Knights Without Kings (Harmony of the Apostles Book 1)

by J. M. Topp

  Korhas urged his horse beside Bendrick’s and whispered to him. ‘If we do not take him up on his offer, we cannot stay in Flodden. If this man is right, the town will be looking for us, Ben.’

  Sieglinde sighed audibly but gave no opinion. Bendrick turned to look at the dark man.

  ‘Agreed. Take us to your home.’

  ‘I will not give you my name, but you may call me Theyllyn. This way, friends.’ He smiled evilly, licking his lips.

  BENDRICK GUIDED HIS horse through the dark alleyways, following the hooded man. Korhas and Sieglinde kept in line behind him. Sewer waters dripped from pipes at the base of houses they passed. The stench wafted through the dusky air, almost making Bendrick gag. He placed his hand over his mouth to filter out some of the smells. They rounded into another dark alley, snaking deeper into Flodden.

  ‘You don’t like the stench, my lord?’ Theyllyn glanced back at Bendrick. His teeth glowed yellow in the dark.

  Bendrick lowered his hand and held his reigns tighter. ‘The smell has gotten worse.’

  ‘You’ve been to Flodden before?’

  ‘I grew up here. It has changed much.’

  Korhas looked over at Bendrick in surprise. ‘The things I learn about you, Bendrick. Never ceases to amaze me.’

  Theyllyn looked over his shoulder at them.

  ‘Take a deep breath, old man. The stench is sweeter here,’ said Theyllyn.

  ‘Rebecca told us about you,’ said Bendrick, remembering the elf.

  ‘Ah, she did, did she?’ Theyllyn laughed. ‘That elven bitch still thinks she can be counted among men simply because she cut off her ears?’

  Bendrick turned to Theyllyn, confused.

  ‘She told me you were friends.’

  ‘Aye, long ago. Before she did this to me.’

  Theyllyn took off his hood and turned to the travelers. A gash from ear to ear extended far down past his chin to his neck. He smiled almost as widely as his scars did.

  ‘I thought we had something special. She didn’t agree. When you see her again, tell her I still owe her a kiss.’ His laugh sounded like the creaking of an old door. Bendrick felt uneasy about trusting this man, but they had no choice. He glanced at Sieglinde, whom he found was staring back at him intently. She motioned to her dagger and held two fingers to her temple. She, without words, was asking if she needed to keep an eye on Theyllyn. Bendrick nodded in agreement. It wouldn’t hurt to be careful. They reached the end of a street, and the man known as Theyllyn walked to a wooden door, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door, motioning his three guests in. Bendrick jumped from his horse, as did Korhas and Sieglinde.

  ‘You must let your horses go.’ Theyllyn stood in the doorway with arms crossed. It was clear he wasn’t going to let them in without first getting rid of the horses. ‘On the morrow, I will find you Aivaterran mounts.’

  Bendrick sighed and turned to Korhas.

  ‘Release them, Korhas.’

  Korhas frowned and began to take the packs off of the horses’ backs. Bendrick and Sieglinde entered the small house. Inside, the warmth of a small chimney fire permeated the single room house. Bendrick noticed a small banner hanging over the chimney with the sigil of a stone, a branch, and a sword. It was the official sigil of Mór Nardvyk, capitol of Alder Isle. Now that Bendrick could see Theyllyn in a better light, his tattoos were clearer. His head had been shaved clean, and his dark eyes studied the three guests before him. Bendrick squinted as he studied his tattooed arms. This man was an assassin from the Kingdom of Alder.

  Sieglinde glanced at Theyllyn and sat promptly beside the fire to warm herself and listen to the assassin.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that Mór Nardvyk cared what happened in Weserith,’ said Bendrick.

  Theyllyn gave Bendrick a surprised look. He touched the tattoos on his arm and stared at them. ‘Not many can recognize this mark.’ The man’s attitude changed almost instantly. His face, constantly sullen and frowning, became more inviting. The fact that some foreigner knew of his culture made him relax a bit as well.

  ‘Not many study Alder culture outside of the Isle, which is a shame. Regardless, there must be a reason why you risk guesting us,’ said Bendrick, studying the man before him.

  ‘Baron Wylfesmer is worried about the current state of events between Eldervale and the Khahadran. If war indeed does break out again, Alder Isle needs to know where things stand. My people cannot fight in a war right now.’

  Bendrick chewed his lip in silence, thinking for a moment. Baron Wylfesmer, better known as Baron of the Storms, was the self-proclaimed King of Alder Isle. After his successful rebellion almost thirteen years ago, he had claimed total rule over Alder Isle. Since then, Alder Isle had been neutral to Eldervale’s wars and Khahadran’s affairs.

  ‘Alder Isle isn’t within the plans that Weserith has. The only objective of this envoy is to calm the Queen Gwendylyyn and hopefully return her to King Ayland without harm. If this mission succeeds, there will be no war.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t agree to return with you?’

  Bendrick breathed deeply. ‘War must be avoided.’ He spoke carefully. ‘Neither country is entirely prepared for another war so soon after the Kingsfury War.’

  ‘It’s not me you have to convince, old man.’ Theyllyn rubbed his bald head and sighed. ‘Once we learned that the queen had fled Weserith, I was sent to Flodden to await an envoy. We don’t want to be dragged into a war, nor do we want Aivaterra knowing that Alder Isle has been talking to Weserith. I will contact a few of my friends to help you cross the Kingsoul River in secret as a gesture of neutrality.’

  Korhas entered through the door and closed it behind him.

  ‘The horses are gone.’

  ‘No doubt they will be butchered if they haven’t been already.’ Theyllyn grinned and pulled his hood over his head. ‘I will be back at dawn. Be prepared.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ asked Sieglinde, unfastening her cloak and sitting close to the fire. Theyllyn frowned and left the small room without saying more. He slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Harlot Queen

  BENDRICK TOSSED AND turned on his straw cot in Theyllyn’s small house. Formless faces hovered over his head, staring at him. They wouldn’t speak, but Bendrick knew what they were thinking. He glanced over at Korhas, who was snoring like a large furnace, and then to Sieglinde, who slept like a cat.

  Bendrick sat up on his cot and closed his eyes, lost in thought. His eyes opened at a sharp knock at the door. Sunlight was barely poking through as two men entered wearing black robes, hoods drawn. Korhas and Sieglinde both woke up and unsheathed their weapons at once. From behind them, the man known to them as Theyllyn emerged.

  ‘I told you they wouldn’t be taken by surprise.’ Theyllyn laughed, sending chills up Bendrick’s spine. ‘Come, you bastards, before the sun rises even further.’

  The Kingsoul River roared beneath the wide stone bridge. Bendrick stared down at it as the clear-blue waters rushed past underneath. Eyevetmere Crossing had been named hundreds of years before. During the Fog, it had been hailed as a beacon of light. A stone helm the size of a small hut lay half sunk in the soft mud. A giant statue of a knight had been erected long ago, standing proud and tall with shield and sword raised metres above the murky waters. Whoever had built that heavy statue hadn’t considered how it would sink over time in mud. After nearly one hundred years, all that was left above the mud was its gigantic stone helm. Years ago, when Weserith had had an official religion, its citizens would travel to the nameless statue and pray, priest and commoner alike. Thick moss covered the face piece. Bendrick stared in wonder at the marker for the border in-between Eldervale and the Khahadran. Bendrick urged his horse onwards over the small stone bridge. Korhas and Sieglinde followed closely behind. The sun was rising in the East, setting a pleasant wave of warmth around them. Even then, the stench from Flodden wafted on the winds. Bendrick curled his lips in disgust.

  The road t
o Aivaterra after this point would be littered with checkpoints. The tension between the two countries was too much for Bendrick to expect the Aivaterrans to leave them unharmed. For that reason, the envoy had changed into clothes more appropriate for Aivaterran culture and weather.

  In Weserith, where temperatures dropped to below freezing quite occasionally, it was customary to wear thicker clothing, such as bear pelts, fur armour, and long cloaks. In Aivaterra, however, seeing as the temperatures were much warmer in the plains, it only made sense to change.

  Bendrick wore a sandy-coloured shirt and simple black pants. They had had to leave their cloaks and other garments at Theyllyn’s house. They would have to return through there anyway, so it made more sense to leave their important belongings. Their weapons, however, they had not left. Korhas had a similar cloth getup, but even without his chestplate, it would be clear that he was not a commoner. His strong build was evident as he stoically sat atop his horse.

  Sieglinde wore a brown gambeson, similar to the one she was used to training with, and padded riding pants. They were of good quality, which surprised Bendrick. He didn’t want to know where Theyllyn had found or stolen clothing such as that.

  They had passed over the Eyevetmere Crossing Bridge without difficulty, but the roads were devoid of travelers this side of the Khahadran. It was a strange feeling, as the roads of Weserith usually had people on them. Weserith was a busy culture, and it was clearly reflected in their roads. Yet here, they traveled alone.

  After a few miles, the winding roads led into thick jungle. The air became thicker and more humid. Their clothes stuck to their flesh as the heat they were not used to permeated their bodies. Korhas would occasionally swat at a fly or a mosquito buzzing around his ears. Sweat collected on Bendrick’s brow, but he ignored it. The vegetation and wildlife rang loudly in the dense jungle, but then everything went silent. It was a marked change that stunned Bendrick. Korhas noticed too, and he sat straighter in his seat, his hand wandering to the hilt of his sword.

  Bendrick tilted his neck and listened. The jungle was still and silent. The very crickets and cicadas that had been relentlessly loud had now silenced their noise. Nothing moved in the brush. Korhas stopped his horse, as did Bendrick and Sieglinde.

  ‘We mustn’t stay here, Korhas,’ Bendrick warned, but before Korhas could respond, a man clad in rusted steel armour exited the brush. He held a gloved hand above his head, and in the other hand rested a crossbow which was aimed at the envoy.

  ‘Your majesties, good afternoon.’

  So much for keeping anonymous.

  ‘Bandits.’ Korhas cursed beneath his breath. Hooded men began to pour from the dense forest. Korhas unsheathed his sword. Bendrick turned to see men behind him as well. They were completely surrounded.

  ‘Remember what I taught you?’ he whispered to Sieglinde.

  ‘My mind is sharper, Father.’ Sieglinde unsheathed her longsword and pointed it at the men. This was different than the incident at the bar. These men were well-armed and sober.

  ‘Ah, look, the rumours are true. They do have a woman with them.’ The men jeered at Sieglinde. One of them walked through the line of men and stopped just before them. The skin of his face had been burned off. His ragged beard grew only in the places where his flesh wasn’t singed. He scowled at the envoy.

  ‘Don’t think of rushing. We have you completely surrounded. Drop your weapons,’ said the burned man simply.

  Korhas smiled and muttered under his breath.

  ‘We don’t want trouble.’ Bendrick held the reigns of his horse tighter and stared at the man.

  ‘Speak for yourself, old man.’ Korhas dismounted and sheathed his sword. He approached the bandits slowly, arms raised.

  ‘Korhas, no death,’ snapped Bendrick, but Korhas wasn’t paying attention.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Korhas said with feigned courtesy.

  ‘I think you didn’t hear us, I said—’ protested the man, but he was cut off.

  ‘I know what you said. Men don’t prance around in the forest without intending to rob weary travelers. I understand what you are here to do,’ Korhas said, sneering at them without a hint of fear. The burned man noticed his lack of fear, and his back stiffened. Even then, the burned man smiled at Korhas. ‘Most royal envoys as small as yours piss their pants and beg for their lives. What’s to stop us from just killing you and taking your things?’

  Korhas walked up to the man calmly. He looked at the burned man straight in the eye.

  ‘How about this?’

  With stunning speed, Korhas shot his hand into his cloak and drew a small dagger. He sliced at the burned man, cutting through his neck in one swift motion, and before the burned man realized it, he was dead. His eyes widened in extreme surprise as his body fell to the ground in a heap. Blood spurted on the sandy road and began to pool under the body of the choking man. The other bandits eyed Korhas in utter shock, unable to believe what they had just witnessed. A stunned crossbowman let his bolt fly, but it sailed far above Korhas’ head. Korhas stared maliciously at the bandits, still poised to kill.

  ‘You will move out of the way. We want no more dead. I’m sure you’ll agree,’ said Korhas, motioning to the dead man. Bendrick stared at them coldly. Blood from the dead man’s neck trickled down Korhas’ knife. Slowly, the bandits, realizing how outmatched they were, began to retreat, each eyeing Korhas in fear. Korhas turned to his traveling companions, all but satisfied.

  ‘Did you have to kill him?’ Bendrick scowled.

  ‘You made that promise long ago, Bendrick. Don’t fault us for not making it with you.’ Korhas mounted his horse but then froze as he stared down the road. A lone bandit stood in the middle of it. In his hand, he twisted a small hatchet. A black hood covered his face.

  ‘You are Bendrick Greystonne,’ said the bandit.

  Bendrick merely stared at him. Without warning, the lone bandit charged at Bendrick with weapon raised high. Bendrick drew his sword and blocked the blow and then kicked the bandit in the stomach, sending him backwards. Bendrick dismounted and looked down at the bandit. ‘I don’t think it is wise to attack me without your friends.’

  Korhas urged his horse to strike at the man from behind, but Sieglinde held her hand out. It wouldn’t be fair to attack this man in numbers. Korhas turned to watch the event unfold.

  The lone bandit glanced at Bendrick but ignored his words. He attacked again, wildly. There was no tact to his strikes. Fiercely, he screamed and beat the air around Bendrick with his hatchet. He finally threw a desperate blow to Bendrick’s head, but Bendrick blocked the strike with his sword and followed up with a punch to the man’s stomach. The bandit doubled over and fell to the ground hard, dropping his weapon. He reached desperately for his hatchet, but Bendrick stepped on him, crushing his hand. The man stifled a scream and glared up at Bendrick. Bendrick placed his blade on the man’s neck. The man, realizing he was defeated, raised his other hand.

  ‘Get it over with, Ben,’ urged Korhas, annoyed.

  Bendrick noticed that man was shaking. It wasn’t from fear, however. He stooped down and drew the man’s hood. Tears were trailing down his red cheeks. The boy couldn’t have been older than Sieglinde. His pale-blue eyes were staring at Bendrick in anger.

  ‘You,’ he quivered. ‘It was you. The Rovulgad Reaper.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Bendrick.

  ‘The abandoned gods have given me the opportunity for revenge, yet I failed. I wasn’t able to kill you. Mother, forgive me.’ He closed his eyes and begun to mouth words inaudibly. Bendrick stood as shocked as the bandits had been moments before.

  ‘You were there twelve years ago,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ Despair turned to anger in the boy’s face. ‘My mother was. It was said that you gave the order to kill her.’ He spat up at Bendrick.

  Even though years had passed since that event, the memories of that day would haunt him in every way imaginable. Bendrick sheathed h
is sword and knelt beside the man.

  ‘May your gods rest her soul,’ Bendrick whispered at the boy and punched him in the face as hard as he could. The boy fell back in the dirt, unconscious. Bendrick dragged his body into a ditch at the edge of the road and propped him up against a tree.

  ‘Killing him would be a mercy, Ben. Gods know what a pretty face like that does in a bandit group,’ Korhas urged Bendrick, leaning atop his horse.

  Bendrick’s scar above his eyebrow began to itch rather fiercely. He touched the scar with two fingers and let out a sigh. ‘His blood has been spilt enough on my behalf. His friends should return to him.’

  ‘Should we leave his fate in the hands of bandits?’ asked Korhas.

  Sieglinde urged her horse to stand over the unconscious boy. ‘He made his choice to be one of them. It’s his consequence to bear,’ she said.

  Bendrick stared at the boy in the ditch. He was a product of a war he didn’t understand. He put his foot in his horse’s stirrup and lifted himself atop his mount.

  ‘We must go before the bandits change their minds and return.’

  A DENSE JUNGLE stretched over the edges of the Kingsoul River but eventually gave way to stretched golden plains. Long, rolling fields spanned miles upon miles to the south. Bendrick, Sieglinde, and Korhas’ mounts, now Aivaterran, were able to carry them with more speed and vigour. Bendrick was grateful for the speed. After leaving Flodden, they had made great time in their journey, but something in the back of Bendrick’s mind prodded him, telling him he wasn’t fast enough. Skies as golden as the fields below stretched over them like a thick, warm blanket.

  They rounded over a small hill and faced Aivaterra in all its glory. The enormous city pierced the skies amidst the plains it rested on. Dozens of towers stood tall beside the massive royal keep belfry. Gigantic walls enclosed the city with small guard posts every half mile. The diameter of the city walls spanned four hundred and ninety-four acres of land, according to Weserithian records. The city itself spilled over the walls, however. The poorest of the poor lived in shacks and tent cities residing outside the gigantic walls. As the three travelers neared the city along the dirt road, bystanders stared intently.