The Knight's Secret

by Jeffrey Bardwell

  I caught a glimpse of red hosiery and the parade became a guided tour of the old city. Of course, nobody was allowed to speak on a tour. All the bureaucrats scurried before the Black Guards like tiny, red-legged beetles. There was nobody left to tell me what anonymous duke once owned which public building, whose great grandmother was hung from the battlements by her thumbs, or that time when the market square collapsed. I had vague memories of hearing the tour a few times in the distant past, but they all jumbled together.

  I nodded with approval. Those old stone walls had never looked stonier. The metal statue men could not fit down the tight, narrow streets, so they paused the march to unhitch two of those curious brass boxes, carrying them at the head and tail of the procession. Aside from the occasional chirp, the large brass boxes remained silent. Once they had dragged us into the open streets, the boxes had cried out as a few of the mages tried to leave the group. I shook my head and chuckled. Naughty mages.

  I was certain the tour would be over soon. The men in black armor never tired of telling me how soon we would reach the palace, how they could not wait, and wouldn't it be fun? I wanted to walk down the line and hug each of the mages and reassure them fun was in the offing, but some rude gentleman had chained my hands together. In the narrow alleys of the old capital, all I could smell was sweaty armpits, steel uniforms, and excrement. The semi darkness and quick pace erased any details from the buildings. I couldn't even read the graffiti. This was a horrible tour.

  Our guided journey continued to the castle and down to rooms no better furnished than dungeons. The walls dripped with water and some strange, faint green glowing muck. Our rooms for the evening were under heated and sparsely furnished. I didn't inquire about dinner. They removed our metal bracelets. From the dour looks on all the faces of the people crammed into my little room, I guessed our hosts would not be feeding us any time soon.

  Maven took charge. “All right, everyone remain calm.” She raised her arms. The woman managed to look regal wearing nothing but a cloak. “I'm sure this is all a horrible misunderstanding. Tempers are high after the emperor's assassination . . .”

  “What do you know?” someone cried.

  “This is all your fault.”

  “Misunderstanding, nothing!” another voice cried. “We just fought the body guards of the empress at your command, woman. You think they won't punish us for that on top of everything else?”

  I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms watching the mages bicker amongst themselves. The whining pitch of their voices dug into the cracks of my illusion, peeling it away with sharp thrusts and jabs from the outside while my mind hammered at it from the inside. Finally, the cold stone had seeped past my muscles, chilling my thoughts, and the illusion shattered. I had already extricated Maven from one mess today. Even a heroic knight has to hang up his cape sometimes. I felt behind my shoulder to pull the warm garment tight around my chest before I remembered that Maven was wearing it.

  A man in powder blue linen scoffed, “It's you and that purple dress that got us into this mess.” A name floated through my mind: Sepharius.

  I watched as the crowd began closing around her. Maven removed my velvet cape, twisted it into a knout, and proceeded to beat Powder Blue. Everyone watched silently as she proved why she was leader of the Mage Corps, magic or no. The tatters of fabric had long since disappeared, but Maven was clothed in raw fury. The old woman blushed, looking down at herself as she received several pointed stares, and the fury abated. She quickly covered herself with the cloak again.

  “A purple dress, Sepharius?” she hissed at the cowering mage. “You think the empress threw us in a dungeon because I was wearing a purple dress? I could have been dancing in my small clothes and the woman would have seized another excuse. Might as well blame the hero over there for riling the evil woman with his speech.” Her colleague was still huddled on the floor shielding his face. Maven turned to me. “What do you have to say for yourself, hero?”

  I held up my hands. “I said nothing in that speech everyone here hadn't thought in the secrecy of their own minds. You all know me. I'm friends with everybody . . . except him.” I glanced at Sepharius's hunched, quivering body and then stared around the cell until one by one, people began to nod. “But don't tell me I'm the only cavalryman you've ever shared a mug of ale with or slaughtered enemies with,” I glared at Maven, “or slept with.”

  “What a Corbin thing to say,” Maven muttered, attempting to rally the mages. “We shared battles, beer, and our beds with you wretched pony riders and this is how you repay us? Goading the empress to—” She turned as Private Loral hobbled from behind and tapped her on the shoulder. The young mage quietly leaned against her crutch and offered the nude, older woman her own small clothes. Maven accepted them with a smile. “Oh! The five gods bless you, private. It's colder than the Black Tower down here.”

  One of the male mages sighed and passed her his shirt and belt. Maven nodded in thanks and removed the cloak. The blue shirt draped past her knees. She folded my cloak over her arm and passed it to me. “Thank you, but it's better for a mage to wear blue,” she murmured.

  “I liked you in purple better. Did you not listen to my speech?” I asked, tying the cloak around my shoulders.

  “Did you not notice what happened afterward? Be my scapegoat, Sir Corbin,” Maven crooned, gesturing around the crowded cell. “These people are as much soldiers as your precious cavalrymen. They'll sleep better tonight after they blame someone . . . eviscerate someone.” She pointed. “You, in the corner? Think you can defeat the Hero of Jerkum Pass? Two of you together? Five of you?”

  People began edging away. Several shook their heads.

  She waved her arm. “What if we all gang up on him? Prove with our fists that we're no better than Cordelia's stooges in black armor? No? Those chairs and fake swords made for awkward weapons. That's not how we fight, is it?”

  They shook their heads like scolded children.

  “No, we fight with our magic,” Sepharius cried, lifting his arms and concentrating as the unseen detectors outside the room shrieked. He lowered his arms and bowed his head as the shrieking defiance ended. Maven walked over and squeezed the man's shoulder.

  “Corbin got a few things right in that little speech: magic or swords don't matter. It's a question of who you fight, not how.” Maven pointed towards the door. “The enemy is out there and don't you forget it. We're all friends in here . . . yes, even Corbin. Did he not put an end to that stupid duel? Did his speech not rally the cavalry to our cause? The day we turn on each other,” she sighed, “is the day the enemy has truly won.”

  “Are you blind, woman? They've already won,” someone said from the safety of the crowd. “The bastards threw us in a dungeon.”

  “We're still people,” one of the other mages screamed. “We still have rights . . .”

  A low chuckle emerged from behind the heavy wooden door. It creaked open to reveal Drake, dressed in a black doublet, shaking his finger at us. I blinked. Wasn't Drake supposed to be piloting one of those black metal statue men?

  “Rights?” Drake asked, buffing his nails on a black surcoat. “What are those? Rights are the privilege of good, honest imperial citizens. You're all just magic gutter trash we've swept into a pile to dispose of later. According to the new laws my empress is drafting as we speak, you people ,” he drummed his fingers on the wall, “are unfit to wear the mantle of the empire. Your rights. Ha!”

  I pushed away from the wall. “Why are you here?”

  “I came as a courtesy to two people who were once my old friends,” he nodded to me and Maven, “who find themselves caught in this mess.”

  Maven shook her fist at the sneering Black Guard. “This is what constitutes courtesy toward mages, now?”

  “Why, yes,” Drake replied, trimming his fingernails with a dagger before sheathing it. “You still have your health, don't you? Congratulations, Corbin.” He began clapping. “Just when I thought you couldn't denig
rate yourself any further, you align with these people? And so publicly, too. I thought covering the witch with that cloak was a brilliant touch.” He pinched his thumb and his trigger finger. “Just the right dash of valor and empathy.” He clapped again. “Bravo, Corbin. Bravo.”

  I did it to preserve the regiment , I thought. For Maven and her mages. Ungrateful lot. This emerged from my cracked lips as, “Didn't do it for you.”

  I fell back against the wall, savoring the pain across my shoulders. While I hurt, I was alive.

  Maven walked over and wrapped the red velvet cloak back around my shoulders, patting the clasp after she'd tied it. “No, Corbin's not the man I thought he was. And you, Drake, wearing black. Are you an executioner instead of a soldier, now, or a palace guard?” She glanced at the dagger on his hip. “Going to defend your empress with that wee blade?”

  “A new unit was formed in the wake of the assassination,” Drake said, “to clean up the mess you people are making of the empire before it gets any worse. Ask Corbin, he'll tell you all about it.”

  “I've heard the rumors, Black Guard,” Maven snarled.

  “Then we have nothing more to say to each other. Farewell, Maven . . . Corbin.” Drake winked, waved, and left. As the cell door slammed shut, every eye in the room turned to stare at me. Among all the baleful, steely glares, Maven's eyes were the hardest.

  “Why are you here?” Maven asked me. “Not that I'm ungrateful for the band together hurrah speech or stepping in to save my dignity with that cloak, but why bother?”

  “Does a hero need a reason to save a woman in distress?” I asked. I did what any real hero would have done.

  She clenched her fist and flexed her fingers. “Which one of us spouted pretty words and which one rallied the entire regiment against the Black Guards?” She kissed my cheek and swiveled her hips, pressing me against the hard stone. I shivered, telling myself it was merely from the damp, cold wall seeping through my cloak, but the warmth flaring through my body burned that lie to cinders. “You are, always were, so skilled with your tongue . . . Sir Corbin.”

  I bit my tongue. Maven was so coarse and dirty and public about this. Such emotions belonged behind the privacy of a locked bedroom or deep in a secluded forest glade. Not . . . here among a crowd.

  My body disagreed. Parts of me surged against Maven's hip. She patted my cheek and grinned as she leaned beside my ear. “I never got the opportunity to thank you properly.”

  Her lips sought mine. My mind rebelled, but my body could not refuse her.

  My grandfather and this woman? Sometimes, I could hardly fathom it.

  Kelsa's voice chuckled. Oh? The man was a hero, not a paragon. So easy to conflate the two sometimes, isn't it?

  I glanced over the woman's shoulder as smiles began to sprout around the roomful of dour faces like colorful toadstools emerging from a pile of muck. I broke the kiss, pecked her cheek instead, and whispered in her ear, “Indulging in more fantasies of me?” Or still seeking to slander my grandfather's good name? Or is this that supposed spike of passion before death claims us all? I thought.

  My own spike of passion didn't seem to care why. How and when were far more pressing concerns. I draped the edge of my cape over my crotch.

  Maven stepped away, furrowing her brow. “In truth, I never know what to think of you from one moment to the next.”

  “Whatever else you think of me, I'm only a hero, Maven, not a paragon. I have . . . my own selfish reasons for wanting to save the mages. You're the inspirational one. I'm just pretty words, remember?”

  “Not just pretty . . . words.” Her face softened and I felt my cheeks flush. “A hero, eh? Are you sure?” She pursed her lips. “Or is that gallant figure just another role you're playing?”

  “I'm in this cell, same as you.” I sighed, leaning against the wall again. The damp stone immediately soaked my back and a cold, icy chill seeped into my shoulders. I hugged myself and shivered. My teeth clacked. “I failed to rescue you. I failed to rescue anyone. What does it matter, now?”

  I slid to the floor, wondering how I could have spoken, acted, or coerced any differently and have saved the mages despite the world conspiring against them. One nagging thing bothered me: weapons . For all her preparations and planning, the empress had left the ornamental weapons mounted in the dining hall. The courtiers and the Black Guards certainly made sure nobody was carrying real live blades, so why leave the fake ones? Was it some sort of loyalty test? I sensed Drake's hand in this somehow.

  I watched the shadows lengthen as dim light came in the single barred window overhead. Mages wept, muttered amongst themselves, or held quiet conversations. Nobody bothered the hero propped against the wall. I huddled in my cloak .

  Nothing to say. Nothing to eat or drink, I thought. Might as well get some rest. It was hard pressed against the cold stone, even with the cloak, but in fits and starts, I fell asleep.

  I awoke to the sound of a ragged, high-pitched scream that sent an icicle through my spine. A blurred nimbus of light whipped across my vision like a fuzzy streak of lightning. I thought I was in a dream. I peered into my surroundings. Flailing shapes of blue and black passed in front of the light, but there was no gleam of a mirror or water behind it. Nothing shiny. Nothing reflective. There was nothing behind it. I reached toward the light as it zipped past again. My sleeve pulled taut, exposing a hairy wrist.

  I still had clothes. I was still a man. This couldn't be a dream.

  I blinked a few times and my vision focused. The blurred light solidified into a waving torch. The colorful shapes were a pair of Black Guards assaulting a mage. The darkness was a wall of black armor holding the other mages at bay. Not that the mages had much fight left: most of them were on the floor, bruised, broken, or pretending to sleep.

  The Black Guards holding the struggling woman didn't bother with manacles. I wasn't sure if that was a favorable sign or not.

  “What's happening? Where are you . . . taking me?” the mage's shriek escalated as they dragged her away, the shadow of the bars in the window passing over her face, then her breasts, then her hips, then her knees, and finally, her heels.

  The woman's heels beat against the floor, fingers clenching like claws that could not strike as the two guards gripped her arms between them and carried her away. A patch of the mage's blue robe caught beneath the door, leaping and quivering as she struggled. One of the guards drew his dagger and sliced it away as the rest of the guards left. I stared at the patch of cloth as the woman's screamed echoed through the halls and then silenced.

  One of the guards closed the door behind us. The bolt eased into its bracket like a dagger sliding between two ribs. Nobody spoke. We waited. We listened. Moments later, hours later, the night reverberated with fresh screams. If the last ones merely shattered mortal dreams, these would lift the dead from their slumbers. I couldn't sleep. I marked the passage of time by the volume of the woman's cries as they grew fainter and fainter and once again silence reigned.

  Black Guards came and escorted several mages from the cell as the light faded outside for unknown places and pleasures. After a time, they only sent four guards into the cell. Between the ice spreading through their muscles and the terror crystallizing in their minds with each new batch of agonizing screams, any urge to fight had left the mages. Murmured speculation filled the hours. As the room darkened, so did the theories. The sour stench of fear descended over the room, growing heavier with each new abduction. Who would be next? Who would betray their friends? What were they doing to us? Why . . . has nobody returned? That last question was the only one nobody dared to discuss. I figured that deep inside the mages all knew the answer, but giving voice to their fear would extinguish the hope that maybe they were wrong.

  I sat apart from the mages, listening to snatches of conversation rise and ebb as the guards came to escort more prisoners. Everyone walked out the door differently. Some bowed their heads and left with a quiet nod for their friends. Others had to be hauled thra
shing and screaming. How would I act when my time came? Would I face my doom like a puling coward or with humble dignity?

  Speculation is all well and good , I thought as the cell door closed behind another victim, but you never know for certain until your moment comes.

  We slept in that damp, little room as best we could while waiting to meet our fate, stretching between neighbors and the puddles of water on the floor. Bless the five gods, there was a shallow pit latrine in the corner—the aperture too narrow to fit your head, though a few of us tried—and a high, barred window above the latrine helped alleviate the smell.

  The screams of our tortured companions continued every day and night as our numbers dwindled. We slept piled against each other amidst snatches of long tortured pleas, the delicate rip of parting skin, and the sharp crack of shattered bones. As I drifted off into a fitful sleep, I imagined a big knight in black armor was chasing me, bloody club in hand. “Where are the rebels?” he asked. “The pain will stop as soon as you tell me where the rebels are hiding. Confess. Confess.”

  I awoke with something blunt jabbing my ribs. “You were screaming in your sleep, sir,” a low voice murmured. I turned and stared into the wide blue eyes of Private Loral. She braced herself against the wall and extended the cane toward my hand. I gratefully used it to haul myself off the cold, stone floor.

  “Thank you. How are you managing, private?” I asked.

  “The guards keep taking us away. Asking for what, I don't know. Guess those Black Guards don't like the answers they gave 'em, eh? But none of them know anything. They're not rebels, sir. So I been thinking of secrets for when my time comes. Maybe mix some real ones in with the fakes. I dunno.” She banged her cane on the floor. “The whole thing's got me stumped, sir.”

  I shook my head and groaned. “Now is not the time for poor jokes.”

  “Now is the perfect time, sir.” Loral smiled. “It's laugh or cry, sir. They ask for some deep, dark secrets, I'm gonna tell them about the time I killed three dragons in a tavern. By the gods' quivering ears, it's nothing but the truth, sir.” She chuckled and stared at the flagstones. “Don't remember much after that. Me mates always said I pissed in the captain's beer and told him it was sour ale. Swore the bastard drank it, too. Wish I could remember that . . .”