by Brad Clark
Two large windows provided just enough light to see by. Night had fallen quite some time ago, and the moon had yet to rise. But the cloudless skies allowed the infinite stars to shine brightly, and that gave the archer all the light he needed. He took a goblet and poured it full, drinking the sweet wine deeply until gone. He filled the goblet again and drained half of it before his thirst was quenched. A plate of cheeses and fruits was spread out on a table, waiting for Lord Neffenmark’s return. The archer stuffed his mouth, chewing as quickly as he could. In the end, he did more swallowing than chewing.
He heard the voices at the main door a moment before he knew they would open. The archer’s first reaction was to duck and hide, but his mind forced his body to relax. He wanted to be in the open, to be caught red handed. It would certainly keep him from being accidentally killed if he were found to be sneaking around, stealing the lord’s fine wines.
Lord Neffenmark threw the doors open and marched in, his boisterous voice belittling his thin, emaciated servant. But the words stopped mid-sentence as soon as his eyes fell upon the archer, who was standing in the middle of the room, munching on a handful of ripe red grapes. The eyes grew wide, and his face flushed with anger. His mouth moved as if to say something, but no words dared come out. Instead, he headed straight for his sword, which hung from a peg on the wall. But before he took two steps, the archer tossed a sword to floor. It came to a skidding stop at Lord Neffenmark’s feet.
The redness faded, but the anger in the eyes did not. He turned to his servant and ordered the torches of the room to be lit. Quickly, the servant did so before disappearing back through the door.
Once they were alone, Neffenmark stooped down with a grunt and picked up the sword. He eyed it carefully before saying, “Someday, your impetuous arrogance will get you killed.”
The archer smiled, still chewing his grapes. “Not until you actually find some guards that can actually guard.”
With sword still in hand, Neffenmark walked across the room to the platter of food. The archer grabbed a handful of cheese and backed away, making sure that Neffenmark was farther than arms reach away. Despite his girth, the fat man was known to be an able swordsman.
“He is dead, then?” Neffenmark asked with a mouthful of food.
“He was struck with my arrow, and fell down into Krafer’s Chasm. I found his sword at the edge of the trail, just before the cliff drops off.”
“You were supposed to cut off his head and deliver it to me,” Neffenmark said with a slight smirk.
“The body is at the bottom of the gorge. If you would like to see it, you may drop yourself down into it.”
The smirk spread to a smile. “You have no fear, my friend.”
“I fear many things,” the archer replied firmly. “You are not one of them.”
Lord Neffenmark laughed heartily causing his thick jowls to giggle. He pointed the sword directly at archer. “And that is why I like you.”
The archer smiled back. “I think I will take my money, now.”
Neffenmark nodded. “And you shall have it. All that you have earned.”
The archer’s smile faded after a few moments when the lord of the castle did not move. Lord Neffenmark stood silently, unmoving. His eyes bright and full of life and something else. Was it mirth? Or maybe satisfaction? The archer glanced around, looking for someone else in the room. But he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing.
Neffenmark, seeing the eyes of the archer said, “We are alone. Are you afraid that someone else is in here?”
“I do not fear you, nor do I trust you,” the archer said. A bead of sweat started to fall from his hairline. The wine was tasty, and must not have been watered down, as he could feel its effects on him. He was a bit light headed and almost dizzy. He generally avoided wine or anything stronger as it had a direct effect on his aim and his senses. And this wine did affect him, although it seemed to creep up on him slowly. As he thought about it, the wine should have affected him more quickly, numbing his senses and making him feel warm and tingly almost as soon as he drank deeply from the goblet. But he was feeling something different, something that he’d never felt before. He didn’t feel better, as wine would do at the onset, he felt worse. His stomach cramped and he gripped his side.
The smile on Neffenmark’s face grew wider. “We are in the endgame, my friend.”
A steady stream of sweat poured down the archer’s face and his heart began to pound heartily. He looked at the pitcher of wine, sitting alone in the center of a table, a single goblet next to it. It had been set out for a single person to partake, and it wasn’t for the fat lord. His face flushed and his breathing became labored. He clutched at his chest, trying to take in more air, but it was as if someone was squeezing his chest, keeping him from breathing. He knew of poisons, and knew that some weren’t fatal, they just made you go to sleep. But as he fell to his knees, he knew that whatever was in that wine had killed him. If he had just an ounce of strength left, he would have hurled a knife at the fat blob of a man. He could have killed him easily, if only he had the strength. But the lord was smart, too smart.
The archer collapsed onto the ground, his limbs unmoving and unfeeling. He wasn’t dead, yet. He could still hear. He could hear the door opening, the sound of footsteps, and Lord Neffenmark giving the order to dispose of his body. He couldn’t breathe and his body ached for air. He wanted to kick and scream, but his body was stiff and uncontrollable. He felt himself being picked up and thrown over the shoulder of a heavy-set man. He bounced once, then twice, and then things became fuzzy. He didn’t dread the darkness. He accepted it, only hoping it would come more quickly, to end the agony. He knew he was dead, but death had not quite taken him. He wanted to cry, wanted to shout. But then the darkness did come, and he knew no more.
Chapter Eleven
Brace Hawkden moved, and there was pain. He thought, and there was pain. He tried to localized the pain, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere. There was no escaping it, he could only embrace it. With tremendous effort, he forced himself to open his eyes. The daylight burned as much as anything, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open.
He was on his back in a somewhat comfortable position. There was a thick wool blanket that covered him from legs to mid-chest. His head rested on a stiff cushion of some sort. He tried to sit up, but pain exploded from his legs and up his back. His movement seemed to cause some activity as voices suddenly could be heard. But it was in another language, one that he was not familiar with.
An elderly man, with a long, stringy gray beard streaked with a bit of black kneeled over him. The old man’s steely eyes scanned up and down before finally coming to rest upon him.
The man said something, obviously directed at him, but he did not understand, so he shook his head. “I don’t…” he croaked out.
The old man glanced back away, as if he were looking at someone or something. Then he asked, “Do you understand me, now?”
“Yes.”
“You are injured and you must rest,” the old man said. The grim face softened into something of a smile. “I am Mirfar. You?”
After a moment of clearing the cobwebs, the injured Knight Captain of Karmon said, “Brace.”
Again, the old man looked away. This time, Brace stretched his neck to see what the old man kept looking at. They were at the center of a camp in the mountains. There was little else but rock and dirt around them. A group of three other men were huddled around a fire, which was next to a small tent. Brace could not see any weapons, but he figured there must be some within easy grasp.
“That is a name known to me,” Mirfar said, his eyes still looking at the group of three men. “It is a name that many have cursed.”
Brace’s heart jumped. It all started to come back to him, now. He was heading towards Thell, having decided to skip Lord Neffenmark’s castle. He would indeed deliver the message to the king of Thell. But then his horse suddenly reared back, knocking him to the ground and over a clif
f. He fell and rolled, seemingly forever. That was the last thing he remembered. He looked closer at Mirfar. Thellians didn’t look much different than Karmons, as they shared some common ancestors. But there were always little things that would distinguish one from another. He could not be certain, but Mirfar certainly looked and acted Thellian.
Sensing a change in Brace’s demeanor, Mirfar placed a hand on Brace’s shoulder. “Do not worry. I have nursed you back to life. I will not do anything to harm you.”
Brace pushed himself up onto his elbows. “I have a message. For the king.”
The old man chuckled. “You are far from your king’s castle.”
Brace shook his head. “Not mine. Yours.”
The old man took his time thinking about Brace’s revelation. After a few moments, he said. “We are far from our king’s castle as well. Too far for you to travel in your condition.”
Brace sat up, grinding his teeth hard at the pain that was shooting up from his leg.
“You have a broken leg. If you ever walk again, it will be a miracle," Mirfar said.
“The message must be delivered.” His hand drifted up to a spot on his upper chest that was sore. He remembered vaguely getting struck in the shoulder just before falling into wherever it was that he fell into.
“You were lucky with that one," Mirfar said. "A glancing wound. The arrow did not go deep and I was able to pull the arrow head cleanly. I have packed it with mud so it will heal faster."
"Mud?" Brace asked.
The old man smiled and tapped him gently on his good shoulder. "It is an old remedy."
The other three men had noticed that Brace was awake and now had made their way over to where he was resting. They didn’t look as old as Mirfar, but had the same weathered, harsh look.
“You cannot travel as you are," Mirfar declared. "There are no wagons to carry you, and even if there were, the land is too rough and rocky. We don’t have horses up this high. Only a mule to carry our supplies.”
Brace looked around. “How’d I get here, then?”
“Bellock found you.” Mirfar nodded at one of the other three. Bellock was the largest of them, with a large barrel chest, big arms, but a soft baby face. “He carried you up the mountain to our camp. He saved your life.”
Brace looked at Bellock and said, “Thank you.”
Bellock nodded and said something in Thellian.
Mirfar said, “The others do not speak your tongue. Only I do. Bellock says that he hopes he did not hurt you worse. But I fear that he might have. Your leg is damaged badly. I have wrapped it up with a splint.”
“Splint?” Brace asked.
“I am a healer,” Mirfar explained. “Broken bones heal better and faster if you can keep them from moving about. It may not heal right, but at least you are alive.”
Brace reached down and touched the thick branch that was tied to his leg. It was tied tight and Brace couldn’t move it. A throbbing sensation pulsated from his legs. Mirfar shoved a bowl of thick liquid under his nose. Without much thought, Brace drank it. It had an odd fruity taste, which made the thick substance bearable.
“That will keep your leg from hurting so much,” Mirfar said. “It will not make the pain go away, but it will make the pain not so bad.”
“It is not so bad now,” Brace said stoically.
Mirfar smiled and replied, “You are strong man, and your courage is well known. But you must rest, now.”
“My message, it must get through.”
“If it is written, I can have it delivered.”
Brace fell back slowly onto his back and let out a long sigh. “No, it must be delivered in person.”
“Important, then?” Mirfar asked.
“Yes, very,” Brace replied.
Mirfar cleared his throat and asked carefully, “It is not a declaration of war, is it?”
Brace smiled with his eyes closed. “No. Not war. Peace.”
“Then I will help you with your message,” Mirfar said. “Rest and I will discuss this with the others.”
***
Conner stank from head to toe. It had been probably the most miserable job the he could have ever imagined doing. Although he had grown up around animals and knew their stench, it was completely different when they were confined to small spaces. There was no wind to blow away the smell. The horrid reek of wet manure hung in the air, thick as his aunt’s pea soup. He could have handled the horse barn where the stalls of the precious mares and geldings spent their nights. Those were changed on a daily basis, a ritual event for the younger squires. Fresh straw bedded the stalls after the horses were taken out for the day. It was an easy job that didn’t take too long. But the pens of the pigs were a different story.
With the great festival of summer coming the following month, the cooks of the castle were to prepare a hundred hogs for roasting. They had to be large, fat hogs, full of juicy, tasty meat. They had been brought in from outside the city only two weeks ago, and the pens were already a disgusting mess. Conner figured that the pens had not been cleaned since they were brought it. So two weeks of urine and excretion had turned into a sloppy mess that caused Conner to continually gag. A towel had been tied around his mouth and nose, trying to keep most of the smell out, but it also made it hard to breath. And it didn’t work real well anyway.
He hadn’t been alone, as three other squires serving the same punishment were relegated to this duty. But while they worked slowly to avoid having to return to the training grounds, Conner worked as fast as he could so that he could return to training. But it was to no avail, as he not only missed the morning training session with the other squires, he missed his afternoon training with Goshin. He had skipped lunch, hoping to finish that much quicker. But the only thing that did for him was to make him extremely hungry by the time dinner came around.
Eventually he did finish, but he was covered in slop and he feared that he would never be the same again. Every pore in his body seemed to absorb the smell of pig. Every crevice, every nick, every cranny, was filled with manure. He stank and stank bad.
It was dark as he walked through the city, back towards the castle. The pens were far away from the castle, so that the king would never have to experience the putrid smell of pigs. His hands were sore, his back ached, and he wanted nothing to do with the squires who wouldn’t work fast enough for him. He had left them some time ago, taking a left when they took a right. He thought briefly about muggers, until he remembered how bad he stank. No one in their right mind would try and get within ten feet of him.
“Conner! Is that really you?”
He stopped in his tracks and looked up. His heart sank. Princess Elissa was standing in front of him, a thick wool cloak pulled tightly around her. He wanted to find a hole to crawl into, but there were none nearby. He could only nod in his filth.
“Uh, what…” her words got stuck as the scent of pig reached her nose.
“Pigs,” was all that he could say. He was mortified. He would have rather come across the king himself, than to have Elissa see him in his condition. He started to walk away.
“Wait!” she shouted, coming another step closer. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“I’ve been a bit busy,” Conner replied.
“I see,” she said, laughing again, putting her hand to her face to cover her nose.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes I walk the streets at night.”
“It’s not really safe, is it?” He looked around, expecting someone to be lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on them. They were alone in the streets.
“Safe enough," She replied. "It’s not like there are murderers and thieves around every corner.” She gave him her wide, pretty smile.
There was an awkward silence as he hoped that she would move on and she hoped that he wouldn’t.
“How goes your…” her question trailed off.
“Training?" Conner said. "It goes fine
. Mostly. Except today, when I made Sir Plendoor angry and he had me clean the pig pens.”
She covered her mouth with a hand to stifle another laugh. “I hear he is a moody sort. But a fine knight.”
“I guess so,” Conner replied. “He does not like me very much.”
“Are you getting good, yet?” She asked innocently.
Conner gave her an inquisitive look and asked, “Good? Good at what?”
“At being my champion, silly!” Elissa said with a giggle.
Conner was suddenly reminded that although she had grown into her woman’s body, she was still a girl at heart. And she would be for some time. Standing there, in front of her, with his heart melting at the mere sight of her, Conner felt alone and overwhelmed. He was doing this for her, and he was failing. Every muscle in his body ached. Every pore was saturated with the smell of pig. He was not good, at least not yet. He wondered if he was ever going to be worthy of serving as her champion.
He missed his bed, even though it was really not much of a bed. It was just the corner of a small room in aunt’s house. But it was his bed. It was hardly more than a pile of straw and the blankets that his aunt gave him were barely enough to keep him warm, but he still missed what he had called home.
But Princess Elissa stood in front of him, her long blonde hair framing her perfect face. She was as beautiful a woman as he had ever seen, and every time he laid eyes upon her, his heart leapt right out of his chest. He found it hard to think, much less breathe around her. He didn’t know what to say. He stumbled across his words, trying to find just the perfect thing to say. But he knew he always sounded dumb.
The seed of something bigger had been planted in him from the beginning, and it was starting to take root. He wanted more than to just be her champion, he finally admitted to himself. He genuinely liked her and found her friendship something that he really desired. And if he were to leave now, he knew that he would never see her again. She might even forget about him. For certain, he would spend the rest of his life, thinking about her day and night. He couldn’t leave. Despite the loneliness, the tired and sore muscles. Despite being nearly beaten into submission everyday by his fellow squires, he knew that he had to stay. It was not for her, but because of her, he told himself.