by Brad Clark
Brace stiffened at the same sight. If Mirfar had not pointed it out directly, neither of them would have seen the glint of steel and the shadow of a mass of men moving in their direction.
“It is the army on the move,” Brace said softly. If they had arrived at this spot an hour sooner, the mass of moving soldiers would have been too far away to see. “Five miles. Maybe a bit more,” Brace added after a moment of reflection.
“We are still quite a bit higher up than them,” Mirfar said. He looked around. They sky was perfectly clear. The sun was still crawling its way up towards its noon height. Just about perfect conditions for seeing long distances. He had spent much of his life in the mountains and had a good handle on how far he could see. “I believe they are much farther. Ten miles, I’d say.”
Brace wasn’t going to argue. The army was far enough away that he could not really see individual soldiers. It was just a moving mass of bodies with the occasional glint of steel reflecting up to them. “We should avoid them.”
“They may offer a quicker way back to the king so you can deliver your message,” Mirfar said.
Brace shook his head. “I am a military man. Have been most of my life. They will not look kindly upon me this far north. I fear they would treat me more as a spy than a messenger. We better get moving before they see us.”
Mirfar picked up a sack of supplies and slung it over his shoulder. “I agree we should get moving, but it will be another day before they would be close enough to see us. We are but specks in the haze of the mountain to them. Likewise, we only see them as a mass of men.”
After their short break, they moved slowly down the mountain. The rocky terrain that had slowed them to nearly a crawl had been replaced by a rolling landscape of hills and crevices. Brace moved as fast as the pain would allow, but still much slower than he wanted. They had many days travel in front of them, unless they were able to find a stray horse. Or borrow one.
Brace felt naked being so out in the open. Trees were sparsely scattered about, offering little protection if they were to need it. With one eye on his path, he kept his other eye on the army mass that looked like it had yet to move. Indeed, the army was still many miles away. But after a couple of hours of descending down the mountain, they could no longer see it. At one point, Brace turned around to see how far they had traveled and was surprised at how tall the mountains were. Despite his slow gait, they were making decent time.
Just as he was getting used to traveling peacefully through enemy territory, Brace thought he heard the snort of horse and froze in his tracks. Mirfar, who had been walking slightly ahead of Brace kept walking. Almost a full minute later, Mirfar finally realized that he was walking alone and stopped to turn around. Brace silenced the forthcoming question with a raised finger. He tilted his head, trying to listen for more sounds. His eyes scanned the area. A stream ran nearby, marked by trees along its banks. Their water skins were still mostly full with water, so they weren’t planning on stopping to fill them, although they had discussed it some time ago. There were other patches of trees, but none packed so tightly that a horse could hide. His hand unconsciously fell to his empty hip.
After what seemed an eternity to Mirfar, Brace finally started walking forward, although his eyes still scanned the trees that ran along the creek. When he reached Mirfar, he said softly. “I think we are being watched. I heard a horse.”
Mirfar raised an eyebrow. “I did not hear…”
The old man’s words were cut off by the crash of horses through the underbrush by the creek. Brace spun around, falling into a defensive position with Mirfar behind him. Five soldiers, astride dark black mounts surrounded them. Four were clad identically in chainmail armor underneath a plain red surcoat. Their heads were topped with simple conical helms. All four had swords drawn and ready to use. The fifth soldier was helmetless, but had the same plain red surcoat over his chainmail. His hair was long and curly, unkempt and windblown from riding. He stayed behind the other riders, keeping his distance. He was clearly the leader.
“Hail, strangers,” the leader said with a thick accent in Brace’s native tongue.
Brace looked him up and down, and then at each of the soldiers. They carried themselves as professionals, hands and eyes firm.
“Hello and well met!” Mirfar said as cheerfully as he could.
The lead soldier ignored the greeting and kept his attention on Brace. “Who are you?”
“Travelers.”
“From?”
Brace nodded to the south. “From over the mountains.”
The soldier smiled and said matter-of-factly, “Then you admit to being spies.”
“No!” Brace protested, stepping forward. “We are travelers!”
“Seize them.”
The four helmed soldiers quickly dismounted.
“I have a message for the king!” Brace shouted. He reached into the folds of his tunic and brought out the message with the seal of King Thorndale on it.
The five soldiers all shared a glance. Finally, the lead soldier dismounted and strode to Brace where he grabbed the message and tore it open.
“That is for the king,” Brace protested.
“I am sure my father won’t mind me reading it.” He flashed a wide smile. “I am Prince Toknon. I have, in fact, been looking for you for some time. It seems two of your friends stumbled upon my army just the other day.” He looked into Brace’s eyes and his smile grew. “I know all about you, Sir Brace Hawkden. Or should I call you spy Brace Hawkden?”
“Read it,” Brace replied firmly. “I am no spy.”
Prince Toknon read through the message and his eyes grew wider at each line that he read. “Well, this is most interesting. My father and your king have been very busy the past few months.”
“The message is delivered. If you will, please let us return,” Mirfar said meekly. He finished with a tip of his head.
Prince Toknon dropped to a knee and ripped the paper up into small pieces. He pulled out a flint stone and struck it several times with his dagger before he was able to get a spark. The spark took quickly to the dry parchment that the message was written on. In only moments, the message was gone. He stood, watching the remnants of the message scatter in the wind.
“I am unaware of any message,” the prince said. “It seems that this little game that my father and your king has been playing is over. My army marches south. We will conquer your fabled knights and then we will march upon your grand city. And then, Karmon will be no more. It will only be Thell.”
Brace burned deeply with anger. He looked around, searching for anything that could be used for a weapon. But there was nothing to be found, other than a few blades of grass. The soldiers were young and fit, imposing figures. One on one, he would easily kill them. Even two on one he would have a good chance. But five on one, he would be cut down before the first parry. “Your army is no match for the might of the Knights of Karmon!” Brace shouted in defiance.
“You are right, I am afraid. And that is why you have survived as long as you have. My father soils his robes when he thinks about your fabled knights. But there are other ways to fight a war.” He mounted his horse and grabbed the reigns. “Your king and my father have been conspiring for some time. But I dare say they have not been conspiring as long as I have.” He turned to one of his men. “Palin, Gar, you both will stay with the spy and escort him to tonight’s camp. Be sure that you bind his arms tightly.”
“What about them?” the soldier named Palin asked. He nodded at Mirfar and Bellock.
Prince Toknon looked down at the old man from atop his horse and declared, “There is only one way to deal with a traitor of the realm.” He spurred his horse forward and in one motion unsheathed his sword and swung it down upon Mirfar’s head. The old man, too surprised to react did not move as the sword cleaved his head from his body.
Brace jumped after the Prince, letting a scream of rage escape his lips. But before he could take two steps he was felled by a sharp blo
w to the back of his head.
Chapter Sixteen
Lord Neffenmark and his escort plowed through the city, heading straight for the castle gates. The four riders, his four best swordsman, formed a wedge ahead of the horse-drawn carriage that pulled the lord. Already hot and tired from the long ride, his irritation grew with each passing moment. What should have been a quick trip straight through the center of the city up to the castle was a slow crawl through peasant infested streets.
He poked his head out through the curtains and shouted at his nearest escort. “Move these people out of the way!”
The man turned to Lord Neffenmark and shook his head ever so slightly. “There are so many. They fill the streets and they are heading away from the castle while we are trying to go there.”
“Run them over if they are in your way!” Neffenmark shouted before shutting the curtain in anger. He let his enormous girth fall back onto the pillows, rocking the carriage back and forth for several moments.
It was not too much longer before the sounds of the crowds dissipated and the speed of the clop of the horse’s hooves increased. The lord eased the curtain open slightly and peered ahead, seeing the castle gates only a couple of blocks away. He closed his eyes and let his anger subside. He needed to be angry when confronting the king, but not a real anger. It needed to be the false anger that he so easily displayed and allowed him to think clearly and rationally. If he let his real anger show, he knew that his mouth would get him in trouble, as it had many times before. If he were to follow through with the lie, then he needed to be in complete control. The last thing that he needed was to let slip any detail or deviate in any way from his well-conceived deception.
The carriage stopped and he could hear his men dismounting from their horses. His curtain was pulled back and he found himself facing a closed portcullis, blocking their entrance to the castle. A young boy was standing behind it. He was dressed in a simple red tunic and white hose. His hands were at his side and he stood stiffly, staring back at them.
“I am to see the king,” Neffenmark announced form his carriage.
“Um,” the boy muttered. “He is not here.”
Lord Neffenmark waited for further explanation, but the boy just stood, staring back at him. As one second became ten, and the silence still hanging over them, Lord Neffenmark was surprisingly not angered. He was just simply surprised.
“Well?” Neffenmark asked.
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Sire?” the boy asked.
“Where is the king?” Lord Neffenmark’s words exploded from his mouth, spittle flying out of the carriage and all the way to the portcullis. His face went instantly red and his heart started beating strong and hard. If he had the ability to get up, he would have done so and charged the thick metal gate, grabbing it and shaking it until it fell down. But his enormous size kept him planted firmly on his pillows.
The boy, took a step back, his calmness washed away. His face was ashen, his eyes wide with fear. “He is at the fields, sire,” the boy said softly. “It is the time of the great Summer Festival. Today is the squire tournament.”
Neffenmark’s anger subsided enough to allow him to smile at the boy. “Thank you, my young boy. And…” the lord was about to chastise the boy, but before Neffenmark could say another word, the boy turned and ran out of sight. Lord Neffenmark spat on the ground, cursing the king, his castle, and this retched city.
“Karl,” Neffenmark shouted. “To this festival of theirs. And quickly!”
***
Melanie took her seat next to Princess Elissa. Their tent was atop the hill that overlooked the training grounds just outside of the city walls. In times of war, the training ground was used to teach swordsmanship and pike handling to the peasants called to battle. In times of peace, it was used by the knights in their horsemanship drills, and just as the first warm days of summer arrived, for the Summer Festival.
“A fine day,” Melanie said. A smile was plastered on her face and she was doing all that she could to cheer up her friend. At first the princess was not going to attend, but her father had insisted. And when she still refused, he demanded. Although the princess was attending, she was not liking it and she was doing everything that she could to not enjoy it.
“It’s too hot,” Princess Elissa replied. With no wind to cool them off, it was hot even in the shade of their tent. Her tone was harsh. More so than she expected, or wanted, but she was in too much of a mood to apologize to her good friend. She stayed in her own world, her eyes watching the knights help set up the arena for the squires, but her mind wandered. She tried not to think about Conner, but she couldn’t really help it. It was really the only reason that she was here, to watch her champion humiliate himself. And the more she thought about it, the angrier she was. Not so much at Conner, but at herself. He was a handsome boy with a pleasant personality. They seemed very much alike in many ways, even though she was a princess and he was…not. When they were still friends, they had spent many hours just talking. Sometimes serious, sometimes not. But mostly she just enjoyed being with him. He had saved her life in the woods, but that was all he ever really did. She could see that he would never be more than the hunter that he was. He could never be a knight and to think about him actually donning plate armor and really being her champion made her laugh out loud.
But then she caught herself. Her eyes found him, standing with the other squires, far in the distance. He wasn’t like the rest. He was a little taller and ganglier. He would never be the thick muscular knight. He would just be a skinny peasant boy. But she caught herself not breathing when she saw him. A flutter went through her stomach and a tear touched the corner of her eye. He stood there, out of place. Wide-eyed like a lost rabbit among a pack of wolves. The anger faded and in its place came pity. He did try. He tried to be her champion, but it was just not to be.
She had seen many of these tournaments before and even though they were supposed to be friendly matches, they were usually anything but. Every couple of years, a squire would take a wooden sword the wrong way and would not make it out of the tournament alive. Many squires came out with broken bones. Hardly any were left unbruised or unbloodied. It was the nature of the contest which Princess Elissa really didn’t care for. She knew it would be a while before Conner would enter the contest. He was probably the worst of the bunch, and would be chosen as a fighting partner last. The squires with the first choice were the ones ready to take the next step into knighthood and they would chose the strongest opponent, and not the weakest. In the end, it was all about honor. There was no honor in defeating the weak.
She settled back into her cushioned seat, wishing she were anywhere else.
***
Conner looked around, eyes wide in awe at the site of the festival. Most of the city gathered outside of the walls to watch the various events of skill that the knights and squires put on. The training area was in a deep, natural bowl. This allowed the crowd to sit as if they were in one of the fabled Taran arenas. But instead of sitting on hard stone, they sat on soft grass. The tents of the important nobles, including the king and the princess, were stacked on one end of the arena. As the sun began to rise above the horizon, the first of the day’s crowd appeared. By the time the sun was high in the sky, and the festivities were about to begin, the arena was lined with thousands of cheering spectators.
The squires were the first event of the day. While the lords and nobles fed upon their lunch, the knights-to-be showed off their skills with the sword. To the oldest, it was the first step in their rite of knighthood. The best of the best would fight, with the winners getting a leg up on being chosen for knighthood. For the rest, it was a time to make a name for themselves. The winners would be remembered for the valiant skill, while the losers would simply be forgotten, hoping to make a better show at the next festival.
But they were simply the warm-up to the main show. The crowd was really waiting for the knights to make their appearance in their finely polished plate arm
or to show off their skill with lance, sword, and bow. Although they all wanted to win the competitions, it was more about showing their skill and bravery to the people of the kingdom. The Karmon Knights were the best of the best, and the show gave the people something to remember them by. They competed hard, but in the end, they had fun with the competitions. They were brothers-in-arms and winning was never more important than honor. But for the squires, knighthood could be won or lost at the day’s competition. It was their one time, outside of battle, to show the knights who had what it took to attain knighthood. Although honor and courage were synonymous with knighthood, if a knight couldn't fight, he was no good to the kingdom.
Conner found himself gawking at the crowd, trying to see each and every face cheering them on. Their faces blended together, though. It was too much. The loudness was crushing, fraying every last nerve. His palms sweated and his heart raced. A push on his back sent him stumbling forward and he almost lost his balance.
Conner spun around, suddenly oblivious to all that was around him. It was Hollin, the best of the squires.
“Move along, little boy,” Hollin said. He stood with feet wide, hands on his hips. He wore a leather vest over a tunic that had the arms ripped off. His bulging biceps were exposed, and he flexed them more. Hollin would be a knight before the end of the year. He had it all, size, strength, stamina, intelligence, and bravery. The problem, Conner knew, was that he was more jerk than anything else.
“Watch yourself,” Conner growled back, standing his ground.
“Stand aside and get back to the end of the line, where you belong,” Hollin said, a slight smirk spreading across his face. The squires were to march out onto the field and be presented to the king in an order determined by their skill in training. The best of the squires would be first, and he would be presented personally to the king, while the rest of the squires would simply be announced by name. Then the first squire would choose his opponent, calling him out to the center of the ring where they would do battle with wooden practice swords. The winner would then call upon another squire, who would then in turn call out his opponent. Although a squire could call out any remaining squire, it was prescribed practice to call out an opponent who was equal or even better. A win over a lesser opponent was not treated as well as a loss to superior opponent. A brave knight would stand and face the greatest of opponents without fear. By sending him to the back of the line, Hollin was putting Conner in his place.