The Last Benediction in Steel

by Wright, Kevin

  “Greetings.” I raised my guard and stepped back. I could’ve skewered the big knight, or at least hacked him crippled across the knee, but we were guests and manners were of the utmost imperative.

  Thug scrambled to rise.

  Disparate factions of the crowd continued jeering. Good to see a knight arse-end in the muck. Especially a shit-heel like him. Never mind the bloke put him there’s no better.

  “Stay down, you stupid fuck.” I tensed to swing.

  More jeering. From the corner of my eye, I saw small-folk crouching to the ground, quick, sly, surreptitious. Gathering stones. Shit.

  The big fucker stilled. Even through his ox-brain he knew I could end him with one blow.

  “You’re a dead one now, aren’t ya, mate.” Eyeball froze on Thug’s far side. The other three skinned their blades, looking to Eyeball. Thug might’ve been the brawn of the outfit, but Eyeball was the brains.

  “Enough!” a voice cried from behind. Sir Alaric. Karl was marching by his side then wasn’t cause he was standing by mine. “Sir Madbury! Sir Krait!” The look he gave could’ve curdled milk. “Brother Miles! Stand down. By the hound, heel those pig-stickers. Stand down, I say! I’ll not have comrades-in-arms at each other’s throats!”

  “Comrades…” I stepped back, lowering Yolanda. But I didn’t sheathe her.

  Von Madbury, the one-eyed fucker, did likewise, though he was giving me a look I was fair sure mirrored my own. Minus the eye or strong, well-defined jawline.

  “Gustav, get your arse out of the mud and give me a hand.” Sir Alaric was up on the scaffold now, cutting the rope lashing the boy across the wheel. “Jesus Christ…” He caught the boy as he toppled forth limp as a doll.

  His mother wailed. And with fair-good reason.

  …settled within the lands were a backward folk, utilizing little better than stone tools for weapons.

  They were subjugated swiftly, surely, absolutely…

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 8.

  THE OATH was brief. Perfunctory. To the point. The way oaths ought be.

  Penitent, I rose and King Eckhardt Haesken the Third stepped forth, taking my hand in his, laying his other across my shoulder. He had nigh on two decades on me, was slender, drawn, careworn, and moved as though the very bones within him ached. An aura of frailty. Lines fissured out from around his eyes, and as he breathed, each breath came as a forlorn sigh of relief, as though he found rudimentary satisfaction in simply having managed to take it. He wore his cobweb-thin beard neatly trimmed, and his mantle was fine if tattered somewhat by age.

  If I were a hedge knight then surely here stood a hedge king.

  “The winter winds grind on longer than is just, cleaving into our rite of passage into spring.” The King smiled wanly. “It is good to have your allegiance, Sir Luther, even if only a short while. As I recall, you are a staunch fellow and a fair hand with the blade.”

  The chapel of Saint Gummarus, patron saint of woodcutters and destitute nobility, was cold and poorly lit, a draft through a broken shutter singing a slow sad dirge bereft of lyric or harmony. Candle lights flickered by the shrine, by the table upon which lay the dead body of the youth who’d so recently been otherwise. Beyond, the mob hurled catcall and epithet along to the staccato rhythm of stones caroming off the walls and leaded roof. We all of us pretended to ignore it.

  “You remember me, Your Majesty?” I said.

  “Yes, Sir Luther, that I do. A long while past, to be sure, and amid a dark time,” the King glanced at the corpse, “though it seems the light of memory shines brightest on those that are darkest. Were that it was not so.”

  His house sigil, a spiked wheel on field of blood, lay across his chest.

  “Sir Alaric tells me you are a law-man to your king,” he said.

  “Was, Your Majesty. For a short span, a long time ago.”

  “And he says you are a good man.”

  “For a short span,” I matched his wan smile, “a long time ago.”

  “Honest then, at least.”

  “When it suits me.”

  “Ahem. Sire,” Father Gregorius stepped in, a slender man pushing thirty, prim and proper and in his best robes, his slick hair parted aside, “there yet remains the matter of the dearly departed.” Dearly was a stretch, but I said nothing. “His family wishes to pray over him.” He turned toward the door. “And the small-folk outside…”

  A bastion of hoarse cries pierced the mounting wind.

  “What was the charge?” The King picked at his sparse beard.

  “Charges, my King. Multiple.” Sir Alaric brandished a writ and adjusted his glasses, squinting, glaring at the parchment as though trying to set it afire through will alone. “Lad, could you?” He proffered the writ. “Dark as the devil in here.”

  “Yeah.” I took it and ran a finger down a short list. “Multiple accusations of theft. Hmm. A loaf of bread, most recent. Poaching, as well, from the rabbit warren.”

  “Did the lad have a name?” the King asked.

  “Walter, my King.”

  “Walter…” The King pursed his lips. “This was not Walter’s first offense.”

  “First time caught, Your Majesty,” Sir Alaric said.

  “And had the lad anything to say in his defense?”

  Yeah. For the love of God, stop. Please!

  “Aye,” Sir Alaric tucked his glasses away, “said it was to feed his ailing father.”

  I glanced at the corpse. Even before Sir Gustav had laid him open, counting his ribs wouldn’t have been a chore. Kid looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “Does he indeed have an ailing father?” King Eckhardt laid a delicate hand upon the dead lad’s brow. It’d been gashed open to the skull.

  “Aye, my king. He’s in the tent city. An old lumber-jack. He helped build the Schloss’s stables some twenty years past. A foreman. And he’s sick abed with the consumption.”

  “Another one,” The King sighed. “And what was the sentence to be carried out?”

  “A flogging, my king.”

  The King ran his finger along the gash, pressing the skin back into place, a frown denting the straight line of his lips. “What happened?”

  Sir Alaric sniffed hard. “One of the lads took too free a hand with the lash.”

  “By the book.” The King grimaced. “Which lad?”

  “Sir Gustav, my King.”

  “Gustav. Again.” The King sighed. “And what have we to offer in the matter of wergild, Father?”

  “W-Wergild?” Father Gregorius clutched his bible. “Your Majesty. You heard Sir Alaric. The boy was a thief. Caught red-handed.”

  “Even so.” King Eckhardt finished smoothing out Walter’s ragged scalp. “What have we to offer?”

  “We have coin, Your Majesty,” Father Gregorius said, “but think of the precedent. You’ll have jack-a-napes pilfering whatever comes to hand with nary any fear of—”

  I glanced over at the altar. Started counting the plethora of gleaming chalices lined up like a cadre of brass knights stationed upon it.

  Father Gregorius read my thoughts, his eyes narrowing as he paused his protestations.

  “A sentence of death is not uncommon for theft,” Sir Alaric added. “Gustav was overzealous, aye. But you owe the family nothing. You offered them safety and shelter and in return—”

  “I had their son slaughtered before their very eyes.” The King gripped the end of his scraggly beard, his fist quivering, twisting, pulling so hard I thought he might tear it out. “Sir Alaric, have the seamstress stitch the lad’s head up. It’s an affront to my eyes. His mother should not see him so. It … it is the least we can do.”

  It wasn’t the least, but it was damn-near close.

  “Aye, my King.” Sir Alaric rolled the writ up and tucked it away.

  “We have erred.” King Eckhardt wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “Overreached. Misapplied.”

  “These things happen,” Father
Gregorius offered.

  It was a sad truth that, even in our current state of moral advancement, beating the shit out of children was still not an exact science. Someday though, through diligence, patience, innovation…

  “What things?” the King turned.

  “Mistakes, Your Majesty.”

  “Mistakes?” The King shook his head slowly. “And yet, we must do something to mitigate our mistakes, no? For we are a civilized people, are we not?” He turned to me. “Sir Luther, what would you counsel?”

  “Me?” Jesus. My favorite thing, being put on the spot by a king. “Depends on how you want to play it, your majest—”

  A rock struck the roof and rolled down, dribbling along the whole way. The screams from outside began to build again.

  “Please.” The King held out his hand. “Continue.”

  “Alright.” I swallowed. “The smart thing’d be to gather your men and drive them all out. Today. Now. Having a shit-ton of pissed-off refugees squatting on your doorstep’s a recipe for midnight visitations you’re unlikely to forget.”

  “I’ve a dearth of fighting men as of late.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shook my head. “I counted five, yeah? How many more?”

  “Eight. For a total of thirteen.” The King patted his blade. “My son Eventine and myself are also trained in the knightly pursuits.”

  Sir Alaric winced as he scratched the back of his neck but left it at that.

  Father Gregorius leaned in, “Your Majesty, I cannot stand here—”

  “Good,” I cut him off. “Counting me, I have another four to add to the tally. If you can arm us all—”

  “These are my folk. My subjects. My responsibility.” The King rubbed his throat. “I … I would wish to limit bloodshed.”

  I waved a hand. “We open the gates and come at them from the keep. Rattle some steel. Crack a skull or two if need be. See who wants to stay and play. My guess? Long as those gates are yawning wide, they’ll take the scenic stroll rather than widow’s walk.”

  “Yet, I promised them shelter against the storm.”

  “And by storm, you mean this Nazarene blackguard running rampant through town, and not your own men, yeah?”

  “Have a care, lad,” Sir Alaric warned.

  “But it stresses a point.”

  “It does, indeed,” King Eckhardt said.

  The priest touched a hand to the King’s elbow. “A moment of weakness, Your Majesty.”

  “To turn them away…” The King swallowed, shook his head. “Nay. I would hold to that promise as long as tenable.”

  “Tenable, huh?” I winced. More like tenuous. But he was king. “Alright. Then you’ve two options. Either play it as the strong leader. Act like no wrong was committed. Say nothing. Admit nothing. Offer nothing.” A hurled rock bounced off the stained-glass window of Saint Gummarus, but like the stout wood-cutter he was, he didn’t break. “Or, you appeal to their heart-strings. Make a show of paying the family wergild. Admit the error.” I didn’t like this. I’d been hoping to sell-sword directly under Sir Alaric. Deal solely with him. Best if a king’s not even aware of your existence. But giving them advice? You’re flotsam to the current of their ever-changing whims. “The first’ll send a clear message of strength to everyone under your aegis.”

  “Your highness,” Sir Alaric peeked out a shuttered window, “we’d best—”

  The King waved him off. “Go on, Sir Luther, and the second?”

  “I’d advise the first, Your Majesty,” I glanced up as a hunk of plaster rained down from the ceiling, shattering on a pew, “considering the, ah, recent weather.”

  “And the second, Sir Luther,” the King’s voice cracked.

  “Can go either way. Fair and righteous or soft and weak. A coin flip.”

  “And you advise the first, even if here, behind closed doors, we know the truth?”

  “A king who makes decisions based on truth and justice is unlikely to remain king for long.” My hand was on Yolanda’s hilt as a stone pounded the door. “That’s been my experience, though the pool on that score’s been harshly limited.”

  “What would you expect if it were your son?” The King raised a hand toward the door. “What if it were you out there in the cold? Your kin’s blood spilt by an overwrought savage? And yours boiling. Seething.”

  “You start using me as a measuring stick,” I laid a hand to my chest, “and I’ll head out and start building a gallows.”

  “Kings traditionally receive the axe,” the King corrected soberly.

  “Fair enough, I’ll fetch my whetstone.”

  “Proceed,” the King said unmoved, “please.”

  “My own son killed?” I glanced at Sir Alaric and Father Gregorius, both watching intently. Thoughts of Abraham lying abed, all but one of his sons killed, flooded my mind. “Very well. If I were sober, I’d get drunk and grumble into my cups.”

  “And if you were drunk?”

  “I’d do my damnedest to see the bastard killed my kid got worse.”

  King Eckhardt straightened as though his portrait were being painted. “I wish my decision to relay to my people that I am a fair and righteous king.”

  A fair and righteous king? Well, there was a first for everything.

  Another stone struck Saint Gummarus, shattering the head of his axe. Sir Alaric ducked aside as glass cascaded, tinkling upon the flagstones.

  “The walls are thick.” The King waved a hand.

  “Yeah…” We wouldn’t feel a thing when they toppled. “I’d start by flogging the ogre who killed the kid. Do it publicly. Do it soon.”

  “To quell the mob…” The King said.

  “That a yes?”

  “It shall be done,” the King licked his pallid lips, “though, the ogre, as you say, counseled a similar sentence for you and your brother.”

  Father Gregorius crossed his arms, offering me the condescending appraisal of a high-hat prick. Not a smirk, per se. He wasn’t that stupid. But I could read it there. Plainly.

  “And what’d you say?” I met the King’s gaze.

  “I agreed you would need atone for your actions.” The King waved a hand. “But, please, continue.”

  Atone… Visions of Stephan tied to the wheel as the lash descended supplanted Abraham in my mind’s eye. I shook it off, dumbstruck a moment, wondering how fucked in truth we were. “And next,” I looked to Father Gregorius, “there’s coin to be doled?”

  Father Gregorius met my glare with a wooden nod.

  “What do the small-folk survive on?” I asked.

  “We ration out what victuals we can spare,” Father Gregorius said.

  I glanced down at the corpse. ‘What we can spare’ didn’t look like much. “And how long are the stores like to last?”

  “That depends…”

  “On what?” I asked. “How soon you’re willing to starve alongside them?”

  “My kingdom is in dire straits, Sir Luther.” The King glared hard. “Must we belabor the point?”

  “Apologies, Your Majesty.” I bowed. “Offer a wergild marker for whatever you deem the lad’s life worth plus half. Half disbursed immediately and half in one year’s time. And I’d offer something in the way of permanent shelter for the ailing father. Immediately. You’ve still a fair stock of quality lumber, yeah?”

  “The corpses of trees, yes,” the King said, “that alone we possess in abundance.”

  “Then have your carpenters build him a shelter within the courtyard.”

  “No, no, no, that is too much, Your Majesty, far too much.” Father Gregorius was having a heart attack. Hopefully.

  “Generosity to the poor,” I deadpanned, “just like Jesus taught.” I turned to the King. “Are your carpenters currently overtaxed with work?”

  Father Gregorius tugged on his robes, snapping them straight. “Your highness, I strongly object—”

  “Nay,” the King raised a hand, “they sit idle. Not … not unlike the rest of us.”

&nbs
p; “Then they could use the work and maybe an extra ration.” I ignored the priest, strenuously, giving Sir Alaric the hard glare. “And the odds of Walter’s father surviving the year?”

  “Eh…?” Sir Alaric did the mental math. “Not good, I’d guess, but I’m no physiker.”

  “And has the lad other family?”

  “His mother. She’s sickly as well. Not the consumption, but—”

  “Alright then. Good. Mothers are easy. Construct a shelter to let the old man die in. After he passes, offer the widow work for food and shelter. Washing laundry, cooking, whatever.” I nodded to Father Gregorius. “Have him negotiate it. Old ladies love priests.” Even the shit ones. “Either way, she won’t tarry. Not cooking and cleaning and trudging up the same hill to the same house her son’s murderer lives in. And once they’re both gone, use the shelter as a storehouse come next winter. Or an outhouse. Or whatever you need.”

  “Someone shall need relay this message to the small-folk.” The King’s gaze landed soberly upon me.

  Father Gregorius pawed at the King, “Your Highness—”

  “You have a powder-keg in your courtyard and sparks are flying,” I said. “And you want some poor simple bastard to march out and kick it?”

  The King pursed his lips. “I mentioned atonement before, Sir Luther, had I not?”

  …the Haeskenburg Faction, myself, Elliot, Kragen and Ethel-Thrang, lead our first sortie yesterday into a pagan village. We converged upon it during the darkness of the new moon and set all the hovels ablaze.

  It was lauded all around as a rousing success.

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 9.

  HELLFIRE BLAZED in the courtyard, the scaffold and breaking-wheel roaring aflame as the legion of the damned gathered for Mass. Their sermon was lit by flaming brands and proselytized through castigation and stone.

  “Sure you want to do this?” I breathed.

  Stephan looked pale. “This was your idea.”

  “It was the King’s.”

  Stephan glared out a shattered window at the mob, for it was a mob now, gathered beyond, clotting the courtyard’s center. Stephan nodded once. Succinctly. “King Eckhardt’s on the level?”