by James Bee
12
Chapter 12
“Just try to relax, mate. How many times have you swung your sword at him on the training yard?”Orland said, handing Gerald a wooden practice sword. Hopping from foot to foot, Gerald nervously tried to loosen the knot that had a hold in his stomach.
“This is different. Before it was only old Flea Bite watching Kayl beat me around, not a whole town. Especially not a whole town of people who want to see me beaten into a paste,”he said, taking a few practice swings at the air.
“Aye, but you’ve fought in the tournaments. There can’t be a tenth of the people here that were watching on those days.”While he appreciated Orland’s efforts to bolster his confidence, his talk of past contests was only bringing back ugly memories. Visions of being beaten to the ground, dropped to his hands and knees in front of a jeering crowd.
“True, but I didn’t know I was going to lose then,”Gerald replied gloomily. Kayl had arrived on the grounds, looking large and foreboding. His battle mail glittered in the sunlight, having been polished to a near shine. A neat touch that hadn’t occurred to Gerald. His friend looked very much the hero-knight. Atop his head was the bullhead helm that Gerald had been very much hoping he wouldn’t wear.
“He brought the bloody helmet…”Gerald said. Orland laughed beside him, handing him his shield.
“No doubt a rumour will start that he took it off the corpse of some mighty war chief he’d bested or something,”Orland said. Clapping Gerald on the back, he leaned in close. “He’s only a man. A big, strong brute of a man sure, but just a man.”With that, he stepped backward into the circle of townsfolk that were gathering around them. Taking a deep breath, Gerald stepped toward Kayl.
Blane strode out of the crowd, wielding a ridiculous war hammer, a massive slab of iron, covered in ribbons and red paint. Bands of muscle bulged out in the grizzled soldier’s arms as he lifted the unwieldy weapon high.
“Merry Festival Day! As per tradition, we start the celebrations with a duel! We have quite a treat for you all today! A pair of knights, come all the way from the capital!”A chorus of cheers met his words. The sound made Gerald want to vomit. His hands were shaking with nervous energy, and he had a powerful need to piss. Blane swung the battle-axe to point at Kayl, causing the crowd to cheer louder. “Here stands Sir Kayl, regiment commander of the King’s Own and a sworn knight of the king’s household.”More cheers met his words, the support of the crowd clearly not in question. Blane stepped back and swung the hammer in Gerald’s direction. The noise of the crowd died down immediately. Gerald forced his chin up, as though he didn’t have a care for them.
“Here stands Sir Gerald, royal bastard of the queen and new mayor of our town.”Silence met his words as all eyes focused on Gerald, seeing what he would do. Cold rage settled behind his eyes, causing his teeth to grind harder. He couldn’t say anything, not without looking a fool. More of a fool than he was about to. Instead he raised his sword in a salute before striding forward into the circle. Blane’s smug expression turned to shock as Gerald advanced on him. Burdened by the weight of the massive war hammer, he barely stumbled out of the way. Without giving him a second glance, Gerald raised his shield and cautiously advanced on Kayl. There was little point in delaying; better to steer into the storm after all.
Gerald’s first blow glanced off of Kayl’s shield, causing painful vibrations to shoot up his arm. How long had it been since he’d trained? Two weeks? No doubt Kayl had been waking up early and practicing the whole time. Though he doubted it would matter. This contest wouldn’t be decided by endurance.
Suddenly Kayl charged like a bull, driving him backward across the circle. Desperately, Gerald blocked the blows with his shield. The force of them threatened to knock it from his hands. Scurrying to the side, he evaded a crushing swing. For a moment the big knight stumbled, showing an opening. Springing forward, Gerald jabbed at him.
Kayl caught the blow easily with his sword, sweeping it away. Now it was Gerald’s turn to be off balance as Kayl barged his shoulder into him. Teeth gritted, Gerald slammed his shield against Kayl’s, striving to drive him backward — a decision he immediately regretted as he was sent tumbling to his backside.
Tasting dirt, he rolled away, helmet temporarily obscuring his view. On instinct, he brought his shield up to meet Kayl’s crushing attack. Blow after blow sent him to his knees. A well-placed boot to the chest sent him tumbling backward again.
This time he was quicker to his feet, and he sprang up. His left arm ached, the shield feeling noticeably heavier then when he started. Kayl didn’t even appear to be breathing heavily. As they circled each other, Gerald looked for an opening he knew wasn't there. Even since they were children, Kayl’d been beating Gerald around the sparring yards. The man was one of the finest swordsmen he’d even seen. He might have been Gerald’s oldest friend, but that didn’t mean he could go easy on him. Kayl’s men were watching, soldiers who’d seen him fight before. They’d know if he was holding back, something that would be considered a serious insult. There was nothing for it. Gerald gritted his teeth and leapt forward, slicing at the bigger man’s hand.
The blow caught air as Kayl danced away from it. Nimble as a much smaller man, he came at Gerald. The wooden sword was a blur as it flashed at him. In moments it was over, Gerald’s shield flying across the circle. The crowd roared as it skidded across the dirt. They cheered even louder when Kayl tossed his own shield over to join it.
They stood, facing each other, swords held out in both hands. Gerald was breathing heavily now, arms starting to burn. Without his shield he had little hope of surviving another onslaught. He could only attack. Stepping forward, he faked a cut low, swinging his blade toward Kayl’s head.
The blow never reached its mark. In one smooth motion, Kayl swept it aside and brought his elbow crashing into Gerald’s helm. Stars flashed in front of his eyes as he collapsed to the ground. Tasting blood, he tried to rise back up. Yet something was pressing against his chest, stopping him. Kayl’s blade. Through his watering eyes he could see the big man standing over him. Letting his sword go, Gerald collapsed back down.
Kayl lifted his practice sword high in the air, drawing roars from the crowd. Gerald knew he should have feel shame, but pain forced everything else out. All he wanted was to lie there, ignored and left alone. Unfortunately, his friend had a different idea. Kayl grasped him by the arm and lifted him bodily to his feet.
“Sorry, mate. You fought well,”he said, brushing dirt off of Gerald’s armour. He didn’t sound very sorry, but Gerald couldn't blame him. The crowd was screaming his name, over and over again.
“Bah, you got lucky again. I’ll get you next time,”Gerald replied. Grabbing the big man’s arm, he lifted it high overhead. The crowd cheered, louder still. The screaming subsided slightly as Blane walked toward them, war hammer held high. The garrison commander looked annoyingly satisfied. Bowing his head, he handed the massive weapon to Kayl.
“Congratulations, Sir Knight. Well fought indeed. I hereby present you with this war hammer. It’s the town’s oldest relic, so keep it safe,”Blane said. Even underneath his helm, Gerald could see the despair on Kayl’s face.
“Present me with it? For how long?”Even in Kayl’s hands, the weapon looked obscenely large.
“Oh, the whole day of course. Quite an honour, that is.”Despite himself, Gerald spluttered with laughter, spraying blood on the dirt.
“A fine prize my friend! Lift it high! Show it to the people”Gerald said, grinning despite the pain.
*
Two hours later, Orland’s arrow sank deep into the chest of the practice dummy, sending straw cascading outwards.
“He’s quite good with that, isn’t he?”Felicia said, standing close beside him. So close that the pain in his head hardly bothered him. She had ribbons tied into her hair, fluttering distractingly in the breeze.
“Aye, Orland’s always been good with a bow. I reckon he’s beat by that red-haired lad, though. As
good as I’ve seen in a long while,”Gerald answered, looking over at the young man. He stood confidently, bow held almost disdainfully.
“That’s my brother, name’s Tristan. Don’t let him hear your praise, though. His ego is big enough as it is,”Felicia replied as her brother’s arrow sank deep into the dummy’s eye. The crowd gasped as he raised his bow. Orland seemed less enthusiastic as he sucked his teeth, staring at the shaft.
“A tough shot to match, even for Orland,”Gerald said. “I can see the resemblance between you two. Though his hair would be much improved by some ribbons.”Felicia laughed, a high, tinkling sound that Gerald found endlessly endearing.
“He’s pretty enough without them, I think.”
“Smart choice then, archery. Not much of a risk of getting your face bashed in.”
“Not as much glory either,”she replied.
Gerald’s pounding head made shaking it unwise, but he did anyway.“Doubt I won much glory today.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,”Felicia said, laying her hand on his arm. “You may have lost, but there’s no shame there. You showed your skill well, and the people will respect you more for it. Everyone thought that you wouldn’t fight him, that you would beg off for some reason.”She swept her arm around at the townsfolk watching the archery. “These people are honest, simple. They appreciate effort. No one could doubt that you tried.”Her smile was warm, and it made Gerald’s head hurt less.
“They certainly had no problems with cheering against me, though,”he said, cringing at the petulance in his voice.
Felicia shrugged.“Never said they liked you, only that they respect you a bit more.”
“I suppose it’s a start,”Gerald said. A moment later the crowd erupted in cheers. Orland’s arrow had missed the mark. Not that he looked overly bothered by it. Lifting the red-haired lad’s arm, he was rewarded by an even louder chorus of cheers and approval. A tight pang of jealously squeezed in Gerald’s chest as he watched. Forcing it down, he strode out onto the archery field, Felicia beside him. He fancied that the crowd’s roaring dampened slightly at his arrival.
Though it resumed with a fury when he placed the crown of sticks on the young man’s head and raised his other arm. “Your Harvest King!”Gerald roared, barely heard over the crowd.
“Ale’s on me!”Orland bellowed, throwing his arm around both of their shoulders. From the smell, the nobleman had already been partaking. That he was able to shoot so well was either a testament to his skill at archery or his ability to function drunk. Either way, Gerald wasn’t about to pass up free ale.
As they walked through the crowd, men slapped Tristan and Orland on the back, slurring compliments and platitudes. A few even nodded in respect to Gerald, which was a serious improvement from the start of the day. As they made their way through the crowd, the two competitors argued about the finer points of archery.
“Your string is too thick, can’t feel enough,”Tristan said.
“Yours is too narrow! Not strong enough for a real shot,”Orland shot back.
“A real shot? What would you call the one I bested you with then?”
“A fine shot against a straw dummy! No doubt you would prove deadly against a scarecrow!”
Felicia caught Gerald’s gaze, and she rolled her eyes at the young men’s boasting. Smiling, Gerald would have responded, if not for the body stumbling toward them.
A man, bleeding from the mouth, fell backward into Gerald’s arms. Shrugging him off, the bloodied man staggered back into the fight. His opponent was a tall man with long, greasy hair. On his face were strange markings, black as charcoal. They smeared as he wiped at his bloody nose. The two men came together, swinging and kicking at each other. Both were clearly drunk, and probably not much more dangerous sober. Still, he couldn’t very well allow a fight to go on under his nose.
“All right! Knock it off!”Gerald yelled, striding forward and prying them apart. The mouth-bleeder uttered a curse and flailed at him in a motion that could have passed for a punch. A fist to his stomach brought him to the ground, wheezing. The sound of rapid footsteps caused Gerald to swing his head around.
The tall man was sprinting away, as though hounds were behind him. Tristan moved to go after him, but Gerald held his hand up to stop him. “It’s no big crime, a little brawl on festival day. These two probably just had a little too much to drink,”he said, turning to kneel beside the man curled on the ground.
“I caught him drawin’what he ain’t supposed to be drawin’,”the man wheezed, struggling to sit up. Gerald frowned as he thought of the strange markings on the man’s face. Standing, he looked questioningly back at Felicia and Tristan.
“It’s been happening more and more lately, odd symbols scrawled all over the place,”Felicia said.
“Aye, and there’s talk of ritual murders and grave robbing!”Tristan added. Felicia scowled at her brother.
“Don’t go spreading rumours that you don’t know anything about! People are as on edge about it as is already without you gossiping your campfire stories around,”she said, helping the bloodied man to his feet. As he dusted himself off, he shot a dark look at Gerald.
“Assaulting a knight is punishable by combat. Would you like me to enforce it?”Gerald asked mildly.
The man blanched and shook his head. “My apologies, my lord. Didn’t know it was you I was punching. Won’t happen again,”the man said before scurrying off. Scratching distractedly at his patchy beard, Gerald watched him go.
“Let’s not let this get in the way of celebrating!”Orland said, throwing his arm around Gerald’s shoulders. “A few flagons will help you forget about those brutes!”Gerald forced a smile, but he doubted any amount of alcohol would make him forget about the strange symbols so soon.
13
Chapter 13
In the end Gerald was proven wrong; the endless supply of ale drove everything from his mind. Instead he felt a comfortable warmness in which his worries seemed insignificant. Lying on a small hill, he felt at peace for the first time since he’d arrived. Beside him, Orland and Kayl were in similar states, drunk off their arses. Not far, Felicia and her brother were singing, low and sweet. Gerald couldn't make out the words, but the tone was familiar. It sounded like every bar-room song he’d grown up with. A pleasant breeze wafted away the last vestiges of the day’s heat. Night had settled around them, blanketing the world in inky dimness.
The sounds of the festival floated toward them on the breeze. Muted laughter and singing carried on into the evening. Gerald closed his eyes and breathed deeply. From this distance he felt as though he’d escaped from the bickering of the town, from the constant mistrust and scorn. Out in the darkness he was invisible, unknown. The anonymity was intoxicating, filling him with peace. A peace that was somewhat dampened by a fullness of his bladder.
“Gotta piss,”he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. The world was spinning slightly, making the uneven ground seem as steep as a cliff. Leaning forward, so much so that his nose almost touched the dirt, Gerald half-ran up the hillside.
“I’ll come,”Orland said, falling in beside him. Stumbling and cursing, they crested the top of the hill and walked toward a nearby forest. One hand rested on a sturdy tree trunk while the other fumbled at his breeches. A few moments later, he grunted in relief as a stream poured out onto an unfortunate leaf. Gerald was dimly pleased that he’d gotten started faster than the nobleman and therefore won an unspoken race. He’d drunk quite a lot of ale and was there quite a long time. Long enough to spot a flickering light farther in the forest.
“Eh. Orland. Wazzat over there?”he asked, taking his hand off the tree and pointing, nearly sending him toppling forward. Gerald squinted, striving to see through the drunken blurriness.
“Looks like a light.”Orland walked over to him.
“In the middle of the woods?”Gerald asked, doing his pants back up.
“Looks like it.”
“Why?”The light seemed to be flickering, thou
gh Gerald was too far to be sure.
“Dunno. Let’s go see,”Orland said, starting into the trees. A part of Gerald’s brain shouted caution, but he cared little for it. On a night like this, what could go wrong?
“Aye. Silently, though. Don’t wanna scare ’em,”Gerald said, following after his friend. As they moved through the underbrush, he realized the light was much farther than it’d looked. Going toward it would take them far into the woods, away from the town. The thought travelled slowly through his drink-addled mind, as though through molasses. By the time it had settled, they were much closer to the light. A light that had turned into a raging bonfire, flickering and dancing in the moonlight. Gerald grabbed Orland by the arm and pulled him close.
“We have to be careful. Can’t make too much sound,”he whispered. Orland murmured his assent and they crept forward slowly, as quietly as possible. However, the combination of drunkenness, darkness, and the dense underbrush made their efforts largely unsuccessful.
Luckily for them, persistent chanting masked their approach. The trees gave way to a large circular clearing, wide enough for fifty men. It seemed to Gerald that there might have been close to that number, dancing and moving around the fire. The dull light cast eerie shadows, masking their faces. Shifting in and out of view, they circled around the blaze in a dizzying procession.
“The fuck?”Orland breathed beside him. Gerald was too transfixed to respond. The display was mesmerizing, lulling his addled brain further into lethargy. The chanting grew louder as the dancing circle expanded outward. Closer and closer the shadowy figures danced, the gyrating light skittering wildly across their bodies. Nearer and nearer they came to their hiding spot until Gerald could see that they were all shirtless, men and women. Strange symbols were scrawled across their chests and faces.
The same symbols that had been on the tall man at the festival. Gerald’s heart started to beat faster, pulling him out of his trance. Lucan’s words about strange religious activity mixed with Tristan’s claims of ritual sacrifice in his head. A strange sort of horror began to build in him. His palms began to sweat, coldness spreading across his body. He shrank lower in the dirt as the fear slowly clawed back the veil of drunkenness.