The Captain does not stop to acknowledge the threat, continuing on his way. Hector returns his attention back to the map.
“You know, a good ruler listens to the advice of his men. Or, at least pretends to.”
Hector is taken off guard by the voice. He swings around to discover the Necromancer walking out from the shadows in the corner.
“I wish you would stop doing that.”
“And I wish you would actually use some degree of intelligence in this matter regarding that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“How many of those ‘mercenaries’ were sent to kill her?”
“Eight.”
“Eight bloodthirsty and unbeatable champions... killed like swine. Perhaps you should have listened to the good Captain.”
“She is my problem, and I will deal with it as I see fit!”
“Oh, you are right on that front. She is your problem, but each time you fail it becomes more and more my problem. Fail again, and I shall take matters further into my own hands then they already are. I will not let you sabotage the overall plan, my little false king.”
~-~~-~
Two days have passed, and Morion grows impatient.
She has allowed Tristan to take them along rugged trails and deep into long abandoned paths in an attempt to avoid being spotted, she even followed his advice to ride through the night. She has become tired of falling asleep in the saddle, eating meals in the saddle and only occasionally being allowed to stop and rest. By noon, they reach an open field where she, in protest, brings her horse to a stop and dismounts. Tristan brings his horse around, trotting over to her.
“What exactly are you doing?” he asks.
“Resting! I cannot take another hour sitting on that saddle! I need to stretch and relax.”
Cale and Amy follow her example, dismounting and stretching on the grass.
Tristan leans forward toward Morion.
“You do know that every moment we waste, yet another evil most likely comes closer to us, right?”
“Be that as it may, I will not ride myself ragged and the horse to death. Even you must need to rest, and even if not, surely that animal does?”
Tristan rubs the neck of his horse, gives it a pat and with a shrug concedes.
“I suppose you are right, but we cannot sit long. We have far to go, and little time to do it in.”
Tristan dismounts, merely standing next to his animal, looking off into the distance. Morion, Amy and Cale raid their respective saddle bags for food. They become painfully aware of their ever dwindling stockpile.
“I do not mean to be rude,” Cale blurts out, “but I believe we are running out of food here, Tristan, and I for one have not seen any decent looking animals bounding about.”
“There is nothing to worry about. The supplies will last as long as they need to,” Tristan says without facing the others. His voice distant and shallow.
~-~~-~
Having finished a spectacularly sparse meal, the group continues. When night prepares to overtake the world, Tristan tosses a rope back to Morion, who rides behind him.
“What is this for?” she asks.
“Secure it to your horse’s reins and throw the end to your companions,” Tristan responds. “I figured it would allow you some degree of security in case any of you fall asleep.”
“You mean to say we are riding through the night again?”
Tristan looks Morion square in her eyes, his own showing what might be interpreted as compassion.
“It will be the last, I promise. The ground we gain by doing this is invaluable. It is a small sacrifice when weighed against saving your home, I would think, Your Highness. Would your father do any less?”
Morion takes Tristan’s last words to heart.
“I suppose you are quite correct, good sir.”
Morion secures the rope, as instructed, then throws the rope back to the bards, who ride behind her. The bards have been trading off their riding duties, and Amy is now the one who controls their animal. She had heard the conversation between Morion and Tristan and ties the end of the rope to her reins without question - not that she would question it anyway, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Cale has already fallen asleep. The rope has a good deal of slack, so Morion brings her horse up to speed with Tristan. He turns, surprised to see her.
“Is there something wrong?” he asks her.
“I was just curious,” Morion begins, her voice soft and quiet, “why are you helping me? My father’s letter was a bit sparse on details, but he would not hire just anyone, especially if he knew both his and my life were in danger.”
Tristan swivels his head forward, looking up as the last vestiges of light yields to the coming darkness. The occasional star shining through the dark oranges and purples.
“You did not see your father much in the last few years, did you? He always had business in some other part of the land, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“My father had been very much the same way.”
“Had been?”
“My father died some years ago. It was your father that helped me in that time. He took me in, guided me I suppose you could say.”
“I do not understand. My father traveled to other kingdoms, other provinces. Sealing alliances, forging new ones...”
“He did, and I acted as his personal bodyguard. It was in those times I speak of.”
“What reason would he have for a bodyguard?”
“Think about that for a moment, Morion. Why is he dead now? Your father had many enemies, I am afraid. If I had taken him on his offer, perhaps I could have helped him.”
Morion twists around to check on the bards, and sees them both sleeping, apparently. She comes back to her guide. Her guard.
“What offer, Tristan?”
“Residence in Halvard.”
“Why did you refuse it?”
Tristan lowers his head, contemplating.
“I was afraid, I think.”
“What was there to fear?”
“Change. Myself. Everything. Nothing, perhaps. I wish I was sure which.” Morion begins to ask another question, but Tristan interrupts: “No more questions, not now at least. You should try to rest.”
“What about you?”
“I will be fine. I am used to riding like this. In fact, it reminds me of one of the treks your father made.”
“Tell me! I would love to know what my father did while away.”
“Not now. Tomorrow, when we rest I will.”
“Very well. What about your name?”
“What of it?”
“I would like to know it.”
“What do you mean? You know my name.”
“No, father said to call you Tristan. Unless I have grossly misinterpreted my father’s writing, that implies that ‘Tristan’ is not in fact your real name.”
Tristan examines Morion’s face, looking for any ill intent. He then checks on the bards. Still sleeping, supposedly.
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Morion bows her head in acceptance, feeling as though she has made some progress. She brings her horse back behind Tristan’s and yawns. She looks forward to Tristan, still unsure of him but not as much as in the days previous. He pulls his hood down, revealing dark brown hair. Morion finds herself comforted as she sees his head move from side to side, watching the surroundings like a loyal guard dog. Tristan slowly unsheathes his sword as to avoid making any sound, and rests it across his lap. He can sense her watching him, and thus faces her with a sort of smirk.
“Nothing to worry about. If there was one thing I learned from your father, it was the virtue of always being on guard. Feel free to sleep.”
Morion smiles and nods. She closes her eyes, intending to merely rest them, but she too, like the bards, succumbs to the beautiful unconsciousness of sleep.
~-~~-~
The Queen of Halvard.
In her few fleeting moments of dreamless
sleep, she is free. No worries, no fears. She rules nothing and is ruled by no one. She just is, no beginning and no ending. Absolute, unadulterated freedom. But then the images come to life. The sweet emptiness becomes a prison, and she becomes a slave. Just as sleep is an escape from reality, reality becomes an escape from her dreams.
She rouses herself, finding in her waking eyes an unfamiliar land covered in a thin layer of melting snow, behind them a thin forest, the world ahead shrouded by fog. She spins about in her saddle, searching for her bearings. There is Amy and Cale, also just waking up. There also is Tristan’s horse standing peacefully at the edge of a small, steady brook, drinking and relaxing. Tristan, though, is nowhere to be seen.
Morion dismounts, stretching and yawning, her joints cracking painfully, the ride through the night having taken its toll. Cale and Amy do the same. The sun has not yet risen, a light mist covers the ground in the grey morning. Free of their burdens, the Queen’s and the bards’ animals walk to the brook to lap at the water - a welcome gift after working so hard. A parched Morion kneels down to drink as well, as do her companions.
“So, where is our loving guide?” Cale asks.
Morion stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, examining her surroundings.
“I have no idea,” she admits, a touch of worry creeping into her voice.
“I would hate to think something bad has happened,” Amy adds.
The sudden report of snow and foliage being crushed underfoot breaks the serenity. Morion’s hand moves to the hilt of her weapon. With each footstep, she unsheathes the blade more and more. From the fog, a figure emerges: Tristan, with an armful of fruit.
“Good morning,” he says lukewarmly, “here is something that should help you on your way to waking up.” Tristan hands everyone two green and pink fruits, like apples, but slightly smaller and much more fragrant. The flesh of which tastes something like a cross between an apple and an orange. Morion and the bards accept their breakfast gratefully. Tristan lounges with legs crossed at the edge of the brook, his back to the trio. He begins eating his allotment of fruit without hesitation. “After you have eaten, freshened up and filled any water skins you have, we continue southeast for a while.”
“Yet more riding? We have been riding for days!” Cale complains.
“Our pace will be much slower from now on.”
Morion watches as Tristan eats the fruit, already having started his second one. She eyes the fruits he handed to her, and slowly takes a bite, unsure what to expect. She discovers the awe inspiring taste of the fruit and, feeling the tug of hunger, devours both fruits in a matter of moments, finishing at roughly the same time as Tristan. Tristan stands to feed the cores of his fruits to his horse, which accepts them gratefully.
“The cores are safe to give the animals,” he explains, looking at Morion, “the seeds are good for them. Aids in digestion, actually.”
Morion does the same for her animal. The bards have only just begun to eat, with a great deal more reservation about the fruits. Morion looks to Tristan sheepishly.
“Are there any more?” she asks.
Tristan takes a small sack from one of the saddle bags on his horse.
“No, but we can easily go pick some more,” he tells her with a light air. He motions for Morion to follow. He looks to the bards, whom are still eating. “Would either, or both, of you like to come?” he asks them.
The bards glance at each other, as if wordlessly debating with one another. Amy then faces Tristan with a smile.
“I will come!”
Tristan nods, gesturing for her to follow.
“I will stay here to watch the horses,” Cale offers with a tone of nobility in his voice, like one trying to sound brave.
Amy runs to Morion and Tristan leads them to a small glade, moist and green, covered with small fruit bearing trees. Tristan makes to a tree with the same fruit he had picked earlier, while the two women look at the other trees, once heavy with all sorts of multicolored fruits, but now most are bare with only a few over ripened fruits remaining on their limbs to betray what had grown on them. Except one.
Both Morion and Amy flock to one specific tree in the glade; taller than the others and overflowing with a red and green striped fruit. They both reach up to pick from the tree. Tristan, who had been filling the sack with the green and pink produce, happens to see the women harvesting from the larger tree.
“No!” he yells, startling them. He rushes over to them, violently knocking the fruit they have gathered to the ground. “It figures women would pick from this tree.”
“Why did you do that!?” Morion and Amy both exclaim in unison.
“That is as much fruit as I am royalty,” Tristan explains. “They are corrupt, called Brimstone Apples. One bite would cause your insides to melt, leaving you alive during the process, slowly waiting for death. It looks good, but appearances are quite deceiving. Look at the trees around here. Did you not find it odd that this was the only tree still holding its full crop?”
Morion and Amy step back from the tree, aware of how close they, apparently, were to death. A moment passes, and a revelation crosses Amy’s face.
“What did you mean by that!? Saying that it figures that women would pick from this tree?” Amy asks, slightly offended.
Tristan gives a sort of dark smirk, shaking his head.
“Nothing. Let us just finish what we came to do, shall we?”
Amy decides to let the matter go, and follows Morion and Tristan to the tree he had been at. They examine the tree, finding the lower branches now bare, and the sack woefully under filled.
“There are some more near the top, but I cannot climb trees,” Amy tells them, her voice quivering as if remembering some past event.
“Neither can I,” Morion adds.
Tristan unsheathes his sword after handing the pack to Amy. He climbs up to the lower boughs, then begins making his way up the tree with great ease, leaping from branch to branch. Once near the top, he hacks at limbs, causing them to fall to the ground, their fruit still attached. Tristan leaps down, landing with grace, sheathing his sword. Amy and Morion begin picking from the fallen limbs and soon the pack is quite full. Morion grabs a few with a sly smile to Amy, eating them on the walk back to Cale and the horses.
~-~~-~
Cale sits on the bank of the brook, tossing rocks across it. Morion takes the cores of the fruits she had already eaten and feeds them to her horse. Tristan takes a whole fruit and gives it to his. Amy does the same, but she suddenly tilts her head to the side, remembering something. Morion catches this.
“Is something wrong, Amy?” she asks her.
Amy is quiet, lost in some far away place buried in the depths of her mind.
“What? Oh, no. I just had the vaguest sensation that I have done this before, that is all,” she finally answers Morion.
“I do believe we can get going again,” Tristan says with a sigh of relief, having not heard the exchange between Morion and Amy.
Tristan unties the rope that had strung the horses together, coils it up and slings it over his shoulder and across his chest.
“May I carry the fruit?” Morion asks.
Tristan nods, and Amy gives Morion the pack with a smile. They all mount up and follow Tristan as he brings his horse to a trot, going south along the brook.
The sun rises, melting the fog that had been shrouding the land from view. It is in the ending months of winter, the ice melting and giving way to patches of lively green grass and bright, shining flowers. The frost hangs stubbornly from the trees, unwilling to submit to the coming spring. Morion had never seen such a sight. The winters in Halvard were light, not even close to the dramatic scenes playing out before her.
Tristan, Morion notices as she watches him, is at ease in this place, breathing deep the cold, crisp air. Amy, like Morion is genuinely enthralled. Cale, unlike everyone else in the party, views the landscape with some degree of disdain and even, perhaps, loathing. Occa
sionally the babbling of the brook is interrupted by the loud singing of birds, who flitter quickly from tree to tree as though racing one another. Slowly the brook begins to grow larger and larger becoming a river, the land on the opposite bank now unreachable. The river lies to their right, and to their left the edge of a lightly wooded forest.
By midday the dirt path they had been riding on begins to give way to an old paved road; the stones of which are well worn, having been overtaken by dirt and mud, only to be washed by the river and swept clean by the wind - a pattern repeated through untold ages - weathering the stones and making them a permanent fixture on the water’s bank. Every mile or so, the remains of a stone structure reaching out into the river from the road can be seen.
“Those arms you see, stretching from the road into the river, they used to be part of an ancient dam system,” Tristan speaks, offering his knowledge to those in his charge.
“A dam? That would mean that a city used to be around here at one time, right?” Amy asks.
Tristan points to the forest on their left.
“That forest there used to be a massive, thriving city centuries ago. But it was destroyed, and the trees reclaimed the land, shattering stone and, with the aid of the river, eroding brick. There is very little, if anything, left now.”
“How do you know this?” Cale asks.
“I spent a good number of years wandering the wilderness. Learning, discovering the secrets of the land. Trying to find reason in it,” Tristan explains, then trails off into distant thoughts.
The party continues for a brief time in silence, until Morion speaks up.
“Is it possible that the Black Knight’s castle could be found there? I mean, if that city was centuries old, that means it could have been part of the old kingdoms.”
“No,” Amy begins, “the stories always tell of his castle being east of a river, not north of one.”
“I heard that it was the river that was east of his castle,” Tristan adds.
“I would not give much credit to some of those stories,” Cale retorts, “I mean, if I was some all powerful being, I would not want to be found easily. In the dead center of some dark, dank forest would be the most likely place, I think.”
Morion thinks for a moment.
“It would reason that it would need to be near water, though. If it was in fact part of one of the old kingdoms, it would need easy access to water for the people,” Morion concludes aloud.
The Black Knight Page 4