At that moment, clouds covered the sun and a dimness swept over the entire land. A distressed bird screamed in the distance. Medgard and Phillick stepped outside to stow their blades.
Several horses whinnied as the wind picked up. The smell of something burning lingered for a moment then left. Spywater faced all his knights. After reluctantly giving the command to camp for the night, he entered the church with his longsword drawn to see for himself if Medgard’s report was true.
Phillick unlimbered a hatchet from his saddle after putting his greatsword away. “Thank the almighty, we get to camp! I’ll gather firewood.”
By the time the sun was down, a small contained fire crackled within the church. All the knights were sprawled out on bedrolls, still wearing their armor. Some were already snoring. Others were laughing quietly at whispered japes, honing blades and oiling plates. The lord himself was asleep in the backroom. Two knights were up in the belfry sharing a vigil and a wineskin, staring over a moonlit moorland.
With his back against a wall and his arse on the floor, Medgard watched his cronies enjoy the sandpiper around the fire. He had been offered a wing but refused, preferring the salted pork from the baggage wain. Jisus seemed to be enjoying the bird meat more than anyone. He made great sucking sounds with his lips as juices dripped from his mustachios.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Phillick asked the guest as he chewed.
The flickering flames cast dancing shadows across the jester’s face. “What else could explain what happened today?”
Prestings was on his back with his head in one hand, licking grease from his fingers. “Tell us a good ghost story then, Jisus. Tell us something spookier than invisible bells.”
Other knights opened their eyes to listen as Jisus began a tale. “Alright, I did promise a story for the bird after all. Let me think here. Oh yes, have you heard the story about the blind village innkeeper who turns her guests into broth?”
“I’ve heard that one,” Phillick complained. “That’s nothing. Tell something scarier.”
“Hmm,” Jisus hummed into the flames. “Have you heard the tale of …?”
The shrill screech of a little girl keened through the air without a mouth to cast it. The fire blew out instantly, sending embers and ashes scattering across the bedrolls. Knights cussed and rose to their feet, unable to see their own hands. Piercingly loud knells sent quakes hurling through the ground.
Spywater stormed out of the backroom. The ground shook beneath him. “Sweetie, I’m sorry! Why do this now?” His voice went unheard under the gonging and pealing and rumbling. A stone from the ceiling nearly landed on his head.
Medgard unsheathed his rondel and sprinted at the iron stairwell. The iron supports creaked as he ran up. His eyes came into the bell chamber just as the tolling stopped. Still, there were no bells to be seen. The two knights who had been put on vigil were limp on their backs with blood pumping out of their ears. Medgard fell to his knees to check their pulses. They were dead.
Spywater led his men outside and ordered them all to mount. Medgard came out last, cursing about how he had discovered the corpses. His horse whickered up a storm. He unhobbled her as fast as he could, grabbed her reins and mounted before spurring off in a hurry to follow Spywater’s tail, which was already kicking up dust in a wild frenzy down the road.
No one looked back when the wizened mule by the wain panicked and tripped on its hobble. It cried for help on its side, but no one was there to help it up. Struggling to get afoot, it listened to its masters gallop off into the night. When the wind was the only sound remaining, the poor thing settled down and closed its eyes to sleep again.
CHAPTER TWO: THE SOW
BY THE TIME the sun was rising over the country road, Spywater’s hurried gallop had waned into a slow trot. A murder of crows flew overhead in the opposite direction. A white glob of shit landed on Spywater’s cloak. Several knights noticed but said nothing of it. As if those church bells still had an effect on them, they were too dejected to speak.
Medgard asked Spywater if some men should turn back for the baggage wain. Castle Spywater was less than a day’s travel away, so a few jars of salted pork were no concern to the lord. “I’m glad we at least left something behind,” Spywater acquiesced. “See it as an offering to whatever demon haunts that ghastly church.” For some reason, his tone didn’t match his words.
Medgard gave no response and slowed his horse until he was trotting with Phillick and Prestings again. The sun wasn’t as hot as the day before. A family of clouds had gathered in the firmament to feast on the emptiness.
After a time, Medgard eyed the man on Phillick’s pillion. “I thought you were trying to get to Wellimgale before the tourney?”
“He changed his mind,” Phillick answered for his new friend. “He thinks a real adventure is better than a hundred tourneys combined. Isn’t that right, Jisus?”
The jester was juggling his balls, sitting backwards on Phillick’s pillion, smirking at the open country. “It’d be hard to tell a good story if I’ve never been in one. I have a feeling there’s something very special about you knights.”
Prestings was far less suspicious of the juggler now. Since witnessing last night’s disturbance, more pressing worries had burrowed into his brain. “Just hope our lord up there learns to mind your company as little as we do,” he advised. “Avoid eye contact with him, if you can. One wrong word and he’ll send you off without food or water.”
“Thank you for that advice, sir.” Jisus stopped juggling to look at all his new friends. “Being sent off alone would be an ill thing to happen in these parts. I haven’t gone this far up this road before, but that’s only because I’ve seen a map or two of it. Besides Castle Spywater, there’s nothing to see for days. And any wizened traveler can tell you how friendly Castle Spywater is. I was wondering why your lord was so quiet and angry all the time until Phillick told me his name. I’ve heard many stories of Lord Spywater. He’s not a friendly man.”
“You’ve heard true,” Phillick had to admit. “Lord Spywater isn’t the kind of man you’d want to sup with, but he is the type of man you’d want watching your back during a fray. You’ll be lucky if he lets you in the castle. He’s unkind to visitors for a reason, you know. I just hope he can’t hear us talking about him right now.”
“And let me remind you he’s not actually our lord,” Prestings made that clear, prideful as ever. “King Kilwinning asked us to join Spywater’s retinue for this one mission. When it’s over, we’ll be returning to Wellimgale to join the encamped army again. I don’t know where King Kilwinning plans to take us next, but we’re with him until the end. King Kilwinning is our real lord.”
“So you’re going back to Wellimgale after?” Jisus was overly happy about that. “That’s perfect for me. Maybe we’ll be back in time to see who wins the tourney.”
Medgard knew that was unlikely. “It may be a while still before we head back to Wellimgale. Lord Spywater misses his lady. He’ll probably want to spend a week or two with her before we set forth again.”
“And that’s only if the castle still belongs to him,” Phillick put in. “For all we know, some meandering warband could’ve taken the place with ease. It’s only garrisoned by …”
Medgard’s gauntlet struck Phillick’s armet with a big clang. “Shut it, Phillick! Are you forgetting we’re still at war? It’s runny mouths like yours that make Spywater worry. A castle can be held by one man for as long as no one knows he’s alone.”
Jisus’ laugh was reassuring. “Don’t worry. That’s a story I swear to never relay. As far as I know, your lord’s castle is garrisoned by a thousand imps with little goedendags. You don’t have to fret about me. When I heard King Kilwinning conquered Wellimgale, I realized he truly is the proper man to rule. Kilwinning may be a baleful name but he’s the only king who actually creates peace in this world. I’m glad every time a false king is slain.”
“So are we,” Prestings said. “Just a fortn
ight ago we were besieging Wellimgale. Now, with The False King dead and gone, we’re already moving onto the next mission, ending this war one step at a time.”
To that, Medgard added, “King Spiderwell wasn’t a king at all. His claim to the crown was less reasonable than mine would be. If it were up to me, he would be called The False Claimant, not The False King. But he still has a son and some lordly banners to avenge him.”
Jisus frowned. “Like every other false king, Spiderwell sprouted up so fast. I didn’t know he had a son. What’s the little lad’s name?”
Medgard answered, “The False Prince.”
“That’s what I’d call him, too.” Jisus chortled before juggling his balls again.
A knight a bit further down the line was groaning and swearing under his helm.
Prestings shared a concern for the man with a gibe. “You having a nightmare about those bells, Sir Jax?”
Jax leaned forward in his saddle, grumbling, “Fuck, boys, I really have to shit.” He farted twice really quickly then let out a steady long one.
Phillick and a dozen other knights guffawed vehemently. Altogether, it was a cackle louder than the flock of geese above them. Medgard had to take a breather and cough because he had laughed so hard.
“Fuck, boys, it’s not funny!” Since setting off from Wellimgale, this was the first time Jax rued selecting the cuirass with the fancy besagews. Instead of a fauld, his cuirass had a built-in scaled braguette that reached amidships like an oversized diaper. Designed for tourneys, it required an extra hand and a deal of time in order to doff, so you were damned if you had to shit before a joust, unless, of course, you didn’t mind a braguette filled with shit.
The geese above seemed to be laughing as well. A knight with an antique spangenhelm and plate-maille riding beside Jax said, “You should’ve taken a shit when we all stopped an hour ago.”
A few more farts heralded some mighty groans. Jax shifted his arse around in his saddle to see if there was leakage. “Damn the almighty, boys, it’s not funny!”
Medgard jeered, “I think he’s starting to regret Kilwinning’s pardon.”
Phillick slowed his horse to supply a hand and stable the weary fellow. “We all told you not to choose that cuirass, Jax. We tell every new knight that. But they always fall in love with those gilt sunburst besagews.” Phillick remembered the day he used to wear that thing. He filled it with shit during a siege.
“Someone’s got to come help me take it off, please!” A big toot made Jax swear again. The geese were long gone but you could still hear their mocking song. “Fuck, boys, it’s not funny! Someone’s got to help me.”
“I’m helping you, man,” Phillick said as he reined Jax’ horse to a stop. “Quit making it a scene.”
The column continued on trotting behind Spywater as Phillick led Jax to a bush.
“Such pretty little lovers,” a knight japed and most of the laughing stopped.
Medgard sighed and looked straight ahead. The road was long and narrow. “Jolly hell, I love being a knight.”
Castle Spywater appeared midday across a placid lake, its donjon spearing the sky. A reflection of the castle on the lake’s surface warped as the lord’s retinue trotted around the lakeshore towards the castle’s village. From the way Spywater held his head, the knights who knew him best could tell he was pleased to see everything intact. When the village was nearing, farmers came out from homesteads to bow. Children with dirt on their noses came up to the road to silently stare at the giant men of steel. After a peaceful trot around some houses and hovels, Spywater halted his horse to greet a millman and queried about the state of things. The millman sneered and said everything was fine. A woman walked out from a doorway wearing a pretty blue dress.
Spywater quickly pulled off his sugarloaf helm to gape at her. “Is that milady’s dress?”
After seeing the look on Spywater’s face, the knights that knew him best spurred up closer and unsheathed swords from their waists.
The lady in the blue dress reddened and ran back into the house.
“That’s milady’s dress!” Spywater rode his horse into the woman’s home. “How did you get it? Answer me, woman!” Half his knights dismounted to follow him in.
Medgard and his chums stayed ahorse outside to listen to the chase. It sounded like a man inside the house had risen from bed to defend the lady in the dress. Whoever he was, he screamed in pain along with his lady when the clanging of swords abruptly stopped. Spywater came back outside with a bloody blue dress in one gauntlet and a bloody longsword in the other.
Phillick said, “I told you all Sir Fezzcheck’s too nice. He gave Lady Spywater’s dress away.”
The lord and his knights remounting along the roadside frowned at Phillick’s remark.
Holding the bloody dress above his head like a flag, Spywater spurred his charger to a gallop towards the castle gate at the end of the road. Dust wafted up behind him like his billowing blue cloak. All the horseshoes storming together sounded like thunder. Jax, Prestings and Medgard were confused as to what exactly was happening, but they followed the lord nonetheless.
Castle Spywater was a place unheard of for most city folk. The few in the world who knew it well could all agree its appearance needed upgrading. The crenellations atop the front bulwark went onward without interruption over its one wooden gate. Talk in the village said it was about time the castle had a proper gatehouse with two portcullises. Others said the wooden gate was all the castle needed because a mysterious eeriness surrounded it and that alone was the best deterrent. Not everyone agreed openly, but no one argued against that claim. The elders relayed century-old tales about faces in the mist and bright blue dawns.
About seventy paces from the castle gate, the blue lord reined his horse to a halt and opened his visor. His knights collected in around him, wondering why they had stopped.
“You see that?” Spywater asked.
His closest knights strained their eyes to study the castle. “Your banners still fly, milord,” the knight with the antique spangenhelm answered. “I don’t see anything amiss.”
“Look there!” Spywater pointed at the gate. “I see a hole … yes, a gaping, round hole in the center of the gate. You see it? It’s roughly the size of your head.”
“Should I ride over to investigate, milord? I can hail the guard for you, to make sure all is right.”
Spywater grimaced at the bloody dress in his gauntlet. “Do it. I don’t feel right about this. Find out if Sir Fezzcheck’s still in there. We’ll stay here until I see him with my own eyes.”
“Right away, milord.” The helpful knight’s plate-maille had a golden sheen that shimmered about his shoulders as he moved. On his back, the steel scales and plates weaved into the maille had elaborate carvings that altogether showed a dragyn spiraling around a mountain. Spywater’s retinue watched patiently as the flashy knight galloped the rest of the way down the road to the castle. The dust cloud he kicked up receded when he stalled his horse before the gate. From where his fellowmen watched down the road, he looked like a curious kid as he dismounted to study the hole. After a moment, he cupped his mouth with his gauntlets to holler back at his lord. “You’re right, milord! It’s a perfectly round hole about the size of my head!”
One of Spywater’s knights cursed at the gaudy man’s ineptitude. “There’s no guard to hail, so why isn’t he watching his back?”
A crossbowman behind the gate aimed an arbalest through the round hole. The near point-blank quarrel went betwixt two plates, obliterating the maille before it smacked a beating heart. The flashy knight yelped as he fell to his knees, groping for the fletching that jutted from his back.
“Fucking hell!” Medgard spat as more crossbowmen appeared upon the castle bulwark.
A quarrel skimmed the top of Spywater’s helm and flipped through the air before it skittered behind a bush.
Phillick swore he heard squeaking casters and all the knights on the road turned back towards the vill
age. A long black cannyn on wheels was rolling out of a shed. Behind it was a row of archers and a dozen footmen with halberds and poleaxes, all of them sneering and chuckling like hyenas.
Every knight by Spywater cursed aloud as arrows and quarrels hissed and skipped about, clanging off of armor and thumping into horseflesh. Medgard asked, “Is that a fucking cannyn?” Phillick squealed, “Which way should we go?”
A man behind the cannyn flourished a fauchard. “Come on, Fuckhead Bill! Light it up! YEEEEEEHHHAAAAA, BOY!”
A man with a torch lit the cannyn’s wick. It started to sizzle.
Spywater dropped his lady’s dress and spurred his horse towards the open country. Away from the castle, away from the road, the lord charged, mightily screaming, “Get away, men! That cannyn’s goin’ ‘o blow!”
The bloody blue dress got trampled by a dozen horses and the cannyn went bang! With lightning speed, a black ball the size of a fist clobbered the legs of Phillick’s leaping horse and pounded into the side of a knight. That poor knight’s cuirass became a single sheet of metal with him inside of it. As a plume of gore made a red cloud in the air, the cannyn ball smacked the castle bulwark. Stone blocks incinerated into nothingness and dust kicked up high into the air.
“Charge! After me, men!” Spywater had his sword raised high as he veered his horse towards the cannyn operators. A quarrel from the castle thudded into the rump of his horse but the beast merely sniveled and carried on, a storm of bloodthirsty knights at its tail.
Headlong forthwith, the storm of galloping steel followed their lord back onto the road towards the cannyn. The archers loosed a volley as Phillick struggled to pull his leg out from under his horse. He heard bodkins thudding into horseflesh and dinging off of steel as he heaved and heaved. Jisus was on the other side of the horse, using its carcass as cover. He suddenly jumped over and grabbed Phillick’s arm to help pull him free. Phillick yipped cheerfully when his leg slid out from under the weight. His rigid armor had saved his bones from breaking. He rose to his feet just in time to watch the cavalry hit its mark. It was a collision to make him gape. As the shoulders of braying warhorses threw men aside, swords came slicing downward with precise timing to take out throats and foreheads. Archers collapsed onto the roadbed and the men reloading the cannyn routed. One charging knight was snagged by the hook of a fauchard. His saddle disappeared before his backplate crashed on the ground. Before he had enough time to yell his mother’s name, six daggers found their way into the niches of his armor.
Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1) Page 3