Damsel Knight

by Sam Austin

  What could've made Neven so upset that he made such a public show of weakness? Alice? The argument they'd had earlier, or the argument before that? His father?

  His father died to stop Neven joining the army, and Boone had dragged them back and made them join anyway. Was that what this was about? And before that, she'd dragged him off to the dragon, hadn't even explained to him that was why the idea of sneaking away in Jack's boat had occurred to her.

  She's inside the chambers assigned to her when it hits her. She's not upset at Neven for showing weakness. She's not even upset at him for showing weakness in-front of the head druid. It's not going to make life easy for him if someone picks up on it, or the druid tells, but her new influence should keep him safe.

  No. She's upset because he felt safe showing weakness around Ness, and not her.

  Ness can't even protect him like he is, and no. That's not what she's upset about either. She's upset because she's losing a friend.

  Neven and Ness had been friends, but only because they were two boys of similar ages in the same village. They hadn't been friends like Neven and she were when they were alone.

  She might never get that back. The feeling sits heavy in her stomach, weighing her down.

  She takes in her chambers with an uninterested gaze. It's a long way from the one roomed house, with the straw bed she'd shared with Neven. It's roughly the size of the bedroom she'd had as a child. Not massive, but certainly not small. Neven's whole house would just about sit inside it.

  A small bath sits against the wall, tiny blue flames peeking out from the depression in the marble underneath. A cabinet stands against the wall opposite the door; an echo of the large cabinet every roundhouse uses to display objects most important to that family. Thinking back, she tries to visualise the contents of Neven's family cabinet.

  A few religious carvings, an old piece of jewellery some roman slave ancestor of Mr Moore passed on long ago, Neven's clunky first invention, the book he'd taught himself to read with. Nothing to indicate what was to come. That Mr Moore had sometime long ago been a soldier. Nor what had affected him so much that he would die rather than have his son follow the same path.

  Boone blinks. The cabinet isn't empty.

  This is her room now. The King said it would be until she wed Alice. So all forms of politeness would say the cabinet would be bare, ready for her to fill with items of sentimentality, or trinkets from ancestors.

  She steps past the large bed, reaches out a hand to the thick wooden shelves. A thick square of parchment folded in two. Someone wanted her to notice this, and they didn't want anyone else to read it. Few would, when placed on a family cabinet like that. It isn't polite to go through another's precious things without permission.

  The writing is large and childish. There's nothing of the grammar her father taught her by reading from books filled with knights. She squints, trying to make out the odd spellings. Finally she gets the gist and sits down heavily on the bed.

  It's from Mrs Moore.

  Her surprise that the woman knows how to write is only slightly less than the contents of the letter. ‘I am gone,' the childish scrawl says. 'Far far away. I am known here and if they catch me they will burn me and Neven too.'

  The next part is too garbled to make out, but she thinks there's something about being recognised. Something about the kitchen. Something about the cellars. Neven is the only word easy to make out. Every line etched with care.

  'Deny you know me.' Then right above the carefully printed letters of the word 'mother' are two lines:

  'Trust no one.'

  'They lie.'

  Chapter 26

  Boone slips off the dragon's back, scooting down his leg in a manner she hopes looks more dignified than it feels. On his elbow joint she gauges the distance to the ground, rough scales warm under her hand.

  She manages a fairly neat landing, despite only having the one arm for balance. The other is back to flopping around like a dead piece of meat, so it's strapped to her chest.

  The rest of the soldiers have retreated to a distance, but Julius stands next to the wall with a wide smile. Three days have done a lot for his mood.

  "I'll never get tired of seeing that." He looks at Gelert with something like awe. The dragon ignores the attention, clambering back over the city wall. "How do you get him to fly so low?"

  She shuffles her feet and shrugs. It's not for her to shatter their illusion of a battle fierce dragon, and admit he refuses to fly any higher. Gelert may be brave, strong, and she hopes loyal, but he's still afraid of heights. "No luck again. Wherever the barbarians are, they're hidden well."

  "Until they come out from hiding to plant their markers." He gestures to the wall, where on the other side lies the three barbarian bodies that had lured her down. "But it's just as well you came down. I have something you'll want to see."

  He leads her away along the charred remains of the outer circle. She looks around, remembering what had stood here before and sees no resemblance. She had only seen it once, on a day she had asked to see the whole circle to make a trip out with her father last longer.

  There had been houses. Giant precariously balanced houses, like shacks on top of shacks. Most had been built with scraps. The nicer ones used wood, wattle and daub and straw or heather to thatch the roofs. Everything looked dirty, and everyone in them looked dirty.

  A crowd of skinny children had surrounded her father, begging for coin. Instead he had taken them all to an inn he knew and fed them until they could eat no more. That had been nice for a little while. She liked the rough, ill-mannered children more than the pompous girls her mother kept trying to set her up with.

  That is, until one girl had called her out on talking with her father so openly, and daring to give eye contact. The girl had suggested her father was some kind of barbarian, and the day had ended with a split knuckle for her, and a bloody lip for the girl.

  She wonders if the girl still lived here. Whether she and the other children she had met that day got out. She hopes so.

  "Here." Julius places a palm on the scorched wall. "What do you make of that?"

  Boone steps over the charred skeleton of someone's table. A chill runs through her. It's not someone's table, it's someone's cabinet. A fractured shard of carving hints at the loved treasured they left behind.

  She turns her attention to the wall. It's black with soot, but she can see what Julius is showing her. A hole about the size of an adult fist, drilled right into the stone of the wall.

  "They had to get inside to do that."

  He nods. "Simpler than you think once they scale the outer wall. I grew up here. People were always building too close to the wall. There'd be house on top of house, right up against the stone. All they'd have to do is climb down the roofs. I doubt people would even notice. Kids were always messing about up there."

  It's strange to think of a knight growing up here, but she guesses Julius is as odd a knight as she would be. A girl with barbarian blood as squire to a knight with clear roman slave blood.

  It's like a joke someone made up.

  She crouches to peer into the hole. Inside is nothing but black. How deep does it go? "You think this is how they broke the spell on the wall?"

  He kneels next to her, drawing his sword from his waist. It's plain as swords go. Nothing like the intricate carving that makes up her own. The blade looks well made though. Not dragon steel, but sturdy enough to do its job. "The spell stops magic coming inward, so it makes sense a spell to break it would have to come from the inside. Still. I thought no one knew how the spell was made, let alone how to break it."

  There's an unspoken thought between them. No one knows but the King. But that's not right anymore, is it? It's thought no one alive today, but the King, was around when the walls were made, but the witch was. Maybe the King trusted the wrong person with the secret, but maybe there are others out there like the witch, waiting to take their revenge.

  Sir Julius pokes the sword into
the hole with a measure of care that reminds her of the barrier that had shut them inside Timon's shed. He's met with magic before, is her first thought. Being a knight, that makes sense. The second thought sends a shudder through her. What if the witch's barrier and the King's are similar because she was telling the truth? Could the witch have grown up in the palace with the King? Could they, a woman and a man, have taken magic lessons side by side?

  The sword is forced to a halt part way in. The depth of a child's arm. He draws it out in the same careful way. Only, this time something's different.

  The pale steel blade is smeared with something thick and viscous. It looks familiar. She's seen something like it before. It smells like burnt liver.

  Sir Julius runs a finger along the blade, rubs the liquid between thumb and forefinger. He wrinkles his nose. "Blood. Long rotted blood."

  She catches the putrid stench, hidden under the scent of ash and tang of burning that seems to cover everything around here. It's not unusual for blood to be used to fuel spells, but the idea of simple blood breaking the spell is ludicrous.

  Gelert slams to the ground not far from them, excising a cloud of ash that billows as high as the wall. She and Julius duck their heads, trying to avoid the worst of it.

  Once it settles she gives Gelert her best glare. The dragon cocks his massive head to the side with a high pitched questioning sound. There's a dead body between his front feet. One of the barbarians Sir Julius's men killed.

  Sir Julius coughs, rubbing the layer of grey out of his braided hair. "However they managed it, this makes our jobs easier. And it'll put the women and children at rest to know the only way the barbarians can get inside is to already be inside."

  Boone nods, dusting off her new leather vest. That was a relief. And it explains the need for the big ruse. They needed to be let in the gate. It's the only way past the barrier.

  There's a crunching sound from Gelert's direction. She swallows, nausea sweeping over her.

  "And then there's the markers. Always the same thing: a child's dress. They seem to be trying to stake them up as close to the palace walls as they can get." He shakes his head, reaching into a cloth satchel to pull out a small bundle. "Expensive material. Good craftsmanship, but none of the traders I spoke to recognised the needle work."

  He shakes out the dress, and her breath catches in her throat. A light blue silk dress with a white lace collar made of interlocking circles. She takes it slowly, turning it inside out to look at the stitches. They're almost as small as the kind made by children, but infinitely neater.

  It looks like - but that's impossible.

  Her blood pounds around her head. She can hear Julius, but not what he's saying. Above it all sounds the crunch, scrape, crunch, of Gelert pulling apart the dead body. The very human dead body.

  She spins around, the dress clutched tight in her good hand. "Stop it! What kind of monster are you?"

  The dragon raises his head as quickly as if he'd been scalded. The leg drops to the dusty ground. He'd been nibbling on it. He's big enough to swallow the whole body whole, and he takes the time to nibble on it. Like a cat playing with its prey.

  "It can't help it Boone," Sir Julius says softly. "It's a dragon. It's their nature."

  All at once she's a ten year old girl again, opening that door. Expecting her best friend to save her father, and stop the men from taking him away. Then finding her father dead, and hearing her mother had met the same end. She hates him. She can't help but love him.

  Two steps and Gelert is by her side. His house sized head lowers to hers. His black pools for eyes stare at - no. Not at her. It's hard to tell with an eye that's all pupil, but she's sure those eyes are focused on the crumpled dress in her hand.

  She holds it toward him.

  Gelert breathes in deeply, and the red lids of his eyes drop half way closed. He sighs, ruffling her hair, and almost knocking her off her feet. A deep rumble echoes from within his chest.

  "Is that?" Sir Julius's voice sounds shaken.

  "Yes," she says. "He's purring."

  Gelert rubs his muzzle over the small bundle of dress so gently her hand is barely nudged. His expression is total bliss. As soft and caring as she's ever seen him.

  It's almost like he recognises its maker too, and understands why it's important to her. He won't understand the questions it causes. Like why the barbarians are leaving girls dresses around like some kind of message.

  Or how a dress made by her mother got into their hands.

  ***

  This is a job for Neven. He's the smart one. Only, she hasn't seen him since she'd showed him the letter from his mother. He'd been just as surprised as she was that his mother could write, and could interpret no more meaning than she had.

  The barracks are teeming with activity. Tents have sprung up to house the overflow of farmers and traders now calling themselves soldiers.

  Boone wanders between them, asking the faces she recognises if they've seen Neven. The responses are several themes of 'That skinny kid? No. But say, has that dragon toasted any barbarians yet?'

  She's accepting a free honey cake ‘made by a woman though you wouldn't guess, tasting it. I'd have taken her for my wife after the first bite if she wasn't too old to give me children. 'When a hand falls on her bad shoulder.

  She spins around at the pressure. Her mind throws counter-moves at her. Reach for your sword. No the knife is a quicker draw. Relief floods through her as she recognises the old man. The medic who looked at her arm that day on the walk. The same one who helped Ness to safety. His aged skin is red raw in places from burns, and all his hair is charred, but he looks in one piece.

  She can't remember his name. "I'm glad you're-"

  "Alive?" He cackles. It's a horrible, mad sound. "No thanks to you. I helped you. I helped your friend, and you left me there." He shoves her hard.

  She stumbles back, surprised at his strength. All at once the knife is in her hand. "You went ahead. I couldn't see you, so I assumed you got out. I apologise for that, but you need to back off."

  "Or what?" He makes that shrill cackle again. For a moment it sounds like the lost ones screaming. "You already took everything. The last of my eyesight. My fingers."

  He raises his withered hands, and she sees she was wrong. He's not in one piece. Several pieces are missing. Bandages wrap around each digit, but most of them are inches too short.

  "You said you'd help me. Instead you helped your friend and ruined me." He shakes his head, but his blind eyes barely move from her direction. "What am I to do now? Beg? What work am I to do with no eyes and no fingers? How will I eat? How will I turn back the clock and be who I once was? How will I stay alive?"

  She opens her mouth to give her an answer, but no words come out. He's old. If he were rich that wouldn't be a problem. Gold buys servants to tend to those ailing under the weakness of age, just as it buys magic to sweep those weaknesses away. With no gold or employment he only has the kindness of others to keep him from death, and the world is not kind.

  She lowers her knife. "I'm sorry."

  "Words!" He picks up a honey cake from the makeshift stall an enterprising soldier set up, and throws it at her. Even with his lack of sight and missing fingers, the cake hits square on her sling before bouncing off. "I don't need words. I need magic. I need what you promised me!"

  "Hey old man," the stall owner says, drawing his goods to him. "This here's a hero. Bravest lad I've ever seen. King said so himself. So you best hold your tongue."

  Several voices ring out in agreement. With shock she recognises some of them as being there the day Sir Angus tried to burn her and Neven.

  A hand closes over her shoulder just as Drust the pig farmer steps out of nowhere to usher the furious ex medic away. At first the old man struggles, then as Drust bends to talk to him in soft tones he allows himself to be led away.

  Once she's sure the old man isn't about to attack her from behind, she lets the hand on her shoulder lead her in the opposite d
irection. A few men clap her on the back as she passes, but she doesn't notice them.

  All she notices is the hand on her shoulder belongs to Ness, and he looks as healthy as she's ever seen him.

  They walk to the side of the barracks where there are fewer men. He looks down at her, puzzled. "What are you doing here?"

  She finds her tongue. "Looking for Neven. I have something I need to ask him." More than one something now.

  "Haven't seen him since I woke up in the infirmary. And even if I did, I wouldn't let you speak to him."

  Her mind spins. She'd gone back to see Ness in the infirmary the day after that first time. He hadn't been there. Neven had said he'd been moved someplace more private. Had Neven lied?

  Her thoughts catch up with his words. "Wait. I haven't seen him in days. What have I done?"

  "Been an insensitive idiot."

  She frowns. "That sounds more like you."

  "Oh ha-ha. Listen I might tease him every now and again, but he knows I don't mean it. You on the other hand mean every word. Last I saw him he was all cold and distant. Not Neven." He leans back against the stone of the barracks wall. "Said you'd told him how things work. That men have to be brave and make hard decision. Said he'd decided it was time for him to be a man."

  "That doesn't sound right. He doesn't believe that." Or maybe he does now. Maybe he changed his mind. She peers up at him. "And anyway. Isn't that a good thing?"

  "A good thing?" Ness raises his hands, clutching them at the air like he really wants to close them around her throat. Finally he seems to calm. "Look. I get girls should be girls, and boys should be boys. I believe that. But Neven. Neven's special. Neven should be Neven, y'know? Smart, funny, warm, awkward. He's brave in a different way because he gets scared, and he admits he gets scared, but that never stops him doing the right thing. And that's a lot braver than all these pompous guys who leap into danger because they're too thick headed to think things through."

  She swallows. She hadn't thought of it like that before. She remembers when he'd saved her from Gelert, and all those times after when he'd come through. "He's brave."