‘Dai!’ Jhonan shouted at the shaking girl. ‘Help me with your brother’s body.’
‘Grandfather, I cannot do it.’
‘You must.’
The Geld Knight’s Tax
Geld Knight Conrad Ernst arrived at dawn, riding with an expression of grandiose importance. His face was turned away from the sun, allowing his obsessively combed hair to become a crown of reflected light. Across his shoulders he wore an ambitiously colourful cloak fastened with a carnelian brooch. His cuirass was painted gold and shaped to pretend a heroically muscled torso.
‘So this is Jaromir, men.’ The words seemed to come through his nose. ‘I suggest you find food, ale and some tail.’
Conrad entered the muddy village, steering his horse ahead of the armed enforcers who trudged behind him. His men were not regular militants or conscripted soldiers; rather they were criminals hand-picked for their intimidating looks and lack of scruples. Some had been pressed into service rather than meeting death in the Meat Pit, saved by little more than their ugliness. Following the knight, these Geld enforcers hungrily surveyed the villagers, who halted work to stare at the unsavoury men.
‘Sir Conrad,’ one of the enforcers yelled, ‘I saw the fat one first!’
The Geld Knight turned to watch a hearty-looking chit among the staring women, who blushed at the lecherous attention of the enforcers. Conrad’s men all laughed as she ran to her husband, a miller who looked as red-faced and cowed as she did.
Fotter, the rabbit-toothed trapper, made some moaning noises. There was more lascivious laughter.
The Geld Knight toyed with the steel codpiece that generously emphasised his genitals. His ringed fingers lingered over the armoured phallus that curled upwards and was crowned with the impression of a grinning moustached face. It was a magnificent gleaming protrusion, but his crotch ached mercilessly within it.
‘Duty first for us, old man,’ Conrad told the face.
The gawking peasants were waiting. ‘All taxes must be presented at the shire hall by midday,’ Conrad told them sharply. ‘Including your donations for the untiring crusade of Sir John-Richard-Paul.’ He allowed himself a smug grin. The only crusading Sir John-Richard-Paul undertook was to the most extravagant taverns and disreputable whorehouses. Still, even that required plenty of money.
Trained as a political apologist, Conrad enjoyed the subtleties of distorting language, paradoxical statements and corruptions of meaning. In the academy the methods had been presented as a sacred art, a means to protect the prince and the Accord. Conrad knew that claim was itself a distortion. Apologists made truth elusive and portrayed wicked deeds as righteous. They authored lies so that people would obey. Was it really necessary to add self-deception to that mandate?
In idle summers at the royal courts of Kraljevic, Conrad had used the art to seduce the wives of men he admired or envied. The fleeting memory of those warm and selfish nights drove Conrad’s hand back to the armoured protrusion at his crotch.
No lover compared to the wife of Pavel, Conrad’s mentor. Elena-Beleka was a distinguished woman, with a hedonistic reputation that made many men cower in her presence. She discovered Conrad in the busy cloisters where the prince’s ministers whispered conspiratorially. Kissing Conrad’s hand, Elena-Beleka had drawn the young man into the dark, making a bed of every shadow. Conrad had pursued her like a hapless boy, ruining his fortune on gifts to woo the insatiable woman.
A sweaty gush poured from Conrad’s brow and he struggled to adjust his armour. Since being appointed to the Charitable Order of Geld Collectors, Conrad was authorised to collect meat in all its forms. But the offerings were dreary and Conrad’s appetite could only be appeased by old memories.
Conrad mused that beauty in the villages was rarer than an act of honesty in the cities. The women were too headstrong and rarely more attractive than the livestock. Nevertheless Fotter was already giving playful chase to the meagre beauty on offer. Conrad knew he would have to conduct the prince’s business swiftly or end up with the absolute dregs, which typically meant bedding someone’s grandmother. He set towards the shire hall, absently wetting his lips.
As the dawn light succumbed to encroaching clouds, the Geld enforcers helped themselves to food and a squeeze of tit. The village at least was busy with life and purpose. Chickens scattered from the approach of mangy dogs. Orphans from the Chapel of Life upset a cart and ran off jeering. Ravens patrolled the treetops.
Within the shire hall a collection of candles burned fretfully. A musty stench reeked from the deteriorated timber. An old greyhound lay with its head low, as if waiting for the ceiling to collapse. Beside the dog sat Scir Wendel shaking his gaunt head wearily. He anxiously thumbed through the tax ledger. Any discrepancy might lead to a humiliating punishment.
Conrad pictured the mask he would wear for this engagement. He formed its contours in his mind before moulding his features into the appropriate look. The first moment was important, laying the foundation for the outcome. Conrad took pride in doing things well, even with such a dull victim to work on.
‘Dark times,’ he boomed from the shadows.
‘Sir Conrad!’ The old scir shrivelled at the Geld Knight’s presence. ‘I was just making everything ready for your inspection.’ Wendel wrenched himself up and performed a crooked bow.
Conrad sat himself in the scir’s chair and rifled idly through the ledger. ‘You seem to have come up short.’
‘Times are always difficult, my lord. We have this season sent many more sons to the garrison and…’
‘We will settle the balance later.’ Conrad waved away the scir’s chattering. ‘We first must discuss these Knights Anarchist who have been murdering Seidhr workers and strangling agents of the baron.’
‘Knights Anarchist?’ Scir Wendell looked horrified. ‘I’ve never even heard of–’
‘Yes, it was the prince himself who first coined the phrase. Knights Anarchist, the prince said, are the most insidious of all criminals. When a man takes it upon himself to undermine the very society that gave him status and rank’ – Conrad imitated Prince Moranion’s noble gestures – ‘such revolt constitutes the highest form of treason against the Accord!’
‘You think such men will come to Jaromir?’ Wendel looked deliciously afeared, his eyes ringed with wrinkles. Between the horrifying threat of Baoth raiders and the never-ending war against the False Prince, these people could be scared into paying any price to feel safe.
‘Perhaps they are here already,’ Conrad replied cryptically.
‘Goddess preserve us!’ Wendel exclaimed. ‘We only have two militants stationed here, and one of them is even more elderly than I am!’
Conrad winced at the exclamation. He hated the goddess. It was absurd that an imaginary power was considered greater than the princedom by these superstitious peasants.
‘Calm yourself,’ he demanded. ‘Many of these traitor knights have already been caught and crucified. Even now they hang at the Leechfinger crossroads, a warning to all betrayers. Unfortunately for you one of them came from Jaromir, which means the entire village incurs a proxy tax for treason.’
‘Proxy what?’ A new kind of terror had filled the old man’s face. Not the abstract fear of foreign invaders, but the sensation of sinking helplessly into the Geld Knight’s manipulations.
‘Niklos Vornir; his family reside here, do they not?’
‘Young Niklos a traitor? I can’t believe that, my lord. I’ve never known a better boy!’
‘You’ve enjoyed a relationship with this criminal?’
‘What? No, my lord. I’m not party to anything. Least of all that.’
‘His family.’ Conrad stood and tapped the ledgers with an insistent finger.
Wendel wrung his frail hands. ‘Old Jhonan Vornir lives in the watchtower with his granddaughter, Daimonia. He’s a miserable old bastard, though. I wouldn’t go up there.’
‘Granddaughter, you say.’ Conrad raised a golden eyebrow. The ache was beginning to return. ‘Is t
he girl fair?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Is the girl fair?’
‘Well, she’s a spirited girl, clever. But young, barely a woman.’
Conrad caressed the grinning face on his codpiece. ‘Then I will take her as payment for the corruption that has been allowed to breed in this disgusting immoral place.’
‘Take Daimonia?’ The scir whimpered, but the Geld Knight was already taking his leave.
Halting by the timid candles, Conrad took a moment to bask in the power of his will. He let out a little gasp of joy, savouring the extraordinary gold of his soul. With sudden delight Conrad noticed the flames dancing as if to a regal symphony. He could hear the grand music that moved them; it was so familiar he might have composed it himself. Conrad laughed as the flames became little people dancing so very politely for his amusement, little people bowing in obeisance to his greatness.
Ceresoph Unearthed
The dead girl was hidden beneath the earth, her wooden face blemished by mud and stone. She had been silent in the darkness for years, her lips just a tiny indenture on her weathered face. Beside the old stones and crawling things, she had lain afraid to move.
‘Wake up, Cere.’
Daimonia excavated the thing with her hands, cupping the sad doll in her palm and cleaning it with her sleeve. The wooden girl was a little smaller than her forearm and had no discernible arms or legs. It had once enjoyed wild woollen hair but was now bald and hatless. Daimonia rubbed at its mud-smeared cheeks and then looked the thing in the eye.
‘I bid you awaken.’
Running her thumb over the doll’s tiny nose, Daimonia recalled how she had buried the doll along with every part of herself that had made her mother leave.
‘Your questions are a plague,’ Lady Catherine had often scolded her. ‘How can I have birthed such an uncertain thing as you?’
Daimonia caught herself reciting those stinging words to Cere, who absorbed them with the same wooden calm she did everything. Perhaps inside the doll was crying or bleeding, even screaming to the stars. Was she yearning for a love she would never know?
‘Our brother is dead,’ Daimonia told the doll in a childish voice. ‘He didn’t believe in the Accord anymore. He discovered too many dirty secrets. Did you creep from the earth and infect him with your doubts? I should burn you ’til you confess.’
Daimonia shuddered recalling the madness of the haunted journey back to Jaromir. She had tried to resurrect Niklos with her kisses, but the dead boy had only stared serenely at the stars. The brilliant sea of light above them was awash with waves of jade and azure light, the enthroned souls of all who passed before. Gleaming brightest among them all was the Eye of Ceresoph from whence all life sprang.
‘Remember me on your burning flight,’ Daimonia had pleaded, imagining Niklos’ soul returning to the luminous mother. She had sought his brightness in the sky when a sound had erupted like terrible laughter. Jhonan’s harsh sobs had frightened and surprised her. She had hugged Niklos’ cold body to calm her terrified breathing.
Darkness fell upon the garden and Daimonia released a haunted gasp.
‘What are you doing, Dai?’ Jhonan was blocking the sun, his wild brows knotted in consternation. His arms, thick with old war muscle, looked ready to lash out as they had so many times at young Niklos. He wore his favourite military boots and no toil could wear them thin. After all he had seen, the man was still substantial and unconquerable.
‘Nothing,’ Daimonia replied distantly. She pouted like a much younger girl, imitating the age she had been when she first buried Cere.
Jhonan crouched and took Cere from Daimonia’s hand, turning the doll over with his best fingers. ‘The adjurators are preparing Nik for the burning tomorrow.’
‘I’m going to steal back the years.’ Daimonia snatched the doll and held it up as if speaking for it. ‘Back to when we were all together. And if anyone tries to leave, I’ll kill myself!’
‘Dai, you’re not yourself.’
‘Not myself?’
Jhonan chased a vague fear with his eyes. ‘The shadow of things I’ve done falls over all our family,’ he said heavily. ‘May you always be unlike me.’
‘I’m not like you!’ Daimonia was inflamed, her voice going from child to vengeful Goddess. ‘My hands are not drenched in blood like a murderer’s!’ For a moment she glimpsed the potential depths of her anger and felt terrified by her own proclivity for hate. The bare hurt in the old man’s eyes drew her back from the edge.
She fled to her room, where the shutters were wide open to the sun. To the east stood a lonely tree, at which Daimonia had often lingered, longing for someone to love. In the surrounding woods she and Niklos used to imitate their mother’s adventures, recreating a hundred imaginary battles. Daimonia would pretend to be Lady Catherine, slaying cannibalistic raiders and defying scheming rebels. Niklos would play a variety of famous heroes, from Sir John-Richard-Paul to Prince Moranion. Sticks became swords and hapless sheep were sometimes cast as outlaws or lurking horrors from Archonian times.
In those games their mother had represented the champion of stability and order. She fought against everything that was foreign and uncertain. Even in her absence Lady Catherine was potent and present.
Each night, stern Jhonan had called them in for sleep. How they feared their grandfather, who had once been a famous knight and was regarded with dread by every man who knew his name. Jhonan would tell them that family was the most important thing in the world, and each night the children would cry themselves to sleep.
Daimonia slammed the shutters closed on the memory and retreated to her bed.
She curled up and held herself, her mind both feeding and fighting her fears. She allowed the contest in the Meat Pit to repeat in her mind. Saw Niklos’ gentle face becoming weak with fear and pain, his lips trembling with horror and regret as Prettanike humiliated him. She could taste the tears that flooded his dying smile.
Daimonia’s long fingers clasped the old bedposts and her body stiffened, racked by uncontrollably furious breaths. ‘It cannot be so.’ Her mind reeled, incredulous at her own violent recollections. She could still hear Niklos’ testimony, the abuses he had witnessed and the terrible murder he had confessed. Trial by combat had been his stubborn choice, but would any route have led to a different fate? Execution was the end of all who defied the Accord, and who would credit a lowly knight over Seidhr and lords?
What am I to do? Daimonia despaired. I am not a knight or noble. My only weapons are questions.
‘Goddess, I am weak!’ she raged.
Across the room the stone bust of Daimonia’s mother witnessed this outburst with disapproval. The white face seemed alive with haughty disdain.
Daimonia sat bolt upright to meet the statue’s glare, her skin tingling with a ghostly veil of sweat. She emerged from the bed, fixated on the condescending expression. Never had the statue seemed so real an approximation of Lady Catherine’s contempt.
Daimonia’s hand mirror made a good weapon for striking repeatedly at the stone.
‘Why weren’t you here?’ Daimonia shattered the glass against the imperious face. ‘They would’ve listened to you!’
A constellation of tiny glinting shards were cast around the room. Several larger pieces were wedged into the girl’s fingers. She bit her lip and began tearing them free as the blood rushed down her hand. The physical pain was inconsequential compared to the rebellion within. Daimonia watched the scarlet run down her arm with a macabre fascination.
A rising tumult of voices was encroaching from the village and Daimonia peered through the shutters to see the cause.
From Jaromir a great procession was marching towards Vornir Manor. Among them was Scir Wendell, who was almost dripping with anxiety, shaking his head and biting his knuckles. Daimonia allowed herself a short laugh; the old scir was such a worrier.
Most of the village adults were among the crowd, as well as the chapel orphans, who seized any opportun
ity for mischief. There were strangers among the crowd too, but Daimonia recognised their look. They were friends to violence and drink, men like her grandfather who wore their guilt with pride. She aimed at each killer with her bloody finger, noticing first a huge unfortunate misfit enjoying the camaraderie of the mean. She spied a leering hunter replete with the skins of his kills. She pointed to a well-travelled Afreyan grinning as if his fortune was one more murder away. With the most contempt she spotted a half-witted youth who aspired to be like these animals.
Are they here for Jhonan? Perhaps these were old enemies, walking grudges from a violent past. If they kill him, I too will die, she decided.
Emerging at the front, an extraordinary figure caught Daimonia’s full attention. The golden knight had a sense of consequence and purpose as he strode ahead of the crowd. He was surprisingly handsome, gifted with luminous hair and strength of jaw and brow. Across his shoulders he wore the most fabulous cloak the girl had ever seen, a playful rainbow of exotic colours and shades. Daimonia held her breath at the sight of him – a thing of myth walking into her life.
The Dispute
The whole village had flocked around the Geld Knight and his enforcers by the time they had climbed the hill to the Vornir place. Sir Conrad was bemused at what all the peasants found so thrilling about the old tottering tower. Nevertheless every hare-brained idiot was gleefully tagging along for the occasion. Hopefully the girl would be worth the fuss.
‘What do you make of it, Fotter?’ Conrad often spoke to his subordinates without looking at them squarely. He tipped his head back and glanced down his nose imperiously, just as he’d been taught at the academy.
‘I dunno. But I can sniff out a pretty one.’ Fotter snorted, slapping Conrad on the back. ‘Maybe I can have a go on her too?’ He followed up the suggestion with some farmyard noises.
Men of low character used vulgar talk as a means of bonding, assuring themselves that each was as damaged as the other. Conrad indulged them for the most part, but these men could never think of him as their friend. Friends were for betraying.
The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution Page 5