The Warder

by D K Williamson

  “We have a few new wrinkles to add. Give me a few minutes,” Terrence said.

  . . .

  More than two dozen men stood near the campfire, each of them looking at Malig, their cold eyes and blank expressions befitting their occupation, that of assassin.

  “You’ve received your instructions and the credentials you’ll need to get where you’re going. Grandmage Olk Mirkness made it clear what you’re to do. Do the job well and return for more jobs and more coin. Botch it and flee for your lives.” The exiled king paused to look over the hired killers and nodded. “Now go.”

  The group dispersed, but all of them headed east in ones, pairs, and groups.

  Malig waited until they disappeared from sight before he turned and said, “My horse. We ride.”

  . . .

  Dech was as happy as he had been in some time. The time with Allan, the reunion with so many of his fellows in the order he had not seen for so long, and the rapid progress the six struggling supplicants achieved over the previous two days had raised his spirits.

  This day he was to attend the oath taking of a group of supplicants ready to become contrition knights. Novices, but contrition knights nonetheless and ready to take on duties. The group of men taking the oath trained under Bilden Fergus, a longtime trainer within the order and one of the knight-instructors that oversaw Dech’s group when they made their way through the process years before.

  As many members of the order who could be spared duty gathered to witness the oath taking, an act all of them had partaken of. It was largely a happy occasion, but most of the observers recalled those within their supplicant group who had passed since putting on the surcoat marking them as a member of the order.

  The men donning the surcoat this day had completed their initial training, a course which pushed them to their limits and beyond. Learning the skills necessary to be contrition knights took its toll, sometimes consuming nearly all of a supplicant group. Those men who fell and rose time and again, those that learned to lend strength when they could and accept the same from others when needed were the most likely to survive. Those that took on the garments of the order were formidable on their own, but each knew they were stronger when with their brethren. The looks those taking the oath shared with one another showed this bond.

  There was little pomp or pageantry. The Bilden who oversaw the training conducted the service with a priest or monk providing the opening prayer.

  Ordered to attention, the supplicants stood in one neat rank, shoulder-to-shoulder, a sharp contrast to the ragged bunch Dech saw beginning their path a few days ago. Upon a table before each man rested a neatly folded white surcoat—a sleeveless tunic worn over armor and belted at the waist—unadorned save for the centered red, white, and black shield emblem of the order.

  The priest stood before the fifteen men and bid them to kneel. “Last night you stood your vigil of contemplation. You stand ready to begin your service and by service you shall demonstrate your worthiness to be spared death. You will shortly become members of the contrition knights. You are not kneeling before a noble personage as a conventional knight would. You do not kneel before me either. You kneel before the Creator and it is the Creator you shall serve. Let us pray.”

  Bilden Fergus spoke after the prayer. “We gather here to induct the order’s newest members. All stand witness. Supplicants, arise.”

  He moved to stand behind the line of surcoats facing the supplicants. Standing erect, he began. “The heart pumps blood and from the heart comes faith. Stone is solid and cold like the mind and from the mind comes fidelity. Steel is crafted to make tools of service, and steel in your hands performs this service.” He raised his right hand and commanded the fifteen to follow suit.

  “Repeat after me: Before brethren and Creator I take this oath—An oath of blood, of stone, of steel—An oath of faith, of fidelity, and of service—An oath to honor my order and my brethren—An oath to uphold the precepts of the Order of Brothers of the Contrition House—I vow to honor my oath to the best of my abilities.”

  Bilden Fergus lowered his hand at the last utterance of the men and smiled. “It is my honor to be the first to call you brother. Welcome, knights. Welcome, brothers.”

  A cheer went up from those observing, soon quieted so the Bilden could finish the service.

  “Step forward, brothers, and don the uniform of the order.”

  Soon, all fifteen were clothed with surcoats covering their mail hauberks and once again standing in rank.

  “I issue you your first order. Break ranks and enjoy the day.”

  Before any of the fifteen could react, someone in the gathering yelled, “It’ll be the last free day for a good long while, mates!”

  And at that, the new knights were mobbed by their fellows offering congratulations, handshakes, and pats on the backs.

  Dech pushed into the scrum and spoke with each man for a time before drifting to the less congested edges of the crowd to find Bilden Fergus. It didn’t take long.

  “Bilden Fergus, it is good to see you again.” He pointed in the direction of the new knights. “Fifteen. Impressive.”

  “I’ll second that,” another knight said as he wound his way from the crowd. Dech knew him well, a supplicant in the same group as Dech and currently a section leader among those who performed patrol duties. The knight clapped the Bilden on the back and offered Dech his hand.

  “What brings you from the road, Giles?” Dech asked.

  “One of the new men is going to my section,” he replied. “You?”

  “I was sent word to join the latest gathering of supplicants and return.”

  “They have a job for you then,” Fergus said. “You’ve been gone for several months.”

  “Administration, that’s where you’re bound,” Giles offered with a smile. “Hope your quill skills are up to it.”

  “Warder Dech,” a voice called out. A look showed a knight closing on the trio with his hand up. “The Grand Master would like to speak with you once this concludes.”

  “What did I tell you,” Giles said with a broad smile. “Peter works for the Grand Master. In administration.”

  “Then I will report to him shortly. Thank you, Sir Peter,” Dech said ignoring his friend’s jest save for a smile.

  “I recall my ceremony,” Peter said looking at the newly minted knights. “There were but five of us. Just two of us left six years later.”

  Bilden Fergus nodded. “I’m the last of mine. Dech and Giles here are fortunate to be of a rather charmed and blessed unit.”

  “I’ve heard talk of that,” Peter replied. “The largest group to take the oath in the order’s long history. What made the difference?”

  The Bilden spoke first. “Put simply, Sir Dech. The warder was a knight-commander before he came here. His skill exceeded nearly any in the ranks of the order. We instructors knew it. Bilden Edward of Northland spoke to him early on. I was there and never forgot him saying, ‘You need no training in the martial skills. You might do your fellow supplicants a service and help them survive. We are discouraged from saying so, but our numbers are depleted and we need to replenish the ranks. You would do us—and them—a great service if you can help them. Few of us wish harm on our charges, but we must be harsh. Beyond these walls lurks things far worse than any we might mete out here, but you know this. Your presence here is the Creator’s doing. If it helps bolster our numbers and keeps more from death, it’s a blessing.’ To his credit, Dech did that very thing. Twenty-three men entered as supplicants, twenty-one took the oath.”

  “Much to the gratitude of we twenty supplicants who weren’t Dech,” Giles said.

  The Bilden laughed softly, but said nothing.

  “What am I missing?” Peter asked.

  “Giles and two others didn’t care for the deference we instructors paid Dech, so they thought to bring him down a peg one night while he slept. In short, they failed. All saw what Dech could do. Best thing that happened to the entire group
.”

  “Except for my two fellow idiots,” Giles said.

  “They chose to be recalcitrant,” the Bilden replied. “They died for it. That too taught a lesson.”

  “It did,” Giles agreed. “Dech could have crippled us. That would have sent us to the executioner. As it was, we got a sound thrashing and a night of solitude in a cage.”

  “And you used it wisely,” the Bilden said. “You came out a different man as I recall.”

  “To have Dech’s fighting skill available at such an early stage was that useful?” Peter asked. “I would think that might be more helpful later in a knight’s progression.”

  Giles shook his head. “It wasn’t just weapons or technique. To speak true, they were the least of it even though they have saved my life many times over. It was more than that. Dech didn’t have to, but he taught us by example more than by lesson. He put us before himself. First time in my life someone did something like that… give something expecting nothing back. Taught a thug like me what it meant to be a knight. Imagine that, a scoundrel of the lowest sort becoming a leader of a section. Changed my life he did.”

  “No, Giles, you changed your life. I simply offered assistance,” Dech replied. “You chose to use it. You made the change.”

  “You showed me what honor is, what brotherhood is. You taught us the strength of fellowship. You showed us how together we were strong. We know what you did, even if you do not. It meant the world to us. To those of us still in the ranks, it still does. Our lives mean something, are worth something. You played a large part in that. Fergus did as well. Is but the truth.”

  “Then I am honored by your words,” Dech replied solemnly.

  Fergus nodded. “As am I. Proud as well.”

  . . .

  Dech followed a labyrinthine course to the Grand Master’s office high in the Great Keep near the back of the massive structure. On arrival, the clerk on duty asked him to wait.

  Dech walked to the unglazed window, larger than those at lower levels due to its height from the ground. Looking over the walled grounds behind the keep, he saw the expanse of land used for crops and livestock, enough to support many times the population of the fortress, both providing a source of sustenance and income for the order.

  A few minutes later, the clerk led Dech into the Grand Master’s office.

  The small and distinguished man behind the desk stood and smiled. White-haired and scarred on the right cheek, the Grand Master of the order was also one of the longest currently serving contrition knights within the organization.

  “Sit,” the Grand Master said with a gesture at the chairs in front of the ornate wood desk. “Fifteen new knights joined the ranks this day so I hear,” he added as Dech took his seat.

  “Yes, Grand Master,” the warder replied.

  The man took his seat and clasped his hands on the desktop, his right hand missing the two fingers farthest from the thumb. “That brings our numbers to a level we have not seen in many years. Certainly the highest they’ve been since before you entered the order.”

  “You summoned me here to discuss the strength of the order?” Dech said flatly.

  “I did not. I am to understand you alone dispatched the reported highwaymen on the Hydell Road?”

  “I did. I take it I arrived before my report did.”

  “I have the report. I simply wished to confirm it. A path well off the course I would have thought you would follow to rendezvous with Brother Samuel’s train.”

  “It was. I received word the bandits were becoming bolder and I felt it was important to deal with the situation as soon as possible. I was under the impression it was the duty of our order to deal with such threats. Have I had it wrong for the decade I’ve served?”

  “Testy today, aren’t we? Are you still bitter about the circumstances that brought you here and my role in it?”

  “What good would bitterness do me?”

  The Grand Master shrugged and sighed loudly. “Never one for idle chatter, are you. Duty is all as always. Fair enough. To business then. You sent a report a few weeks ago concerning rumors about Malig Tancar’s location.”

  “In Byrmont.”

  “Yes. Other sources reinforce this. The latest of these placed him in Tynin, just over the border. Five days ago.”

  “Five?” Dech asked with a cant of his head. “Why did we not know this sooner?”

  “I have no answer for you. It seems there were no Aratainian agents present when this occurred. Two of our brothers were in the area around this time aiding a mage from the King’s Mage Council in pursuit of a murderer.”

  “Were they successful in capturing this killer?”

  “They were not. A mage of some skill. Crossed the border at night.”

  “Where is Malig now?”

  “That is for you to ascertain if possible. Confirm his presence in Byrmont, determine his purpose there, and learn where he went if known.”

  Dech nodded. “Do I travel surreptitiously?”

  “No. If word reaches the rogue member of House Tancar of the order’s interest, he might realize we have not forgotten him any more than he has us.”

  Dech nodded again. “Is my mission diplomatic?”

  The Grand Master shook his head. “No. Even so, keep the mayhem to a minimum.”

  “I will. I’ll leave at first light.”

  “Do so. Travel swiftly and may the Creator be with you, Warder.”

  . . .

  Chapter 4

  “You know your task,” Allan said with a stern look at the five young men. Their burnished mail, covered with clean surcoats, shone brightly in the morning sun. Mounted on five sound horses, Rob and his entourage looked eager to be on their way.

  “We do,” Rob said.

  “The delivery of those messages in your bags comes before any misadventures. Remember that.”

  “Misadventures? Accomplishing our mission will be ample enough adventure.”

  Allan sighed and smiled. “I may be an old man in my thirties, but I’ve still enough brains to remember what it is to be your age. Messages first, trouble second. And one last thing, do not get yourselves killed.”

  “We’ll see that Rob returns in one piece,” one of the other young men said.

  Allan smiled again. “I’m just brimming with confidence you’ll return with nary a tale but what a boring trip you had.”

  “No surety of that, but we’ll try, Seneschal,” Rob said as he wheeled his mount and spurred the horse. “Onward!” he called to his fellows.

  They soon tore after him, pack horses racing behind, and left Allan brushing dust from his clothing. He looked at the group and said, “As brash as his father ever was. Creator go with you, lads.” He looked skyward and muttered, “Keep them from too much mischief if you would and provide them aid if you won’t.”

  . . .

  Dech made good time. The big grey mare he called Ridan after an ancient word meaning ‘road’ and a buckskin gelding packhorse named Otto were fit and experienced animals and had provided fine service for the two years he’d been using them. Without pushing hard, they’d covered the distance to the border between Arataine and Byrmont with little stress and in good time.

  The stone bridge over the wide, shallow, and rapidly flowing Black River was congested with traffic moving both directions and Dech knew the ford downriver was likely just as crowded, more hazardous, and a longer route besides. He joined the queue of wagons, horses, oxen, mules, and people of all four Races of Man and a few others on foot moving slowly toward the crossing. Hawkers and beggars lined the road seeking coin from those who passed by.

  Nearby clearings held those awaiting customs officials to assess what duties, tolls, or imposts they might need to pay. Others awaited guides, buyers, or sellers. A few members of the King’s Legion—Arataine’s gendarmies—patrolled the area.

  Few spoke to Dech, not an uncommon thing for any knight when armed and armored, but even more so for those of the Contrition Order. Not addres
sing Dech did mean those viewing him might not speak about him, another common occurrence for contrition knights.

  As the line moved forward, Dech passed a quartet of men playing some form of dice game and stopped just beyond them.

  “One of them gelded knights,” a member of the group said.

  “Not gelded. Sterilized,” another replied.

  “That makes them ripe targets for noble wives to have a spot of fun with, yeah? So I hear,” added a third and prompting a laugh from all four.

  Dech did his best to ignore them. It was nothing he had not heard before.

  Before long, he reached the bridge and was waved through by the largely disinterested guards. Finding a few gaps in oncoming traffic once on the bridge allowed him to trot past many of those in front of him. He nodded a greeting to a trio of dwarvan men leaning over the low wall edging the bridge, watching the inky water of the river flowing swiftly by underneath as he made his way across, their dress indicating they were from somewhere far from Arataine.

  Reaching the other end of the bridge he slowed and the guards on the Byrmont side quickly sized him up and let him pass without hindrance.

  Not far from the bridge stood the Eastern March Inn, a decent enough place and one likely to contain those who watched the comings and goings with the intent of selling such information to people like him.

  Dech paid to have his horses looked after by the inn’s hostler even though he didn’t plan to stay longer than the time it took to eat a meal and buy information should it be available. The weapons, saddles, and gear the horses carried might prove a temptation to a thief heading for Arataine. Stepping inside, he found the crowd was large, but well short of filling the place. He went to the counter and ordered a bowl of stew, bread, and a cup of ale. Once served, he carried it to a table toward the back and sat down.

  It took little time for the first broker of information to come calling. An unassuming man stopped across the table from him holding a tankard in his right hand. Dech recognized the man, one he’d done business with before.