by A. J. Smith
Randall followed, several steps behind his master, and smiled awkwardly at the tavern keeper as he left.
The tavern doors were propped open and the street outside was relatively empty. The narrow cobbled back street was being swept clean by bound men of the crown – men paid in food, clothing and a place to sleep. They were doing a poor job and the street remained unpleasant. Sir Leon ignored the workers as he turned a sharp left into the street. He breathed in the air of the city and turned up his nose at the mix of alcohol, vomit and dirt. Randall followed behind him and had to run to keep up with the striding knight.
Sir Leon stopped at the corner of the tavern building and took a long look down the street. The buildings in the poor quarter were close together and little direct sunlight reached the ground. Debris from a hundred nights of revelry filled the narrow side street and Randall had to dodge bottles, crates and items of broken furniture as he struggled to keep up with his master. At the rear of the tavern was the alley into which Randall had thrown Sir Leon’s waste, insulting Brother Torian in the process. Beyond were stables, serving several taverns and a number of brothels.
Sir Leon stepped over the open sewer and came to a halt. As Randall pulled up next to him, he saw Sir Leon’s sturdy brown horse and his own black and grey pony mixed in with several mangy old horses munching on bales of straw. Standing in the middle of the stable was the Purple cleric, fully armoured and with sword in hand. His breastplate, greaves and gauntlets were of burnished steel. Although he had removed his cloak in preparation for the duel, other items of purple adorned his dress. His scabbard and belt both had an ornate purple design and the colour was repeated on most of the fabric that showed under his armour.
Now Brother Torian was wearing a steel helmet, and he raised his chin as he spoke. ‘Good morning, Sir Leon. I believe we have business to settle.’
The old knight stepped forward and appeared to consider his words carefully. He puffed out his chest. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’ His mouth curled slowly into a defiant grin.
Brother Torian returned Sir Leon’s smile with one of his own, though his was colder. His sword was already in his fist and he took a step backwards and flexed his arm, causing the blade to swing skilfully from side to side. Randall began imagining all the ways in which luck could play a part in the encounter. He thought that Sir Leon was the larger man and that his strength might prevail. The cleric looked like a true fighting man, but maybe he was green and would lack experience against a clever swordsman like Sir Leon. Either way, Randall estimated that skill, youth and fortitude would have to play a minimal part if his master were to emerge victorious.
Brother Torian kept his eyes on his opponent as he walked nimbly from side to side, stepping one foot over the other in practised fashion, his sword point held low. Sir Leon just stood there, not posturing or displaying any particular skill as he drew his treasured longsword.
‘I was wrong, Sir Leon, I called that sword an antique. It seems I judged the blade by the state of the man who wore it.’ Brother Torian looked at their swords. ‘I would judge that our weapons have both seen much combat, though yours is of nobler lineage.’
Sir Leon did not respond with his customary humour. He raised his sword to look at the cleric over the cross-piece. ‘This is the sword of Great Claw, an old noble house of the east. My father wore it before me and it has killed Kirin, Ranen, Jekkan, Karesian… even Ro.’ Sir Leon was proud of his sword and the weight of nobility it bestowed upon him. An old drunk he might be, but he was still a knight of Tor Funweir, and whether he was to die in a stable or not, a knight he would remain. ‘I don’t apologize or ask for quarter, cleric.’
Torian came on guard. ‘The time for apologies is gone and no quarter will be given. I mean to kill you, old man.’
Sir Leon attacked first, a clumsy overhead blow accompanied with a grunt of exertion. The sound of steel on steel was loud as Torian easily brought up his blade to parry the attack. He responded by kicking out forcefully at the off-balance knight and sending him back several feet, causing him to breathe heavily.
Neither man spoke as they began circling each other, Torian swinging his sword, while Sir Leon held his ready and low to the ground. Randall stepped back as far as he could to stand by Sir Leon’s horse, well away from the fight. Both men looked dangerous. The sweat already flowing down Sir Leon’s face made him look fierce, and Brother Torian was moving like a predator.
Again, it was the old knight who attacked – a thrust this time – aimed at the cleric’s chest. Torian stepped to the side and deflected it, giving Sir Leon the chance to fall over if he was too off balance. He kept his footing, though, and pulled back his sword in time to parry an answering blow to his head. Brother Torian did not back off this time but pressed the attack, launching a series of high swings at the old knight. Each block that Sir Leon managed weakened him a little more and Randall thought the cleric needed only to wear him down in order to win. The attacks became relentless, the difference in fitness beginning to show.
The squire watched helplessly as the fight became one-sided, with Brother Torian slowing his attacks and forcibly pushing the old knight back until he was practically standing against one of the mangy horses. Sir Leon was panting and his face was bright red and moist with sweat. He’d parried every blow levelled at him and shown glimmers of skill, but he had not been able to find any small opening through which to test the cleric’s defence.
Tentative faces appeared around the stable as locals, alerted by the sound, came to watch the fight. Several young children with dirty faces had clambered on the roof and now peered down from above. At the entrance to the alley a small group of four city watchmen had come to investigate the duel. Randall’s hope that they would intervene and stop the fight was crushed when they saw the purple adornments of Brother Torian, and they made a display of ushering away the onlookers and standing guard over the stable entrance. Just as nobles and churchmen were allowed to bear arms, they were also allowed to use them.
Sir Leon roared with frustration and did not register the presence of the watch as Torian continued his methodical assault. Several blows began to buckle the knight’s weak defensive parries and dents were appearing in his breastplate. Brother Torian was still fresh and was clearly conserving his strength, as his patterns of attack slowed again. He took several large strides backwards and disengaged, leaving Sir Leon to rave in anger. ‘Come on, you purple pig-fucker,’ he shouted between unintelligible grunts.
Brother Torian said nothing, but waved the knight back towards the centre of the stable.
Sir Leon was bent over and trying to catch his breath, panting heavily and dripping sweat on to the dusty stable floor. He looked at his sword again, the thinnest smile visible to Randall, and then, with a growl, lunged forward at the cleric.
Randall gasped and he desperately wanted to call out and urge his master to say something to placate the cleric, but he couldn’t. The knight knew that this duel would mean his death, though Randall had hoped that something lucky or bizarre would happen to surprise everyone.
Brother Torian was expecting the desperate strike and, with grace and power, stepped forward. Sir Leon’s thrust was weak and easily deflected, causing the old knight to fall to his knees as the cleric stepped past the thrust and kicked hard at the outstretched blade. The sword of Great Claw left Sir Leon’s hand and fell to the stable floor several feet away.
Everything paused; the city watchmen were silent, the children looked wide-eyed and Randall held his breath. Sir Leon was on his knees, the last thrust having taken all his energy, and Brother Torian stood over him victorious. The Purple cleric held his sword against the back of the knight’s neck and spoke clearly. ‘Sir Leon Great Claw, knight of Tor Funweir, I take your head and repay your insult.’
With his last action before meeting the One God, Sir Leon directed a broad smile at his squire. Brother Torian swung swiftly and with great power, severing his opponent’s neck with one blow.<
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Randall did not cry out, though tears began to form in his eyes as he looked at his master’s headless body. Sir Leon had been all he had known for three years and now he was dead, beheaded in a dirty stable, answering an insult that Randall had given to a Purple cleric.
Torian did not address Randall straightaway, but dropped to one knee over his fallen opponent and offered a prayer to the One God. ‘My sword and my life are yours. I fight for you, I kill for you, I die for you.’ He then straightened and retrieved a stained cloth from his gauntlet and carefully cleaned his sword. The city watch still stood at the stable entrance and whispered to one another as they nervously approached the armoured cleric. They wore chain mail, belted at the waist and covered by a tabard displaying the symbol of the king – a white eagle in flight. As common men they were not permitted to carry longswords and so they all had crossbows and large knives.
‘My lord, I am Sergeant Lux,’ the eldest of the four watchmen said with a bow.
Brother Torian was silent. Randall saw that, despite the one-sided nature of the duel, the cleric at least took Sir Leon’s death seriously and needed a moment to compose himself. ‘Sergeant,’ he nodded in greeting.
A few more onlookers emerged from around the stables, common men of Ro Tiris intrigued by the spectacle of true fighting men. Sergeant Lux waved at one of his men. ‘Get rid of these street rats.’
The onlookers were dispersed quickly with a few directed shouts of authority from the watchmen, and the stable was again relatively quiet.
‘Is he with you, your grace?’ Lux pointed across the stable to where Randall stood, half leaning against Sir Leon’s horse to steady his legs.
‘Yes, I suppose he is, sergeant, though not in the way you mean.’ The watchmen looked confused at this response, but Torian continued, ‘He can remain. This duel was for his benefit on some level.’
Brother Torian sheathed his sword, removed his helmet and retrieved his purple cloak from its resting place across the back of a nearby horse. ‘This is my first visit to the capital, sergeant; I assume you have arrangements for dealing with that…’ He gestured towards the headless body of Sir Leon.
The watchmen looked at each other before Lux replied, ‘We do, my lord, but if we’re to return the body to his estate, we need to know to what house he belongs.’
Torian raised his chin and glanced at Randall before he spoke. ‘He was of the house of Great Claw… somewhere to the east apparently.’ He clapped his gauntleted hands together and the noise pulled Randall away from his grief. ‘Squire… where are this man’s lands to be found?’
Randall stepped away from the horse and, on weak legs, moved to the middle of the stable. He tried not to look down at the body and came to a halt off to the side of the watchmen. ‘He has no lands.’ Randall’s voice quivered and his hands shook.
Torian narrowed his eyes and responded, ‘He must have family or friends who would receive his body?’
The watchmen had begun to turn over Sir Leon’s body, retrieving his head and attempting to keep the pool of blood from spreading across the stable floor. Randall spoke without thinking. ‘Leave him.’ He dropped to his knees next to the body and began to arrange his master in a dignified fashion.
Sergeant Lux paused for a second, surprised at Randall’s impertinence, before slapping the squire’s face. ‘You will not speak unless directed to do so, boy.’
Randall fell, the slap causing his face to sting. ‘My master had no family and no lands. His wife has been dead four years and he is without children…’ More tears formed in Randall’s eyes. ‘He would want his body to be burned.’
Brother Torian nodded in approval. This was the honourable way for a nobleman to meet the One God. However, Sergeant Lux laughed. ‘A pyre is expensive, lad… and who would arrange it?’ He glanced back at his men as if Randall’s words had showed extreme naivety. ‘If he has no lands or family to receive his body, we’ll have to throw him in the lime pits with the other scum that die in this part of Tiris.’
Randall’s grief turned slowly to rage and only Brother Torian’s restraining hand stopped him from clumsily attacking the sergeant. ‘Enough, boy, see to your master.’ Torian gently shoved Randall away from the watchmen. ‘Show some respect, man, he was a knight of Tor Funweir,’ he said to Lux. ‘A fat, disrespectful old drunkard he may have been, but still a knight.’ Torian reached into a pouch within his cloak and pulled out a small brown purse, throwing it at Lux’s feet. He said, ‘Burn him properly and have a Black cleric say the words.’
Sergeant Lux picked up the purse and seemed satisfied. ‘Very well, my lord, it shall be done as you say.’ The watchmen moved to Sir Leon’s body and stopped in a circle behind Randall.
‘Step away now, boy, his path is set,’ said the cleric.
Randall didn’t move. He straightened the body lying before him, pushing the legs together and resting the old man’s arms across his battered steel breastplate. He still hadn’t looked at the severed head and found himself wanting to keep hold of the old man’s smile rather than the staring eyes of a dead man.
‘Boy!’ shouted Brother Torian, as he dragged Randall across the stable and shoved him against a wooden wall. Randall tried to look past him to ensure that the watchmen were treating Sir Leon with respect, but the cleric’s armoured frame blocked the view.
‘Your name, young squire?’ Torian asked gently, as Randall stopped struggling and focused on the face before him.
‘Randall… I’m from the Darkwald.’ The words were hesitant.
‘Very well, Randall of Darkwald, I think the One God has another path for you.’ He stepped away from Randall, his bulk still obscuring Sir Leon’s body.
One of the watchmen coughed to attract Torian’s attention. ‘Milord… what of the knight’s blade?’ The man picked up the sword of Great Claw, hefting it and feeling its weight in his hand.
‘Watchman,’ snapped Torian, ‘that is the sword of a noble and not for the likes of you to wield.’ The cleric closed the distance quickly and held out his hand. ‘Give it here,’ he said with quiet authority.
The longsword was placed, hilt-first, into his hand. Brother Torian inspected the blade and nodded his approval at its condition before turning back to Randall. ‘I assume that, as a squire, the care of your master’s blade was your primary responsibility, yes?’
Randall breathed in deeply. ‘Sir Leon had other needs that took up a lot of time but, yes… I suppose I do look after the sword.’ He felt no anger towards Brother Torian, but his grief at Sir Leon’s death was enough to make him feel small and helpless. ‘I was going to oil the blade before the fight, but he didn’t let me… I thought…’
Torian interrupted him. ‘This blade is well cared for. I don’t think another coat of oil would have done much to help him.’
‘That’s what Sir Leon thought…’ Another tear appeared as Randall continued. ‘He knew he was going to die.’
Torian looked first at the sword and then at Randall, ignoring the squire’s attempts to see past him. After a moment of thought he spoke with conviction. ‘I’ve never had a squire. It’s often seen as unseemly for a cleric of the Purple to need one…’ He looked Randall up and down, shaking his head at the squire’s common appearance. ‘However, I am a cleric of the quest and outside of the usual traditions of my order.’
Randall didn’t register the words and his mind filled instead with images of Sir Leon, laughing and joking as he drunkenly told unlikely stories of heroism.
‘Are you listening, boy?’ Torian asked sharply.
‘No, I must confess that I’m not, Brother Torian… my mind is elsewhere, as I predict it will be for a while yet.’ Randall had just seen his master killed and was not in the mood to be polite.
‘You’ve a sharp tongue, boy… true to form, though, so I must at least commend you for consistency,’ he said with an imperious smile. ‘Now, this is my command…’ He grasped Randall’s face so that the squire could not help but look at him.
‘You will become my squire and I will school you in the correct way of things,’ he stated.
‘My lord…?’ Randall had a questioning look on his face.
‘Did you not hear me, boy?’
‘Er, I heard you, my lord, but I don’t think I understand.’ Randall was tired, confused and felt sick. The words of the cleric barely penetrated his mind.
‘Randall, a cleric I may be, but I am not blind to the fact that I just killed your master. Nor am I a cruel man, despite what you may think.’ His words were kinder now.
Randall shook his head and tried to focus. ‘I doubt you care, but I don’t hate you, my lord. My master wanted to die… he was old and tired and you could have been anybody.’ Tears came again to his eyes. ‘I think he just wanted to die fighting.’
Torian nodded with approval. ‘That is a proper way for a knight to die… he taught you a valuable lesson today, boy.’
The watchmen had begun to remove Sir Leon’s body. ‘Lux… I will hear of it if that man is treated poorly,’ said Torian.
The man bowed. ‘Absolutely, milord, I’ll see to the pyre myself.’
The watchmen left the stables, holding the body of Sir Leon respectfully. The man holding the head did so at arm’s length and was making an effort to not look at Sir Leon’s blank face.
Brother Torian turned back to Randall. ‘Well then, squire, this is what you need to know of your new master. I am a cleric of the quest from Ro Arnon and I am here looking for a Black Guard named Bromvy of Canarn.’
Randall tried to stand upright. ‘Yes, my lord… I understand. What has the man done?’
Torian looked quizzically at his new squire. ‘Do you not know the meaning of the words Black Guard, boy?’
‘I do not, sir.’ Randall shook his head.
‘Well, it seems that your education should begin immediately.’ He passed Randall the sword of Great Claw. ‘Here, take your new sword and let’s be off. We have much to do.’