The Warder

by D K Williamson

  “Philip, through Lord Loring, has long used an operative called Sir Jeffress Sinfor,” Ives said. “Do you know him?”

  “I do not.”

  “A landed knight with a small holding near the border with Nevar not far from the Brosalean. He was a member of the party linking Philip to Ludd in Ke’Ammar. He may not be totally loyal to Philip however, despite the duke’s overlooking of certain indiscretions by Sinfor. The man has odd… proclivities let’s say.”

  “What is the nature of these proclivities?” Dech asked.

  “They are of a deviant nature. He takes great pleasure inducing fear and inflicting pain upon barely pubescent elves and humans, gender not being an issue. Once Philip learned of this, he used it as a lever to force the good knight to perform services on occasion in exchange for allowing Jeffress’ predations to continue. Often these services are of a clandestine nature.”

  Dech shook his head in disgust, his expression hardened. “How many are aware of Sinfor’s predations?”

  “Not many,” Ives said with a tone indicating he felt as Dech did. “The Duke and much of his circle of course. Those who serve Sinfor surely must know as well.”

  “How is Sinfor exhibiting this disloyalty you mentioned?”

  “That is not entirely clear,” Leophric said. “A recent payment was made to him from an unknown source and it is one we can confirm did not originate from Philip. Try as we might, we have not discovered this source or the exact amount. It was sufficient to hire a sizeable crew of men and women outfitted for woodcutting, carpentry, masonry, along with common labor skills. No materials were sent to Sinfor’s castle. The crew arrived there, but no work was or is underway. We have confirmation of this as well. From there the workers went elsewhere, obviously, but no one seems to be able locate them. Not in Arataine and they are certainly not in the Brosalean. Nevar seems likely, but where? The wreck of a castle Malig inquired about? Not likely. The work crew was sizable, but not enough for a job of that scale. Somewhere hidden within all those green, green, trees is the answer.”

  “Or in Sinfor’s mind,” Dech said coldly.

  Ives smiled. “If so, that might save considerable traipsing through forest, yes?”

  “Yes. Do you have any information about Sinfor’s holding?”

  “Oddly, we do,” Ives said lifting a sealed packet from his desktop and placing it atop the other documents stacked on his desk. “It is certainly no fortress, but he has wealth enough to hire guards and even keep a few knights under his banner. Still, a man of your ability should be able to find a way to gain access. The thief Erie might be of use, yes?”

  “He just might. Do you know where Erie is?”

  “Langston. Spending coin as if he and his bard companion were royalty. Back to Sinfor, I must assume he has gained your ire?”

  “He has,” Dech replied in a tone that left no doubt of his sincerity.

  “Ours as well,” Leophric said. “Should we learn more, we will send it promptly.”

  Ives slid the collection of documents Dech had left with them across his desk, the pile now heavier with their latest additions.

  The warder took the items from the desk and dipped his head at each of the men before walking to the exit.

  As the door closed behind Dech, Ives turned and looked at his partner. “There is nothing in this world that would induce me to trade places with Sinfor just now.”

  Leophric nodded. “Men like Sir Dech exist to deal with the Sinfors of this world. Fortunately such men have us to point them in the right direction.”

  “True, but one correction. There is no other man quite like Dech.”

  “A valid point. Correction noted.”

  . . .

  Dech’s route from Drumming to the Fortress of the Order was not a direct one. Having a stop about an hour and a half north of the Fortress to follow up on one last lead for McGrew and Wace took the warder on a different route than he would normally follow.

  The small town of Mashland was home to a small monastery that did big business in beer and the settlement and surrounding lands existed largely in support of this industry.

  A wall surrounded the grounds of the monastery, but the gates were open and unguarded. After inquiring about the list of works the council mages were interested in, he was directed to a small cylindrical tower of four stories that served as a library. Apparently once a defensive structure, the narrow arrowslits had been replaced with wider glazed windows, the stonework around them clearly of more recent vintage than the rest of the structure.

  Stepping inside, a dwarvan monk seated at a desk looked up with a look of mild surprise.

  “I am Brother Nathan, the librarian and chronicler of Beor Monastery. How might I serve you, brother knight?”

  As Dech unfolded the list he said, “I am Warder Dech. I seek several works on magic this library may have.”

  “A contrition knight scholar?”

  “There are a few, but I cannot count myself among them,” Dech replied. “I am on a task for the king and his mage council.”

  “Ours is but a humble and eclectic collection dealing mainly with monastic and brewing topics, but we do have some works on magic. What do you seek?”

  Dech passed the list of works to the monk. After a few seconds skimming the page, he looked up. “We have one of these. Hibben’s Forms and Arts of the Nether Regions. A rare work. I can safely say it is not a sought after tome by any means. In fact, I cannot recall a single time it has been requested in the nearly fifteen years I have worked here. I suspect its rarity is a result of its lack of popularity.”

  “It may be fortunate that is the case.”

  “You will deliver this work to the council?”

  Dech nodded. “If not me, other members of the order will. Has anyone inquired about works of a similar nature recently?”

  “No. Is there an issue we should be aware of?”

  “Possibly. There have been several incidents of destruction involving works that detail certain magics. Worse, the perpetrators have killed scholars with knowledge of these forms. Hibben’s is one they might seek.”

  “Might we be in danger here? Perhaps I should keep my quarterstaff at hand? I can defend myself.”

  “No doubt. If these actors of destruction knew of your copy, they likely would have been here already, but should someone seek it, you might tell them it was sent to Cruxford in unreadable condition.”

  Brother Nathan nodded. “I see. If I must deceive, then perhaps I might add it has been that way for as long as anyone can recall.”

  The warder smiled. “You have a talent for deceit?”

  Nathan laughed. “I have a creative mind. I’ll retrieve the tome.”

  . . .

  Dech carried the book to his horses. Carefully wrapped by Nathan in parchment and oilskin, the volume was well protected for its journey.

  After placing the package in one of the saddlebags Otto carried, he secured the flap and began tightening the cinches on both horses. As he worked, a trio of dwarves slowed their team of horses pulling a large cargo wagon, halting a short distance away. The three were apparently frequent and welcome visitors, evidenced when one of the monks greeted them warmly.

  “It’s that time again,” one of the dwarves said. “Time to spend some money.”

  “And load kegs,” said another.

  “Would have been here sooner, but Rollis settlement south of here says they have a monster roaming the woods,” the third said. “We took it slow and kept the crossbows handy in case they were right.”

  Dech approached the three. “They say what sort of monster?” he asked.

  “No, but they were talking of forming hunting parties.”

  “I’ll pass through there on my way.”

  “I’d imagine they’d welcome you, if for no other reason than they’d rather you get killed than one of them.”

  . . .

  Dech rode south and as he neared Rollis, he saw no sign of monsters or hunting parties, but
once in the settlement, he learned the hunt was still on.

  “South of our fine town, sir knight,” a man said. “Found tracks at the side of the road. A large creature. As big as a bear they said.”

  The warder followed the road out of town into forested land, soon finding a gathering of nearly forty beings, mostly humans, and mostly armed with an assortment of pitchforks, shovels, bills, and other implements. In the midst of a heated discussion, no one noticed him until he drew close.

  “A contrition knight,” someone called out. “He’ll know what to do.”

  A man and woman at the center of the group pushed their way outward toward the new arrival, the others moving toward the warder as well. Dech thought it peculiar each wore an apron, the man’s leather, the woman wearing white cloth.

  “We thought of sending word to the Fortress,” the woman said. “We’ve a problem.”

  “A creature of some size they said,” Dech replied.

  “Worse than that,” the man said. “It’s an ogre in an armored suit the likes of which I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen a bit. I’m a smith.”

  “It’s not an ogre,” a voice in the crowd yelled. “No horns. It must be an orc or a troll.”

  “Nay,” a woman countered, “‘tis an iron golem.”

  “I heard it curse,” a man said. “Golems don’t talk.”

  “You actually saw this creature?” Dech asked.

  “Some of us did. I still say it’s a troll. They are known to tinker and cause trouble. Might be an orc though.”

  “An ogre I say,” the smith said. “Horns or not, an ogre’s bigger than orc or troll and all of us that saw it know how big it was. As tall as the knight here upon his horse. Maybe taller.”

  “Sounds like a giant then,” someone else offered.

  Dech stood in his stirrups. “Where was this creature last seen?”

  “East of the intersection south of us near half a mile,” the aproned woman said. “Headed south.”

  “More west,” someone shouted.

  “Was neither. Going northeast,” another said.

  “You didn’t even see the thing,” yet another yelled.

  “Neither did you,” someone else said. “You ran when the rest of us did.”

  “It could go any manner of ways,” the smith said. “There be footpaths, bandit trails, wagon tracks, and logging runs all through there. We saw the thing while following its tracks. It turned and we chose to tell the others before taking up the chase again.”

  Dech settled into his saddle. “I’ll go have a look.”

  “We’ll be coming as well,” the woman in the apron said.

  “That we will,” someone yelled. “Likely take us all to kill the thing.”

  “Form parties again,” the smith shouted.

  Dech shook his head and guided his horses clear of the crowd. He trotted south and turned left at the intersection of the dirt roads. A glance north showed clumps of people heading his way. As a precaution, the warder loosed the ties on his war sword at the front of his saddle.

  The dirt held the tracks of dozens of people, but no sign of a giant creature of any sort. A few hundred paces east, the tracks thinned and represented the limit of the hunters’ search. Dech slowed and took the first trail south where the footprints indicated those few who traveled there were running north.

  A few minutes later, a narrow path intersected the trail following a meandering diagonal course running roughly northeast to southwest. Here the footprints reflected what the smith had said: human sized footprints coming from the winding trail and stopping before running north while large and deeper tracks went southwest.

  Dismounting and crouching with some discomfort, the warder looked at the prints closely. The tracks appeared to be imprints made by flat, rigid soles without texture and probably made of wood or iron. It was footgear that would be uncomfortable and tiring to use for any length of time, “Unless it is a construct of some form,” he muttered to himself.

  Climbing into the saddle, he followed at a slow pace until they reached a wider north-south road with the characteristic tracks of animal drawn wagons, farther south on the same path he’d met the hunters. Here the tracks went south. A short distance away was another intersection where the tracks went east along a narrower and lesser-used wagon path. Looking up the trail Dech saw movement through the brush that encroached on the passage. It was a large shape, but far smaller than described by the hunters.

  Dech kept the pace of his horses slow to minimize noise. Ridan tensed and raised her head with a soft snort, a quiet warning the warder knew well. Otto too showed signs of wariness, but his steady nature kept him from uttering a sound. Dech halted his mounts and listened. Just moments later, he heard the rustle of leaves and the steady clunking of metal, but it stopped.

  Dismounting quietly, Dech drew the war sword from his saddle and moved down the trail, leaving his shield on his back. A minute later, he saw the cause of the locals’ distress: a metal construct nearly as tall as Dech standing several paces off the trail.

  The head turned stiffly from left to right with a slight grating sound.

  Dreading a fight considering his discomfort, he took a risk shouting, “Are you creature or construct?”

  The head turned left and right in rapid fashion several times before rotating to face Dech. A hollow and muffled sound came from inside, an incomprehensible voice. The suit stomped a half turn in the brush before the head rotated to face the warder again.

  “I seem to be a bit lost,” the construct said in an echoing high-pitched voice. “A bit stuck as well.”

  “What manner of being are you?” Dech asked.

  “Please tell me my eyes do not deceive. You are a contrition knight and not a provincial with an implement looking to chop or pierce, yes?”

  “I am Warder Dech of the Contrition Order.”

  “Splendid! No need to worry. To answer your query, I am a gnome.”

  Dech sighed and gauged the size of the construct. “Are we a very large gnome or…?”

  “The latter. A typically sized gnoman being in a marvelous mechanical suit. Enchanted no less.”

  “I’m sure. Why didn’t you say something to the so-called provincials earlier? Perhaps they wouldn’t be after you armed with pitchforks.”

  “Believe me, I tried. This mechanical wonder is my own creation. After extensive tests at my residence in Waverly proved promising, I sought to wring it a bit with a field test. I had a wagoner transport me to Forkton with the intent of using my creation to travel back home, but I fear my compass does not point true and it seems I am well off my intended course. My field test has also revealed that my external vision is limited and that combined with the lack of a functioning compass has made navigation troublesome.”

  “Your course obviously took you nowhere near Waverly. Assuming your suit is made of iron, might that account for your compass error.”

  “Why yes! I’m happy to see we agree. That was my estimation of the problem. I fear I covered a considerable distance in a direction other than the course I intended. Once I realized I was far from my planned course, I asked a woman for directions and she ran away screaming. When I saw beings with lethal weapons in hand a time later, I sought a quick route back to a major road. Long tale short, here I am.”

  Dech gestured toward the trail. “Why didn’t you hop out and explain?” he asked as the gnome bulled through the brush.

  “I did mention I was stuck. Inside I mean.”

  The gnome stopped on the path and Dech had a clear look at the suit. The fully articulated limbs, if stiff and somewhat ponderous in their motions were impressive. A square hatch made up most of the breastplate, the panel hinged on the left side with a handle right allowing access inside.

  “Can I open the hatch from outside?” Dech asked.

  “Strictly mechanically? No. It wouldn’t do to have someone simply open the door and pull the wee being free now would it? To prevent that, it’s warded. The spell is insc
ribed just under the door. It’s basic spelling using Edelson.”

  “Edelson?”

  “Yes, Edelson,” he said with irritation. “It’s basic first year magic academy fodder. It cannot be miscast. Go ahead, the worst you might do is fail.”

  “Maybe you missed something,” Dech replied with irritation of his own. “I’m a knight.”

  “I believe we already established that. A contrition knight. I thought those in your order cast spells.”

  “When able. Not a lot of spell throwers in the patrol ranks. Armor, shields, and arms are a hindrance.”

  “I am fully aware of that. Rare is the one that can cast complex spells while within metal.”

  Dech sighed in frustration. “As I said, I know one minor healing spell and no more. How did you lock yourself in?”

  The gnome growled. “I cast the spell prior to embarking on my journey. Closing the hatch was all it took. An oversight on my part. What are we to do then?”

  “I would suggest we walk clear of the lynch mobs and find a mage.”

  “Splendid idea. Which way?”

  “Wait here. I’ll retrieve my horses and lead you out.”

  Dech soon learned neither of his horses cared for the construct, especially Otto. The two equines refused to let the gnome follow behind them, so after fashioning a long lead from rope, the two animals trailed well behind while Dech walked alongside the trapped being.

  “You two can keep an eye on him from here,” he said to his horses before they set out.

  The pace was slow, but steady and before long, they came to another route that would take them south.

  “This will take us to Forkton,” Dech said. “There should be a mage or two there.”

  “How far are we from there?”

  “Not as far as you might think. It seems your journey was a meandering one.”

  The two followed the road, but snorts from the two horses prompted Dech to look to the rear and find a band of a dozen people from the settlement closing on them.