Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  He paused, listening to a ringing crash. We all did.

  “I suspect,” he continued, “that some of them may be taking their exercise on the jousting field. Shall we venture there?”

  “Good plan,” I said.

  Bouger shrugged. “I’m not jousting without at least a breastplate. Think I can talk the local smith into helping with that?”

  “Probably. For coin.”

  Bouger winced. “That’s another matter; we need to find out how much we get paid. And when. I can almost afford to spend the night at an inn—if I don’t care to eat.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I put in. “As soon as we have a better idea what the local problems are, I’ll bend my brain in solving them. This time, I won’t mind taking a fee.”

  Raeth blinked at me. “’This time’?” he echoed.

  “I don’t normally charge,” I explained.

  He shook his head, smiling.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Nothing. Not a thing. Nothing at all. Come, friends, let us away.”

  And we awayed down to the tournament field. Well, practice ground. There were quite a few soldiers doing their best to keep warm through vigorous exercise and largely succeeding—mainly because sergeants were “helping.” We missed lunch in our arrival and just made it in time for the afternoon drills.

  Of the officers, knights in varying levels of ironmongery were practicing a variety of deadly skills as well. Most were more financially upscale, such as jousting and practice from horseback. It’s very different, swinging a sword at someone when you’re on the back of a horse.

  Here and there, I saw a person carrying a staff and wearing robes. Wizards, I gathered. None of them appeared to be too interested in clumping together and discussing magic so I ignored them. I was rather curious as to what sort of spells they might have, but it would wait. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to discuss arcane matters with a few of them, later, if any of them are willing.

  Much to my consternation, I discovered a gaggle of priests were watching the knights from the sidelines. Maybe to help if someone was accidentally injured. Or maybe just to be handy for a quick burial. Or maybe just to be glad they didn’t have to do all that hot, sweaty work.

  I wished for my vest and pistol again, but wistfully.

  Since we had some time to kill, we borrowed some of the wooden weapons and squared off; Raeth and Bouger then proceeded to try and kill me. They eventually succeeded, but, had it been a real fight, Raeth would be dead and Bouger likely to bleed to death; he’d never walk again, even if he lived.

  After a brief rest and some drill on a couple of interesting counters that came up, Raeth and Bouger took turns with me, working on the new stuff. It’s important to know what you want to do, but in a swordfight, it’s even more important that your hand and arm just do it, without the need for thinking about it. Thus, drill, drill, drill.

  I like sword-work, but it’s still work. Give me a quiet library and a lot of books any day. I’d rather exercise my brain. Burns fewer calories. If I ever grow old and fat, I’m retiring to open a bookstore with a snack bar.

  We attracted a small audience. Swordwork will always do that. Most of them were professionals; I found that any man who commanded more than twenty others was allowed to carry a sword—a sharmi—as a symbol of rank even when not on the battlefield. Knights—the officers—were further distinguished in that they could, first, usually afford decent armor and, second, always wore the sash. The vast majority of our forces consisted of polearms, crossbows, and axes. So we got people with an interest in swordwork—mainly ranking non-coms and other knights—as an audience.

  We also had a few, ah… what’s the word I want? Ladies? No, “ladies” conjures up the image of fair maidens and pointy hats giving scarves and hankies to the knights. I’m thinking a little lower on the social scale. “Camp follower” might be closest. Given they’d never seen us before, they felt it was a safe bet we were new here—and just arrived from a long journey. Probable customers.

  A couple were cute. The rest were considerably less so.

  A brilliant idea flashed on in my brain. I had a perfect way to earn money. It just leaped to mind. But I’ll go into that later.

  We finished whacking on each other and rested again; most of the onlookers drifted off. A pair of non-coms came right up to us. A trio of women hung around, smiling at us a lot but keeping a polite distance.

  “Good afternoon, sir!” one of the non-coms declared. The pair of them must have been cast from the same mold; they looked like twins to me. They were broad-shouldered, maybe five-ten tall, and had that weather-beaten look that reminded me of old trees. They even had almost-blond hair, cut identically, and they each had a matching scar on the left cheekbone.

  “Good afternoon, sergeants,” Raeth replied. “What can we do for you?”

  “Sword-work, sir,” the other replied. “My brother and I are always looking to be better.”

  “Your brother, eh? That seems obvious enough by the look of you. What do you command?”

  “Sir!” he said, standing straighter. “I have two score infantry under arms, a moiety of Sir Elthar’s pikemen; my brother commands a quarter of Sir Latel’s archers.”

  Raeth looked puzzled for a moment. I could imagine why. Pikemen and archers? But Raeth asked the question on my mind.

  “So, why are swords of such interest to you, soldiers?”

  “Sir, the enemy is often not full willing to let us keep our distance,” answered the archer-commanding brother. “And pikes are only good in formation; if the formation breaks, then it’s every man for himself in the rout.”

  “Good answer,” Raeth said, nodding. “Yes. You wish to practice with us?”

  “Not at all, sir,” answered the first. If they sounded at all different, I couldn’t hear it. “We wish to be taught, if your lordships are willing.”

  Raeth and Bouger laughed, amused. I didn’t see anything funny.

  “A fine distinction, sergeant. I find I like you. What is your name?”

  “I am Caedwyl, and this is my brother Caeron, sir.” They each made a sort of micro-bow at the sound of their names.

  “Very well. Halar, if you would be so kind as to take them both, we shall see what skills they possess.”

  “Me?” I asked. “Why me?”

  “The fight should go on longer that way.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  So we hefted wood and laid into each other. It did my ego good, at least. They really weren’t fast, nor were they especially skilled; even in two-on-one, I took them both without taking a serious hit myself. Caeron hurried me a bit while I was finishing off his brother, but I don’t think he expected me to duck, spin, and swipe his legs out from under him quite that fast. Or that hard, but I didn’t break anything.

  I helped them both up and there were no hard feelings; they seemed both impressed and abashed at once. I know I felt much better about my swordsmanship than I’d felt in a long time. It isn’t ego-building to know you’re stronger and faster than any mortal man and still get beaten regularly. But maybe I was improving. A little, anyway.

  Raeth took over from there; I think he just wanted more of a rest. I know he watched because he picked apart their attack like a cook takes apart a chicken. He wasn’t brutal about it; he did it with precision and just the right touch of sarcasm and scorn. The sergeants were blushing before it was half done and they kept standing straighter, eyes front, more rigid by the minute. I pitied them the scathing evaluation.

  Then it was my turn. Suddenly, I pitied me. Raeth took that ten-foot-tall feeling and whittled on me until I was about three-and-a-half.

  “And what were you thinking by going to finish off Caedwyl before dealing with the threat at your back? Were you trying to get Caeron’s blade in your spine? Perhaps so that you might hold it there while you turned to him? A novel method of disarming, I grant you, but I question the practicality. Or was it impatience to finish one enemy before sta
rting on a second? How many times have I told you? Disable one, disable the other, and then finish them at your leisure! Do you have too much ringing in your ears from the head blows?”

  I didn’t start any brushfires with my face, but I tried.

  Bouger and I wound up drilling combinations. Feint, feint, thrust; feint, feint, chop; parry, feint, thrust… I felt like Daffy Duck with a quarterstaff. Cut, parry, spin, dodge, thrust! Just without the cockeyed beak.

  Raeth took the other two under his tutelage and started them to sweating; the boring part of sword-work is the first part where the novice learns by rote what reflexes he needs. I got most of that with Sasha—and probably the best way, I might add. It kept my attention and motivation high, that’s certain. Unfortunately for Caedwyl and Caeron, they were getting the run-through just to make sure they had a firm grounding. Couldn’t hurt them, and it would make it all the easier to help them along later.

  Bouger and I fell out when the keep’s bell started chiming; dinner for the officers. Raeth sent us on, sticking with his new charges until he was happy with them.

  Inside, Bouger and I found out fish was very high on the list of things to eat. It’s a sizable river, after all. Boiled fish soup, chunky fish stew, fried fish fillet. I like salmon, so I was in luck. A collection of greens and some vegetables rounded out the evening meal—as officers, we rated the good stuff. The drink was a choice: very thin beer or some water cut with wine; it was a lot more water than wine.

  It didn’t seem to matter to most; appetites were good. The conversation was mostly quiet, with a trio of musicians in the great hall to keep the place entertained, or at least provide background noise. We were seated on benches on either side of the trestle tables that filled the hall and a dozen or more servants kept bustling in with more food and drink. The hall wasn’t filled; if one wanted to eat without company at hand, it was easy enough.

  Many did; the local wizards might be attached to the Keep and its defense, but they weren’t precisely welcomed with open arms. They were more of a grim necessity. It was still the most wizards I’d ever seen in one place. Altogether, there were six, not counting myself.

  One table, though, was reserved for the local contingent of a dozen priests. In conversation, I learned the Duke had refused any exceptions to the rule of the common meal; the priests could eat with the rest of us or go hungry. I gathered he didn’t have much tolerance for either priests or wizards. Either that, or he wanted to make a point about comparative ranks. Wizards and priests might qualify as de facto officers, but they were staff officers, not line officers.

  At one end of the hall was a huge fireplace, already ablaze. A few scattered braziers at the other end helped even out the heating. Light was provided by large oil lamp chandeliers of cast iron, suspended from pulleys mounted on the cobwebbed beams above. It looked like a fire hazard to me.

  The conversation was about the viksagi. They were apparently formidable opponents. I also gathered they didn’t have much in the way of strategy—an all-out charge to hack down their enemies was about the limits of it. They could build siege engines—rams and catapults—but not much else. They were terrible at using them. No patience.

  But the thing I found most interesting was they weren’t fighting a winter war. They were fighting an ongoing war. The northmen kept coming back, unpredictably, week by week and month by month. They’d been doing it for over a century, but there had been a long lull recently. Most seemed to think it was the calm before a storm. Others were more optimistic.

  “Perhaps we are running out of them; they keep coming to be killed,” one pointed out.

  “No danger of that,” another opined. “They grow more numerous, not less. Last year was a greater wave of them than ever before.”

  “So where do they all come from?” another wanted to know.

  “Ha. I’d like to know, myself. Then we could ride out and butcher them like the beasts they are.”

  “Surely, someone has tried to find out?” asked another voice. I got the impression I wasn’t the only newbie here.

  “How might that come to be? Shall I ask one?”

  “Surely. But do you speak their tongue? I do not,” interjected some wit. There was some chuckling at that.

  Another added, “I’m sure you don’t, Reufeld; you do well enough to use your tongue with our language!” which got considerably greater laughter. Reufeld took it well, apparently some sort of inside joke, and smiled without humor.

  “Besides, they never surrender; they die before they give up. They are mad,” he finished.

  I agreed for the sake of form and kept my thoughts to myself. It wouldn’t do to stand out when I’d just arrived.

  Besides, I really didn’t want to attract attention from the head table, where the ranking officers were seated. His Grace, the Duke Ganelon Northreach, of the duchy of the same name, sat to table as the general of our army; he was a squat, powerful man, and one could see he had all the leadership qualities—sharp eyes, square jaw, powerful voice, and a strong presence. He looked competent and shrewd and very, very dangerous. He didn’t bother me in the slightest.

  Peldar was seated at his right hand.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9TH

  I found myself fairly cheerful in that my monastic little cell did not have a window. The whole place was designed as a fortress, so windows were pretty scarce in general. It made sunset much simpler.

  Once that was out of the way, I got into more comfortable clothes—dark breeches, a grey tunic, a black vest, and a heavy green cloak—and headed down to town. I wore Firebrand, but I also carried a new staff. Not for the first time, I wondered if my first one was washed ashore somewhere. It’s not that I really need a staff, but… well… that one had been a gift, and I hate losing gifts.

  Thinking such thoughts, I went out to town. It wasn’t long before I found what I wanted; she was dressed for cold weather, but she was also loitering out-of-doors and smiling at all the passers-by. She even smiled at me. Her smile grew as I approached her.

  “Evenin’, lordship. Care for a bit o’the ride astride?” she asked. I’d never heard it put quite that way, but the metaphor was apparently trans-universal.

  “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

  She dimpled. “Found someone ye have, my sweet,” she answered, taking my arm. “And what will you be doin’ with her?”

  I decided to go with her conversational gambit, as well as the tugging on my arm. We walked along and I replied, “Seeking out the ladies who’ve some troubles. I’m a wizard, you see, and I have it in mind to… undo what men may have done.”

  She looked thoughtful, but kept walking. “There are a few as would be grateful not to be havin’ another brat,” she admitted. “Not all o’them women, neither.”

  “I had more in mind, ah, the pox, for example. But I can keep a woman from catching a child just as easily.”

  We turned along another muddy lane and moved down it, heading toward a sizable and well-lit establishment. It looked like ramshackle tavern, but the painted sign out front clearly indicated more than just drinks were on the menu. And, because I was paying attention to her and our destination and my plans, I didn’t pay any mind to the two men coming toward us along the lane. As they passed us, my new friend greeted them with an airy, “Evenin’ dearie,” and on they went.

  And immediately turned behind us. I didn’t see that, but the sudden shifting of her aura told me she was suddenly nervous, a little frightened, and a lot excited.

  I had time to wonder, What the hell? before one of them brought a cudgel down on my head.

  He hadn’t struck hard enough to break the cudgel; it was a stout stick. But any human being would have dropped, either unconscious or dead. I staggered forward, off-balance and seeing stars for a moment, then my head cleared as the crack in my skull knit back together, itching.

  “Hsst! Fool!” said one to the other, and they rushed me. I continued to stagger forward for a few more paces before I turned, han
ds rising, expecting them to club me again. They did try. I saw the cudgels coming at me and I caught them, one in each hand. I twisted and jerked; suddenly, I was holding the clubs and the thugs were unarmed.

  They were thugs, yes, but not stupid enough to keep trying after that. They took to their heels as though Hell were after them—and I might have been, except for the woman. She was pale and shaking and about ready to collapse right there. I think it was the first time their little plan had ever gone wrong.

  I tossed the clubs aside and moved to stand beside her. She looked about ready to faint. I offered my arm.

  “Well, that takes care of those brigands. You were saying about the ladies who might need my services?”

  She rallied magnificently, with all the cunning and guile of a streetwalker; she took my arm and led me into the front door of the establishment. I was ready to have a major throwdown when she led me inside, but the rough stuff stayed outside. Instead, I was introduced to a smiling fat man whom I instantly despised.

  He wasn’t fat, precisely; just a touch overweight. He had a double chin, but no jowls. Under the fat was a hardness, a meanness that would be at home in the Thing I had killed when I had a workroom. It was worse in a human being, because he had a soul to give it contrast. At least the Thing had been what it was because… well… that’s what it was. He didn’t have that excuse.

  “And what’re ye bringin’ me here, Lana-me-girl?” he asked, eyeing me. “Wants a bit of a multitude, p’raps?”

  “Says he can be of service,” she said, almost tittering. “Fixes things like the pox and whatnot.”

  “Oh, so it’s service he wants to give, is it?” he asked, grinning broadly. He needed to brush his teeth. With acid. But he wiped a hand on his apron—

  I’m sorry; the downstairs portion of the building was largely a tavern. It served mead and ale, hard spirits and really cheap wine. Upstairs, it also served a need that any detached military post is going to have. The fat man was the owner and the equivalent of a bartender. From the smell of unwashed bodies, I wasn’t sure I wanted to breathe inside, much less touch anything. His hand included.