Forever Knight (The Champion Chronicles Book 3)

by Brad Clark

  Marik watched the man walk away, feeling small and insignificant. He did not like the feeling. He was used to being an important part of the kingdom, protecting and defending it with his life. A brooding sense of despair suddenly came over him. Never in his life had he felt as alone as he did now. Even in the days and weeks that he spent traveling from Karmon to Taran, he had never felt this alone. It surprised him, being alone in the largest city in the known world. There were thousands, maybe even millions of people around him, and he still felt all alone.

  “Arata!” a voice called out from behind him.

  Marik turned. The man in an apron was down the street, looking at him.

  “Two streets down, take a right,” the man called out to him. “That will take you right to the east gate.”

  Marik called out to thank the man, but he had already turned and was walking away quickly. After a frustrated shake of his head, Marik continued down the street towards the main gate.

  ***

  As Marik approached the wide street that led through the gates, the streets suddenly became more crowded. There were pockets of pedestrians just standing around, clumped together talking and looking around nervously. Marik slowed down and started looking around himself. Something was amiss, but it was not obvious.

  As soon as he turned onto the main street that would take him out of the city, he came to a much larger crowd. There was more than just milling around, there was an excited, even angry, buzz about the crowd. The gates to the city were closed, and centurions, armed with crossbows, were standing on the wall above the gate, their weapons not turned out against an invader, but towards the crowd.

  Marik found himself next to an empty cart being led by an ox that was standing perfectly still. A man stood next to the ox, chatting with a group of five other men. They were speaking in Commoner, a language that he could understand, so he approached them.

  “Hello!” Marik called out as friendly as he could.

  The group of six men looked at him warily.

  “What is going on?” Marik asked.

  The man with the ox and cart replied with an obviously irritated tone, “We do not know. The gates were closed some time ago. I still have a long walk home, and I certainly do not want to be on the roads after dark. Too many bandits roam the nights.”

  “Is there any other way out?” Marik asked.

  “All the gates are closed,” another man replied.

  A commotion from down the street caused them all to turn. There was some shouting and yelling, but the rest of the crowd settled down and became quiet. A single voice could be heard shouting to clear a path, and the crowd did so, moving aside.

  Marik fought against the wave of the crowd as he tried to move towards the shouting. Even before he saw them, he knew it was a company of soldiers, marching towards the gate. The centurions stomped their feet, marking time. Their marching was drilled into them so well that they did not need anyone calling cadence. Mark counted thirty-four centurions. Three rows of eleven with a commander marching in front of them. They were all fully armed with short swords at their sides, long, square shields on the left arms, and a spear in their right hands. Their heads were all capped with a plumed helm that had nose and cheek guards. Marik was close enough to see their eyes, focused straight ahead. None were young men, but were all older, likely veterans of many battles. Something serious was happening, as it was not young and green soldiers called to duty; it was the best and most experienced.

  As soon as they passed, the crowd closed in behind them. Marik joined others that followed only a few paces behind, marching all the way to the gates.

  Just before they reached the enormous iron gate, the lead centurion began shouting out commands in Taran and his men followed with a precision move. Each of the outside columns peeled off to either side, while the center column began marching in place. At the next command, the centurions in the center column began turning in place, their legs still pumping up and down. As soon as the outside columns were far enough away, the lead centurion gave another command and every other centurion in the middle column went in the opposite direction. Once the last command was given, all thirty-three centurions were stretched across the gate, their spears lowered and pointed out towards the crowd.

  The leader was armored just like his men, but he did not carry a spear or a shield. His short sword swung from his hip as he stepped forward.

  “Tenshun!” the man called out. “Attention!” he repeated in Commoner. “Emperor Hargon, our beloved leader has been slain.” He paused to let the murmur of the crowd settle down. “The gates will remain closed, and none shall pass into, or out of the city until the killer has been found and executed. Anyone trying to pass into the city, or leave the city, will be chained and imprisoned. Defiance will be met with a swift end.” The centurion leader again paused, but this time he turned his head to look into the crowd.

  “The emperor’s brother, Prince Tarcious, has assumed the duties of the empire,” the centurion continued. “His word will be law, and his word has closed the gates. To defy the order is to defy the empire. You will disperse from the streets. Return to your homes.”

  Someone shouted out a complaint, cursing the centurion because he could not return to his home outside the gate. The centurions on top of the gate all directed their crossbows at the speaker. The centurions on the ground did not move.

  The lead centurion shouted out, “The emperor has been slain. Until his killer has been brought to justice, none shall leave the city. That is the command of the prince.”

  Further shouts followed, some in Taran, some in Commoner. But they all were angry and directed at the centurion leader.

  In response, the centurion drew his short sword and turned his head so his men could hear the next command. With that command, the thirty-three centurions stepped forward, their spears low and at the ready. They kept marching forward, towards the crowd.

  “Disperse!” the centurion leader shouted out.

  The crowd suddenly settled down and started to move back. Marik followed the rest of the crowd and moved back away from the gate. His hand instinctively went to his side, but there was no sword there. He once again felt naked and exposed. Backing away to keep one eye on the centurions and the other eye on the crowd, he knew when it was time to retreat. Many in the crowd did not feel the same, and they stood their ground. From a distance, Marik could see a handful of angry merchants, pointing and yelling at the centurions, but the disciplined armed company did not waver.

  Marik was impressed at the self-control that he was seeing from the professional soldiers. It would have been easy for them to start swinging at the crowd to get them to disperse using fear of death as a motivator. If things did turn ugly, the soldiers were highly outnumbered and would not survive a mass attack. But because they were armed, they would certainly kill many times their number before they were overwhelmed. And if that did happen, he did not want to be anywhere near the fighting. Any sort of rioting would not go well for anyone, especially innocent bystanders. So as the crowd yelled and shouted their anger, and the centurions stood their ground, Marik turned away and walked off in the opposite direction.

  The centurions who marched to the main gate of the city were not the only soldiers that took to the streets. Many other soldiers were patrolling and Marik did everything that he could to avoid them. He tried his best not to be obvious about it, but many times he was sure that he was being followed. With long strides, he moved quickly from one street to another, taking each alleyway that he could find. Several times he doubled back, trying to see if he was being tailed, but each time he did, there was no one following him.

  Marik made his way south through the city as the centurions spread out first to cover the city gates. To the south was the part of the city the locals called the Lower Quarter. It was physically lower than the rest of the city as it was right next to the Gulf of Taran. But it was also the slummiest part of the city. Crime was rampant in the Lower Quarter and he knew
that it was not the place for a foreigner to go. But because of the criminal element, it was also the last place that centurions wanted to go.

  The city walls were built right down to the water’s edge and actually went into the water. Although he wouldn’t be able to walk his way around the wall, he might be able to swim his way around. It would be a cold and dangerous swim, but he was running out of options. With the gates to the city closed, the only other way out of the city was to get wet.

  The sun was a large ball of red as it hovered over the waters of the gulf. The light of the sun reflected off the choppy waters of the gulf, making a scene that caused many to stop and take notice. Marik was not one of them. With twilight upon the city and nighttime just moments away, he needed to get to the water’s edge before he got mugged or worse. He stayed in light of the street lamps; at least those that were lit. The lamplighters had made their rounds, but not all the lamps were functional. There were some people milling about, talking in hushed whispers. Word of the march of the centurions had reached the Lower Quarter, and they were not sure what was coming next.

  Everyone ignored the big man that walked through their streets. Maybe on another day he would have been challenged and even robbed. But there was a much larger concern for everyone and taking advantage of a foreigner on their streets was not one of their concerns.

  When he reached the water’s edge, he realized his big mistake. There really was no beach or any way for him to walk out into the water. The city was not only built right up to the water, but it was built over it. A long boardwalk was constructed above the water that stretched from one end of the city to the other. From that boardwalk, there were four long piers that extended out into the gulf. They were each long enough to have two or three ships tied alongside, but only one lone ship sat tied to the last pier. The ship’s sails were up and trimmed, as if it were about to depart. He could see sailors climbing about the masts and rope ladders doing what sailors did to prepare their ships for the seas. Marik decided it was truly his only way out of the city. Jumping into the choppy, cold waters of the gulf would have been a death sentence. He would have no chance of surviving. But, he had a chance with the ship.

  He feared that it would cast off before he got there. He wanted to run, but he also didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Walking briskly, he took long strides that ate up the distance quickly. He passed by a muddy corral filled with pigs, cows, and sheep, and wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell. It reminded him of South Karmon before the Summer Festival when the pigs had been moved into the city to be slaughtered.

  As he stepped onto the long wooden pier where the ship was tied up, the sun dipped below the horizon. There was just enough light from the far off street lamps so that he could see without tripping. The gangplank was still down when he finally reached the ship. He slowed several steps before he reached it so that he could catch his breath.

  Although he had not much spent time with sailors, he knew there were protocols to be followed. Sailors tended to be an odd bunch and he didn’t want to upset them and ruin his chances of getting a ride out of the city.

  “Hail!” Marik called out. He stood at the bottom of the gangplank, looking up at the ship. Two small lamps had been lit and hung on either side of the gangplank where it attached to the ship. He could hear movement on the ship, but no one answered his hail. “Hello, there!” he called out again.

  A man stepped out of the shadows and between the lamps. He was of average height and build. He wore a loose fitting tunic and a dagger was stuffed into his belt. The man stood with his feet spread wide, his hands on his hips. But his most distinguishing trait was his dark, ebony skin.

  “Who might you be?” the man called down in a thick accent.

  “I am Marik, I am looking for passage.

  “Sorry, mate, but I do not take on passengers, much less strangers.”

  “I have plenty of coin!” Marik called out. He pulled out his coin purse and shook it.

  “Even if you had gold doubloons from the emperor himself, I would not take ye on. Strangers like you are but a curse. I will not risk my ship or my crew.”

  “They have closed the gates and I must get back to South Karmon,” Marik exclaimed. He took a step forward onto the gangplank.

  Two scraggly men suddenly appeared from the shadows. One of them raised a long, curved sword. “Stand aside!” he said. “You are not welcome.”

  The man with the dark skin pushed the man’s arm down. “Closed the gate, you say?”

  “Yes,” Marik said. “Centurions came to block the gate. They claim that the emperor was killed and they will not let anyone out of the city until his killer has been found.”

  The man turned and began shouting orders in some language that Marik did not understand. The two scraggly men quickly disappeared.

  After his orders had been delivered, the man waved for Marik to come aboard. “Come, for that news, and your gold, I will give you passage.”

  Marik climbed the gangplank and handed the man his coins. With a bright, white smile, the man bounced the coin purse, measuring its weight. “It’ll due for now. I am Captain Gorge and this is my ship, the Flying Narwhal. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you …”

  Captain Gorge pushed Marik aside. “No time to talk, we must leave at once. You say the emperor was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  Captain Gorge stopped in his tracks. “It was not you, was it?”

  “No!” Marik replied. “Of course not!”

  “We must cast off quickly. If they closed the gates, the port will be next. We must depart before they come.” The captain looked up at his sails, which were billowing with a good wind. “The gods of the sea are with us. Most times we must row out away from the pier. But the wind is at our back, and we can leave under sail.”

  The gangplank was pulled up and a long piece of wood was set in place in the opening to serve as a railing. After tossing the gangplank aside, the crewmen pushed past Marik and untied the ropes that held the ship to the pier. As soon as the last rope was tossed back onto the pier, the captain barked more orders. The sails were pulled tight and the ship started to move forward.

  The quiet of the night made the shouts of the centurions reach their ears from some distance. There was a small group of eight that had just arrived at the docks and were running down the pier, chasing after them.

  Marik, who did not know what to do or where to stand, simply stood in place so he didn’t get run over. Captain Gorge was suddenly next to him and said, “Not a moment too soon. It is good that you came, else the centurions would have kept me from leaving. I carry the last shipment of the year, and it is a full shipment. The coin earned from this one will keep us fat and happy through the winter.”

  The pilot steered the ship away from the docks and towards the open sea, but they still had not cleared the pier. The centurions kept after them until they reached the end of the pier. Then they pulled out their crossbows and launched them at the ship. Several hit onto the ship, but the sailors were easily able to step aside. They shouted back, laughing at the soldiers.

  “More than fortunate,” the captain said.

  “Oh?” Marik replied.

  “The ships of the Taran Navy have moved to the south to Youngsport or Kaelen. It is warm year round there. If this were but three weeks ago, we’d have the navy on our tail and as fast as this ship is, it is no match for the schooners of the Taran Navy. They would chase us down and board us, and I’d lose all my cargo. And maybe my life. I was due to pick up some barrels of ale in Iseron, but I think we will have to skip it. A fast messenger could easily make it there before we did. Hopefully by spring they will have forgotten about me.”

  The captain looked around to be sure that his crew was handling their duties. Once he was satisfied that the ship was on course and the sails were properly trimmed, he motioned for Marik to follow him. “My cabin is aft. Come, we will talk.”

  The captain’s cabin was hardly more than
a closet. There was a shelf of scrolls and hard-bound books along a back wall. Next to that was a plush chair that the captain took. As soon as he sat down, he pulled out a pipe and a bag of tobacco.

  “I’d offer you a pipe, but I only have this one.”

  Marik shook his head. “I have heard of smoke such as that, but I have never seen it.”

  Captain Gorge smiled with the pipe between his teeth. “Of course. Tarans are not fond of pipe or the smoke weed either. I originally came from Netall, a land of great intrigue far to the south. The smoke weed grows in abundance down there. But it is also never cold there, either. Half the year it is tolerable and the other half of the year it is too hot to live. Now I make living ferrying cargo about the great empire. I was about to return to Denalli, the place where I now call home. But I needed one last run to fill the coffers for the winter. Fortunate for you, I would say.”

  The captain pulled down an oil lamp and used the flame from it to light his pipe. He sucked and blew smoke for several moments before he settled back in his chair.

  “You stare at me,” Captain Gorge observed. “Is it my finely crafted black skin?”

  “Well,” Marik stuttered. “I have seen others with dark skin like yours, I just never have talked to anyone…”

  “Like me?” Captain Gorge finished. “In my land, it would be you who would be the odd one. The heat of the sun will fry your skin, but mine will not. You would hardly survive a week before your skin would boil right off the bone!” The captain erupted into a loud, obnoxious laughter.

  After a while, he let the laughter die and took a long pull on his pipe. “What about you? Where are you from, for you certainly are not Taran.”

  “I am from Karmon. And I must return there as soon as possible. You will take me there, right?”

  “Karmon. Of course. You are big and strong. Soldier perhaps? Even a knight?”

  “I was a knight,” Marik replied.

  “Was? I did not know knights could be a was. I thought they just always were.”