a soft sheen that caught the dim light of the torches along the walls. Between every fifth stone hung a long, sharp maul tooth from a black dorryx—deadly oversized cats that roamed Bokrh Forest.

  Sendin bellowed where he stood as he aimed a hand at the bearded giant in the far corner. “Ghendris, is that you?”

  “In the flesh, king’s man,” the man called Ghendris said in reply, his gaze hard and unyielding.

  Sendin’s face turned to stone. “I’m no king’s man,” he spat.

  “You’re sworn to one, no?” Ghendris said. “Makes you one from where I’m sitting. Barkeep, I’ll have another,” he added, raising his tankard. “Why don’t you just bring a flagon this time.”

  The barkeep filled three tankards with a dark ale and pushed them across the counter toward Jerreb. “That’ll be three realm marks.”

  Jerreb paid him and summoned a serving wench before following Sendin and Ellerick to Ghendris’s table. “I take it you two know each other,” Jerreb said, looking at the bearded men as the wench walked the drinks over to him.

  Sendin and Ellerick were about to take seats when Ghendris said, “I don’t recall inviting the likes of you three to mi table.” His eyes, meanwhile, were burning a hole in the wench’s face. She hesitated and looked to Jerreb for a sign that would indicate what she might do.

  Jerreb looked to Sendin.

  “Still a pisser, I see,” Sendin said to Ghendris as he took his seat across from the man.

  A smile broke across Ghendris’s face at last, and he followed it with a hoarse laugh. “I see you’ve still got at least one stone between those maiden legs of yours, Sendin of Livlee.”

  Sendin looked up at his commander and waved a hand at an empty seat. “Sit, Sir Jerreb.” He nodded at Ellerick to do the same. The serving wench set the drinks before them and returned to the bar.

  “What brings you to Heth?” Sendin asked Ghendris.

  “I was about to ask you the same,” the warrior said. “Passing through miself. Don’t exactly know where I’m bound.”

  Sendin looked across at Jerreb while gesturing toward the warrior. “This is Ghendris, of Livlee.”

  “Now don’t you go addressing me as a fool knight. That’s your lot. I’m just Ghendris, not of anywhere. And Livlee’s behind me now.”

  Sendin raised his hands in surrender. “Easy, mate. Just making the usual introductions. Still sore on knights, I see.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t have a taste for them,” said Ghendris. “Why you threw in with them is a warlock’s puzzle box, you ask me. You’re a marauder by blood. Your father was one, and his father before him.”

  “My father never thought much of me. Makes following in his footsteps a bit of a struggle, eh? Besides, being a knight is a noble cause. The realm owes its very existence to the Outer Guard.”

  “I’ll hold my tongue for the sake of your two fellow king’s men here, whose sword hilts mark ’em as knights.”

  Ellerick took a long noisy drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he belched loudly and said to Ghendris, “You favor knights a sight more than I favor this bloody conversation.”

  Ghendris roared with a laughter that threatened destruction as it boomed through the alehouse. The others joined in, and Ghendris relaxed. “Talk about your pissers,” he said to Sendin.

  Jerreb took a look around the empty establishment. “You drive off the villagers with your rare charm and agreeable nature, Ghendris?”

  “Wasn’t my doing. You have the Dremsa plainsmen to thank for that.”

  “What’s your meaning?” Sendin asked, his eyebrow arched. “We pushed through Dremsa not more than two days ago.”

  “Did any plainsmen trouble you?” Ghendris asked.

  “Not a one,” said Jerreb.

  “That’s because they rode through here ten, maybe fifteen thousand strong.”

  “How long ago?” Jerreb asked.

  “Two days,” said Ghendris.

  “Which direction?” Sendin asked.

  “High Road,” said Ghendris. “But they aren’t pushing north to Killik or even High Court. Storms Reach is what they’re after. The castle proper, in fact, from what I heard.”

  “War?” Jerreb said.

  Ghendris nodded and stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. “Seems they mean to unseat the king. Many men were hired from Heth as well. They even tried to drag me into it, but while I don’t have a stomach for this or any other king, vassor, or high lord, I’m also not keen on going against a king who has the right to rule, as it were. They’ve a full marching garrison among them, many foot soldiers and battle-tested warriors besides, not counting all the eager and desperate cutthroats and brigands in their ranks. Bloody plainsmen even promised me a fair piece of land south of here in the hopes that I’d throw in with them. Choice land, they said, at the mouth of Kilgud Lake.”

  Jerreb’s eyes widened. “Rivencrest.”

  “Aye,” said Ghendris. “Fairest land south of Eastern Plain.”

  “That was my home,” Jerreb said. “Is my home.”

  The other two knights regarded him with keen interest, puzzled by his correction. Jerreb shared a glance with them and added, “I have lands in Rivencrest yet,” he admitted before hesitating. “And a wife.”

  “A wife? Land?” Ellerick blurted. “But … but—”

  “Easy, Ellerick,” said Sendin, placing a hand on the young Usigii’s arm. “He’s still your Head.”

  “It’s all right, Sendin,” Jerreb said. “Ellerick is right. No knight of the Outer Guard is free to possess either land or a wife, especially not a Knight at the Head.” He turned to Ellerick. “These were choices I made in my youth, at an age very close to your own.”

  “Give us her name, then,” said Ghendris.

  “Triyalle Faymun.”

  “Of the House Faymun?” Sendin said. “Highborn.”

  “I suppose she’d have to be,” said Ellerick. “Would take a fetching damsel to twist a head knight’s wits and have him risk being sent to Tooths Point for dereliction of duty and oath breaking.”

  Ghendris’s laughter crackled through the alehouse once more, and he pounded a fist into the oak tabletop. He pointed a stubby finger at Ellerick. “You’re all right for a king’s man.”

  Sendin got to his feet in haste, scraping his wooden chair against the floor as he pushed it back, and thrust his own finger in Ellerick’s face. “That’s enough out of you, boy. Another crack against our Head and I’ll see to it you�
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  “Sendin, leave it be,” said Jerreb. “There’s more to worry about than Ellerick’s imprudent words. The men of the plain are bringing a war to our gates. We must head to Storms Reach and aid the Inner Guard.”

  “The horses are spent,” said Ellerick. “And we could do with a night’s sleep ourselves, sir.”

  “Sleep will have to wait,” Jerreb said. “As to the horses, we’ll hire fresh ones from the village stable.”

  “We won’t find so much as a squire’s rouncey here,” said Ellerick. “The best they’ll have are packhorses for carting goods. A far cry from our royal coursers.”

  “They’ll have to do,” Sendin put in. “Now shut it. Last warning, boy.”

  “But I said nothing to insult Sir Jerreb,” Ellerick said.

  “The mere sound of your voice is insult enough now,” Sendin warned.

  “You three won’t make it very far in the dead of night,” Ghendris said.

  “We know these roads well,” said Jerreb.

  “No matter. Any horses you mean to secure will shrink from such a journey, not being accustomed to more than local runs. These are Heth beasts, remember. Nothing like your court variety, as young Ellerick rightly pointed out. A night’s rest will do you all a wealth of good. In the morning, you ride your coursers. I’ll ride with you as far as Killik. I’ve had my fill of Heth, to speak truth.”

  Jerreb gave it a moment’s thought and then nodded. “You have the truth of it, Ghendris. We’ll stay the night.”

  Sendin turned to Ghendris. “We hold you to your bargain. We ride at first light.”

  “Good enough. Now where’s mi bloody ale, wench?” yelled Ghendris, pounding another fist into the oak.

  High Vassor Prichard Hennis had not moved from his position at the council table in the great hall of High Court Castle since Nerus Vayjun had paid him a visit and told him that the men of the plain had not only marshaled but also were expected to reach the gates of the castle by the next morning. That alarming news had followed the equally shocking report of the disaster at Aklon, brought by the court’s senior scout, Kastor Monsig.