The Bringer of War

Interlude:

The great fish lay silently on the bottom of the murky sea, its black eyes staring into the abyss. It’s powerful, toothy jaws were open wide, an invitation to many of the smaller creatures to feast on its soft innards. They scattered like leaves on the wind when something loomed just behind the serrated teeth.

The worm had changed again. Now its body was larger, the scales grown so tiny that they were nearly invisible. Its silver eyes produced their own luminescence as it slithered out of the corpse it had been feeding on. The ring like mouth had been replaced with a maw more reminiscent of a crocodile, and it put the new apparatus to good use, snapping up a crab that had not been quick enough to escape. Its long body undulated as it swam towards the warmer, brighter water near the surface. Four stubby limbs it held close to its body, the finned tail it possessed more than sufficient to propel it through the murky environment.

The head crested the surface, startling some sea faring birds from a piece of driftwood. A dark line lay on the horizon, and the creature knew on an instinctive level that better meals could be more easily obtained there. It began to slip silently through the waves, intent on reaching land.

“Templar takes your tower,” said Hector, grinning as he brought the wooden token down on the thick board. “Check.”

Bruno raised his gaze from the playing field to stare blankly at his squire. Sullenly, he reached out with his finger and began to knock over the largest piece on the field.

“What are you doing?” said Hector, stopping he knight’s hand “you still have moves left!”

Bruno grumbled something that the squire did not catch, and stared at the board longer. They were playing King’s Field, a game favored by the Templar order because it was thought to encourage strategic thinking. Most of Hector’s white pieces remained, while his own red ones were largely absent.

“Bah,” he said, knocking the piece over anyway. “Enough games. I am going to stretch my legs.”

Hector grinned, sweeping up the pieces and putting them in a velvet sack.

“You have gotten rusty, sir Bruno,” said the squire “I often heard you say that the only one who could defeat you at Field was the Lady Kathe-”

Hector winced at the flash of pain that shot through the knight’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No reason to be,” said Bruno, rising to his feet. He picked up his sword and buckled it on before walking to the door.

“Going to the Hammer?” said Hector with a grin. “Going to sit in the corner and watch the fair Allison when you think she doesn’t notice?”

Bruno stopped at the door, not turning around to face him.

“You are recovered enough,” he said “that you might taste the back of my hand, squire.”

Hector held his hands up in surrender, but his smile did not fade.

The knight left their residence and made for the center of town. He was quite used to the stiff, formal greetings that were offered to him, but the feeling of their eyes lancing into his back once he had passed still made his innards churn. At times, he regretted his actions on the first day he rode into the sleepy village. Bruno felt as if he had their fear, but not their respect.

He nearly trod right past the Hammer, as Hector’s jibes had cut him more deeply than he let on. At the last moment he turned on his heel and entered the establishment. It was early evening, just past dinnertime, and the Hammer was about half full. Many of the gathered farmers and laborers were excitedly speaking of the upcoming Harvest Festival. Their conversations became more muted and subtle when Bruno strode through the chamber. He smiled at Brutus as the man handed him a mug full of ale.

“Many thanks,” he said, draining it halfway in one go.

“You look like a man with much on his mind,” said the innkeeper, vigorously wiping at a stubborn stain on the bar.

“My squire bested me at King’s Field,” he said a bit ruefully.

“Ah,” said Brutus “well, Hector is a bright lad. You should take it as a compliment. We all wish for those we mentor to one day exceed us.”

Bruno offered him a wordless toast and half smile before finishing the drink. Brutus poured him another as Allison stopped briefly next to his seat. She bore a tray full of steaming bowls of lamb stew, the smell of which made Bruno’s mouth water though he had eaten his dinner already.

“Anything to eat, Sir Cromwell?” she said pleasantly. For no reason he could fathom, the maid seemed have been taking pains to attend to him recently. He would have been gladdened by it, but for her cold demeanor.

“No, thank you,” he said, offering her a smile. Allison stood for a moment, her green eyes boring into his dark brown ones, her lips slightly parted as if there were something she wished to say.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he said, arching an eyebrow.

“No, my lord,” she said, her eyes cast down at the floor “nothing at all.”

He watched in confusion as she strode away, beaming a smile at the patrons as she delivered their food. Bruno could extoll on the nuances of different ways to grip a sword for hours on end, had been taught extensive lessons in strategy and history, but he felt as if he could never fathom the depths of the female mind.

Brutus, guessing his thoughts, chuckled a bit.

“Don’t be too hard on her, my lord,” he said “she is a loner by nature, and lonely by choice.”

Bruno grunted. His somber stare became a cold sneer when Thurston and his two doltish cousins came into the bar. They stopped at the door when they saw Sir Bruno, then broke into a conversation.

“I say, cousin,” said the big redhead “is it me, or is there a terrible stench in the Hammer tonight?”

“Aye,” said the toothless one “should call it the Hammer’s Arse!”

All three laughed at the jest. Thurston’s eyes briefly met Bruno’s, and the smug look on the man’s face nearly caused the knight to throttle him then and there.

“Must be something turned black and rotted in here,” said Thurston, which caused his cousins to laugh but made the rest of the patrons cringe into silence. Many eyes went to Bruno to see what he might do at the veiled insult.

The knight merely smiled and turned his back on the trio, taking a drink of his ale.

“Hey,” said Toothless “I know what it is, eh? It’s the smell of a coward what don’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“Indeed,” said Thurston “the foul aroma of one who allows a child to be his shield-”

He abruptly stopped speaking when Allison stood before him, hands on her wide hips. The withering look in her green eyes stole much of the men’s bluster.

“You lower us all with your ill chosen words,” she said loudly. “Keep them in your mouths or leave.”

Thurston licked his lips, then broke into a nervous smile. He glanced across the room at Brutus, who was glowering darkly at the three of them.

“Does your serving wench,” he said loudly enough that all could hear “now run the Hammer, old man? Are her wishes now your bidding?”

“Only when she’s right,” said Brutus “you’re showing your arse, all of you.”

“Very well,” said Thurston. He turned to regard the faces of many of the patrons. “Any who wish it may join me at my residence. It is a bit more cramped than the Hammer, and the ale may not be quite as plentiful, but the...company...is more selective.”

Brutus scowled as over a dozen men rose from their seats to follow the mayor out into the night. Aven sighed, thinking the exodus to be her fault. She turned and strode up to the bar, a sheepish expression on her lovely face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down wearily in one of the stools next to Bruno.

“Bah,” said Brutus, dismissing the events with a wave of his hand. “They will return. Thurston is too cheap to allow much of his spirits to spill down another’s throat.”

“Thank you,” said Bruno to Aven, giving her a weak smile.

“For what?” she said, blinking. “Oh, you are welcome, though I would care not if those three were to be swallowed up by the earth ere they return.”

“Allison,” said Brutus in an admonishing tone, which was largely drowned out by Bruno’s laughter.

“Yes,” he said “if only we could pray to the Allfather and have every bad seed just disappear.”

The barmaid’s nose wrinkled at the knight’s whimsy. Brutus set a tall, cold mug of peach brandy on the table in front of her.

“Why don’t you rest your feet, keep Sir Bruno company for a moment?” he said with a sly grin. “It’s Brandywine.”

“I’m not tired-” said Aven, but the big man was already gone, disappearing through the curtained door to the kitchen.

“You don’t believe in the Allfather, do you?” said Bruno. “I have naught seen you at church on Endsweek.”

“Why should I believe in him?” she said, taking a drink of the brandy for courage. It burned pleasantly down her throat, though she did gasp a bit. “He is but a fabrication of your church.”

Bruno’s eyes widened, and he sipped upon his own drink before responding.

“Hearsay is a flogging offense,” he said.

“I think you have flogged enough folk in our village,” she said snippishly.

“I spoke in jest,” said Bruno, holding up a palm to forestall further angry words. “If I may ask, why do you think Him a conjuration of the church?”

“Well,” said Aven, staring at the Templar pin on Bruno’s lapel. “There is his symbol, for one. Tell me, what does it mean to you?”

“The all seeing eye?” said Bruno. “Why, it is to remind us all that the Allfather sees all sin, knows all evil, that men may beware their actions and their thoughts.”

“Interesting,” said Aven “but my folk tell a different tale. There was once a god worshiped in the north known as Aedin. His symbol was an open eye, much like the one you wear, but it was to represent the sacrifice he made for his children.”

“Sacrifice?” said Bruno, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

“Yes,” she said, turning about on the stool to face him more fully. Bruno caught himself staring at the way her bosom swayed with the gesture, and forced his gaze to her face. “Aedin gave up his right eye, denying himself vision of the mundane in exchange for vision of the future.”

“What future?” said Bruno with a thoughtful frown.

“The end of all times,” said Allison, going to drink from her mug but finding it empty. Brutus had left the bottle on the table. She reached for it and poured more into her glass, offering to put some in Bruno’s as well. The knight grunted politely and held his mug out to accept the dark amber fluid. “He sought to prevent it, so his children might be spared suffering.”

“I see,” said Bruno “and how is it the Allfather came to have the same symbol?”

Aven grinned, leaning forward eagerly on her stool.

“That is the really interesting part,” she said “you see, the one you call the Allfather was once a jealous, petty tribal god called Wehyah. The followers of Wehyah were zealots who believed that the world was doomed unless all men in all lands sang the praises of their god. They forced others to convert, often at the point of the sword. But many people still kept to their own traditions, including displaying Aedin’s eye. At some point the church decided to take the symbol for their own. Eventually, Aedin was forgotten, as he and several other regional gods were combined into your Allfather. For goodness sake, man, it’s in the name! The Allfather. Father to all men.”

Bruno frowned. He had been drilled with the Allfather’s dogma for his entire existence, and no where had he ever heard mention of any other gods before his own. He wanted to hotly contest the maid, to insult her and ridicule her ridiculous notions, but there seemed to be a kernel of truth beneath her vitriolic words.

“Even if what you say is true,” said Bruno, taking a long drink of brandy first “then what does it matter? People are good and just and moral because they fear the Allfather’s wrath. What harm does that do?”

“People are good and just and moral,” she said “because those are good things! Your Allfather seems to be wrathful and belligerent, my good knight. For every beggar clothed by your church there are ten others put to death for even daring to speak against it.”

Bruno shook his head. The expression on his face said that he did not like the way his mind was turning her words over. He watched as Aven swallowed the rest of her brandy in triumph.

“Careful,” he said, frowning “those spirits are potent, my lady.”

“I am no lady,” she said with a bleary eyed grin “I am but a barmaid, and am no stranger to strong spirits.”

“Very well,” he said with a smile.

“Indeed,” she said “you’ll long be slumbering on the floor ere I so much as droop an eyelid.”

“That,” said Bruno “sounds like a challenge!”

** *

Thurston’s home was not terribly large, so his entourage had gathered in his big red barn. Bales of hay were remade into seating, and numerous lanterns provided the light. Thurston’s cousins began roasting a swine on a spit outside, and one fellow even played nimbly on a fiddle.

The mayor found himself having a spirited conversation with a man only recently come to Ravensford. He was a small man, bent a bit with age, whose missing left eye was covered with a black felt patch. A gray mustache and beard adorned his face, neatly trimmed with precision. A simple brown tunic covered his torso, his head clad in a leather cap.

“An excellent point, my good...” said Thurston “...Bruce, was it?”

“Indeed,” said the man, nodding his head. “And thank you for listening to the musings of an old laborer.”

“They are more than musings, my friend,” said Thurston “many here in Ravensford feel as you, that the Crown has insulted us by sending the black skinned knight into our midst.”

“How could they mean it any other way?” said Crown, spreading his arms out wide. “I am surprised that no one consulted you about the matter, as you seem wise beyond your years.”

Thurston beamed at the compliment. The assassin kept his smirk purely on the inside. Weaving words to snare the man’s will as a spider weaves webs to snare flies, he had been stoking the already hot fires in the mayor’s belly.

“At any rate,” said Thurston, after draining his flagon of wine “I wish we could be rid of the ebon skinned bastard.”

Crown sidled a bit closer to him, lowering his voice.

“Perhaps he might meet with an...” he said “...accident?”

“Don’t be daft, man,” said Thurston in a harsh whisper. “The church would send inquisitors to tear the truth from our screaming flesh and broken bones!”

“Ah,” said Crown, filling the man’s flagon once more “but there is an old saying in Breslin. No body, no crime, no investigation. With so many miles of forest about, haunted by a faerie no less, surely it is a reasonable supposition that the knight might disappear, and no one know of his ultimate fate?”

He saw the wheels in Thurston’s mind turning through the man’s eyes. Careful not to smirk (which was an expression he usually reserved for his true identity) he drove the point home.

“It’s something to think about,” said Crown “isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Thurston, his eyes grown dark and eager “yes, it is at that.”

** *

“The stamina of Templars is an exaggeration, it seems,” said Aven as she set her empty mug down. “I have matched you drink for drink, my good knight.”

Her speech was heavily slurred, and she teetered upon her stool so much that Bruno was certain she was about to topple from it. He did not feel so stable himself, the spirits having cast a blurry glaze over his vision.

“Most impressive,” he said, straining not to slur his own words with some success. “I said, most impressive! I doubt that Sir Galilee the...was it Sir Galecki? Perhaps not...I doubt that even the best drinker in all the north could hold candle to your own prowess.”

“Bah,” she said “you are drunk, sir knight.”

“As are you,” he said.

“Women do not get drunk,” she said.

“Then what do you call it?” he said, blinking.

“Gloriously inebriated,” she said, her fierce stare daring him to deny it.

Bruno glanced around the Hammer. The other patrons had long since packed it in for the night, and even Brutus had retired to bed. He and the barmaid were the only people present.

“It has grown late,” he said.

“Aye,” said Aven “it has.”

She rose from the stool and wavered on her feet for a moment before crashing down hard on her rump.

“Told you you were drunk,” said Bruno, rising to assist her. His own upright status was being challenged, but he managed to pull her off the floor. Both of them nearly fell over as they clung together.

“I have a room,” said Aven “upstairs, but I think you had best lay me down on the floor, as I cannot mount them safely.”

“Bah,” said Bruno “a beautiful woman should not have to sleep on sawdust and shitstains. I will help you get to your room, lady, and then be away to my own bed.”

“Why, thank you, Bruno,” said Aven with a smile. “I mean, sir Bruno. You are very chivalrous indeed.”

“You can call me Bruno,” he said “I grow so weary of courtly ceremony and manners. They are all phony—phony I say!”

The two of them heaved together as they stumbled towards the stairs. Fortunately for them, the stairway was not terribly wide and they were able to brace themselves against the walls.

“Which of them is it?” said Bruno, faced with a half dozen closed doors.

“All the way at the end,” she said. “Of course.”

She swooned a bit, and he held her around the waist, mashing their hips together.

“Eash-easy,” said Bruno, swallowing hard as his body reacted to their closeness.

“Sir Bruno,” she said somberly, looking into his eyes “that had best be your sword, or I might think you have...impure intentions.”

“My intentions are never impure,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” she said “that is a shame.”

“What?” said Bruno.

“Nothing,” she said “help me to my bed, good knight, so I may bid you....good night!”

They both laughed hysterically at the jest, far more than it was worth. They spilled through the door and stumbled until they fell upon the bed, Bruno landing on top of her.

“Sorry, my lady,” he said sheepishly, trying to extricate himself from their tangle of limbs. “I’ll not steal another moment of your-”

His lips stopped speaking when Aven mashed her own to them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew dalliances of the flesh were permitted only to those who had taken sacred vows. However, he could not hear those thoughts over the rushing of blood in his ears, or the pounding of her heart, so close to his own. Her lips tasted of peach brandy and sweat, and were incredibly soft.

They never bothered to close the door, and their cries reached Brutus in his own bed. He rolled over on his side and pulled his goose down pillow over his head, but not without a smile.