The Warder

by D K Williamson

  “Allan knows me as only a few do. He may be right. A visit such as I made violates the rules. It’s not something I would have done until now, and I do not know why or what has changed, but something has. I sense that something is afoot, but I’m no seer. Adhering to rules has a cost, whether those rules be code, law, duty, or an oath. Breaking those rules also has a cost. Holding to, or breaking rules, the issue is what must be paid.”

  “So… if the cost is worth it, you might break the rules.” Rob nodded in understanding. “How does one know? How do you factor the cost?”

  “Know? You won’t know until after you make your decision and by then all that is left is consequences and cost. As to how you factor that cost? You do so very carefully. It will likely be your conscience, your life, or your very soul on the bill. Best you know that from the start. It will put your honesty to the test.”

  “How so?”

  “Justifications, moral bargains, guilt, ego, pride, failure, all tempt one to recall events as they were not. A conscience is a terrible thing, but a necessary thing to be a good knight.”

  “How can one keep a knightly oath without a conscience?”

  Dech gestured forward and they began walking again. “An idealist,” he said with a smile. “They make the very best knights.”

  . . .

  They learned at the guardhouse that the mage McGrew had arrived less than half an hour earlier, an inn less than a block from theirs his destination.

  Rob returned to his comrades while Dech made his way to see the mage. After checking with the innkeeper, he went to the man’s room and knocked.

  McGrew was a squat plump man, but underneath the bulk lurked a powerful specimen. After Dech’s introduction, he invited the knight in.

  “Sit,” McGrew said as he closed the door. “The mage in question, what is the order’s continued interest in him?”

  “He met with Malig Tancar at an inn near Tynin.”

  “Malig! That close to Arataine. It seems the rumors were true. We so nearly had the mage. This man was studying derkunblod, have you heard of it?”

  “Yes. That’s partly why I wished to speak with you. Have you learned much of this obscure magic?”

  “No. I found evidence of his inquiries about it. At his last lodgings, there were burnt remnants of books and parchment, but nothing to indicate what they once presented. I’m sure he had become at least functionally competent in it. I examined the site where he murdered a traveling merchant. I could sense the lingering presence of the magic, but it was like nothing I have worked with. An incineration spell that burnt the poor merchant to bones, which was the method of the crime.”

  “Your murderer is dead. If my information is reliable, he was killed by Olk Mirkness, or at least a powerful mage claiming to be him. This mage also claimed to practice derkunblod.”

  “Mirkness?” McGrew said with skepticism. “His evil presence hasn’t been seen in decades. You have evidence of this?”

  “Nothing definitive. The mage you are investigating was killed in spectacular fashion by Mirkness—in full view of a tavern full of people. A short time later a mages hermitage targeted by this man was exterminated with Malig’s assistance.”

  “What was the significance of this hermitage?”

  “They practiced derkunblod.”

  The mage arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Are the two connected?”

  “Other than the magic and the man claiming to be Mirkness, not that I know of.”

  McGrew walked to the window and looked out for several seconds. “The tie is tenuous at best, but we cannot dismiss it outright. I need to get word to the mage council in Cruxford.”

  “I know of a group heading there tomorrow. An armed party of five.”

  “Are they trustworthy?”

  “Yes. Young, but I too have messages needing to go to the capital. I’m willing to entrust them with the task.”

  “Fair enough. I will as well.”

  “I am at the Carrick Inn just up the street from here as are the messengers.”

  McGrew nodded. “I’ll seek you out once I have my correspondence prepared.”

  Dech departed and found the quintet in the small tavern at the inn.

  “Are you able to deliver messages to Cruxford in the employ of the King’s Mage Council and the Order of Contrition Knights?” he asked.

  “We are,” Rob said as his companions nodded. The five appeared eager at the prospect.

  “You must travel swiftly and with no delays other than those necessary. Understand?”

  “We do. When do we depart?”

  “First light. No tavern brawls along the way.”

  “Certainly not,” one of the five said.

  “No pursuing passage of arms or noble daughters.”

  “We have learned our lesson,” another said.

  “No farm girls, highwaymen, or other adventuresome diversions. You’ll be on the king’s business.”

  “We won’t fail you,” Rob said earnestly.

  “It’s not I you need worry about. It’s King Harold and his mages.”

  “He is absolutely right,” Otis McGrew said as he entered the room with flashing eyes and a smile. “The last courier that failed in his duties was turned into a pile of feathers for a day at the order of His Majesty. A shame it was a breezy day.”

  “We’ll perform our duty,” Rob said trying not to smile.

  “That didn’t take you long,” Dech said to McGrew.

  “I am most proficient with the quill.” He smiled and drew some coins from a pouch. “I jest. After further thought, I feel I need to report what we have learned in person. Are these the messengers?”

  “They are,” Dech said.

  “In your estimation, are they capable of escorting a mage to Cruxford with haste?”

  Dech pointed at the young man with the injured arm. “What say you?”

  “I can ride and fight if necessary, Sir Dech.”

  The warder nodded. “They are capable.”

  McGrew nodded in response. Placing five coins on the table where the five young men sat he said, “That places you in the king’s employ until you fulfill your task of seeing me safe to the capital and the council chambers.” He placed a folded sheet of paper beside the coins. “That is your authorization of passage.”

  McGrew looked around the tavern and placed his hands on his hips. “That done, what passes for beer in this place?”

  . . .

  Chapter 6

  Dech joined Rob and his companions at the city gate as dawn brought the day’s first light. McGrew showed soon after.

  “Where do you travel now?” Rob asked.

  “I head for Creator’s Rock,” Dech replied.

  Rob nodded. “I hope we meet again.”

  “We may.” Dech drew two folded and sealed messages from a saddlebag and passed them to Rob. “One of those is for Gerald. The other is for the King’s Council. The Order seal on the official message serves the same purpose as McGrew’s authorization. Any who may hinder you are compelled to cease when presented such. Should they not comply, you have the king’s authority to use any means necessary to induce them to cease. The Council will pay you upon delivery. Gerald likely will not.”

  Rob laughed. “I cannot thank you adequately for your aid, Sir Dech.”

  His companions echoed his sentiments.

  “Living to a respectable age will be thanks enough. Give your father my regards. Fair and swift travels. You as well, McGrew.”

  “I return the wish, Warder,” the mage replied. “Day is moving lads. Let us do the same.”

  Dech watched the men and their horses ride out for a minute, and then touched his kettle-hat as a gesture of respect to the pair of nearby guardsmen before starting off. Ridan and Otto had hardly made more than five steps when a king’s legionnaire closed at the gallop. At first, Dech thought she might be a legionnaire express rider, but as she slowed, he could see that was not the case.

  Coming to a halt at th
e gate, she leapt from the saddle and breathlessly asked, “Is there a priest or monk learned in exorcism around or about?”

  Wide-eyed, the nearest city guardsman said, “Who be possessed?”

  “Not a who,” the legionnaire replied. “A place. The old duty and impost building to the northwest on the Penitents’ Way. Near Hastil.”

  “That’s not possession,” the guardsman said. “That’s a haunting. Is it doing anything more than floating around?”

  “Aye. Hurt a pair of men staying in the building while doing some work there. One of them looked much the worse for wear. Savage thing.”

  The guardsman grimaced. “I doubt any of the city’s clergy are capable. You need a—”

  “Contrition knight,” Dech interrupted. “Where is this place?”

  “North two miles and go left another fourteen,” the legionnaire said. “Let me get a fresh mount and I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll meet you en route. If this specter is attacking people, time is a factor. You’ll likely catch us well before we get there.”

  She nodded. “Some water and a horse and I’ll set out. I do not envy you a copper. Be there as soon as I can.”

  Dech set out at the walk, not wanting to push his horses hard, but he brought them to the trot sooner than he normally would.

  About thirty minutes into the trip, the legionnaire caught up, her horse breathing rapidly. Traveling with much less gear, lighter armor, and being of much smaller stature than Dech, she could push a little harder than the warder.

  The pair followed the winding course of the Penitents’ Way, a road with many stations called wayshrines positioned at regular intervals along its course. Those sentenced to penance for lesser offenses were required to walk the course and kneel before a set number of shrines to pray at least ostensibly, but most that followed the path did so of their own volition, stopping at those stations that adhered to their concept of the Creator.

  The pair passed dozens of wayshrines, some with solely masculine or feminine statuary, others with both, though most were symbols representing the Creator. The two said little to one another until the legionnaire asked, “Have you dealt with phantasms before, sir knight?”

  “My name is Dech, and yes, I have. If this entity is attacking corporeal beings, it’s most likely what is called a specter.”

  “Dech it is then. I am called Clara. How does one defeat such a foe?” she asked.

  “With great difficulty,” he replied.

  Not a common threat, contrition knights nevertheless trained to deal with specters on the rare occasions they did encounter them. Able to transition from an ethereal state to a tangible one, specters could physically harm their victims. Virtually indestructible while ethereal, they were as vulnerable to injury as any physical being was while in tangible form. The difficulty in combating them rested in being able to strike at the opportune time. Not an easy feat for even those well versed in fighting such opponents.

  The pair arrived a little less than two hours after Dech set out. Two legionnaires guarded the approach to the duty and impost building and stopped road traffic well before it could near the threat, another pair performed the same duties a distance in the opposite direction.

  Dech dismounted and dug into a bag on Otto’s packsaddle, retrieving a silver single-edged broad blade knife encased in a sheath of black leather, depositing his kettle-hat in exchange. He attached the sheath to his sword belt and left his horses in the care of the legionnaires. Gathering his shield and helm, he was ready.

  As he moved along the road, he discovered the legionnaire Clara following closely behind. “Curious are we, or just eager to see a contrition knight die?” he asked.

  She smiled and trotted the few steps it took to walk alongside him. “Curious. The short blade is something special?”

  “Other than being made of silver, no. Silver can cause great harm to some foes. Numerous monsters are vulnerable to its effects including some revenants. But—”

  “Revenants?”

  “Revenant is a term covering undead creatures. Spirits, liches, vampyrs, and a host of others fit into the category. Not all are monsters or evil. Unfortunately, specters are and silver is only minimally harmful to them, but it does cause considerable pain. That may be helpful if steel alone proves to be lacking.”

  “You can kill a specter?”

  “Not without the rituals trained clergy and some mages can perform, but when damaged badly enough, they can be rendered harmless or driven from our plane.”

  As they neared the building, a nebulous form passed by a second story opening. A cloudy grey-white in its ethereal form, the ghost currently displayed none of its physical attributes.

  Blood stained the path to the entry doors, a pool of it near the steps that dwindled to spatters as it trailed toward the road. Clothing, bedrolls, and tools lay scattered across the ground as well, seemingly tossed from the building.

  Dech scowled at the prospect of fighting the ghost before looking at Clara standing beside him. “You may want to keep some distance behind me. If I need to retreat, it would be dangerous for us to become entangled.”

  He equipped his helm and drew in a deep breath before moving in.

  Dech approached slowly with only his shield held before him. The legionnaire drew her sword and followed several steps behind.

  Inside the entry was a large space with overturned chairs and heavy tables pushed to the sides, a wide stairway directly ahead leading to the second story. Down these stairs came the specter, now formed and Dech could see the ghost was once a human male. The face was distorted into a mask of fury and hatred. Whatever the enragement’s source, the spirit sought to expend its bile upon the warder.

  The spirit closed, its grey-white appearance growing darker as it assumed solid, tangible form, human but with distended limbs. The specter growled deeply, an angry and terrifying noise. Dech drew his sword and stepped forward. A jarring blow struck his shield, then another. He thrust his sword and the specter recoiled as it recognized the danger.

  “Can you hear me?” Dech said.

  The spirit’s eyes narrowed. “Hear me,” it said in a hollow echoing voice.

  “Will you speak?”

  “Speak,” the specter echoed.

  “Leave this place. You do not belong here.”

  “Belong here.”

  “Leave or I must vanquish you.”

  “Vanquish you,” the hollow voice repeated. The face wrinkled into a terrible smile. “Yes. Vanquish you.” The specter attacked, swinging long arms with curled claw-like fingers in powerful arcs.

  Dech braced himself and prepared to counterstrike. The blows shook him to his boots, one driving his shield down, the next striking the cold hard surface of his helm.

  Dech struck in return, a sweeping cut that landed, but too late. The specter was once again ethereal and his blade did little but swirl the spirit’s ghostly form.

  The specter lunged, a gaseous hand passed through Dech’s shield, the padded cushion, and his arm which bore against it, chilling him as ethereal met corporeal. He lowered the shield and felt the vibration of the specter taking physical form. A cracking and splitting of wood and a hard tug on the shield threatened to pull Dech off balance as the grey hand protruding through the shield grasped his surcoat. Dropping his sword with a ringing clatter, he drew the deep bladed knife and slashed upward. The grey hand released its grip as it fell away and crumbled to dust. A horrid shriek of pain and rage came from the specter as the arm stump that pierced his shield pulled free.

  The specter became ethereal again and rose near the ceiling, moving over him. Dech backed away, the spirit following. The warder stopped short when he struck a heavy wood table with his hip, the specter transitioning to solid again and falling.

  Dech turned and brought his shield overhead as the form landed on him, buckling his knees. Dech fell and stabbed blindly as he struck the floor, eliciting another fierce cry from his opponent.

  For a moment
the spirit was smoke again, the limb Dech had damaged moving through the shield as it had before only lower. Becoming solid, Dech brought his knife across in a strike, but before it landed, he found himself pulled up and launched across the room as the specter threw him.

  He struck the floor and slid on his back into more old furniture. The ghost crossed the room and stomped on the exposed inner surface of his shield as Dech attempted to regain his bearings. His left arm was bound within the enarmes on the back of the shield and provided little room to move, ensuring that side was pinned to the floor so long as the specter’s weight held it down.

  The specter struck him in the face with his stub arm, but the helm took the blows well. Seemingly realizing the futility of attacking Dech’s head, the spirit sought to disarm him and grabbed his right wrist.

  Dech realized he faced mortal danger and as he had so many times in battle, he tapped into the inner reserves he was able to muster and raged. Yanking his left arm free with a mighty yell and taking the specter’s foot along with it, the spirit began to fall, but went into its ethereal form again, only to solidify just a moment later, feet once again firmly on the floor.

  The warder tried to rise, the specter kicking his right arm and sending the silver knife flying. Dech struck with his shield, landing a sharp blow on the specter’s right leg, staggering the ghost, but it charged as Dech regained his feet.

  The warder struck again with the shield, this time at the specter’s head, but the blow was met by a grasping hand that wrapped its grotesque fingers around his forearm and squeezed.

  The pain drove Dech deeper into the rage and balling a fist, he landed two savage blows to the specter’s head before it went to smoke again.

  Dech dove for his sword, the specter at his back. A deft grab filled the warder’s hand with a leather-wrapped hilt as a blow drove him forward into the heavy wooden table, footsteps pounding toward him as he steadied himself. He swung blindly, a high and horizontal cut that elicited a brief shriek before it was muted and replaced by the gritty sound of dust showering the floor.

  Dech spun toward the specter, but all he found was the ethereal head of his opponent fading away with a look of pure hatred, the floor below littered with the powdery residue of the specter’s remains.