“It is,” Rob said. “Equivalent to that of knight-commander.”
“He’d know. He’s been learning as much as he can about the order,” another said with a smile.
“Rob told us Seneschal Allan mentioned your skill, but seeing it in action makes me realize how woeful my abilities are,” the young man with the broken arm said.
“They are not as woeful as you think,” Dech countered. “The knights you faced have a great deal more experience than any of you. There is no substitute for experience. It is every bit as vital as skill.”
“You are not as I hear contrition knights described. People tell stories, spread rumors.”
“And you believed these tales?”
“I must admit… I did.”
“What does this teach you?”
He smiled. “That I should see for myself.”
Dech nodded.
“Might you teach us something else, Sir Dech?” the first asked.
“That would depend upon the subject.”
“One you are well-versed in, fighting.”
“I can give you some pointers in the morning.” He glanced at Rob and smiled. “His life may depend on it.”
The young men burst into laughter.
Later that evening as Dech settled into bed, he smiled, having enjoyed the company of Rob and his friends. Though not yet knighted, they reminded him of his days with Gerald and Allan. He thought of the words Abbess Dealan had said to him about his past and convergences and wondered what today might mean. Knowing he was not going to find an answer, he went to sleep.
. . .
Chapter 5
The six men were out before dawn. Using a vacant archery butts, Dech and his five charges commenced training as soon as the sunrise provided enough light. Dech limited the session to sword and shield, save for the man with the broken arm. His arm was healing thanks to a mage’s attention, but was not up to rigorous shield drills. It took little time to see all five possessed solid skills for their age, especially Robert, but what they lacked was intensity.
“Your training is sound, but the conventional practice field requires restraint. It must. Actual combat requires an intensity you lack. We will work on that.”
Fashioning a scabbard of course cloth wrapped securely around a sword blade for use as a training device, Dech became a live blade target for the young men. Fending off attacks with shield and mobility and on occasion, knocking the youngsters to the ground when they erred, Dech pushed the young fighters as hard as they’d ever been.
Early on, they learned the effects adrenaline, anger, and aggression could have on skill and technique. Swinging the sword beyond control led to each of them rolling in the dirt more than once.
“A common error,” Dech said after one such occasion. “And an often fatal one. Under the stress of combat, one must give all, but most do not train with such intensity. You swing harder under such conditions, but without drilling, it will come as a surprise when you find that intensity has caused technique to abandon you.”
“And get a green knight in trouble, yes?” one of them asked.
Dech nodded. “Any knight, green or otherwise. The Fromaerians survived long enough to gain experience. That is why they seemed better than you. What you have gained today is also experience and you’ll do better the next time. Control is key. Control is first. Control of your weapon and control of your intensity and emotions.”
. . .
As the six gathered their gear to leave their makeshift training ground, Robert pulled Dech aside.
“Sir Dech, you are different here than you were last night and even more so than at my father’s.”
“That’s because I was in the company of friends back in Spring Shire, friends I am not supposed to have. It is a part of me from the past, a part that still resides within, but rarely has occasion to come out. A formality becomes part of dealing with those outside of the order.”
“But I have heard of contrition knights with wives and children. Do some receive exemptions and others not?”
“There are externs to the order, which is of what you speak. Secular knights who vow to serve the order for a specified period, a season or a year. A rare few served entire careers in such a manner. They are allowed to visit those outside the order at certain times. Brothers are not, but it still occurs. Often it’s unintentional, a random encounter with one from the past. The regulations say one should terminate the encounter as quickly as one can. In actual practice, that can be difficult.”
“Are you required to be so distant and formal in all encounters?”
“No,” Dech said with a shake of his head. “A tendency many contrition knights take on unwittingly. Bearing burdens, following codes, and functioning outside the world most inhabit pull one that way.”
“It likely helps when instructing the unskilled as well I suspect.”
“Perhaps.”
Rob smiled and nodded. With everything ready, the group returned to the city.
Dech left the group to visit the guard posts at the city gates to learn if the mage McGrew had arrived yet. Finding he had not, Dech washed and rejoined the five for an early meal.
The tavern was busy with locals and travelers alike, but still far from full capacity. Dech and Rob stood in line to order while the others claimed a table along the wall.
Despite the crowd, the wait was not a long one. After ordering, the two stepped aside and waited near the bar top that adjoined the food service.
“I know you. You’re Crouse, knight-commander,” a nearby man said.
Dech looked coldly at the source of the voice and saw a bent and scarred scarecrow of a figure, his watery brown eyes those of a man with a violent past, but one of declining fortune. His clothes were tattered and patched so many times it was now impossible to know what they looked like originally, his boots worn into leather leggings sticking out from cloth wraps around his feet.
“I was,” Dech answered. “Not anymore.”
“No? Whatever you may be, you’re still the man I remember. We met once. Some said you were dead, but I never believed it… not after the fight you put up. You’ll never die. Only men die.”
Dech’s face was impassive, but his eyes told of old anger. “You were one of Duke Philip’s men?”
“Not truly. Worked for Captain Terny. Mercenary. Took the duke’s gold all right, but we weren’t his. We covered a route you didn’t take. If you had come our way….
“Word came they’d waylaid your party. One of Duke Philip’s knights rode in and told us to finish off the survivors where they fell upon you and took whatever it was they came after. Put a detachment of their archers with us and off we went. Just four of you left, that was all. We—”
“I know the tale, mercenary,” Dirk said flatly.
“That you do. All these fine people do not though,” he said with a sweeping gesture at the people in the tavern. “They ought to know what a dangerous sort walks within these walls,” he said in a raised voice. “Ought to know not to cross steel nor arrows with you. Ought to know what you really are.”
Rob moved to Dech’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should leave,” he said to the bent man. “A silver to be rid of you.”
“A silver? Not had that much at once in quite some time, but no. I’ll see this demon turned priest gone,” he said with a sharp point at Dech. “Worth more than monies to me just now.”
Rob’s expression hardened. “Then you’ll leave with nothing. I’ll not have you—”
“Let him speak,” Dech said as he placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Let him tell his tale. Our food is ready.”
Rob saw two girls carrying trenchers weighted with bowls, bread, and tankards toward the counter. He gave Dech a worried look before the pair walked toward the table after taking the trays.
“Well, beggar?” someone yelled. “Do tell.”
The ex-mercenary glared at Dech before starting. “More than ten years ago a vaunted knight-commander got himself
waylaid. Failed his king. Lost what he was to guard. What it was no one knows, but—”
“It was part of the crown jewels,” a voice called out.
“Nay, were an enchanted war mace,” answered another.
“Was gold. Pay to keep Marador from us and us from them,” came another call.
“But it doesn’t matter,” the bent man continued. “He failed and got all his underlings killed. That don’t matter either. Captain Terny, the mercenary leader, sent two dozen of us with an equal number of archers to the road where it all happened. It was a sight, it was. A blood red field of dead scattered hither and yon. Four lived still, that was all.”
The man paused to sip some ale before continuing. “All of’em were wounded, one missing an arm at the elbow, a bleeding woman tending to him. The other two stood, one a boy no older than them lads there,” he said with a gesture at Rob and his companions. “Bandage ‘round his head, one eye covered. Then there was the knight-commander. Bleeding of many wounds, two arrows in him, leg and side.
“The men drew swords, even the armless one and we laughed at how pathetic it was. My old comrade Lars said let the archers deal with them, so we did. They flung arrows and hit them all. Killed three, but with two more arrows in him, the commander ran. The archers loosed more arrows, but he eluded them by ducking behind a tipped cargo wagon. Then, one of the archers fell, a crossbow bolt through the head. Another went not two blinks later, a bolt in the heart.
“The archers nocked arrows and sent more shafts at the commander, but as soon as they had, another died, then one was hit and he screamed. He spouted blood and emptied his bowels and bladder before he fell. That was it for the archers. They ran and climbed aboard their mounts to ride away. Lars gave them an earful, called’em cowards. They threw their quivers on the ground and said we should do the deed ourselves then, because they were out of arrows.”
The ex-merc swilled a gulp of ale and wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve. “So we went after him, running through all the dead. Rounded the wagon, but he was gone. Blood trail and footprints told us where he went, a rocky face of a hill amongst trees and underbrush. We went in after him, saw the trail leading to a broke-down entry to a cave or an old tomb. Lars said we’d make it the commander’s place of rest. We closed, but then one of the boys fell to a bolt in the eye. We knew from what happened back at the road there’d be another coming so we pulled back a bit.
“Lars had the idea then. Our oil lantern. Loosen the reservoir, light the thing, and throw it in the hole. He said he’d do it.” The man glared at Dech for a moment before continuing. “We closed again, another bolt dropped one of the boys, but it wasn’t bad, a hole in the arm. We ducked just in time for the second and it missed. That’s when Lars ran in and tossed the lantern. He turned to run away when the cursed thing comes flying right out again and next we know, Lars is coming at us burning like a torch and shrieking like a dying pig. Lars and me, we’d been fighting side-by-side for years, but that was done thanks to that demon there,” he said with a point at Dech.
“I went in to kill him, vengeance for Lars. Four arrows in him, bleeding. What I found was him still standing, waiting for us, for me, a demon’s smile on his face. I went to run him through and he brought his blade down. It was worn dull from the fighting earlier I’d guess. That and my byrnie was all that saved me. Took me at the top of my shoulder,” he said with a wincing pat on his left side. “Broke me right there. He kicked me and drove me back into the rock wall like I was a child. That cracked something in my back. I just made it out before I fell.
“I can’t say what happened exactly, but they told me two more went in and nothing came out but screams. They draped me over a horse and we rode out into the sunset. Made it back in the pitch black. Captain Terny was spitting mad. Sent more of the company to see the commander was done in, but by then some of the king’s men were there and the commander still lived. He lived all right. Lived through an execution and there he sits shoveling food into his face. Me? I was broke that day. Broke so bad even the magickers couldn’t fix me. Bad back. Useless arm. No more selling skill and steel. All I got left is pain and begging. Him? Look at him. Living like nothing happened. Brought in with other demons in the contrition order. That’s what they all are, demons. Survive an execution and they let you in.”
The ex-merc downed the dregs of his ale and slammed the tankard onto the bar top. “That’s what sits there. Now you know. No man could’ve survived all that. No mere man could’ve fought wounded like that. Now maybe you’ll cast him from here, knowing what he is.”
“I’ll not throw him out,” someone yelled just before a coin skittered across the floor near the man, “but I’ll buy you another tankard for the tale you told.”
The ex-mercenary scowled in the direction where the coin came from, but said nothing before he walked stiffly to the coin and struggled to grasp it. Once he did, he came as upright as he could and looked at Dech. He found the warder wiping his mouth and paying no attention to anyone but those at his table.
Glaring over the room for several seconds and finding no one paid him any mind, the scarecrow spat on the floor and made his way out with little notice save for a glance from Dech.
Seeing the look in Dech’s eyes, Rob and his companions said little after the ex-mercenary departed, and once they finished the meal, the others returned to their rooms while Dech and Rob went to check on the arrival of Otis McGrew.
“Tell me if I’m being brash, Sir Dech, but was the tale the mercenary told what led to you becoming a contrition knight?”
“The incident he described was, yes. An armed escort of valuable crown objects intended to seal a treaty with Marador. A common enough task for those who serve the king. You asked me in the stable what foul deed I committed. I am under no bond. Failure. That was my foul deed. Our guard force was overwhelmed. Six or seven times our number. They rolled over us and took the sword Mal-Hoarfrost, an ancient and enchanted weapon.”
Dech stopped and pondered for a moment before speaking. “Will you give me your word that what I tell you stays among only those who know the truth?”
“You have it, Sir Dech,” Rob said earnestly.
“The mercenary told of the results. Duke Frederick’s son Martin was the young knight killed by the archers. He was just a year or two older than you are now. For that, the duke wanted blood. Mine, since only I survived and the identity of the perpetrators wasn’t commonly known. King Harold came to me while I recovered from my wounds and asked me to be silent on the matter… for the sake of the kingdom. I was sorely tempted to refuse and speak the truth from the gallows since that was what I faced, but two things made me acquiesce, my oath to protect the kingdom and my wife’s pleading to go along with it. It may not be commonly known, but it’s no secret either that Duke Philip was behind the attack. He desired the sword and hoped for continued unrest with Marador. Such unrest weakened his political rivals on the border with Marador, particularly Duke Frederick.”
“An Aratanian Duke attacking the king’s own mission? That’s treason!”
“Only if it can be proven and even if it had been, it would have meant civil war. Likely a war for the throne, and recall Malig had been deposed not so long before and was seeking support to reclaim the crown. Harold’s place was not fully stable just yet either. Treaty or not, Marador would have attacked if fighting within Arataine occurred. It was—and is—politics and no business for honorable knights. The king found a substitute for the sword and the treaty was signed despite the loss. I was never sentenced formally, though Duke Frederick didn’t know it until later… after my aborted execution. I didn’t know of my admittance into the order until the doors dropped as I stood while seven others died. At the request of my wife, the king ruled I should live out my days as a contrition knight. A demonstration to Frederick that Harold rules and not him. A message to Philip that Harold knows what occurred and would be watching. A sign to those who seek our kingdom’s fall that we stand strong and united
despite inner strife.
“My wife and daughter were sent to Limodan. A secure coastal city with sound walls, but walls do little when pestilence comes. My ladies died there just months after I took the oath.”
Rob blinked in thought for several seconds. “Why did the king…?”
“He was right to do it… I think. When you are the sacrifice made to keep the peace it’s difficult to see it objectively. When those you love are sacrificed unwittingly it becomes impossible.”
Rob’s face expressed his shock. “I suppose I am—or was—naïve enough to think such things didn’t happen here. Allan has told me of what you did before you entered the order. He said if there ever was a perfect knight, you were him. That he never saw a better leader of fighters. They made you take the gallows for nothing?”
“Not nothing,” Dech said in a weary tone. “It was to preserve order.”
Rob curled his lip. “That’s not order, Sir Dech,” he said with venom. “It might have preserved the place of those on high thrones, or stopped a bloodletting, but it cannot be called order.”
Dech smiled. “An idealist. They make the best knights, but there will be prices to pay if you stick to those ideals. Most eventually give up the struggle. I did.”
“Did you? Are you sure of that?”
Dech opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. “No, Rob, I am not. You have your father’s way of slicing through obstacles.”
“Duty bound, Allan said he thought you were duty bound for a long while, but there was something more now. Ideals and duty cross paths, but often they clash, yes?”
“In addition to your father’s brashness, you also have your mother’s wisdom.”
“Wisdom? Father says if you speak long enough, the right words inadvertently spill out and sometimes others will mistake you as wise.”
“The sense of humor has passed on as well. You will do well for yourself I think.”
“Allan said he thought you were undergoing a change. It was why you visited us when you never had before.”
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