"What happened to this man?" She asked with a shudder, as she now recognized what she had stumbled over as part of the head and torso of a bandit who had been quite literally blown to pieces. Other portions were also strewn about near the wagon, reminding her of nothing so much as boiled eggs smashed to the ground. She very nearly lost what little remained of her breakfast, at that point.
"My apologies, dear lady," Sorn said. "He was lining up a bead on one of my cousins, so had to be dealt with rather, ahem, forcefully".
Magic, Chestnut surmised. It would explain why the three squires were looking at this youth with unconscious deference, despite the fact that he was the most humbly attired of the four. It also explained why the older youth spoke for the group. He was obviously an apprentice mage. Or perhaps, as indicated from the remains of this poor robber, no mere apprentice at all. Yet so young… she would have to ask her father's mage what he thought of it, when they finally got home. Still, whoever they were, Chestnut felt that a great debt of gratitude was owed.
"Good sirs," she said respectfully, though deliberately not calling them knights. "You have saved our purses and, I have no doubt, our lives as well. For this, my family owes you and your companions a great debt of gratitude. With all of my heart, I thank you."
"Quite right," agreed a middle-aged gentleman stepping out of the carriage, eyeing the corpses and surviving bandits with an experienced soldier's eye. "Good show there, no doubt, and as my daughter has so eloquently put it, we are indeed in your debt."
At this point, the man favored his daughter with a look that spoke volumes. The girl had the grace to blush under her father's gaze.
"We are heroes brave and true!" Lieberman declared excitedly.
"Oh yes, we saved the damsel in distress just like in all the stories!" Fitz agreed.
"Indeed we are, and indeed we have! I love being a knight!" Hanz chipped in.
"Adventure!"
"Excitement!"
"And now, time for feasting!" All three declared in unison, eyes alight with a definite hunger, doing their best to ignore their cousin's baleful eye.
"Feasting. Err, quite right," commented the gentleman.
"I, good sirs, am Lord Canterbier. And the young lady you see before you is my daughter, Chestnut. My wife and younger son are still in the carriage, where my daughter should be." This last was said with 'a look' toward his daughter. "They are still a bit shaken up, you understand. Now, would you young gentlemen be so good as to grace this humble Lord's ears with your own fine names?"
"Hanz!"
"Fitz!"
"Lieberman!"
"We are knights extraordinaire!" the three chimed in together. "We kick ass!"
"Sorn, good sir." Sorn sighed.
Lord Canterbier quirked his eyebrow at the three golden haired youths. "They certainly are an enthusiastic bunch," he said to Sorn.
Sorn couldn’t help cracking a grin at this aside. "Indeed they are sir, indeed they are."
At this point, Lord Canterbier's one surviving armsman let out a piteous groan. The lord gave a sad shake of his head.
"Father, Chester is badly wounded. He needs the care of Nadelins, but I don't even know if he could survive the journey." Chestnut’s voice resonated with her concern.
Lord Canterbier sighed. "Your point is well made, daughter mine. He needs to be carried, and gently, if he is to have even a hope of surviving the journey, and I fear the jostling of the carriage will do his wound no good. And as neither you nor I has any expertise in the drawing of bolts, I fear we would only make his injury worse, were we to try to extract it ourselves." Lord Canterbier shook his head slowly, looking grimly at the bolt sticking so cruelly out of the poor guard's side. "In any case, my dear, I doubt he would last long enough to survive the trip." The conclusion was a sad one, but no one could deny the evidence of the pink flecks of froth around the guard's mouth. Whatever chance the man might otherwise have had, both time and a jostling carriage would certainly doom him now.
"But poor Elizabeth and their child, how will they fare?" It was at this point that Chestnut's veneer of bravado peeled away to uncover a very hurt and frightened girl underneath. For all her efforts to be the strong elder son her father never had—certain, confident, even cocky in the face of danger and turmoil—she could no longer hide her true self in the face of tragedy on such a personal level.
The death of one of her father's guardsmen, a kind man, Bernard, was bad enough. Yet she had known Chester and his small family since they had come into her father's employ when she was fourteen. A friendly and kind man, Chester was as good-natured as he was a skilled swordsman. To see him dying, fearing there was nothing that she could do to save him, was too much to bear and the tears leaked freely as her voice choked up into a sob.
The youths before Chestnut couldn't help but hear her soft sobs as her father gently wrapped her in his arms, giving what little comfort he could.
The triplets looked with mute appeal towards Sorn, hit by a feeling they had rarely had cause to feel before. An ache for an acquaintance mourning a loss they could do little to fix was a new and unpleasant experience for them. Where they were from, they had the advantage of all the resources they could possibly need, and sorrow and grief, somewhat uncommon with their mother's peoples in any case, was a burden they were deliberately spared.
Ironically, for some reason they seemed to think that somehow he could fix it, a frustrated Sorn couldn't help but note, as if this were one of his well-loved tales he had often told his cousins when they were little more than toddlers, scampering about like puppies. Their mute appeal seemed to be saying that it was somehow his job to fix the story, as he had so often altered the tales he had read to them for their sake, when things got too sad and they needed a happy ending.
Sorn grimaced, knowing that he had to at least try something. For better or worse, he had never learned the arcane sorceries for flying in his present form. For obvious reasons, he had felt it was redundant. As a crow, his abilities far exceeded those of a mortal mage's spell in terms of speed, duration, and finesse, and in his other form, he feared he could well do more harm than good, simply for the shock it would bring. Further, he was afraid that doing so at the wrong time, before he and the triplets had established themselves, could well defeat the goal of wealth and independence through reciprocity that he felt was so important for them to achieve while they were here. Yet for all that, he did not want this poor man to die. And then Sorn smiled. He had an idea.
Sorn turned to Lord Canterbier. "My lord, I might perhaps be able to help your man here. I am, to be candid with you, apprenticed in the arts arcane, and I believe I may know of a way to send your man back to your demesne in but a fraction of the time it would take to travel by carriage. If you would be so kind as to tell me where your holdings are relative to the surrounding land, this road preferably, as well as how I might find the healer there that you would wish to have for this man's care, such would aid me greatly."
Lord Canterbier's countenance flickered from surprise to grateful disbelief, though his response was kind. "Young sir, should this be within your capacities I would be twice over in your debt. One would simply take the road back from which you came and take the left fork three hours from here by carriage. Proceed down the road and you will find my keep to your left within a relatively short period of time. It will be a series of buildings squaring off a common area between them. Take my man to the front of our keep, call for the guard, and tell them to bring Nadelins. Take this ring. They will know thus that you speak for me. Lad, tell me true. Are you truly capable of this feat?" His voice wavering between disbelief and hope, he handed Sorn a heavy gold ring encrusted with rubies and bearing what appeared to be the etching of a bird of some sort.
"My lord, I will do my best," Sorn said gravely, giving Lord Canterbier a slight bow before continuing. "I will, however, need to construct a stretcher for the man. Any assistance in the construction of such would be appreciated, for admittedly my cous
ins and I have little experience making them ourselves. After which, my cousins and I, more muscular than we appear, I assure you, will make our way to the edge of the woods, as my magic will work best with clear skies above me".
Lord Canterbier nodded his accord, and before long, they had a stretcher cobbled together in short order. Liberal use had to be made of the triplets’ silks, however, as few things could compare to it for strength. Indeed, the only tool on hand with the keenness to cut through it were the very mithril sabers they wore. The triplets, for their part, hardly objected to the necessity, such was their appreciation for Sorn's idea.
"It's brilliant, Sorn," Fitz said with a fond smile, amidst nods of agreement from his brothers. Hanz and Lieberman at that moment bringing the stretcher to the edge of the woods with a loping stride while Sorn and Fitz jogged in tandem, the freed carriage right behind them. "Are you sure you're going to be able to pull it off?"
"I hope so, Fitz, I really do hope so," Sorn replied. "Now you remember what you have to do. Raise the wooden pole up as soon as you see me disappear. Everything secure? Good."
After checking the unconscious guardsman once again to make sure that the silk straps had him very firmly in place, taking a moment as well to gently place the heavy gold ring he had been given upon one of Chester's fingers, Sorn then stepped back, his expression becoming one of deep concentration.
Once more he addressed his cousins and Lord Canterbier as he made his way down from the carriage seat to witness the event, this time making no objections at all as his daughter stood by him.
"I am ready to begin," Sorn said, "and with any luck, your man will be in the care of your healer Nadelins before the hour is out."
Sorn took a deep breath and opened himself to the flow of arcane energies just underneath surface thought, a force that with practice he had learned to bring forth with but a moment's stillness of mind. He reveled in the sweet rush of power he felt roaring through every fiber of his being, reminding him as always why he had trained so diligently in his short years to learn to channel and master the arts arcane.
Sorn proceeded to focus his energies into a mental construct defined by a few short words of power, exulting as arcane force poured through said construct, finding form and purpose in the will behind his words, and moments later Sorn disappeared from sight.
The triplets couldn't help but smile as they carefully raised the stout oaken pole above their heads, their hair blowing like streamers of silver and gold as a powerful downdraft swept over them in gusts, as if from the beating wings of a giant bird. A moment later, the pole was firmly yanked from their unresisting hands, and the youths struggled for a moment not to be blown back by the sharp downdraft as Lord Canterbier's comatose man was quickly raised up into the blue sky above, seeming to fly under his own power like a magic carpet. Fitz whistled in appreciative delight.
"Your cousin is a most remarkable lad," Lord Canterbier commended, his iron gray hair tousled by the abrupt gusts of wind. For some moments his gaze remained fixed on the horizon, barely able to make out the speck his man had become in just a few seconds time.
"That he is, Lord Canterbier, that he is!" the identical trio agreed, smiling.
"Come, lads, let's make way to my keep, and get you to your feast! Let it never be said that a Canterbier left a guest underfed." He gestured fondly at the youths, inviting them onto the carriage with him as he grabbed the reins. For all that they looked more like savages than ever, blood-spattered torsos having forgone the luxury of silk, bare of all save for the fine mail shirts they wore, there was an undeniable grace, even beauty to them.
It was a novel experience for the threesome as well, riding under power other than their own, viewing the countryside from the padded seats on top of the carriage. They found the experience a peaceful one, enjoying the gentle breeze blowing through the pasturelands like waves upon a sea of grass, keen vision noting the occasional rabbit making his way from one hole to another as the carriage rode on.
Lord Canterbier, for his part, attempted to engage his rescuers in small talk. He politely inquired as to whom they were squired under, whether they took to jousting as well as they obviously did to swordplay, and had they, perchance, given any thought as to which lord they planned to swear allegiance to one day? Perhaps even to the duke himself?
The youths, so gregarious after the heat of battle, were strangely reticent to his polite queries, giving the lord looks that left him feeling as if he were speaking another language entirely. Knowledge of jousts, present day lists, even lords of note, seemed beyond these boys. Even the mention of warhorses set them snickering to themselves for some unfathomable reason, and the more pointed his questions became, the more uncomfortable the boys appeared.
Finally one of them confided that Sorn himself was, in fact, their present instructor with the blade, and that he would perhaps be better suited to answer the lord's questions than they.
This, of course, was most curious indeed, seeing as how Sorn was apparently a mage, and quite evidently of no small skill. In his mind's eye, Lord Canterbier found himself once again reflecting upon the impressive sight of the lad becoming invisible and his poor man's stretcher seeming to take off and fly through the heavens by its own power. Such a display of arcane power still gave him chills of wonder, and he could only smile wryly at the reaction his own house mage would have upon the acquaintanceship of one so young and yet so obviously powerful.
Yet Sorn himself had neither arms nor armor upon him, and apparently had taken no part in the swordplay that had ensued. Which raised another puzzling question, that being how had these youths managed to near decapitate one man and crush the ribs of a second?
Was it their blades, perhaps? That they might be enchanted artifacts had occurred to the Lord. For all that such objects were normally relegated to children's tales, Lord Canterbier well knew that some wizards of repute and power had fashioned them before for dukes, princes, and kings. Particularly during the years of strife and battle that had until very recently marked the bitter relationship between the Famil Duchy and its neighbors.
Certainly the almost pearlescent gleam of the blades suggested that some material far more exotic than common steel went into their construction, very similar in hue to the rich luster of their mail shirts, in fact. Those portions of their hauberks not spattered with gore, that is. Foreign princes, perhaps, Lord Canterbier thought to himself. How else, after all, to explain their exotic arms and skill at swordplay, which would otherwise be at such odds to their apparent ignorance of even the most common bits of information and gossip any lord, knight, or squire would know? Who knew what moves were being made in foreign courts? Canterbier was left wondering. Perhaps these youths were in exile, and Sorn was their chaperone of sorts. Yet for all their obvious skills, and Sorn's considerable abilities, they were still, in truth, terribly young to be making their way in this land on their own.
The three youths in question, for their part, were happily enjoying the warm glow of the setting sun, painting the sky glorious shades of orange and crimson. Their excitement had been stoked by the brawl they had fought several hours ago, and the hunger pains, a reflexive reaction commonly felt by their people after battle or hunting, had been soothed in no small part by the knowledge of the delicious feasting that awaited them at the lord's manor.
"Well, Fitz, what do you think?" asked Hanz, grinning at the hog-tied bandits who were presently awake and strapped behind the youths on the roof of the coach. "A fine little battle that was, no? Got the blood racing, that's for sure. This, brother, is how to begin an adventure!"
"Gets the appetite going too." Fitz smiled catlike at their dispirited prisoners. "Pity about your eye there, big one," he said in false sympathy to a miserable looking Bront, still clutching at his eye socket and groaning intermittently. "But then again, Sorn was always canny about claiming the best parts first!" The triplets couldn't help but laugh at the piteous moans this comment ensued.
Fortunately, it would
be some time before they would need to consume their weight in meat while in this form, being as compact as it was. Yet they knew as well how hungry they would be, had they needed to spend all their time in their true form. In truth, it was a good thing that they were happy playing the role of adventuring princes.
Lord Canterbier gave them a reproving stare. "Lads, real knights do not bait their prisoners. Nobility dictates treating the vanquished with grace, however unseemly their occupations. Were they soldiers who had yielded, you would treat them with respect and all courtesy. Were they fellow knights captured on the field of battle, you would treat him as a brother, on his own parole, his word being his bond and worthy by the very virtue of him being a fellow knight of your friendship and hospitality, whatever the machinations of his lord.
“Even lowly bandits such as these, who have sunk so far as to slaughter men with crossbows while in hiding, giving them no chance to yield or cry mercy, who would sooner rob and murder their betters than to live in peace and grace, even these creatures should be imprisoned with dignity, fed, and given a fair trial. Ultimately, lads, it is a reflection of our honor to do so, not theirs." He finished with a distasteful glare at the three surviving bandits and a glance at the now abashed looking brothers.
"You are right, my lord," Fitz concurred humbly.
"Yes indeed, and we apologize for teasing them." An apologetic Lieberman then glanced at Hanz "It looks like Sorn doesn't know everything does he?"
"Indeed he doesn't." Hanz smiled. "I'll bet soon we'll know more about being a knight than he does! He always thinks he's so clever."
"Well, to be fair, brothers, he did shush us when we baited them in the woods," Fitz pointed out.
"Oh, let it go, Fitz! Sorn is always shushing us!" said an exasperated Hanz.
"Well, that's true," conceded Fitz.
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