Knight's Struggle

by P. J. Cherubino

  Gormer’s Folly

  Cold water hit his face and shoulders like a harsh slap. He gasped and choked. Blood had run down his lip and into his mouth.

  He cursed mightily as he rolled off the table he and Pleth had loaded into the borrowed wagon.

  “Shut up!” Pleth said. “Someone might hear you.”

  “Fuck you,” Gormer growled. “I was in there with her. Lungu was there. I could have—”

  “Your nose started bleeding. You were choking on blood, and your body was starting to spasm.”

  “So what?” Gormer asked, feeling like his old self again.

  “It was too much,” Pleth replied. “You were too far away to try this. I told you this might happen. We can’t do this without you.”

  “Ass nuggets,” Gormer said, rising to his feet. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “So does my wife,” Pleth said.

  “Are we married now?” Gormer asked. He tried to follow Pleth out of the wagon.

  “Pretty much,” Pleth replied. He pushed Gormer back. “Lay down. Rest. You need it. Tell me what she said later.”

  “I’m afraid. I’m such a selfish fuck,” Gormer lamented.

  “Self-pity much?” Pleth asked.

  “Apparently,” Gormer replied with a bitter chuckle. “Without her, I don’t know who I’d be. I don’t want to be the guy I was. I need her to save me.”

  “That’s why we’re going to save her,” Pleth replied. The logic seemed sound.

  “Yeah, but motive is everything. It just feels so fucked up,” Gormer replied.

  “Whatever,” Pleth replied. “Lucky for us, we don’t have to solve that problem. We just have to use our unique talents here. We’re the bad good guys.”

  Gormer managed a laugh and collapsed onto the filthy wagon floor with a splitting headache.

  Pleth drove the rickety wagon down the narrow streets that wound around like a maze at the foot of Lungu fortress. The massive stone building relieved itself here. Black and gray water sluiced down inside passages deep inside the wall.

  They’d thought about breaking into one of the sewer pipes and climbing up the waste passages. Mortsen shot that idea down quickly. The channels were built inside the walls for a reason. In the winter, they wouldn’t freeze solid, but by the time the shit, piss, bathwater, and general drainage reached the foot, it was a river of festering slush.

  Gormer tried to steady his spinning head. It wasn’t working with the swaying of the wagon’s weak springs.

  “Why are we risking this?” Pleth asked after whipping back the canvas flap that separated the driver’s bench from the covered wagon interior.

  “Had to know,” Gormer said.

  “Know what?”

  “How bad,” Gormer replied.

  “Shit,” Pleth asked. “How bad?”

  “Bad. She’s gonna need a lot of help. She’s barely hanging on.”

  By the time they returned the wagon back to the smuggler who owned it and got back to the shop, it was nearly dusk. It was a tricky ride down the road from the fortress proper. Many switchbacks nearly drove poor Pleth over the edge.

  “That was the trickiest wagon driving I’ve ever done,” Pleth declared.

  “You want a medal?” Gormer asked, going straight for a jug of ale.

  “Sure,” Pleth said, picking up his own jug. “Why not?”

  Gormer laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “My head feels like a split melon.”

  Pleth decided not to say what was on his mind. Gormer was grateful to see the impulse fade from his face.

  The scrape of a key in the lock put them on edge before they remembered only they and Mortsen had keys. Calling a friendly locksmith was the first thing Mortsen had done.

  “I don’t trust these nutsacks not to keep a set and rob us blind,” he’d said at the time.

  To which, Gormer replied, “A thief should know.”

  Mortsen didn’t laugh then, but he was smiling when he came through the door. “My messengers got word back from the keep.”

  “That was fast,” Pleth said in surprise.

  “Relays,” Mortsen replied. “The woods people do that shit right.” A sequenced knock came to the door. Mortsen opened it and a small, gloved hand poked through, bearing a roll of paper. “Speaking of which…”

  Gormer snatched the paper from Mortsen’s hand and broke the seal. He read quickly, then summarized.

  “They got our message. The keep is secure. Vinnie, Moxy, and Tarkon are on the way. George and some of his people are coming along. Woody can’t spare many of his people, though they want to come.”

  “I know George almost as well as I know Woody,” Mortsen said. “He’s good people. So are his people.”

  “Good to know his people are people,” Pleth snarked. “And that they are good people.”

  “That goat-licking mouth,” Mortsen snapped. He squared his shoulders.

  Pleth was used to murderous threats from Mortsen by now. “You ought to know. Bet being a smart ass is how you got those gold teeth.”

  Mortsen thought that was funny, and that was lucky for Pleth. Gormer wondered how long Pleth could keep up that winning streak. “Something like that,” Mortsen said in sinister tones.

  Pleth knew not to make any more jokes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Mission Can’t Fail

  Vinnie was in charge now. That was clear. He felt like a very poor substitute for Astrid and the feeling carried.

  “Nobody else thinks that but you,” Moxy said. Vinnie had just expressed his doubts in private in the little alcove off the main hall of the Keep 52 administrative building.

  In the big room outside, once a formal space, people wounded in the fight to take the keep laid resting. Woods people attended them. A good number were from the other side. Four civil guard with black armbands watched over the wounded. They worked alongside the woods people they once considered criminals.

  “So much has changed so quickly,” Vinnie said.

  “Yes,” Moxy said. “These are honest people. Their leader was a shit, but these people know what the truth is.”

  “Those who didn’t are dead,” Vinnie replied.

  “We pretty much took care of that,” Tarkon said. He’d been standing in the doorway and had escaped Vinnie’s notice. “Everyone is ready. Woody is in charge of the keep. I made sure everybody understood your order.”

  “Do they get that?” Vinnie asked.

  “Some of the civil guard had issues,” Tarkon said. “But Woody set them straight.”

  “How so?” Vinnie asked.

  “By example,” Tarkon replied. “He caught some of his men trying to steal cheese. He put them on latrine duty.”

  Vinnie whistled. “It is a new day,” he said.

  “Not quite,” Tarkon smiled. Vinnie braced himself. “Woody ordered the kitchens to prepare a feast: cheese-onion-ale soup followed by ham and root vegetables.”

  “So, he’s entirely familiar with the storehouses,” Vinnie said, licking his lips.

  “Of course,” Tarkon replied. “He organized the duty rotations so that the woods people and the civil guard will have to eat together tonight.”

  “He has a natural talent for leadership,” Vinnie replied.

  “Ha,” George said, shouldering Tarkon aside. “Woody belongs behind a desk. I am a man of action.”

  “Is this the eavesdropping alcove?” Moxy asked. “Get me out of here.” She pushed past both men, and Vinnie followed her into the open space.

  Moxy stood toe-to-toe with George and put her fists onto her hips. She craned her neck to look up at him. “You’re a giant, jealous toad,” she declared, matter-of-factly. “You know Woody wants to be on this mission with us, right? You understand how much he wants to get Astrid back, right?”

  George seemed to shrink a couple inches, and his shoulders sagged.

  “It’s killing him to stay behind,” Vinnie added.

  “And now it’s your job to lead Woody�
��s people and yours on this mission,” Tarkon said. “We can’t afford any small feelings getting in the way. We have a job to do out of necessity.”

  George picked up his head again. “You’re right,” he said. Being humble so obviously pained him. “The old ways are over.”

  Vinnie nodded his head. “They are. And it will be up to people like you and Woody to go forward with a new way. Argan is a model of how all the people in the Protectorate can work together. This keep is now further proof of that.”

  “I get it,” George said, having had enough. “Let’s get on with it.” He turned on his heel and led them out of the large, ancient steel doors and into the courtyard where Woody waited with the team that would help them reach Lungu Fortress unnoticed.

  Woody had hand-picked the group from the members of the bandit camp deep in the woods. The group included everyone who took part in the defense of that camp against Raluca’s raiding party and the Reacher.

  One of those in the party was Merg. She stood with a battle ax leaning against her substantial hip while she worked her long, brown hair into a single, thick battle braid. George stopped short, skidding in his tracks.

  At first, Vinnie thought George had spotted a sneak attack or some other threat. Then, he noticed how George’s cheeks flushed. His lips parted slightly.

  “Oh, no,” Vinnie muttered under his breath as George proceeded again. He was entirely focused on Merg.

  “George’s wandering heart,” Woody snickered as he stopped by Vinnie’s shoulder.

  Moxy and Tarkon were all grins as they watched George catch the spark.

  “Astrid will be relieved that George has another object for his affections,” Vinnie said.

  George walked right up to Merg and stood there toe-to-toe. “I don’t know you,” he said with a sneer. He loomed over Merg, who casually finished with her braid and tossed it back over her shoulder.

  “Why should you?” Merg growled back.

  “They tell me you stay at the hideaway camp,” George said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Stay?” Merg scoffed. “I lay my head there sometimes. Mostly, I’m out on raids.”

  George harrumphed and made a show of looking her over. “You don’t look like a fighter to me,” George said. “More like a breeder.”

  Vinnie gasped and was about to lunge forward, but Woody stayed him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” Woody said. “This will be good.” Merg smiled back and batted her eyelashes. “Oh, shit,” Woody said. “Teeth smiles are bad.”

  Before Woody could get the declaration out of his mouth, Merg’s foot flashed forward and caught George between the legs. The big man grunted and absorbed a kick to the nuts that would have made most men puke. He bent forward only a little, to Merg’s obvious surprise.

  George tried to swing with his right fist, but Merg blocked it easily with her left, moving so fast she was inside George’s substantial reach. She planted a right-cross on George’s chin, staggering him.

  George stumbled back, laughing hysterically. He wiped fresh blood from his split lip and held up his free hand. “I stand corrected,” George said. “You’ll do just fine.”

  Merg shook her head and went back to pick up her ax, which she let fall to teach George a lesson.

  The woods people howled with laughter at the scene. Some of the rescue party were civil guard, and they seemed confused. A few of the woods people ambled over to help them understand what had happen by way of lewd jokes.

  “Not a disciplined bunch,” Tarkon said, folding his arms. “But effective. They’re the strangest army I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s a different kind of discipline,” Vinnie said. “It took me a while to recognize that. Astrid saw it right away.”

  Tarkon nodded his head with gravity while the rescue party of fifty settled into order. The former bandits and the civil guard blended together as everyone proceeded towards the gates.

  Fully-outfitted horses waited for them, attended by the young woods people.

  “Why do your youngsters always handle the horses?” Vinnie overheard one of the civil guard ask the woods person beside him.

  “The young are better with horses,” the woman replied. “Tending horses is the first job we get as soon as we’re able. Usually, around seven or eight.”

  The civil guard whistled. “That’s why you’re all so tough and smart,” the guard replied.

  The woman smiled in spite of herself. “If you say so,” she replied.

  “I mean it,” the guard said, sounding a bit hurt.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, taking the time to make significant eye contact.

  It took a few minutes for everyone to saddle up. George gave the command to move out while Tarkon, Moxy, and Vinnie took up the rear. Until they got to the Fortress, George was in charge. They planned to use the Toll Road as much as possible. At some point near the keep, though, they’d need to dissolve into the woods and sneak into the fortress wards in small groups. They still had no plan for that.

  Time was short. They were making things up as they went along. Word came through the messenger relays that Gormer would have someone waiting for them at a bandit hideout just off the Toll Road about five miles from the Fortress Wards. George knew the place. If that messenger wasn’t there, Vinnie was afraid they’d have no plan at all.

  “You look worried,” Tarkon said as he rode alongside the big man.

  “I am,” Vinnie said. “More than I’ve ever been. I hate not having a plan.”

  “We have a plan,” Moxy said by way of encouragement. “It’s a little bitty one, but it’s something.”

  Just then, the sound of galloping hooves on the icy road echoed from down the road.

  “Alert!” Tarkon shouted.

  Vinnie jumped off his trusty draft horse while Tarkon turned his mount around and drew his pistols. But it was just their scout.

  “What’s wrong?” Vinnie asked.

  “I don’t know,” the scout said. “It’s the strangest thing.”

  “Spit it out,” Vinnie barked.

  “It’s…” the scout said. He scratched his head beneath his deerskin and cap. “There’s a column of villagers behind us.”

  “Refugees?” Moxy asked. “I thought everyone who wanted to leave the keep wards were gone.”

  “They’re from Argan,” the scout replied. “Looks like most of the damn village. They say they’re marching to Lungu Fortress.”

  Shouting up ahead drew Vinnie’s attention. The other scout had returned with similar news. George galloped down to meet them. The whole procession stopped.

  “Villagers from Blue Creek, Belford, even Dariel,” George said.

  “Dariel…” Vinnie trailed off. “Where the hell is that?”

  “Way south of Blue Creek,” George said, smiling from ear-to-ear.

  “Why do you smile?” Tarkon said, face turning red. “All these people came to celebrate Astrid getting murdered.”

  “You don’t get it, Monk!” George said. “They’re wearing black. All of them. Only the adults are with them. They came to protest. They came to mourn.”

  Tarkon suddenly returned the smile. It was the biggest Vinnie had ever seen from the man. He said, “This is perfect. We can sneak in among them.”

  “Most of us can,” George said, gesturing to a group of Civil Guard. They still wore their uniforms, only they added black armbands to distinguish themselves from the loyalists. “The Woods People will still have to slip in another way.”

  George thought for a moment. Vinnie stood patiently beside his taciturn horse for George to give the obvious order. He hoped he wouldn’t need to undermine George’s authority.

  “This is what we do,” George said, turning to the forward scout. “Ride ahead. Catch up to the villagers. Tell them to wait for us.” He turned to the other scout. “Ride back to the others. Tell them to meet us, then march to the Fortress Wards as a group.”

  “Finally,” Tarkon said. “Things are looking up.
”

  “Don’t jinx us,” Vinnie said.

  “What’s a ‘jinx’?” Tarkon asked.

  Vinnie gave a tight grin. “It’s a word the new ancients used. It means ‘bad luck’.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that?” Tarkon asked, annoyed.

  Vinnie just shrugged his shoulders. “Seemed to fit better, somehow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Back at the Cheese Shop

  “The relays are in,” Mortsen said, quickly closing the door behind him. He threw a canvas sack on the counter where Gormer was busy chopping vegetables with one of his knives.

  “Don’t you kill people with that?” Pleth asked, coming out of the back room.

  “Yeah, so?” Gormer asked, gesturing with the blade. “Now, I’m feeding us with it.”

  “Some of us kill,” Mortsen said, as he removed some dried meat from the sack, “so others can eat.”

  Gormer chopped absentmindedly as he thought through the next few hours. He knew no plan survives contact with the enemy, but it didn’t hurt to plan. “The cold will slow them down,” Gormer said. “So, they should be here late this evening.”

  “Hanging’s in the afternoon,” Mortsen said, as if remarking on the start of some sporting event.

  Gormer caught Pleth’s reaction from the corner of his eye. The former Assessor cringed and turned away. Gormer shot out with his hand and grabbed his arm. “Face it,” he said, making hard eye contact. “It’s a fact. It’s going to happen unless we stop it.”

  Pleth gave a sharp nod. He stayed in the room instead and pulled some ceramic plates from beneath the counter. “I’ll set the table,” he said.

  “Set the table…” Mortsen replied with a strange look on his face.

  Gormer expected some kind of snarky response. Instead, he was shocked when the grizzled bandit took the silverware from Pleth and began setting knives, forks, and spoons beside each plate.

  “What?” Mortsen asked, turning red at the slack-jawed looks from Pleth and Gormer. “Don’t hurt to do things right.”

  The volume and tone of his voice made the two others go about their work without comment. Some survival instinct told them not to give Mortsen a hard time.