by Richard Nell
“Sazeal.” He said, and cleared his throat. “The creature…often clouds the bearer’s eyes, and pales, or even removes his hair.”
“Does he, now?”
The knight took another drink from his flask, and Johann cleared his throat with as much dignity as possible.
“We should see the magister. If some ambitious man has killed Sir Agreth and captured Sazeal, and if these bandits have weapons and numbers…we may need assistance.”
Lamorak nodded, as if he hadn’t thought of this. He pointed vaguely ahead off the road until Johann spotted a small, walled fort constructed on a hill.
“Yes. Well.” Johann cleared his throat as his face burned. He flicked his reins and hoped the animal didn’t bolt, then rode slightly ahead, keeping his aching back straight.
Chapter 3
As the afternoon sun dipped into the horizon, Johann stepped down from the second most agonizing ride of his life.
“Thank you.”
A smartly dressed stableboy took the offered rein and bowed like a courtier, then led both his pony and Lamorak’s warhorse through a large, well-kept courtyard to a series of wooden stalls.
After the last few hours of riding in embarrassed silence, Johann dared a glance at the knight. He found the man’s eyes busily scanning the fort.
Johann followed his example, in the hopes of trying to find some form of camaraderie. He noted at once the crisp uniforms of the soldiers as they lounged under strong parapets of stone. He saw clean, orderly rows of muskets and sabres lining the wall of perhaps a barracks, as well as firing stands, or aiming ‘forks’, that men would use to help them shoot the heavy weapons.
“It looks in good order, at least.” Johann put his hands on his hips and raised an eyebrow, masking the pain of the ride as best he could. Lamorak grunted and walked towards the fort. He was limping heavily, as if his hips and perhaps ankles were in pain. Johann studiously tried not to notice further.
They found the fort’s heavy oak doors open and a smiling guard standing beside with a long-axe. He extended a hand in invitation without questions, and Johann followed Lamorak through to a wide, marble entrance with a high roof painted to look like a map of Vendia.
“How extraordinary.” Johann stared up at it, but Lamorak stomped through without a glance, as if increasingly angry with every step.
Two more guards stood at the inner doors to some kind of waiting chamber. The first stepped forward as the knight approached.
“You’re welcome here, gentlemen, but you’ll have to leave your weapons.”
“Yes, of course…” Johann began to unstrap his still unloaded and unfired arquebus, wondering if he should perhaps dig out the pistol hidden in his bag.
Lamorak simply grabbed the guard. With an impressive show of strength, he tossed him easily aside, then strode armed into the hall.
“Wait…Sir! Stop!”
The two baffled young men collected themselves and gave chase, fumbling to draw their swords as Johann, equally baffled, followed.
Lamorak ignored them. He stepped around the few scattered chairs and tables set out perhaps for a meal, reaching to his side to draw a grey, hidden pistol. At the sight of it, the two guards shouted again in warning. Johann tried one last time.
“Lamorak! Lamorak in heaven’s name, stop this!”
He kept his voice down and followed at a discreet distance, unsure if he should attempt to tackle the suddenly mad warrior, or just run away. Neither option seemed wise. Instead he turned his attention on the small group at the end of the hall, and saw what he assumed was the magistrate, and his wife.
Fort Tyne’s young lord sat comfortably in a grand, padded chair of polished wood and black cushions. He wore courtly dress, looking more like a merchant than an aristocrat, and spoke to a grey-haired couple sitting before him. His even younger wife sat with hands in lap at his side, plainer chair slightly behind. She alone seemed to notice the intrusion.
Lamorak ignored Johann’s whispering, just as he ignored the guards, and removed a powder flask from his pocket. In the most casual manner, and in full sight of the hall and God himself, he flipped several switches and catches on the weapon, tapping powder into a small, metal pocket. Then he swept his hand over the barrel, as if dropping something inside, pulled back another lever, and extended his arm with loaded pistol towards the magistrate as he walked.
“My lord! Look out!”
The young guards rushed forward, but they were too slow. The magistrate and his wife rose as their guests turned slack-jawed and stared at the disturbance. Lamorak walked to close range with his pistol aimed at the magistrate’s chest. He stopped, and fired.
The powder flared red with light, and a loud bang shattered the stillness and peace of the room as smoke wrapped itself around the knight’s hand.
The magistrate fell back with his hands over his face, then his chest, as he stared down at himself in horror. Johann stared too, equally horrified, waiting for blood to spray and pool in the crevasses of the black cushions and drip down to the floor. But as the room froze and stared together, he seemed unharmed.
“You’re dead.”
Lamorak hooked his pistol back to his side, then stood still and waited, ignoring the guards as they placed their sword-tips against his back.
“What…” the magistrate’s pale face took on a distinct shade of pink. “Who in God’s name…how dare you fire that weapon in my home! How dare you?”
Johann grimaced, inclined to agree. The knight obviously decided not to load the bullet and must have some purpose, but this wasn’t stopping by a bawdy-house or using foul language. Johann saw no diplomatic way at all to explain such an insane action or insult, so he froze, and stood mute.
“You may address me as Sir Lamorak of the Order of the Crown. And this is not your home, my lord, it is the King’s war-fort, which you are responsible for. I will therefore draw and fire this weapon or any other weapon I please here because I am a soldier, like you, serving the God-King. However unlike you, it seems, I am entirely ready to kill for him.”
The knight’s words rang and silenced, and for a time only the popping of the room’s grand fireplace existed. Finally the magistrate swallowed, trembling slightly.
“That…that doesn’t explain this….display, sir, or why…”
“Where are your household guards, my lord? Where are the fort’s fifty soldiers? The men to be standing and ready at all times for defense, and combat?”
The magistrate continued struggling for words, and his wife rose and addressed the two petrified guests.
“Perhaps you’d excuse us. We’ll attend you later, Mr. Thenn, once my husband has addressed an important matter of state. And there’s no need for you, I think, thank you Garrett, Mirri.” She nodded politely—and with great calm, Johann thought—to the awkward guards, who instantly fled to their post, followed by the magistrate’s guests. When they were gone, the magistrate rose.
“My soldiers…”
“The king’s soldiers.”
Both men stared with renewed venom while Johann inspected the tapestries.
“The soldiers of Fort Tyne are entirely prepared and adequate to defend the king’s lands from actual threats, Sir Lamorak, a fact I’m sure you saw clearly as you entered.”
Lamorak snorted, and, incredibly, spat on the stone floor.
“I saw half-awake and half-drunken boys with weapons nowhere near them. I saw muskets and uniforms so clean I expect they’ve never been fired or marched in. I walked into this fort without insignia or colors, unmolested except by two boys with sticks, who gave me enough bloody time to load my pistol and blow their lord’s head off in the middle of the afternoon.”
After another staring contest, the magistrate maintained his objection, and the two men carried on for some time. Johann soon found himself a seat and inspected the fine, plush rugs arranged neatly around the dining table. Occasionally and rather awkwardly he glanced up, usually at the lady’s eyes.
They
’re very green, he couldn’t help but notice. A more brilliant green than her dress, and even the finest grass of the scribery in spring.
Once, she looked back and smiled at him, as if in mutual assurance, and he returned it without thought before he cleared his throat and stood.
“My lord, my name is Johann Planck. I’m here on behalf of the Scribery Guild.”
Knight and lord stopped and stared at him. And though the magistrate’s face remained an embellished shade of red, he drew himself up and bowed slightly at the waist.
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Planck. I am Lord Tolly, Magistrate of Humberland, and Baron of Fort Tyne. I assume a man of your education is here for more than…a formal inspection of the king’s property?”
“Yes, my lord.” Here Johann paused and shifted his weight, buying time to choose his words.
“Have you not received reports of banditry, my lord?” Lamorak pronounced the word ‘lord’ with a hint of disdain, and apparently didn’t feel like waiting.
“Banditry? Of course not. In Humberland?”
The magistrate’s voice sort of pinched, his expression of shock too quick, too perfect.
“Then there are no farmers or merchants having wares or harvests taken at gunpoint? No travelers molested by highwaymen?”
Lord Tolly’s silence seemed answer enough. He glanced at his wife, then back to the knight.
“You asked first if there were bandits, sir. There are not.” He returned to his seat, and sighed, looking finally somewhat deflated. “The merchants and barons,” he waved a hand, his tone raised as if what he said were obvious, “they’re unhappy, they’re stirring up the peasants. It’s the king’s bloody treaties, sir, if I may say, and his taxes. He asks too much. He gives too much away,” here he glanced quickly at Johann, “to foreign lands.”
Lamorak’s eyed narrowed. “Whatever our king does or does not do, my lord, he most certainly has good reasons. But go on.”
The magistrate put a hand to his forehead and wiped a mix of sweat and whitening powder.
“Some refused to pay this year’s harvest tax.” Again he glanced at his wife. “When I arrested the…the most indignant, they were immediately sprung from prison by hooligans calling themselves the Humberland Militia. Now the barons and counts are emboldened, and God knows what will happen when I must collect the land tax.”
“You should have sent word to the king at once.”
“I bloody did.” The magistrate shifted forward. “One of your brethren, Sir Agreth, rode out to challenge these rogues and never returned. So tell me, if the king has failed, what the hell am I to do?”
At this Lamorak spared a brief glance at Johann.
“Do you know who leads these men?
“I’ve no idea.”
“Their numbers? Their arms or encampments or…”
“No!” A few months of frustration seemed now obvious on the man’s face. “These men kill or capture my collectors, my representatives. They tell me if I or my men leave this fort they will…”
“You’ve spoken to them?”
“Yes. Well, not exactly, I have received messages.”
Lamorak’s red eyes bulged slightly. “You should have sent fresh word to the king, you should have explained the severity of…”
“And what good will that do? This is my responsibility. It’s my province, my people. I won’t have the king’s thugs butchering those vexed purely by his burdens. His last ‘knight’ provided no value. I expect the same from you. You’re not wanted, or needed. You have no authority here. None.”
During her husband’s rant, Lady Tolly had opened her mouth as if to intercede. But she seemed to change her mind, and closed her eyes.
Lamorak took a long, menacing stride forward. He spoke slowly.
“I am God-King Marsun’s arm, my lord. I am his word, and his will. It is within my authority to strip you of all lands and titles, and to lock you in a stone cell. It is within my authority to cut your bloody fool head from your shoulders, if I deem it necessary. Is that understood?”
A line of sweat trickled down the Magistrate’s temple, mixing and congealing with the powder into a sort of paste.
“The other magistrates would never accept such an…outrage, such a flagrant, archaic display of…”
“Is that understood?”
This time Lamorak’s voice echoed around the small, stone chamber. As Johann watched him, he wasn’t sure if he witnessed the command of a great knight of the realm, or the raw animal intimidation of a killer. In either case, the magistrate cringed. He searched the knight’s eyes, his shoulders slumped, and he nodded.
“Very good. Then you will employ me as your new Master of Arms,” the knight looked away, all violence sapping from his manner. “You will provide me and Mr. Planck with accommodations, and whatever else we require. In the name of the king I will commandeer weapons and supplies and train your recruits. And together, we will destroy these ‘Humberland Militia’. If Sir Agreth’s demon is in the hands of some other man we will retrieve it. And the matter will require no more of the king’s attention. Do you agree?”
“Yes.” The magistrate seemed to brighten, perhaps sensing an eventual escape. “The king needn’t be bothered further. Agreed.”
“Now if you don’t mind,” Lamorak sat at the lord’s table, all trace of anger seemingly gone from his expression. “I could use a drink.”
Chapter 4
“50 pounds sulfur, 20 pounds saltpeter, 20 pounds coal, 8 silver crowns paid in promisary notes to Mathias and Sons of Tyne township; 100 pounds lead shot, various sizes, 5 crowns to same; 100 bolts blue-dyed cloth, 25 blue-dyed wool tunics, and pants, 25 silver crowns paid in promisary notes to Humberland Drapers and Mercers Guild…”
Johann flinched and looked up from his scribbling. Lamorak had stomped his foot for attention, and the sound clapped like a gunshot. He stood before a line of perhaps fifty of the magistrate’s soldiers.
Well, Johann thought, at least half are soldiers.
The rest were raw recruits from nearby towns, mostly the second or third born sons of tradesmen—boys who’d never fired a gun, or held a spear.
“Gentlemen, you are fortunate.”
Lamorak’s overused voice sounded even more raspy than usual. The knight held a musket in one hand, which he now raised over his head.
“It took your forebears all their lives to build the strength and skill to become deadly with a bow. But any damned fool can kill with one of these.”
A few men chuckled, and Lamorak brought the pre-loaded weapon down, placing the barrel on an aiming fork-stand. With hardly a pause to aim, he pointed the gun and fired. Many flinched at the loud report, but soon they smiled as dirt and straw burst out of the target’s back to spray the wooden palisade behind.
“We have some few wheel-lock’s, like these, which will be given to the best shots. The others will receive the more common matchlocks. I shall train you to load and fire both.”
The knight proceeded to walk them, step by step, from stuffing or clearing powder, loading and tamping the shot, then aiming and firing. Johann watched and wished he’d brought his own gun to follow along, but supposed he would have time to practice later.
“Recruitment bonuses for twenty-six soldiers (names listed separately), 26 crowns in promisary notes paid to Lord Tolly; salary compensation to Lord Tolly, 50 crowns paid in promisary notes…”
As Johann scribbled, the new recruits followed their instruction well, mimicking and examining their weapons with rapt attention. The magister’s soldiers, however, did not. Some hardly moved, resting their weapons as they picked their teeth or stared.
“Of course if you’re very strong, and practiced,” Lamorak clearly directed these words at them, “you don’t need this.” He moved away the stand. “And there’s tricks to speed up your loading time.”
He drew another, smaller powder flask, which looked more like a spoon, scooping and dumping it entirely into the pan.
“You don’t need to scrape every shot, either, especially with a decent gun. Though, of course, that’s a risk.” He flicked a shot down the barrel and rammed it precisely. “A good musketeer can fire every thirty seconds. A great one in twenty.”
Some of the fort’s regulars exchanged a look.
Lamorak leaned the heavy barrel more against his chest than his arm, and instantly fired. Without hesitation he surged into practiced, frantic motion, flicking open the pan, scooping powder and re-filling it, loading and tamping, then raising the weapon and firing again.
Like the others, Johann had been too enthralled to count, but decided it could not possibly have been more than twenty seconds.
Lamorak shrugged. “A good archer, of course, is considerably more effective at killing the unarmored. But nevermind.” He lowered the gun, spitting a wad of phlegm to the dirt. “When you boys line up and fire, the sound alone should send these ‘militia’ running like rabbits, so don’t you worry. Any questions?”
The soldiers said nothing. Lamorak had the fort butlers and stableboys pass out weapons, powder and shot—all acquired by Johann—to every man.
While he waited, and after a quick, and perhaps slightly horrified calculation, Johann realized he had spent one hundred and fourteen crowns of the king’s money using ‘promisary notes’—and this just in the last few days.
On top of the weapons and ammunition and uniforms, he’d already purchased carts, boots, packs, rope, and a dozen other things that apparently made up a soldier’s ‘kit’. As he considered the sheer audacity of the mounting expense he realized his forehead was sweating, and wiped at it with his sleeve.
But Lamorak is responsible, not me. I am only the quartermaster. I am simply scribe and errand boy. I am not responsible.
He only hoped the knight lived to bear that burden.
“Well, they’re all shit.”
As the hot afternoon sun dipped, a sweaty Lamorak sagged onto the bench beside Johann, his dry, cracked lips in a grin. “But they’ll improve. Let’s hope the bandits are shit, too.”