Contents
Title
Disclaimer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Links
Knight and Champion
Steven J Shelley
Copyright © 2017 Blue Orchid Books
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual places is purely coincidental.
Not recommended for younger readers.
1 - Catelyn
The low, solemn murmur of the night was gradually broken by more joyous sounds. The night-jar in the gnarled old oak let out one last call before flapping away. A family of scarlet-crested wagtails took over the bough, chirping and foraging with zeal. The weir came to life with the baritone growl of a banjo frog. Slow-hopping midge flies began plying their trade on the pond, hinting at a warmish day ahead. And yet promises would do little to warm the teenage girl lying at the base of the oak.
Catelyn la Berne sank deeper into her foldover, luxuriating in its flannel lining. Her elder siblings Doran and Hadley may have had new outdoor quilts, but this one had been her father’s. The imprint had faded and the gossamer down was thin in places, but the leather finish was amazingly durable. Catelyn curled into a full-body stretch. Though the night had been cold, her fire had smoldered for several hours and sleep had come easily. The only disappointment was the empty ceramic container by the ashes - her mother’s rabbit stew had been too good to ration.
The Old Wood, as the villagers called it, was really just a few hundred hectares of remnant vegetation set aside to protect the modest water catchment at Finnegan’s Weir. In the beginning, when she first began moonlighting there, the sounds of the wood tended to set her nerves on edge. Sleep was shallow and intermittent. Now, she liked to think she’d conquered this “wild” corner of Guill. By day, it was overrun with adventurous children. By night, it was her secret place.
Rubbing her feet together in the furnace of her foldover, Catelyn lost herself in a patch of sky through the oak canopy. Elongated cumulus clouds were sliding in from the north. At length her thoughts turned to the question of Finnegan’s Weir and why she felt the need to sleep out here. Did there need to be a reason? Of course, deep down, she knew damn well why she’d needed a night away from Tavalen.
Sometimes her family was just too big. It was hard to keep anything under her skin. Every negative emotion, however mild, was subjected to the fiercest scrutiny before she’d had a chance of making sense of it herself. Sometimes she needed to get away so she could trap her thoughts and study them in peace and quiet.
Unfortunately, her latest outing hadn’t quite given her the answers she needed. Her anxiety remained - she could feel it like a worm in her guts. Two days ago she’d been offered a place at the prestigious Lakeshore Academy of Arts. A chance to learn Representation from the best of the best. A gilt-edged opportunity to follow in her father’s footsteps. Everything she’d always wanted.
She’d rejected it out of hand.
Unwilling to dwell on a decision that had surprised even herself, Catelyn tore her eyes from the brightening sky and looked for a distraction. Thankfully, a pair of voices provided just that. Two youths climbed to the top of the weir and began sparring with training swords. She knew them well - Arby, from the miller’s family, and George, a farm hand. Neither had seen her nestled under the oak overlooking the weir. She resisted the urge to chuckle, especially when they came within a few yards of her position. The red-brown leather of her foldover was perfect camouflage against the wet leaf litter of the Old Wood.
George grunted in pain as Arby found a way through his amateurish defenses. Catelyn knew from experience that those wooden training swords could bite.
“Keep going,” Arby urged, patient in the face of the other boy’s ineptitude.
Doran once used that tone when sparring with her. Seemed like a long time ago now. She watched the boys fly at each other with boyish enthusiasm. What they lacked in correct defensive form they made up for in energy and movement. Every boy in Guill dreamed of becoming a squire in Baron Duskovy’s garrison. Catelyn had studied countless training sessions that occasionally spilled over into outright violence.
Five years ago, before she’d begun her own training, young Lukas Wains had lost an eye on this very weir. It was just a freakish accident, nothing more. Catelyn had watched in horror as the distraught boy forced his training partner down and extracted revenge with his bare hands. It was a hideous response, something an orc might do. The image of a young, bloodied Wains brandishing the eye above the weir like a trophy was etched in her mind forever.
Devon la Berne intended to banish the wayward youth for his unacceptable revenge, but the townsfolk were adamant that natural justice had been served. It was one of the few times Catelyn’s father had been overruled. She remembered his look of utter disgust when Wains successfully joined the Baron’s garrison as squire. As far as Catelyn knew, he was now well on his way to becoming a Knight of the Realm.
Arby finally spotted Catelyn where she lay.
“You slept out here?” Arby asked, as if it was an indisputably daft notion.
“Why not?” Catelyn retorted.
She instinctively railed against the narrow-minded conservatism of her village these days. Only a year ago she had nothing but girlish reverence for the good folk of Guill, but now something darker infused her natural fascination with the lives of others. Standing as she did on the verge of adulthood, Catelyn was old enough to see that Guill was just a rude hamlet in the Southern Reaches. Most folks here were lucky to get as far as Andra in their lifetimes. And that was invariably a day trip, to be discussed at length for the next decade. None would ever make it as far as Lakeshore, the capital.
The worst thing was that almost all these folks were content with that. Not everyone had the heart of an explorer, but surely there was more to life than crop rotations and an occasional wagon ride to Barge Landing for fresh fish?
The boys continued their sparring, though the dynamic had clearly changed. Their easy smiles had faded and they’d assumed ridiculous poses. Stifling a grin, Catelyn shimmied from her foldover and rolled it up tight, careful to include her cooking pot and spoon. She was keen that the boys continue without the complicating presence of a girl two years their senior.
Looping her arms through the foldover’s straps, Catelyn left the steady thwack of wood on wood behind her as she headed north. The morning was crisp and clear, suggesting an end to winter’s icy dominance. Following a deep, hard-baked wagon rut, Catelyn settled into an easy stride. She wasn’t quite ready to face her family just yet, letting her body veer to the right fork at the overgrown stile. The path northwest by the Hanwar lavender fields would add at least fifteen minutes to her journey. The Old Wood spread out behind her in a necklace of stark, wintry colors. Catelyn rounded a thick copse of hawthorn and played her usual game of counting the rabbits inside. Cal Hanwar had been threatening to burn it for years.
Beyond the hawthorn thicket, Catelyn got a nice surprise - her father was deep in conversation with Valler Dawes. Devon la Berne stood a good two feet taller than the swarthy goods trader, but never used his rangy height to intimidate. Right now he was leaning back as far as possible, giving Valler’s words a respectful distance. As if what the trader had to say was of vital importance. Catelyn smi
led at the sight. No one else noticed these small things, but she did. Devon’s way with people earned him the trust of hardened village folk. The best she could do was try and emulate him.
“… and that’s why I set aside King’s taxes in quarterly installments, just like you advised,” Dawes was saying. “The collectors have been more aggressive lately.”
“It’s an uncertain time,” Devon replied in his soft northern bur. “The King isn’t as close to our allies as he used to be.”
“That worries me,” Dawes said. “It worries all of us, Representative.”
A thrill bounced down Catelyn’ spine - she loved it when folks called her father that. Just because he was no longer the Baron’s legal adviser didn’t mean he’d suddenly lost his immense store of knowledge and wisdom.
Devon la Berne, quasi village elder, looked sympathetically at the trader.
“We’re a long way from the slings and arrows of sovereign politics,” he said. “Come, let us walk together.”
“I think you’ll find more pleasant company close at hand,” Dawes said, noticing Catelyn’s approach. “Besides, I have business with Hanwar. Fare well.”
Devon’s lined face collapsed into the warmest of smiles as Dawes took his leave.
“Here she is,” he said. “How did you sleep, Cat?”
“Like a dream,” Catelyn said, beaming. “There’s nothing like it.”
“Sure, sure,” Devon said, his sky blue eyes glittering with affection. “Just don’t do it too often. Not good for an old man’s heart.”
Whilst Catelyn’s father encouraged exploration and adventure at every opportunity, he baulked at the idea of his favorite daughter sleeping in the woods on her own.
“I promise,” Catelyn said, linking arms with Devon as they headed toward town.
The paddocks gave way to modest, ivy-covered dwellings. These were uninhabited for most of the year, but useful during the Equinox Festival when visitors deigned to travel south from Andra. As the Festival was but days away, Catelyn wasn’t surprised to see a chimney sweep unloading his kit from the back of a rickety wagon.
“Morning,” Devon called. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Where do you hail from?”
“Feyn Bridge, sir,” said the old man. “Now in the Baron’s employ.”
“How go the war reparations at the Bridge?” Devon asked.
“Slow, sir. No coin to be had. More work with the Baron around these parts.”
Devon nodded grimly. “Best leave you to it.”
As he moved on, Catelyn’s father was clearly troubled by the man’s all-to-familiar story. His sombre, slightly pained expression had appeared more often of late. Even here, in the Southern Reaches, it was obvious that not all was well in King Rosten’s corridors of power, but Devon was able to see further across the geo-political landscape than most. Whatever weighed on his mind certainly didn’t bode well.
“You’re thinking about the War Fellowship,” she said as they made their way down Duncan’s Hill toward the center of Guill. The village spread out beneath them, peaceful at this early hour. The stark nudity of the old trees made for a pretty contrast against the emerald village green. Serval Danton, hedge Knight and founder of Guill, had lovingly planted a number of exotic species there, creating one of the more unique greens in the Reaches. Rumor had it that many of the original seeds had come from a land far to the south, beyond even the Kashar Empire.
Devon snorted, shaking himself free of his ruminations.
“Mere politics, dove,” he said. “Alas, we’re too far from the kitchen to know what’s cooking.”
He forced out a smile. Not for the first time Catelyn wondered if her father was enduring some kind of late life crisis. He’d had a long and distinguished career as Baron Duskovy’s representative before their relationship corroded, but his sphere of influence had only ever been regional at best. What might have been if Devon had offered his services to the King himself? Rosten certainly seemed in dire need of sage advice these days.
“Tell me,” Devon said, meeting Catelyn’s eyes. “What were your reflections out there in the wood?”
Catelyn was probably closer to her father than anyone else, but still she felt a lurch of anxiety.
“Nothing special,” she began defensively, stopping by the side of the track. “Listen, father. Rejecting the Academy was a spur of the moment decision. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I’ll never know. But I won’t be looking back, not matter how many side glances I get. I won’t.”
Before she knew what was happening, Catelyn’s face was in her hands, tears sliding through her fingers. Devon enfolded her in his arms. She leaned into his chest, relishing the familiar smell.
“Little Cat,” he said in her ear. “So much wiser than I.”
Catelyn laughed through her sobs, lighter for giving her anxiety a voice.
“Anyway,” she said. “There’s always next year.”
“Exactly,” her father replied. “Or … not. I’ve noticed your proficiency with the sword.”
Catelyn looked sharply at him - those eyes radiated mischief. She blinked. What exactly was he saying?
“I can’t … I mean, I’m just Doran’s sparring partner.”
“Come now, I hope you don’t believe that.”
Checkmate.
Catelyn didn’t believe that. From the moment her elder brother had come to her for help, Catelyn had tackled her training duties with near-religious fervor. Their daily sessions made her deliriously happy. They were better than exploration. Better than adventure. Even better than her deep, abiding love of books. Of knowledge. The sensation of laying a legitimate hit on her brother was difficult to describe. Beyond thrilling, it tickled her on some arcane, instinctive level. Devon had extracted the truth from her in less than a minute, showing he’d lost none of his interrogative skills.
“I’m torn,” she said, taking her train of thought to its next logical step. “Baron Duskovy has never taken a woman into his garrison.”
The truth seared her flesh. All this time she’d been faithfully preparing Doran for military service, knowing that an empty training yard awaited her once he was gone. Devon must’ve spotted the bleak thought in her eyes, because he took longer than usual to reply. His hesitation said it all.
“You’ve made a breakthrough, nonetheless,” he said wisely. “No one is prouder than I.”
Catelyn squeezed his hand as they continued down the street. They passed under a towering fig tree that played nightly host to a chattering colony of bats. Hearth Street beckoned. The bakery was alive with rectangles of orange light. Ariel Marber and her assistants would’ve been kneading their dough in the early hours, but as with most farming communities, general business wouldn’t pick up until noon, when the landholders had finished their respective chores.
Hearth Street was deserted save for a gaggle of boys under the eaves of Ivan Magra’s general store. They were kicking a child at their feet like they might a mangy dog. Full-blooded blows to the ribs and face, no holding back. Catelyn broke free from Devon and sprinted down the street. ‘Boys’ probably wasn’t the correct description. Hos was her age. Faran’s coarse stubble suggested he’d just begun shaving. The rest were younger but old enough to know better.
Catelyn shoved her way through the circle so she could kneel beside the victim, whom she recognized as Trynden Wright. His nose was broken. Thick blood had congealed on the wooden patio of the storefront.
“Said he could destroy us with a spell,” Faran said. “We was just showin’ him he couldn’t.”
The story was a familiar one. Trynden was the roaming trader’s son. Old Miskar traveled from village to village with his near-worthless wares. As a result, Trynden was behind in his Instruction and found it difficult to establish lasting friendships. He also had a head full of fanciful tales drawn from ancient mythology. Catelyn had never felt particularly comfortable around the boy, but talking about magic wasn’t against the Law.
It was decidedly ant
i-social, however. No one from Guill had encountered a powerful mage for decades. The essence required to produce magic, the mysterious singularities present in the blood cells of all magicians, were a rare phenomenon these days. Which made the sight of this scrawny, bloodied kid all the more pathetic. Catelyn helped Trynden to his feet.
“I don’t know where to begin,” she said, facing the would-be lynch mob. She was barely able to squeeze the words past her fury. “Trynden caused you no harm. None.”
Hos was barely able to meet her eyes. She was surprised and troubled that he should be part of this rabid group. He’d always seemed like a gentle young man.
“Talk of wizards and fairies is bad for morale,” Faran said. “Winter looks like it will break early and the harvest isn’t coming on. I know you la Bernes like to keep to your ivory tower, but surely even you’ve noticed?”
Catelyn flinched inside, hoping it didn’t show. In many ways, this moment was a long time coming. The la Berne estate was easily the largest property in Guill. Everyone knew about Devon’s illustrious career as Baron Duskovy’s right hand man. No man or woman this side of Lakeshore knew more about Kingdom Law. But his halcyon days were over. He’d been a gentleman farmer for years now, his legal skills confined to settling village disputes.
In recent times, as harvests across the Southern Reaches began to dwindle, so too did the respect afforded Catelyn’s family. The politics of envy were almost impossible to break down in such circumstances. As more and more old farming families faced diminishing returns, the la Berne estate stood out as a beacon of middle class comfort. Unabashed respect and admiration become grudging tolerance. Whispers behind hands, the odd malicious rumor. And now, it appeared, open insolence.
Catelyn felt these cruel tendrils of change like a body blow as she stood before her peers. She was eighteen, a woman of age. This village, this world she’d loved all her life, was alarmingly unfamiliar to her all of a sudden. The young men standing over her were toned and muscular, all traces of puppy fat dispelled through relentless farm work. That they were men was not in doubt - their perception of her was the painful question.
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