The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution

by Alexander Wallis

  ‘Niklos will be avenged,’ she told him coldly.

  ‘No, Daimonia,’ the old man protested. His voice was as raw as a wound. ‘No, we bury our grievance with Nik.’

  ‘We are Vornirs and we will avenge.’

  Jhonan rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to gather his authority. The fire made a foolish silhouette of his swaying drunken shape. ‘We took two lives for the one that was lost to us,’ he reasoned desperately.

  ‘Our true grievance is with the baron,’ Daimonia asserted. ‘Let no other blood placate us.’

  ‘Nik was a traitor!’ Jhonan flared, brandishing his sword as if he would have killed the boy himself. ‘Will you join your brother nailed to a tree? Or perhaps you would prefer to be banished to the depths of Archonia?’

  ‘Yes. I would sooner betray the prince than my own brother.’

  ‘Blood grievances are for disputes between common men and knights,’ he boomed in exasperation. ‘Not to be pursued against magistrates, barons and Seidhr! If you learn anything from your brother’s death, let it be that!’

  Jhonan let the sword fall from his hand, discarding it like an unwanted obligation. The resound of steel on stone was met with silence between the Vornirs. Their unspoken thoughts were rewarded with hisses and crackles from the fireplace, sounds reminiscent of the funeral pyre.

  The feelings struggling in Daimonia’s heart chose this moment to reach full bloom and she wept. She fell helplessly into her grandfather’s steadying arms, the fight draining from her. His fear of the Accord was becoming her own, dowsing the fire she had felt so strongly. She was succumbing to his sense of futility.

  Jhonan held her tightly. ‘My anger could fill the sea, but I won’t lose you, Daimonia. Oh Goddess, no. Not you, my dear girl.’

  She pulled away from him, repulsed by his unwelcome sentiments. ‘Then I will go to my mother! Surely the great Captain Catherine will not let her son die unavenged! If she had been here, none of this would have happened!’

  ‘No, Dai. That road will only lead to more sorrow. Catherine may be a famous knight, but she cannot love you as I do.’

  ‘You? A fingerless fool? A ruin of a man incapable of caring for a gentle boy! A creature proud to be violent and drunk! You cannot love me better than my own mother.’

  Jhonan stared at the unquenchable fury with a look of horrified recognition.

  ‘It was you who drove Niklos into that life.’ Daimonia aimed her words like arrows. ‘He was no warrior, but you filled him with the idea of it. Men fight, that’s what you told him!’ She seemed to grow taller in the shadows, to leer over the old man, dominating him. ‘Do not stand against me or I will add your blood to the chalice.’

  Jhonan fell to his knees, his spirit failing. ‘Then I see I have truly become your father.’

  ACT TWO

  THE WAY KNIGHT

  The Way Knight

  The booming voice of a travelling merchant woke all of Jaromir. Dalibor’s itinerant traders had developed a sales dialect that involved slurring a whole cluster of words into one. The result was a rambling monologue, where the names of goods could be occasionally identified amid what sounded like coarse language.

  Daimonia set out from Vornir Manor wearing her favourite boots, a riding cloak and a long black dress with a scalloped lace neckline. Her raven hair flowed over her shoulders and back. A few heads turned as she passed by. The adventurous girl who had once climbed trees and played in the woods was fast becoming a woman.

  The girl was oblivious to all attention but her own; with blue eyes beneath black brows, she was fixed on her own purpose. The cold morning made her feel vitalised and sharp. She had nothing in common with the old fool she had left behind, sleeping drunkenly in his chair. She had stolen his Visoth war dagger and wore it sheathed on her belt.

  Alongside her she led the horse taken from the road watchman. It was a disconcertingly large beast laden with the watchman’s leather saddle and sword, a satchel of clothes, food and Daimonia’s bow.

  ‘Daimonia!’ Lurching through the crowd came Villiam the Fool. He paid no mind to those he bumped and jostled as he ran. The youth was taller and broader than anyone in the village and his wild tangled hair had never been cut. He held a whole loaf of bread in one hand and a thickness of wood in the other. ‘Are we going now?’ he asked Daimonia. ‘We go together.’

  ‘No, Villiam.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. This is not your journey.’

  ‘I’m your brother now,’ he reminded her of his promise at the funeral.

  There was no being unkind to Villiam, he simply had no understanding. ‘It’s my mother I need now,’ she told him and tried to escape. Her eyes were on the small market and she strode up to stand behind the gathering crowd.

  ‘There is not enough love for the living, let alone the dead!’ Villiam shouted after her.

  Daimonia knew where he had got that from; it was a line from the play. The boy was a talented mimic and sounded just like the actor, but didn’t understand what came out of his own mouth. She refused to turn around, focusing instead on what she needed.

  The merchant was a short man with a canny look about him. He was employing a base eloquence to gather a growing crowd of villagers to his stall. On display was a selection of glass, fabrics and jewellery, which the merchant had no doubt procured at lower prices from Leechfinger. The success of his enterprise was well evidenced by the generous fatness of his son, who was busy laying out the goods.

  Knowing that no merchant would chance the trade route without protection, Daimonia looked keenly for some Way Knights. Daimonia allowed her imagination to play with the idea of travelling with a pair of handsome warriors and becoming a little infatuated with one or both of them. A premonition of warmth exuded from the romance of her imaginations.

  Beyond the crowd, a solitary Way Knight tended to his horse. There was a weighty surety to his movements that made him easy to watch. He was clad in tarnished chain armour and a magnificent plate helm. His fraying blood-coloured tabard was blazoned with the symbol of a wheel with swords for spokes. The same symbol was painted on a battle-dented shield discarded by his feet.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Daimonia tried to sound precise like her mother. ‘I would like to enlist your services.’

  The Way Knight froze at the sound of the girl’s voice, his armoured shoulders rising in apprehension. After an uncomfortable moment he reluctantly turned to give Daimonia a wary stare. His eyes were half closed with mistrust, his face a dense map of old gashes and deep lacerations. Scar upon scar travelled across his features, giving his flesh the appearance of a weathered pathway.

  Daimonia tried to tame her expression as she felt her mouth turn in disgust. An inadvertent noise escaped her lips and she blinked repeatedly. Struggling to manage her feelings, she looked squarely at the knight as if the task was not repugnant.

  The knight advanced towards her, his appearance improving not one bit with proximity. Daimonia found herself scrutinising anything other than the ruined features. She feigned interest in his armour and his strong thick hands. Inevitably she met his cold gaze and found herself speculating on the cause of the prolific scarring; those injuries were something more sinister than a knight’s war wounds.

  ‘I’m Goodkin,’ he growled an introduction. His lips were as cracked and dry as his voice.

  Daimonia considered running at that moment. How could she spend days in the company of this monster?

  ‘I hoped to travel with you as far as Khorgov,’ Daimonia felt obliged to explain.

  ‘Not a good time.’ He breathed heavily as if speech was an exertion. ‘There have been Baoth raids along the coast.’

  ‘Yes, I hear the invaders like Dallish women,’ Daimonia joked.

  Goodkin stared at her as if at an idiot. ‘The Baoth only kill the men, this is true. You would be taken back to their homeland as a slave and enjoy less rights than an animal.’

  ‘I didn’t mean–’

  ‘You would be made to worship the Bu
rning Man,’ the monstrous knight continued. ‘Forced to observe all the rites of their faith. In time you would come to fear Gorach Baoth and think us Goddess worshippers merely savages.’ He raised his fist. ‘You would love the hand that strikes you.’

  Foreign raids were a good excuse not to travel with the disfigured man, but there was an inferred challenge in the Way Knight’s warning, something that provoked Daimonia to resolution.

  ‘I have the coin for my journey,’ Daimonia told him firmly. She offered a silver piece, remembering the old rhyme.

  Fare well on your journey

  She who pays the Way Knight’s fee

  For an offering of silver denarii

  He will lay down his life for thee

  Goodkin took the denarius as if condemned by it. Impressed on its surface was a portrait of the prince.

  They left Jaromir later that day. The group travelling under the Way Knight’s protection consisted of Daimonia Vornir, the travelling merchant Purtur and his large son Hem. Both Purtur and his boy drove horse-drawn carts brimming with goods.

  ‘Thank the Great Mother we got Sir Goodkin,’ Purtur confided in Daimonia. ‘Any outlaws will be frightened off by one glance at his face!’

  Daimonia glanced uneasily at the Way Knight, who insisted on riding behind the others. He looked every bit the threat travellers hoped to avoid. ‘All those scars, are they wounds of war?’

  ‘War? No!’ Purtur snorted. ‘Such extremities must’ve been inflicted by a woman! A jealous wife, I’ve no doubt. Or even better, his mother!’

  ‘A mother loves her own child.’ Daimonia waved away Purtur’s speculations.

  ‘That why you’re travelling all the way to Khorgov to see yours? Hah! You’re Catherine Vornir’s daughter, you claim? All very well, but I bet you haven’t seen her for years.’

  Daimonia’s face filled with black anger. But Purtur was right. It had been long years.

  ‘Shouldn’t show your feelings like that,’ Purtur continued, giving out his free wisdom. ‘You’re pretty in an odd kind of way when you’re not scowling. Certainly the fairest face I saw in Jaromir anyway. Hah! You’ll have no trouble finding a husband. In fact, my son Hem isn’t married yet!’

  Daimonia glanced back at Purtur’s son. ‘That’s because he looks like a potato.’

  Jaromir lay in a shallow basin surrounded by a vast plentiful forest. Once the travellers had escaped to higher ground, they could glimpse the coast and wonder at the barbaric lands beyond the grey waves. Daimonia’s imagination sailed with tales of their ancient rivals the Visoth, a warlike folk who called the stars heroes and rode in wooden serpents. Now those former foes traded with the Dallish and shared a mutual enemy in the inhuman Baoth.

  By late afternoon they could see a military garrison in the distance. The fortified structure was surrounded by plummeting valleys on three sides. A further earthen rampart stretched along the coast for miles. Even from so far away, the reassuring sight eased fears about invaders. Daimonia mused that such securities came at a high price. She let an old drinking song of Jhonan’s drift from her lips.

  Don’t send your son to the army, sir,

  Don’t send your son to the army.

  For the dead don’t drink

  And their corpses stink,

  Don’t send your son to the army.

  A reeking smoke rolled across the coast as daylight waned and the brilliant stars awakened. A cold silence fell among the travellers as they made camp along the edge of the forest. Goodkin allowed them no fire.

  ‘Smell that?’ Purtur whispered to Daimonia and Hem. ‘That burning in your throat is the smell of cooked children roasted by Baoth cannibals.’ He watched their anxious faces with undisguised glee. ‘Behind the war masks of the Baoth are the faces of animals! Creatures who torture themselves till they reach a war-madness, spurring them to acts of strange violence!’

  The Way Knight was standing away from the others. He was an armoured silhouette holding a chained coin reverently between his fingers.

  ‘Is Sir Goodkin a Baoth?’ Hem whispered fearfully. ‘He has the face of a beast and he fights like one too!’

  ‘Silence,’ Goodkin ordered and the chattering immediately ceased. He turned to the girl, his helm shrouding his grisly face with shadow. ‘Here are the Way Knights’ rules of travel, and if you stray from them, you may die.’ He paused and drew up several hungry breaths before his throaty voice continued. ‘First, you stay always with me. Second, you provoke no enemy. Third, you commit no crime nor trespass against the Accord.’

  Daimonia let go a little giggle at the Way Knight’s intensity. Does he think me a fool? ‘You don’t need to worry about me.’ She brushed away his concerns.

  Goodkin’s shoulders rose with heavy breaths. ‘Ask me how many girls I’ve seen die.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Daimonia blushed. ‘I’ll follow your rules.’

  ‘Ask me!’ Goodkin insisted.

  ‘I said I’d obey. You have my promise on it,’ Daimonia vowed.

  A Visitor

  Once everyone was snoring, Hem decided it was safe to move. He slowly sat up, careful not to wake the others, and cautiously tiptoed through the camp. Hem’s father, Purtur, slept with a stumpy wooden club held against his chest, as if that would serve to bat away the Baoth horde. Way Knight Goodkin reclined against a solid oak, his face clad in darkness and one hand clenching his hefty sword. Hem wondered how many men the weapon had sped to the Great Mother. He decided to give the sleeping knight a wide berth.

  Hem found Daimonia on the edge of the camp, crowned by leaves as she slept beneath the glittering Eye. She was nothing like the girls his mother wanted him to marry. For one thing she was the most serious girl Hem had ever seen, her dark brows always low with intense thought or raised high in question. Hem imagined she felt things very deeply. Who knew what dreams embraced her?

  Hem had watched Daimonia all day, seen her riding on her great horse like a queen. He was sure she had smiled at him once or twice. Had a feeling passed between them? Love was painful and confusing, like a wonderful ache.

  Sadly, Daimonia was the only good thing that had come out of Jaromir. Something Hem had eaten had upset his stomach horribly and he needed to shit desperately. It was bad enough doing it out in the open. The Purtur family house had its own toilet and Hem was used to privacy. But to have to do it anywhere near Daimonia was just too embarrassing. So Hem wandered on until he was a safe distance away from the camp. He untied his baggy leggings and squatted behind a tree, hoping no bugs crawled up his arse.

  The release was sudden and noisy. Hem recoiled at the stench, cursing lest it was so potent as to reach the others.

  A primal guttural sound cut the night. Hem froze, his guts churning with fear. Stuck mid-dropping, he wriggled, trying to finish what he had started. There was an awful voice and abruptly a pale corpse ran jerkily into the clearing.

  Hem shrieked at the wrinkly thing. It was drawn forward by a bloated phallus, as if the rest of its saggy body were merely an appendage to its lust.

  Too indisposed to run, Hem began scrabbling for some leaves to clean himself, his fingers clutching desperately at mud and twigs. He fell onto his side, half into his own mess, and cried. All his strength seemed to have vanished; his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

  The shape was upon him. It pressed Hem to the earth and began to convulse over the boy, who sobbed in confusion and despair.

  A shout announced the hasty arrival of Sir Goodkin followed by Purtur, both charging into the clearing. Inexplicably they stopped and instead of helping simply stared confused at Hem, who lay paralysed in a mess of shit and leaves.

  ‘Get up, you disgusting boy!’ Purtur demanded. ‘Are you a complete fool? Rolling in your own waste and shrieking?’

  ‘But, Father.’ Hem sobbed. He twisted about, staring into the trees, but there was nothing.

  ‘You will get us all killed,’ Goodkin rebuked the boy furiously, his eyes watering with anger.

&n
bsp; Hem saw the thing again the following day, but under even stranger circumstances. They had set off early at Goodkin’s insistence, and Hem had been trying not to look at Daimonia. He felt unclean after the previous night’s horror and was afraid he might somehow spread some of that nastiness onto the girl if he stared at her too much.

  ‘Rest your backside from that great horse.’ Purtur had coaxed Daimonia down from her impressive mount. ‘Ride on Hem’s wagon. He’s never spoken with a real lady before!’

  Hem felt his face redden so hotly that it must have seemed obvious to everyone that he loved her. Riding through the overcast morning, Hem fixated on the way ahead, not daring to look at the girl more than once every mile. She was extremely fidgety and would yawn and stretch, sigh occasionally and even sing.

  Her voice wasn’t like that of the girls back home at Littlecrook. Those voices were full of hay from the fields, rolling hills and summer mornings. Daimonia’s voice was not like that at all. When she sang it was like the last voice at the end of time.

  When the guiding light has gone,

  And has left me all alone,

  Will you still ride by my side?

  Who will be there to take me home?

  ‘What’s that from?’ Hem stammered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That song. I’ve never heard it before.’

  ‘It’s from a play.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘The travelling players. Haven’t you seen them? They travel performing the myth of the Goddess.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you should see it for yourself.’

  Hem wrestled with conflicting feelings. He had managed the brief exchange quite ably, but couldn’t help but notice Daimonia’s dismissive tone. He felt a tiny pain well up inside. The cart continued jolting along while Hem mustered himself for a second go at conversation.

  ‘What’s it about? The song?’

  This time Daimonia looked right at Hem, as if weighing the authenticity of his interest.