Knight Watch

by Tim Akers

  A piercing howl shook the trees around me. I scurried off into the forest, afraid the beast had somehow heard me. It was probably too early to be challenging the authority of a wolf made up of literally every dog in the world. But maybe someday. Sure.

  A short time later, I came to a creek. I was scared of water now, which was reasonable, but also not conducive to heroism. And hey, now I had a sword. Surely that was a step in the right direction. So I washed off my hands and thought about what I should do next.

  Remembering the view from my descent, I turned upstream and started to follow the winding course of the water. I didn’t like the idea of the river delta. I associated that much water with places like swamps, and if the forest was ruled by a wolf the size of three school buses, I really didn’t want to meet the mosquito that called that swamp home. Besides, the mountains appealed to me. I always wanted a mountain view. Maybe at least that part of my dream had found a place in the domain.

  The creek splashed through mossy valleys and gathered in large pools, sometimes narrowing into whitewater or tumbling over smooth stones in a loud waterfall that filled the air with moonlit mist. Swallowing my fear, I cleaned up in one of those pools, stripping off my armor and washing in the crisp, clear water. It was so cold it took my breath away, and I was forced back to shore, gasping for air. Gooseflesh prickled my skin. I dried off with my tabard, then dressed and continued on. I wondered how much time had passed. It was hard to tell under the canopy, but I didn’t feel like the moon was moving all that much. Hours passed. Then hours more. I started to climb rolling hills, and the forest thinned.

  Night never ended. And somehow I knew, as I climbed out of the forest, that it never would. The sky spread out above me, a vast tapestry of unfamiliar constellations, dominated by the glowing face of an enormous moon. The mountains rose behind me, their jagged peaks cloaked in snow. I sat down on a grassy knoll and took it all in. It was beautiful, and at this distance, not completely terrifying.

  A glimmer of light back down in the valley caught my eye. At first, I thought it was a trick of the distance, or maybe moonlight reflecting off a pool, but after a solid minute of staring and blinking and staring again, I saw that I was wrong. It had the flickering red and orange of firelight, warm and inviting. Something in primal humanity was drawn to fire, especially in a world of eternal night, ruled by a giant wolf and gods knew what else. It wasn’t that far away.

  I hopped onto my feet and ran down the hill toward the light, hoping that it wasn’t another bobbing lantern, dangling from a smooth, pale stalk.

  The flame was closer than it looked. Just as I re-entered the forest, I came to a smooth hillock with a short, squat pillar of stone in the middle and a precipitous dropoff on the far side. The light that I had seen was coming from the cliffside of the hill and reflected off the trees that surrounded a small clearing at the base of the cliff. The hill wasn’t more than fifteen feet high at the apex.

  With visions of dragon’s dens and other fire-breathing ghoulies crowding for equal anxiety in my head, I crept around the edge of the hill, sword drawn. The blade still pulsed with a muted light, dim enough that I was confident it wouldn’t give away my presence to whatever waited at the base of the cliff. I quickly learned that the cliff face was artificial; wooden beams protruded from the grass along the base of the cliff, like pilings in a dock. I came around the edge of the hill, ready to face whatever waited for me.

  The hill was a house. The cliff face was simply the front elevation, overhung by timber eaves that supported a roof of sod and grass. The front of the house itself was made of thick timber, roughly hewn, with a sturdy wooden door and two shuttered windows. The shutters were open, and the light of a bright fire flickered through dense glass panes. The glass was so distorted that I couldn’t see inside clearly. I looked around the clearing and saw signs of habitation. There was a woodpile tucked under the eaves at the far side of the hill, a well, and a hitching post that was so old it looked like it might rot away at any moment. The smell of woodsmoke filled the front yard, and I could now see that the stone pillar on top of the hill was a chimney. I sheathed my sword.

  “Hello! Is anyone home?” I shouted. There was no immediate answer. Then there was no eventual answer, and then it was clear that there was never going to be an answer. I waited for quite a while, occasionally greeting the vacancy on the other side of the door in various pitches and with various amounts of pleading and threat. Finally, I resolved to enter the house uninvited.

  “Surely there’s nothing suspicious about an empty house in the middle of a hellish forest, right?” I mused. “Certainly the safest place in the whole world. Sure.”

  I stood nervously in front of the door for another few minutes, flexing my wrists and wondering if there was a way out of this. It certainly felt like a trap, in the sense that, other than Chesa’s glowing tree of pectoral-delivery, it was the first peaceful and inviting thing I’d seen in this domain of terror since I’d arrived.

  It started raining on me. A few heavy drops at first, followed closely by an absolute deluge. I was just thinking that I hadn’t noticed the sky cloud over when I saw that it hadn’t clouded over at all. The moon and stars twinkled happily at me through the thinner forest canopy, oblivious to the fact that it was raining cats and dogs. Just my own personal rainstorm, minus the clouds and the promise of a rainbow at the end. Looking up to confirm this drenched my face and started a river down my breastplate. Chainmail is cold when it wants to be, and my chainmail really wanted to be frigid. I shivered once, stubbornly telling myself that I wasn’t going to go in, especially now that the entire domain was conspiring to put me through that door, but then it really started to rain.

  “Fine, fine, you’ve made your point,” I muttered.

  The door opened easily. The smell of hot food and woodsmoke wafted out the door, filling my head with memories of my mother’s kitchen. The room was low-ceilinged, with exposed beams and a clutter of heavy wooden furniture gathered around a roaring hearth. There were a pair of overstuffed chairs that framed the fireplace, and a long, sturdy table to one side, with enough chairs for half a dozen diners. A rocking chair looked out the front window, and two sets of doors led out of the room. A quick tour revealed that the far door led to a long hallway of bedrooms, along with a dry storage cellar at the end of the hall that smelled of fresh dirt and pickled onions. All the bedrooms were small and cozy, with wardrobes, nightstands, and soft, clean beds.

  The other doors from the main room led to a kitchen. There was a second fire here, this one contained in the largest and oldest stove I’ve ever seen. Heat radiated off the black iron of the stove’s massive belly, and a pot on top bubbled and murmured contentedly, the source of the delicious smell. Inside was the heartiest stew I’ve ever tasted, and taste it I did, immediately and to the detriment of the roof of my mouth, as it wasn’t cool enough to eat. I fished a crock out of one of the cupboards, filled it to the brim, tore a hunk of crusty bread off a loaf in the corner, and returned to the main room. I laid the latch over the front door, then settled into one of the chairs by the fire. It was very comfortable, and it wasn’t long until I was mopping the last vestiges of stew out of the crock with the crust of my bread and sighing contentedly.

  I wondered at the origin of the stew, and the occupant of the house. I was reminded of Clarence’s unseen choir, and the workings of his invisible staff. Food had arrived, rooms had been cleaned, blood mopped up (I suppressed a shiver at the memory of my seemingly infinite deaths on his ruthless training grounds) and clothes laundered, all without sight of another human being. Maybe that was the nature of domains. Maybe they were attended by spirits unseen, or forces that mimicked human helpers but had no physical form. I set the crock aside and settled deeper into the chair, letting the warmth of the fire wash over me. When I looked up, I noticed there was a shield hanging over the fireplace. I stood up to get a better look.

  It was an amazing shield. There’s not usually a lot to admire in a sh
ield, not like the sword that rested comfortably next to my chair, or the dagger at my belt. But this was a beautiful shield. It was a heater, quartered black and red, with a golden dragon rampant at the center. I lifted the shield from its moorings and flipped it over. The shields I was accustomed to using usually had three simple straps, allowing it to be held either across the body or with the hand at the point. This shield had...more straps. Many more. I spent a few minutes trying to wrestle them into something that would hang comfortably, when suddenly the leather web shivered and wrapped itself around my arm. Smaller thongs wove themselves between my fingers, almost like a glove.

  “That’s odd,” I said. I made a few practice blocks with it and found that the straps expanded and contracted as if by magic. “Oh, right. Actual magic. Right.” With a flick of my wrist, the shield switched to a center grip. Another flick and it was firmly against my forearm. I chuckled.

  “Don’t think this would pass marshal’s inspection,” I said. “But neither would Kracek the Hosier, so I guess that’s fair.”

  The more I played with it, the more tricks I found. The glove-like wrapping around my fingers acted like levers. I could twitch a finger and trigger panels that folded out of the top of the shield, extending its height. Another flick worked similarly, flashing additional armor along the sides and bottom.

  “Well. Ain’t that the damnedest thing,” I mused. I set the shield back above the hearth and settled into my chair. The rain hammered against the windows, and the smell of stew and woodsmoke filled the cabin. I gave a long and satisfied sigh.

  “Perhaps I never wanted a castle,” I said to myself. “Perhaps this is all I could hope for. And really, what more could you want?”

  I sat there for a long time, listening to the storm hammer against the eaves, the fire hiss and pop in the hearth beside me, and wondered what sort of power my domain would bestow me with. There had been a lot of terror getting here. Maybe that was my new strength. Facing fear, and overcoming it, to return to a place of warmth and comfort. It wasn’t quite the same as summoning fire, like Tembo, or mastering the sword, like Clarence, or disappearing, teleporting, stabbing, and smirking, like Bethany, or...whatever it was that Matthew did. But I could be content with this. I could be happy.

  Chapter NINETEEN

  FAKE FRIENDS AND

  REAL ENEMIES

  I must have fallen asleep in the chair by the fire, because when the knock at the door came, my head jerked up off my chest and it took several seconds for me to remember where I was. The knock came again. I jumped to my feet and scrambled to draw my sword. In my haste, I knocked a chip out of the low beams of the ceiling. My visitor knocked a third time. I threw aside the bolt and swept open the door, stepping back in case I needed to defend myself.

  It was Eric. His ridiculous bard’s hat was crumpled against his head, and his costume was torn and muddy. He was completely out of breath.

  “Eric! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “John...John, my man.” Deep breath, and a shaky laugh. “There’s this dog out here. You would not believe how big it is.”

  “Yeah, I know about the dog. What I don’t know is how you got here. This is...” I wasn’t even sure how to explain where we were. It was still night outside, and the forest moaned menacingly. “This isn’t a place you should be.”

  “No kidding. I thought I’d just hide in the woods until the cops came, but then it was nighttime, and I hadn’t seen anyone since the explosion.” He took a deep breath and straightened up. He was seriously a mess. There were twigs in his clothes and scrapes and bruises all over his body. “So then I tried to get back to the parking lot but...John, I think the parking lot’s gone. I think something terrible has happened.”

  “Terribly wonderful,” I answered. Some trees beyond the clearing started to sway, and I heard the growl of that damned dog. “Look, let’s get you inside, get you cleaned up. When did you eat last?”

  “Vodka is just a kind of potato, right?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.” I clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him into the cabin. “Just go inside.”

  “Thanks for the invitation, friend,” he said, then slipped past me. Just in time, too. The dinner plate wide eyes of the world dog appeared in the shadows, flashing red and angry. I slammed the door shut. The house shook with the force of the monster’s growl.

  “Wow, man. This is pretty swell,” Eric said, looking around the cabin. “A real love shack. This where you take all your college sweeties?”

  “It’s not a love shack. It’s...never mind. Have a seat. I’ll get you some food.”

  He settled into the chair by the fire. I went into the kitchen and got a pot of stew and some water.

  “There has to be beer in this place somewhere,” Eric called from the other room. I shouldered my way through the door. He was standing in front of the fire, looking at the shield. He glanced over at me. “This is pretty nice.”

  “Yeah, it’s...It’s a custom job. Made especially for me.”

  “Heck of a lot better than that plywood shingle you’ve been fighting with. Get it for the championships?”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to champs,” I said, setting the food down on the table. “Eric...some stuff’s come up. Things have gotten weird.”

  “You and Chesa get back together behind my back?”

  “No, no, gods, no. Nothing like that. What do you remember from the faire?”

  “The explosion? You and that lawyer were fighting, and then the dragon—”

  “Dragon,” I repeated. “You saw a dragon?”

  “Yeah, the parade float. Someone must have lost control of it, and it careened through the fence and into the lawyer. And then it blew up.” He was eating the stew this entire time without really eating it, just stirring it around and putting the spoon near his mouth, then dumping it back into the pot and stirring some more. It was unlike him. Usually he just talked right through the chewing. “Lots of fire, lots of screaming. I ran into the woods. Man, I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m not. Or at least I don’t think I am. Though that would explain some stuff.”

  “Yeah, well. Like I said. Hid in the woods, waited for the fire department to show up. Would have kept running, but...” He paused, put some food in his mouth. “I forget. Something about guards.”

  As he talked, the stew dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin. Without missing a beat, he stirred his food, brought another spoon to his mouth, then put it back in the bowl without touching it.

  “So that’s a really nice shield,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Eric, are you alright? You’re not eating. And I’m pretty sure you already asked that question.”

  “Right, right.” He looked curiously around the cabin. I couldn’t blame him for acting a little weird. This was a weird place, and I hadn’t exactly been forthcoming in my explanation. But something was off about my friend.

  “John. How did you get here?” he asked. “How did you do it?”

  “There’s a lot of stuff to explain. Starting with the dragon. That wasn’t a float, Eric. It was—”

  “Did you make it in your mind? Did you write it out?” Eric asked. “He’s written it out a hundred times, but it’s never quite like this. It’s wrong, somehow. Can you show him?”

  “Show him? Show who, Eric?”

  “Me. Show me how you did this.” He stood up, spoon still clenched in his hand.

  “Eric? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

  “I always make the first mistake,” he said. “But not this time.”

  Then he slid forward and stabbed me in the belly.

  There were two things that surprised me about this. Maybe three. First, I’d never seen Eric move like that. It was like his body was an afterthought, and the knife was the only thing moving. Second, the knife. I’m pretty sure I gave him a spoon, and a second ago I had seen Eric clutching that spoon like it was a lifeline. But now it was a knife. Surprising.<
br />
  Also, my friend just stabbed me in the stomach. So I guess that’s three.

  A word of advice that is both good and something you should maybe ignore. Never sleep in your armor. It’s uncomfortable, it’s bad for the armor, it’s bad for you. There’s no situation in which you should be wearing your armor to bed. Except for one. If you plan on getting stabbed first thing in the morning.

  Eric’s sudden knife went under the lip of my breastplate, catching me in the low belly. My chain turned the blade, but not before the impact of the blow knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over in shock. Eric leaned close to me and put his lips right next to my ear.

  “You should have helped him when you had the chance,” he whispered. Eric’s voice sounded suddenly ragged, but I was in too much pain and shock to really register it. He pushed me toward the fire. I landed heavily in my chair, knocking Eric’s crock onto the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  “Clarence would never give him what he wanted. Too noble. Too knightly,” Eric snarled. He stalked through the room, picking up knick-knacks and heaping scorn on them with his eyes before throwing them away. “But surely you’ll help. If only to save your friend!”

  “What the hell, Eric,” I squeaked. He whirled on me. “What are you doing?”

  “What am I doing? I am taking what is mine. What should have been mine from the beginning. Why did they take you? You, of all people! This should have been Eric’s domain! Not yours. Never yours.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to talk about that later,” I said, finally getting my breath back. “Maybe when you’re in a better mood.”

  I stood up, drawing my sword from where it lay next to the chair, and slung the heavy scabbard across the room. Because this wasn’t Eric. I should have known right from the beginning. Eric would have used more adjectives.

  My empty scabbard slammed into the faux Eric’s face, breaking his nose and spraying the room with blood. He screeched and fell back toward the door. I pounced. My sword sliced through the air, dancing off his knife and throwing sparks in the gloom. I shoved him back and elbowed him in the face.