Rebellion of the Black Militia

by Richard Nell

  No, not a spear, Johann realized, it’s a lance.

  ‘Lam’ met Johann’s eyes.

  “My master’s name, scribe, is God-King Marsun, First of his name. Because of all the stupid, wretched, cowardly men in this world, he at least seems the finest.”

  Johann blinked as his mind caught up. His eyes drew to the ‘supplies’ on Lam’s horse—the oddly shaped cloth bags that he now realized could maybe cover other weapons and armor. As he stared, he slowly re-considered the man’s dry skin, his aches and pains.

  Lam. His name is Lam, for God’s sake.

  “You’re…you’re Lamorak. You’re the Stone knight…you’re a…”

  “Yes, yes, for God’s sake. Are you at ease now? Shall we focus ourselves on the task at hand?”

  Johann nodded weakly, shaken at having met and conversed with a living legend—a man holding an elemental demon of immense power, who’d supposedly fought for king and country for near a hundred years—without even realizing it.

  “Sir, I…I apologize. Please forgive my manners, my ignorance, I’m…”

  “You’re a rank five, yes?”

  Johann swallowed and tried not to look mortified. He nodded.

  “Tested?”

  He felt his ears reddening.

  “Tested to four, sir. But two weeks ago I underwent an empty testing, as we call it in the tower, sir, and the masters assured me I was capable of a five.”

  Sir Lamorak took a long puff from his cigar. Johann felt his eyes, and tried not to wither.

  “Fear affects a man’s will. If you’re just barely strong enough as it is. You’ll need to get braver.”

  Johann felt his jaw clench despite all caution and sanity. He forced himself to meet the knight’s stare.

  “I am a scribe, sir. I know very well how demonology works. You focus on killing it, and let me worry on trapping it.”

  As the words left his mouth he nearly sunk to the ground.

  Did I really just say that? To a knight? To Sir bloody Lamorak?

  The older man took a long puff from his tobacco, blowing it from the corner of his mouth as he broke the stare.

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  He reached a hand to his dirty collar and pulled it down, revealing the top of a huge, dark tattoo. Though Johann could only see a part, it looked to cover nearly every speck of his torso.

  “I’ve no more room on me, Scribbler. Remember that. Fail, and I won’t be saving you.”

  With that he spit and spurred his horse to a trot, and Johann shifted on the hated saddle. He blocked out the many horror stories of failed bindings, and did his best to follow.

  Chapter 2

  “Despite my protests, and without apparent goal or imminent concern for the vital task at hand, Sir Lamorak of House Northwen has given patronage to a bawdy house. That is, I mean to say, he takes us willingly into a house of ill repute—a house of vice, corruption and underhanded rogues, by which he wastes precious time, invites danger, and frankly, tests both our wills unnecessarily.”

  Johann blew air to dry the ink in his report, then jammed his quill overly hard into its blotter. He glanced meaningfully at his companion, who puffed at a fresh cigar, and seemed not to notice, or care.

  “Lam, you old dog! Ladies, get your arses up. On the double-quick!”

  A squat, barrel-chested barkeep gestured towards their table as he spotted them, and two women dressed in a costume of underthings and aprons scurried forward with trays.

  “Whiskey, my lords? Or something stronger?”

  The first to arrive dangled her ample bosom, flashing an almost full-toothed smile as she winked. The second, younger and prettier, fluttered painted eyelashes and waited behind.

  Lamorak leaned until his face all but buried in the older wench’s breasts.

  “A beer for my friend, darling. And a room for us.”

  He slid a heavy silver coin across the stained, wet table, and the wench scooped it instantly.

  “With pleasure, my lord.” After a brief glance to Johann: “Suzy here will take good care of you, sir, don’t you worry.”

  Lamorak grabbed her bottom and pushed her playfully towards the stairs. “Nevermind him, you just take good care of me.”

  The woman laughed and took his hand as they ascended, and Johann used every ounce of self-control to keep silent.

  To say his image of a Knight of the Realm had been shattered in the previous several hours would be a gross and laughable understatement. Everything disquieting that had been true of ‘Lam the Squire’ remained true of Lamorak the Knight.

  He smoked and spit incessantly. Apparently, he drank. He addressed God, King and country with irreverence, and clearly, he had no trouble lying.

  Even Scribes were taught to avoid vice and speak plainly, and to keep their minds sharp so they could better fortify themselves, and so resist the darkness of their tasks.

  A man trapping a demon was in a constant state of war—his soul clawed and rent by a malevolent beast that could never be stopped or truly destroyed. Most ‘bearers’ were chaste, sober, and fastidious, or at least as close as possible. Those who indulged in any vice did so rarely, and in moderation. Those who married found themselves plain women who would not tempt them to lust.

  Lamorak of the Order of the Crown carried a burden greater than most. His demon was ranked by the Scribery as at least a seven—an evil creature of such strong will it would leave most men a blathering, stupefied wreck before it rent them apart, body and soul, from the inside. And here he was, tempting fate.

  Even with a mark as huge as the one Johann had glimpsed drawn on the man’s body, the contest would be difficult, and engrossing. And even if the man’s strength was deemed higher and more capable, which Johann doubted, to let down his guard against such a creature would only invite disaster. Such stupidity was more than selfish, more than arrogant—it was dangerous to himself and others. And against half the vows of chivalry.

  “Just water, thank you.” Johann pushed away the beer brought by ‘Suzy’ without looking at her, and returned to his report.

  “I have now, with my own eyes, witnessed Sir Lamorak break his vow of chastity with a common harlet. I fully expect also he will consume a sort of moonshine swill in copious amounts, in conjunction with his debauchery of the flesh. We are in the town of Chelmsley, having crossed now into the province of Humberland, on a busy market day with at least a hundred people in our vicinity. To contain the demon, if for some reason it were to loose, would be impossible. I have not the ability nor preparation to contain the demon myself, and I fully expect there is no capable man to withstand the like of Amondras anywhere within fifty miles. The man’s carelessness is astounding.”

  “Would you like a room, my lord?”

  ‘Suzy’ returned with the water in a plain, porcelain cup. She sat in Lamorak’s chair and placed her hand on Johann’s thigh. He slapped it off.

  “I would not.”

  He felt his back straighten with the anger, but when he saw her pretty, startled eyes shoot to the floor in fear, he felt a little shame.

  “Thank you. That will be all.”

  She nodded and hurried away, and Johann waited for what felt like hours in his rickety chair. He looked around the darkly lit tavern at the few day-time patrons, most of whom seemed already drunk. They looked like common tradesmen, though one or two were perhaps wealthier members of the newly emerging merchant class. Johann was surprised to find one such man staring, two bigger men and perhaps bodyguards standing near-by. As their eyes met, the gentleman rose from his seat.

  “May I join you, sir? My name is Aiken. It’s not every day I meet a member of the Scribery.”

  Johann hid his shock at being recognized, but he supposed his robes would give him away as a priest, or some other kind of educated man.

  “If you wish. Of course.” He took the other’s firm grip and shook. “Johann.”

  The merchant smiled and sat, and Suzy appeared instantly with his mug from th
e other table.

  “I sell wool, mostly.” The merchant smiled amiably and screeched the legs of his chair forward. He had a lithe frame, with lanky yet purposeful limbs and excellent posture. He wore washed and straightened cloth, much like an aristocrat, but without the added plumage and ruffles, nor any indication of title. Johann felt a shred of envy, if he was honest, and a little intimidated.

  “And how is the wool business in Humberland?”

  Aiken launched into the particulars without hesitation, and they made idle chit-chat until Johann finally accepted an ale and sipped. All the while he imagined Lamorak the Stone Knight upstairs debasing himself, risking the girl especially, but actually everyone in the tavern, and even the town. Fighting these thoughts and following the bizarre conversation wore at his patience, and his nerves. His companion seemed to sense it.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, my friend. But may I just ask a final question, to satisfy my own curiosity?”

  Aiken had already paid for the ale and some fresh baked bread Suzy delivered to the table. He seemed a most convivial fellow in any case, Johann decided, and felt obliged.

  “Of course. Please.”

  The merchant shifted and glanced about the room as if they might be listened to. He lowered his voice.

  “Surely, a Royal Scribe leaves his fortress and home only on the most rare of occasions.” At this he watched Johann’s eyes closely. “Would it be safe to assume, then, that you are seeking an…escapee, shall we say?”

  Johann tried not to react, and regretted at once letting the man sit. The Scribery had strict rules governing such errands, and leaking information to the local populace was entirely forbidden. Their primary fear was panic, Johann supposed, which may or may not be warranted. Regardless he blamed Lamorak entirely for his predicament.

  “If I was, sir, it would be most dangerous to say so. Such missions are very delicate.”

  “Oh yes.” The merchant leaned back and nodded, as if he understood. “Of course they would be. I imagine the attempted captures can fail, as well.”

  “They can, of course. Though the Scribery would simply send another. You need not be concerned.”

  “Yes, of course.” Aiken sipped his drink, then splayed soft hands on the glassy table. “I’m sorry if this offends you, but, may I ask—how much does the Scribery pay a talented, educated man such as yourself? I am most curious.”

  Johann shifted in his seat. He was, in fact, ‘paid’ very little. The Guild covered all his expenses and provided him with facilities and luxuries no ordinary man could enjoy. As a young man, it had certainly been better than the alternatives. But he would never be wealthy.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but lost the chance.

  “I ask, sir, because…”, Aiken licked his lips, “well, the truth is, some friends and I are very interested in demonology, and the exact knowledge a man like you might possess.” Here he paused, but Johann’s shock struck him too dumb to respond.

  “I’m sure you understand,” he continued, “with the Proclamation of the Commons, the king has made it legal. That is, for lesser creatures—I think your order would call them ‘rank three’, or lower—to be held by citizens. Any citizen. Bought and sold, say, or gifted, throughout the realm.”

  Johann nearly breathed a sigh of relief, believing he understood. Of course he knew all about the so-called ‘Proclamation’. It had been done after years, nay, centuries of pressure from the elite of Vendia, and was entirely and utterly opposed by the Guild. In practice, of course, few of the creatures were actually in the hands of anyone except the king’s men.

  “You need a testing, I assume? The Guild is required by the proclamation to perform them, with appropriate payment. You may go through the proper channels.”

  Aiken cleared his throat.

  “No, no, I’ve done that. No, I require…” Johann noticed a small bead of sweat on the man’s powdered forehead. “What I propose, and please hear me out, is that on trapping this ‘Sazeal’, which, yes, I know is what you seek. Instead of returning it to the Scribery, as intended,” he took a breath, “you bring it to me.”

  Johann held the man’s eyes. He heard the barman laughing and sliding a drink across his counter, and other patrons clinking cups. Far-away he felt an indignation building.

  “Do this,” Aiken added quickly, “and I assure you, the creature will be kept quietly and peacefully. Then you simply inform the Scribery that the demon escaped, and I will make you wealthy— enough to retire, marry, and live in luxury until your dying breath. My friends and I…”

  “Sir.” Johann felt his chest heave. “I could have you arrested, this very instant. I could have you bloody drawn and quartered for this, this…”

  “My friend, I’m simply…”

  “Enough.” Johann stood, suddenly unwilling to wait another moment. “A knight of the realm is upstairs, whose duty it would be to drag you in chains to the local magistrate. I recommend you not be here when I return with him.”

  Johann realized most of the tavern’s patrons now stared at him, including a rather horrified bartender. Aiken stood, too, so tall his head nearly touched the low ceiling. His face had transformed, curling in disgust. His bodyguards rose, too.

  “God-cursed tyrant king and his pack of dogs. Yes, I’m sure your most faithful companion will return presently.” He thrust his hand violently to his side and removed a sort of flat-cap of black cloth. “You’ve made a mistake, sir,” he said more quietly, “a very grave mistake.”

  With that he turned and stomped for the lone exit, and all conversation in the tavern ceased.

  Johann felt his flesh reddening and refused to meet any eyes. He threw his heavy bag over his shoulder, seized his unloaded gun, and marched up the creaking stairs. At the only closed door, he gripped the handle and threw it open, blinking away the black spots in his vision.

  “Sir, you will do your duty.”

  His voice hardly sounded familiar. The thought did occur to him that he might see a knight in some varying state of undress, and maybe even locked in coital relations with a common whore.

  He noticed Lamorak first. The knight lay on the bed, still completely dressed save for his boots and socks, his pant-legs drawn up to about his knees. He smoked a long, elegant pipe as the girl sat at the end with his feet on her lap. Her hands massaged his swollen, purplish toes.

  “You will…” Johann tried to interpret what he was seeing, and felt his indignation drain like sand. “What is she…?”

  The woman smiled, shifting slightly to make space on the bed.

  “Look at them big, strong hands. Take his other foot, love?”

  Johann blinked in horror, eyes moving back and forth across the scene. Lamorak didn’t look remotely concerned.

  “Don’t tease him, dear. This one’s fresh, and very serious.”

  When Johann didn’t move or speak, the knight sighed.

  “Oh very well. God curse you.” He kicked his feet until the woman tossed them away. Then with a deep grunt he pivoted and placed his legs off the bed, rising to stand next to Johann.

  “Let’s go kill your damned demon, if you’re in such a rush to get back to your prison.” He turned and bowed his head slightly to the whore before he smiled and walked away, calling loudly over his shoulder. “Until next time, sweety.”

  She wiggled mischievous eyebrows. And—to Johann’s great and lasting horror, and entirely for his eyes—casually popped her wrinkled, sagging breasts from the front of her blouse, and shook them.

  “Nevermind her,” Lamorak called, as if somehow he knew, already heavily descending the stairs barefoot with boots in hand. “And Johnny-boy,”—‘John’ was the Vendian version of the Keevish Johann—“don’t forget your peashooter.”

  * * *

  Mounted again and riding from Chelmsley along a field of freshly planted barley, Johann couldn’t hold his tongue.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  Lamorak sniffed and said nothing, and Jo
hann seethed, thinking back to his orders.

  “The scouts said Sir Agreth had not returned, and was last seen by Lord Malory’s land near the town of Chelmsley. If he was killed, or simply died, and his demon was loosed, someone will know something. I had assumed this was the reason for our visit to the…tavern.”

  “It was.”

  Johann glared.

  “Men try to impress the women they’re fucking, Johnny. Even women they’ve paid.” Lamorak’s dry lips cracked as he spoke, and he licked at a few drops of blood then drank from his flask. “That means telling them news. Telling them secrets.”

  “Telling them lies.” Johann shook his head, annoyed at the foul language, and annoyed at Lamorak’s amusement.

  The knight ‘s grey eyes wrinkled at the corners.

  “Oh I suppose you’re right.” He sniffed and looked away. “Though I thought this particular lie was interesting. My lovely barmaid said in the past week, at least five men wearing black tunics paid in what she thought was stolen coin for girls and drinks. ‘Humberland Militia’, they called themselves. Apparently they’ve been raiding farms and merchants and the like all along the Salt Road. They’re unhappy with the king’s taxes, they say. Local boys. Most from good families.”

  Johann let out a breath, knowing from reports that Vendia had increasingly more of such discontent since the ‘Sea’ treaty of three-hundred-forty-one. Some of the younger scribes called it the ‘Shit’ treaty of three-hundred-forty-one.

  “Common thieves and bandits. Irrelevant.”

  Lamorak shrugged, picking at his yellow teeth with the nail of his thumb.

  “I thought so, too. So I took off my boots and let the girl squish a bit of flesh ‘round my joints, as you saw. And she went on for a time, ‘till I asked about these militia’s boss. Never saw him, she says, but the boys described him: tall, and quiet, they said, with queer dark eyes, and not a hair on his head, not even eyebrows. Now isn’t that strange? And I thought to myself, Lam old boy, why does that sound familiar?”

  Johann clenched his teeth, feeling a building sense of again being played for a fool.