Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide

by Hickman, Tracy

  Both groups converged on the bridge at nearly the same time—and were brought to a sudden halt at the tableau that was revealed under the lantern and torch light.

  The crimson shine of blood was everywhere. Squire Tomas Melthalion knelt on the bridge breathing heavily, his clothes stained in scarlet. He still gripped a long, elegant saber in his right hand. The blade, too, was streaked with blood. The Squire was shaking from head to foot and gasping for air.

  “The . . . the highwayman,” the Squire gasped.

  On the bridge nearby lay a crumpled black hood and a trampled black cape.

  Merinda Oakman, seeing the Squire’s blood-soaked shirt, dropped her rolling pin and rushed forward. “Tomas! We’re here for you! Where are you wounded?”

  “No, I’m not harmed, Merinda,” the Squire croaked, trying to catch his breath. He pushed himself up to stand on his feet but his legs were not quite up to the task. Ward Klum and Jep Walters rushed forward to catch him before he collapsed again.

  “You said it was the highwayman?” Ward asked, an urgent brilliance in his eyes as he held the Squire firmly on his feet.

  “Yes,” Tomas answered with a hoarse voice through a long, shuddering breath.

  “Dirk Gallowglass?” Harv Oakman asked in astonishment.

  Tomas cast his eyes to the ground. “Yes. Dirk Gallowglass.”

  “Tomas, you idiot!” Jep Walters said with some heat in his voice as he too held up the Squire. “What were you thinking, going up against a man like that? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

  The Squire turned toward the cooper and smiled faintly. “Why, thank you, Jep. That’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me in years.”

  “Over here, Jep,” Ward urged the cooper, indicating with his head the north side of the bridge. The two of them helped Squire Melthalion to the low wall and leaned him against it. The Master of the Counting Guild then looked into his friend’s face. “Where is he, Tomas . . . where’s Dirk Gallowglass now?”

  The Squire gazed back steadily as he croaked out the words. “Dead, Master Klum.”

  Ward reached down and forced the fingers open on the innkeeper’s hand, freeing at last the bloodied sword from his grip.

  “Dead,” Tomas repeated in a raspy voice. “I killed him.”

  The double doors of the Guild Hall swung violently open, banging against the walls loudly as the imposing figure blew into the room like a violent summer storm. He wore an ornamental breastplate covered in golden filigree signifying his rank. The pauldron on his right shoulder was also of a distinctively decorative and unique style. He had a jutting jaw and deep-set eyes that shifted to each face as he entered the room. His golden hair was graying slightly but still flowed from a high forehead back into a tightly tied tail. His eyes were of a brown color so dark as to be nearly black. Twin long scars ran down his right cheek, one continuing down his neck and out of sight beneath his armor. He presented at once an image of authority and officious impracticality, as the village was hardly under siege, and, other than to impress the locals, there was absolutely no reason for him to be wearing the armor at all.

  “Who thinks they are in charge here?” he boomed in a voice used to issuing commands from a distance.

  Everyone turned as one to face the newcomer. The Guild Hall was packed with as many of the townsfolk as could manage to fit inside the doors.

  Ward Klum, adorned not only in the hat of his Guild office but also in his official mantle as the town clerk, stood at the opposite end of the hall. “I am, my Lord Pompeanus. I speak for the village elders and all the people of Eventide when I bid you welcome and—”

  “By the authority granted me by his most august personage, King Reinard, I, Lord Pompeanus, claim the right of jurisdiction over matters before this inquiry and to the prosecution of those parties found guilty in the eyes of justice and the King’s Law!” Two enormous men followed Lord Pompeanus into the hall, both more sensibly dressed in linen shirts and matching doublets. Everyone in the hall knew at once that they were knights in Lord Pompeanus’s service, as the power of their form was exceeded only by the enormity of their contempt. They followed their master as he moved forward, limping with each step to heavily favor his right leg on his march toward Ward Klum. Dust from their lord’s cape and leggings gathered on the long ride from Mordale now billowed onto the polished floor around him with every stride down the center of the room. “I will conduct this inquiry as I see fit, is that clear to everyone here?”

  “We had news of your coming,” Ward Klum offered the rapidly approaching warrior. “We trust we have anticipated your needs and—”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Pompeanus pulled off one of his gloves as he stepped onto the raised platform at the end of the Guild Hall. He sat down at once in the guildmaster’s chair. His companion knights took positions on either side of him, folding their arms across their massive chests. “You seem to know the particulars—who are you?”

  “I am Guildmaster Ward Klum, my Lord,” he replied with a slight bow. “I am also the King’s Clerk in Eventide.”

  “Very well, Master Klum,” the old warrior said, waving his gloves in his hand. “Present the proceedings.”

  Ward nodded and then turned to face the assemblage. “By decree of His Highness, King Reinard, and in his Most August Name, we proclaim open the inquest into the death of—”

  “HOLD!” bellowed Lord Pompeanus.

  “My lord?” Ward said evenly as he turned to face the king’s cousin.

  “The arrest of the highwayman Dirk Gallowglass is what interests me,” Pompeanus said under his barely controlled breath. “It is the only reason I have ridden all these hours to this pointless little collection of huts!”

  “Aye, my lord,” Ward nodded with a calm that astonished everyone in the room, including the escorting knights of the lord.

  “Then what’s this Blue Lady baggage about an inquest?” the lord bellowed.

  “It is an inquest into the death of the highwayman Dirk Gallowglass,” Klum answered.

  “He’s dead?” It was Pompeanus’s turn to be astonished. “When?”

  “Last night,” Ward answered.

  Lord Pompeanus leaned forward, a dangerous edge to his voice. “He died in your custody?”

  “No, my lord.” Ward cleared his throat. “The man originally arrested as Dirk Gallowglass later proved to have been falsely accused as a ruse by the highwayman to divert suspicion from himself. He was a most sinister and cunning rogue.”

  The lord’s eye’s narrowed.

  “He died in a most gruesome manner,” Ward added. “Would my lord care to hear the particulars?”

  Lord Pompeanus sat back. “Proceed.”

  Ward turned to face the assemblage. Jarod sat on a bench in the front row next to his mother, who held his hand tightly in her own. Orlynda had been in a panic ever since her son’s arrest—even though it largely involved him moving from his small room above the countinghouse into the dungeon two floors below. No amount of coaxing by Ward, however, would convince her that the distance was trivial. She visited him several times a day, bringing him so many tarts, breads, and apples that he had to start sharing them with Xander Lamplighter. Tomas Melthalion and his wife, Daphne, were in the front row on the opposite side of the aisle from Jarod although their daughter, Evangeline, was conspicuously absent. Even that fool Bard stood leaning against the back wall, his scribe near him in the corner faithfully and completely recording every nuance of the proceedings—for which Ward would later be most grateful.

  “The inquest calls Merinda Oakman to answer truthfully in the name of the king!”

  “Constable Pro Tempore, you examined the area where Dirk Gallowglass died?”

  “Aye, sire, that I did, with utmost care of duty! Wouldn’t want nobody thinking that the Constable Pro Tempore were not doing his job right proper!”

  “Please, just answer my questions,” Ward sighed. The constable was the fifth of his witnesses after Merinda and Harv Oakman, Garth
Bolly, and Jep Walters. By far the constable had been the most troublesome of the witnesses, most likely owing to the fact that he was an official and, as such, knew less about what was going on than anyone else. In truth, it had taken a troubling amount of time to even find the Constable Pro Tempore, who had not been discovered until after sunrise this morning.

  “That are what I be doing, yer sireship!”

  “What did you see on Bolly’s Bridge?”

  “It were a most horrible sight indeed, Master Klum! There were blood everywhere . . . beggin’ your pardon, ladies! It were even on the highwayman’s horse when I examined it later.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” Ward said as if to dismiss Xander. “You may sit down now.”

  “That’s Constable Pro Tempore, Master Klum. Oh, and it were all down the horse’s flanks, that blood was, and on them saddlebags, too, and—”

  Ward called out loudly as he ignored Xander, “The inquest calls Tomas Melthalion to answer truthfully in the name of the king!”

  “Yes, he was very much a rogue,” Tomas said, standing with his hat in his hands before the platform. “And a man whose acquaintance I was sorry to make.”

  “Then you had met this highwayman before?” Ward asked.

  “Yes, Ward . . . er, sire. He came to the inn in the middle of the night just nigh over six months past, banging on the door and threatening us all. He forced his way into the Griffon’s Tale and threatened not only myself but my daughter, Evangeline, and Lord Gallivant as well.”

  Lord Pompeanus leaned forward. “Lord Gallivant, you say?”

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Can’t be the same,” the lord muttered, shaking his head and leaning back. “Go on.”

  “Well, he threatened us with our lives!” Tomas continued. “He was wounded—bleeding in the shoulder—and demanded that we treat him or he would kill everyone in the house and burn it to the ground!”

  A murmur ran through the crowd in the hall.

  “Just a moment,” Pompeanus interrupted again. “You say this was about six months ago?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And he was wounded in the shoulder?”

  “Aye . . . most seriously, sire.”

  “HA!” Lord Pompeanus smiled, banging his fist on the arm of the chair. “Sir Konrad! You lose! Settle up!”

  One of the escorting knights sighed, drew out a coin purse, and slapped it into the beckoning hand of the lord.

  “Proceed!” said the grinning Pompeanus.

  “So you treated his wounds and he left?” Ward prompted.

  “Would that were all there was to it,” Tomas said, shaking his head. “His wounds were deep and required some time to heal. We had no choice but to keep him hidden in the inn on the very threat of our lives! Sadly, it was my dear daughter, Evangeline, who was forced to care for him the most . . . and in that dark time the villainous highwayman began making unseemly advances on my innocent daughter!”

  Several of the Cobblestone ladies gasped and the Widow Merryweather threatened to swoon. Even the Gossip Fairy managed to appear shocked.

  “He became obsessed with her,” Tomas continued. “I turned him out as quickly as I dared, but on those nights when the moon shone brighter he would come to the inn and try to coerce my daughter away from her home and her friends!”

  “And did she go with him?” Ward asked.

  “No, sire, she did not!” Squire Tomas asserted. “My daughter was not so easily persuaded!”

  Lord Pompeanus leaned forward. “You are an innkeeper?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And she was an innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “And you say she was not easily persuaded?”

  “As I have said, my lord.”

  Lord Pompeanus shrugged. “How odd.”

  “She was engaged to be married, my lord . . . to a farmer.”

  “Did anyone else know of this engagement?”

  “No, sire. It was not announced, as we feared it might incense the highwayman’s wrath. Evangeline tried otherwise to dissuade him.”

  “And still the highwayman pursued her?” Ward asked.

  “He was a scoundrel, sire! Two days ago he discovered that Evangeline was to be married—in Welston. He went mad with jealousy—like some highwaymen do, I believe—and in the middle of the night rode into town at a full gallop yelling the name of ‘Evangeline’ at the top of his lungs with such force that he nearly lost his voice from the effort. I heard him coming. I grabbed that saber and ran out to stop him before he could reach my Evangeline and do her harm.”

  “A unique weapon,” Pompeanus mused as he examined the sword. “A fine edge, although it’s been abused . . . nicked in several places on the leading edge. So you ran toward the highwayman?”

  “Yes, my lord . . .”

  “You managed to wake up, dress, grab this saber, and run all the way to the bridge after hearing the highwayman riding and shouting from the south end of the village?”

  “Yes, my lord. I was already awake and dressed, sire. I had a pair of hogs to be butchered in preparation for the wedding.”

  “The secret wedding?” Pompeanus asked quietly.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Bloody business, butchering hogs,” Pompeanus said. “You dealt with a lot of blood last night, didn’t you, Squire?”

  Tomas gulped once. “Yes, my lord. I reached the center of the bridge just as Gallowglass started across it. I challenged him, blocking his path and startling his horse. The horse braced to a stop so suddenly that the highwayman was tossed from the saddle onto the bridge. He rolled toward me, then sprang to his feet!”

  The townsfolk of Eventide leaned forward—the silence in the room was profound. Squire Tomas had always believed himself to be a storyteller, and, for the most part, the citizens of Eventide had ignored his tales. But this was the most important story of his life, and from somewhere deep inside he found the courage to tell it with style, conviction, and power.

  “His sword slid almost without a sound from its scabbard. ‘Evangeline will be mine or no one’s,’ he says to me.

  “‘She will never be yours, accursed rascal!’ says I. Then he lunged at me with his blade. I countered at once and our weapons crashed together in ringing blows—steel sliding against steel! The cut and parry drove our blades against the railing of the bridge, stone shattering to shards from the fierce blows.

  “‘I am the highwayman!’ cries he. ‘I take what I want!’

  “‘And I keep what is mine!’ says I to him, turning his blade aside and thrusting my own into your lordship’s previous wound!”

  The townsfolk drew in a collective breath.

  “As he staggered back, I shouted, ‘You will haunt us no more!’ And with a stroke of my saber blade, I severed his head from his body, knocking it completely off the bridge and into the swirling waters of the river below!”

  No one moved. Not even Widow Merryweather dared to swoon for fear of missing what might come next.

  Lord Pompeanus leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  Ward Klum turned to look back at the lord. Tomas looked up expectantly.

  “You say you took his head clean from his shoulders?” Pompeanus asked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Knocked it right into the river?”

  “As I said, my lord.”

  “And you did this with a saber blade that had already lost its edge from these repeated furious blows of your sword against the stone of the bridge walls?”

  Tomas paused. “Yes, that’s how it happened, my lord.”

  “That accounts for the head . . . but where’s the body?”

  “Sire?”

  Lord Pompeanus opened his hands in front of him. “Well, you took off this knave’s head and knocked it into the river—but the body remained.”

  “Oh, no, sire! It fell into the river too.”

  “Ah!” Lord Pompeanus smiled. “I see. So you knocked bot
h the head and the body into the river?”

  “Well, I’m not sure . . .”

  “So who bled on the bridge, Squire?” Pompeanus continued. “If the head and the body are in the river, where did all the blood come from?”

  “From the body, sire,” Tomas said. “I had taken off his head with the saber.”

  “So, if I am to understand you properly,” Pompeanus said with a venomous grin, “the headless body stood around at the side of the bridge for a while, bleeding on the stones and, apparently, on the horse, until, tired of the business, it pitched itself over the rail?”

  “No, sire!” Tomas answered, sweat breaking on his brow. “The horse was not there then!”

  “But the horse had blood covering it.” Lord Pompeanus’s grin deepened.

  “No doubt, sire . . . no doubt the reopening of his previous wounds.”

  “But the blood was on the horse’s flanks,” Pompeanus said quietly. “It is your testimony that the highwayman was riding at a full gallop backward through the—”

  The doors at the back of the hall opened.

  Lord Pompeanus looked up, his grin suddenly falling.

  Aren Bennis stood, hat in hand, at the back of the hall. “Sorry to interupt,” the centaur rumbled in his deep voice. “I have a message for Lord Pompeanus that must be delivered at once.”

  Lord Pompeanus stood up suddenly, staring at Farmer Bennis.

  “If your lordship will join me outside for a moment, I will deliver my message,” Bennis said, his deep-set eyes never leaving Pompeanus. “And if all you good people will just wait here, it shouldn’t take but a moment, and things will be properly settled.”