Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One)

by J. B. Simmons

  Other teams were beginning to close in around us. The threat pressed on me. Looking over my shoulder, I called to my men. “Follow me now. Keep close to each other, behind me, as you are now.” Their mouths hung open.

  I turned and charged the closest team, which was warily circling another group of men. Their backs were together, facing out at different angles. I leapt up and brought the pike down at the man in the center. He was pinned by his teammates and could do nothing more than crouch and lift his arm over his head.

  I heard a bone crack as his wrist blocked the attack. He collapsed and yelled out in pain. His companions fled. Two other teams were closing on me at once. I took a defensive stance, spinning my pike around me in a blur. I lunged forward and the softened tip of the pike hit a flat-footed man in the face. He fell and more men around me ran.

  Someone approached from behind me, to the left. It was getting too dark to see clearly. I swung the pike toward him but caught nothing. I came to a balanced crouch an instant before a pike came right at my face. I ducked the blow and seized the attacker’s staff under my left arm. I began to swing the butt of my pike at his head.

  “Stop! No!” The yells around me came into focus just as Pikeli’s face did.

  I jerked back, slowing my attack enough that my pike bounced softly off Pikeli’s brow. It took only a second then to realize my mistake.

  No one around me was fighting, and men were huddling around a few bodies sprawled on the ground. I shuddered at what I had done, as if I had been in the Gloaming instead of a simple melee. The survival instinct cut immediately back towards passivity.

  I went to a knee and looked up earnestly at the young knight. “Sir, this was a good fight, good training, and a strong attack by you. My team had able men.” I glanced back and saw the three of them staring me with a look of fear.

  Pikeli’s eyes narrowed, settling into something like a scowl, but he replied calmly—far more calmly than I expected from him. “You fought well, Walt, and your team has won tonight’s melee. You are invited to join us for the feast tonight in Albemarle. The great Tryst will be there. I assure you, he will be impressed to learn of your skill with the pike. How did you become so good with it, and not already be in the army? You fought like your life depended on it. You will have to take it a little easier in future melees. Actually, I think you can be on the outside next time, teaching rather than breaking the bones of our Fourth Marchers.” He shut his mouth, perhaps realizing he had talked over his own question again.

  I bowed lower and then stood, ignoring Pikeli’s question. “Thank you, sir. You are kind to invite me to join you tonight. I have never met a prince before.” I could not help letting that sentence sit for a moment.

  Pikeli seemed not to notice. He looked past me at my teammates, and at the other infantrymen who had gathered around. “Time to clean up and set camp, men.”

  He turned to me again. “Meet me at my tent in an hour. We will walk to town together. I look forward to learning more about you.” An odd eagerness lit his face.

  “Yes, sir.” Walking away, I felt the pace of everything rising. This was a major dent in my crude disguise, and it could not fall apart tonight. Not yet. If a game of melee set me back to my crude existence from the Gloaming, the game of politics and the high court could also unleash trouble.

  Survival would have to mean silence and humility tonight. Around Tryst, that would be like restraining my very breath. A cold bath would be a good start to the evening.

  Chapter 12

  THE TRAVELING COURT

  “But, sure, he is the prince of the world;

  let his nobility remain in’s court.

  I am for the house with

  the narrow gate, which I take to be

  too little for pomp to enter:

  some that humble themselves may;

  but the many will be too chill and tender,

  and they’ll be for the flowery way that

  leads to the broad gate

  and the great fire.”

  “Yes, as you say, my lord.” Wren almost retched as the words left his mouth in response to another absurd line from the noble’s son. It was necessary civility, and Wren was in for an evening full of it. He could hardly wait for the guests to drink enough to allow some snide responses to their shallow questions.

  This was the beginning of the prince’s feast, his traveling court, in the main square of Albermarle. Jacodin Talnor had been waxing on to Wren and Jon about how grand the evening would be. The weather was perfect for a feast, he had said, the evening air was crisp with a hint of spring’s warmth. The lighting was perfect for grandeur, with hundreds of candles strung above the square, casting a soft glow on the guests.

  It was all fitting for the resplendent Prince Tryst, Jacodin explained. He would win over the people of Albemarle and convince their best young men to join the Lycurgus. Jacodin admitted that he set his sights lower, at convincing one of the town’s most beautiful young women to join him personally, for he was a man of the world. Wealthy, young, dapper, and unmarried, he would be a prize catch for a merchant’s daughter in Albemarle. This was a rare night for those daughters, and for all the people of the town. Those privileged enough to attend—Tryst had told the town’s council to select one hundred forty-four of Albemarle, no more and no less—would be seeing the prince himself.

  Jacodin lived for these affairs. He thrived in the court. That was why Wren despised him, and why Jon found him an interesting companion. Jon had reminded Wren that a man cannot control who his father is, and that Jacodin had probably inherited habitual political maneuvering, if not physical prowess, from one of the legendary nobles, Ryn Talnor. His legend had only grown after he had rallied the support that Tryst needed to formally gain the throne.

  “Look at this, Jon and Wren!” Jacodin was pointing to a round table near the center of the square. “We will be sitting here, quite close to Tryst.” He pranced along the table’s edge. It had ten seats, and was one of about thirty in the square. “It is the three of us and seven fine citizens of Albemarle. Guess how many are prospects?”

  Jon could not help but laugh a little. “What kind of prospects are we talking about, Jacodin? Soldiers or damsels in distress?”

  Jacodin responded with a smile, “perhaps both, of course. But here, I will name them and let you figure it out. We will be joined by Lucinda Brink, Katyn Ghent, Dar Silverton, and Mailyn Glen. There are three other local chaps, but I am beside Mailyn and that is good enough for me.” He clasped Jon on the shoulder, and added in faux sincerity, “but I cannot get ahead of myself, can I? Look, my fellow high knights are coming now. There are a few political skirmishes to win before I can claim any spoils.” With that he spun away, shifting to a different prey for the moment.

  Wren was wearing his best look of disgust, and Jon tried to coax him out of his foul mood. “Give him a break, Wren. He is just looking to enjoy the evening.”

  His brother was having none of it. “He is looking to ruin everything. He is a pathetic excuse for a noble’s descendent, earning none of the honor owed to him. I doubt he could win over this Mailyn without his station and guile. Besides, he endangers our task here. He would recognize you know who, a new soldier who thankfully will be nowhere close to the square tonight. Things are risky enough with Tryst knowing we have joined the army. I still cannot believe this sudden pronouncement that we will be knighted tonight. Why would he do that, without even talking to us? You know he never liked me. He must know something, and either way, now we will be under his watchful eye, always close and bound to his immediate command. The position of honor also means we have to put up with Tryst’s biggest fans, like Jacodin Talnor.”

  Jon pulled out a chair and motioned for Wren to sit. He did not understand the risks and politics as well as his brother, but he knew well enough that Wren had to be composed for the night. Too much was at stake to be focused on a non-enemy, particularly with envy involved. Wren had long harbored distaste for those who inherite
d more influence than he had earned. Jealousy bled easily into hatred, and hatred clouded judgment.

  “Whatever you think of Jacodin, we need him on our side,” Jon said calmly. “Tryst has questions about us, and the best way to provide answers is through the positive words of Jacodin. While Tryst will not believe us, he may believe Jacodin. Tryst always protected him, and his friend Jonas Davosman, trying to win the favor of their fathers. Remember how Jacodin and Jonas would always come begging Tryst for help in melee training? Jacodin was like a helpless puppy as a boy.” Jon was relieved to hear Wren laugh at that.

  “Come on, let’s find the ale,” Wren said, “I need to wash down the stench of those pleasantries I was uttering.” The brothers walked toward a bar at the east wall of the square.

  The select citizens of Albemarle had begun streaming into the square, giddy with excitement. Some of the older men, perhaps of the town council, seemed more controlled. They had a tense awareness about them. Their unease looked awkward against the merriment of the other townspeople. Just as Jacodin had predicted, many beautiful young women joined the gathering, dressed in their finest. A few young men of the town also entered. They held their heads high, perhaps hoping to earn some station in the army. Or maybe they just wanted to show that they could match the smugness of the prince’s court.

  The knights and leaders of Valemidas arrived later than the Albemarle folk, gliding in at their own pace. Much like Jacodin, they were by and large an over-important group. They were seated close to the Prince’s table, forming a ring of protective praise. Many from noble houses attended, but it seemed no nobles had joined this march. They tended to prefer the protection and comfort of their estates in Valemidas.

  The table for Tryst was different from the rest. Shaped like the letter V, the point of the table sat under the square’s huge statue and its ends jutted into the crowd. Tryst would be seated at the center. The table was also elevated on a platform above the rest of the square, and anyone entreating the Prince would have to step into the middle of the V, looking up at Tryst as he was surrounded by his highest knights.

  “Can you believe this?” Wren said as he took another sip from his tankard. “Tryst is setting the stage to re-chisel the face on Albemarle’s statue.” The brothers had been watching the crowd grow anxious even as they enjoyed their drinks. Everyone was waiting for Tryst’s arrival.

  “How many soldiers will the army enlist tonight?” Jon asked.

  “No matter how many, it cannot be worth the cost of this feast,” Wren responded. “What a pompous parade this army is. We are not marching for war; we are in a pageant.”

  “I just hope this enemy is as weak as everyone says—” Jon trailed off and nodded toward a young lady seeking a refill of wine. “Look at that blonde, holding her chalice like she owns the place.”

  She would have stood out anywhere, stunning in a bright yellow dress and red shoes. She was tall, and her hair was cut short above her shoulders, unlike any style they were used to. They were approaching her when the sound of bells interrupted to announce the beginning of the feast, even though Tryst was still nowhere to be seen. The lady took the cue to stride toward her seat. The brothers followed, conveniently, to the same table that held their name cards.

  “It is a delight to see that we will dine together tonight. I am Wren.” He bowed and kissed her hand before they sat.

  She smiled, curtsied, and sat in the seat assigned to Mailyn. Wren did not hesitate in grabbing Jacodin’s chair to her right. Jon’s spot was to her left. Their table soon filled with the rest of the party. As Jacodin had guessed, four were women of the town, young and unmarried. Both Mailyn and Lucinda were exceptional to the eye, and the two others were fair enough to make good dinner guests. The three local men were young and enthusiastic about joining the army. Jacodin came to the table last, filling the role of knight of the table. He failed to notice that Wren had taken his original seat, the one beside the most attractive woman at the table, or that she was more interested in Jon than in anyone else.

  As the feast began, the conversation at the brother’s table shifted from the pending battle to life in Valemidas to dreams for the future, and of course, to Tryst. Jacodin had raised a toast to their good fortune just before the royal trumpets first sounded.

  Two columns of Tryst’s knights lined the path before him. They wore bright red, with white and black bands along their arms. As the only armed guests of the feast, they made a powerful show.

  But Tryst stood out above all. He wore his typical suit of luxurious and fitted black cloth, and his gleaming relics—the crown and the sword—left no doubt that he reigned.

  The prince took in the crowd with an approving look. Every eye was glued to him and his retinue. Maybe he preferred intoxicated crowds, Wren thought, because it made him seem all the more vivid and sharp. As Tryst strode towards his seat, his knights called out several guests to follow the parade. Two were picked from Jacodin’s table—Jon and Wren.

  Tryst, without breaking stride, jumped onto the platform elevating his table and loudly called the crowd to attention. Silence fell on the square like a dense blanket.

  “Welcome my dear friends of Albemarle! It is an honor to have you join me tonight. Your city has long been loyal to Valemidas. We feast beneath this statue, the symbol of your allegiance, earned the hard way. We celebrate our people’s power under my lead, renewing our bond and building our ranks. Between today’s and tomorrow’s contests, over a hundred of Albemarle’s best men will have earned their way into my army. I also have the honor tonight of raising seven new knights. Come forward now.”

  The men who had been called to stand before Tryst, including Wren and Jon, quickly counted themselves. They were only five. A murmur spread through the crowd. At one table not far from the center, a town elder stood and pointed to a young man at his side. The man stood and approached. He was huge, and wore a dumbfounded look.

  “Your city’s elders have chosen you,” Tryst declared. Wren could tell that the prince was loving the moment, the suspense, almost bouncing from foot to foot. A fanatic look was in his eye.

  “There is another, chosen by merit alone,” Tryst proceeded grandly. “Each day our infantry units engage in fierce melee. We are training and growing strong for battle. The best are welcomed to my ranks as knights. I am pleased to announce that the randomly-chosen winning unit for tonight is the Fourth Marcher’s. Today’s melee champion shall come forward.”

  The guests peered around eagerly. After a long moment, a man stood in the far corner of the square. He was wholly unsuited for the event and the honor—dressed in a simple brown tunic, unshaven, and with disheveled flaxen hair. His first steps seemed oddly sharp for his attire, and he appeared too poised as he walked closer.

  It was Andor.

  Jon and Wren saw a prince where others saw a rough looking soldier. The brothers’ breath froze, as if a cold hand clenched around their throats. They looked to Tryst in terror, but the reigning prince had already looked away from Andor. Tryst had spread his arms wide and gazed up towards the night sky. He seemed not to have paid much attention to the approaching man.

  “We have our seven,” Tryst declared. “Congratulations to you all. By adding seven knights to our ranks every week, we set a daily standard of conquest. We identify the best and prepare to vanquish all our enemies.” He suddenly leapt from the platform and landed in front of the seven men, with Zarathus already gleaming above his head. No one had seen him draw the blade. The crowd erupted in cheers at the show of mastery.

  The prince motioned for the men to form a line and began the knighting ceremony. The historic blade dropped onto each shoulder of the first man, as the ancient words of fealty were said. Jon and Wren were second and third in line. Andor was last.

  Wren studied the ground at his feet to avoid attention. He questioned why he had left his merchant’s life and wondered how long it would be before he would be a trader again, if ever. He feared that he would not get out of the squ
are alive this night. A glimmer of light crossed the dull stone ground and dragged Wren’s eyes upward. The first new knight held his sword high, bowed again before Tryst, and moved to the side. Jon was stepping forward.

  “Jon!” Tryst exclaimed in a rare break of formality. “It is about time you join our ranks, and it is my honor to raise you as my knight. I would have chosen you among the first, had you been willing. I rejoice that I need not question your loyalty. Your prowess on the battlefield is a thing of legend.” He raised his voice. “Let everyone here be a witness that all my knights choose to serve me freely and willingly, not by my command, even if I hate seeing their talents wasted in other pursuits. Kneel, Jon, and say the words.”

  Wren felt a shadow hit him as Tryst cast a quick, dark glance over Jon’s shoulder at Wren. Tryst had always blamed Wren for not letting his brother continue on a military path.

  “I swear by my faith and on my life,” Jon began steadily, “to serve, protect, and obey the prince until my death, for the sake of Valemidas and our people.”

  “Before these high knights and witnesses and under my graces, I raise you, Jon Evans Sterling, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.” Tryst dropped the Zarathus blade to tap Jon’s two shoulders in effortless precision. “I expect you will be a noble before too long,” the prince whispered with an affectionate nod.

  Jon rose and turned back toward Wren with a look of joy and relief. Wren walked forward and stood face-to-face with Tryst. He hesitated before kneeling.

  The moment froze in the air, before the hundreds in attendance. Where Tryst welcomed Jon with open arms, he held Wren in a scrutinizing stare. This was not the first time they had held each other in disdain, in unspoken challenge. They shared respect, like the respect two roosters have for each other before they begin a fight to the death. The prince surely found it hard to believe that Wren would join him. Jon was one thing, given his warmer spirit and skill at battle. Wren was neither warm nor particularly skilled, and he was known to have spoken against Tryst. Raising suspicions was bad enough, but now it could equal disaster this close to Andor.