The Bringer of War

Hector’s nose twitched as a bead of sweat dripped into his nostril. Struggling to remain perfectly still, he bore the irritation with as much grace as he could muster. He was standing in the sweltering confines of smithy, wearing an even more sweltering padded leather vest over which was draped a long sleeved mail shirt. The smith, a man built like a tree stump and seeming as smart, grunted as he walked about the squire, making private calculations about how best to fit the overly long garment to Hector’s slender frame.

He stared ruefully out the open door at the scene on the street. There was Sir Bruno, chatting with the barmaid Allison. A bit of wind played with her hair as they smiled and laughed with one another, a wind that Hector desperately wished would blow into the miserable smithy.

When at last the smith had his necessary measurements, Hector peeled out of the heavy layers and made his way into the sun. Outside was still hot, but the air was moving, at least. Bruno stiffened up when Hector sidled up to them. Allison gave the knight a knowing look and smiled warmly at the squire before heading towards the Hammer.

“How miserable,” said Hector, looking with dismay at his sweat soaked jerkin. “It makes a man of you to wear armor, it does.”

“Aye,” said Bruno, clapping him on the shoulder “if you think chain mail is bad, wait until they fit you for full plate. You’ll think they’re sealing you in an iron crypt.”

Hector shuddered, unable to fathom how he was supposed to be able to fight when his lungs labored for every breath of hot air.

The pair headed for their residence, by and large ignoring the way many faces turned away from them. Even the armor smith had been grumpy, accepting their gold as if he were doing them a great favor. They passed by the church, both of their gazes intently scanning both it and the small hut a dozen paces away.

“Father Cornelius would appear to still be absent,” said Hector.

“Aye,” said Bruno “and our good Mayor as well.”

“Perhaps they went on a pilgrimage,” said Hector with a chuckle.

“Hold your tongue, squire,” said Bruno “both men hold honorable positions, and you will honor their title even if you do not honor the man.”

“Yes, Sir Bruno,” said Hector, stifling a sigh.

“It is...” said Bruno “...curious, however.”

“More than curious,” said Hector. “So what do we do with the rest of the day, Sir Bruno? Weapons practice? Perhaps we could go over the finer points of slaying dragons again-”

“You are obsessed with dragons of late,” said Bruno with a growl “they are a rare breed, squire, and often clever enough, as are most wild animals, to stay well away from men and their cities.”

“I know,” said Hector “ but they are so...fierce, and powerful! If one can stand against them, then, well...”

“It makes one fiercer, and more powerful?” said Bruno with a laugh. “You don’t want to be the fiercest, most powerful warrior on the battlefield, squire. That just makes you a tempting target.”

Hector frowned as he digested the dollop of information. They slowed their pace to bask in the shade of the sprawling oak tree that cast its limbs over the Hammer. When the sun again kissed their skin, the squire spoke once more.

“What kind of warrior do you want to be, then?” said Hector.

“The uninjured kind,” said Bruno, causing them both to burst into laughter.

** *

Crown kept his smile to himself as Thurston unleashed another long stream of complaints. They were making their way slowly through a dense wood, where they were often forced to go around overgrown thickets and copses of trees so closely aligned nary a gap was visible. No stranger to being in the wilderness, the assassin had little difficulty maneuvering through the harsh terrain. The troubles of his farmer-politician companion were mostly a source of amusement to him.

“Wood’s so bloody thick,” said the mayor “seems like the middle of the night rather than the middle of the day! We’re like to stumble down a gopher hole and break our legs.”

“Yesterday you complained of the sun in your eyes,” said Crown, adjusting the patch he wore over a perfectly good eye “today, you complain because it is not.”

“We can’t all be as spry as you, good Bruce,” said Thurston, straining to stretch his stride over a slight rise in the terrain. “How much farther can this castle be?”

“I never said it was a castle,” said Crown “it is a keep, likely more of a tower and largely fallen into ruin. And as to how far, I am uncertain as I have never been there before.”

“Then we are lost!” wailed the mayor, his voice seeming disturbingly loud in the deep wood.

“Calm yourself, fool,” said Crown, losing his veneer of geniality “we have passed by several landmarks I was told to watch for. We are far from lost.”

Thurston swore under his breath. Crown sighed, lamenting the need for such a disagreeable fellow on this journey. Over the past two days of travel, the mayor had begun to wear on the assassin’s considerable patience.

“What do you even know of these rebels?” said Thurston. “Most who wear that title are little more than common brigands, muttering incoherent treasonous slogans even as they rob their own neighbors.”

“The man in charge of this particular cell is known as Duncan Davros,” said Crown “he has a military background, and is well regarded as a swordsman even though he is advanced in age.”

“How advanced?” said Thurston in a snide tone. “You said you could give me help, men at arms who could help us be rid of the black knight, perhaps of the king and his damnable taxes as well. I cannot do that with simpering old men waxing nostalgic about their glorious youth.”

“You will see when you meet him,” said Crown with a sly smile, his eyes briefly flashing to something only he could see.

“Bah,” said Thurston “why should I wish to make the acquaintance of a goat fucking, wrinkled...”

The mayor’s voice trailed off as he stared into the hard point of an arrowhead. He swallowed hard when he realized the end had been rubbed in some sort of vile substance, perhaps feces or a muddy pool of stagnant water. His terrified mind scarcely registered the hard-eyed stare of the man wielding the bow, who looked like a seasoned soldier in his boiled leather breastplate.

All about them men melted out of the trees, some of them scarcely hidden a foot away from the mayor. Crown held his arms up, palms outward, and Thurston aped his movements. One of the men lowered his bow, stepping up in front of them. He drew back his hood to reveal a face lined with age, and a pate with scant wisps of white hair still clinging to it. The eyes were bright and steady, however, and the hand that gripped the bow still looked thick with muscle.

“Actually, boy,” he said in a raspy voice that grated on Thurston’s ears like sandpaper “I only fuck goats when your mother hasn’t washed her arse in a few weeks.”

The mayor blinked stupidly, until all the men burst into laughter, including Crown. The old man strode over to the disguised assassin and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“One Eye Bruce,” he said, smiling widely. “Good thing this ugly fucker is with you, boy, or you’d be looking like a hedgehog now.”

“He is a necessary evil,” said Crown, giving the mayor a slight sneer “but he does speak for his village, Duncan.”

The two of them were surrounded and led down the narrow game trail they had been following. After less than an hour of hard travel they veered off into the woods along a much less used path. The trail terminated at a wide clearing, nearly the same size as the courtyard of a castle. A lone tower stood in the center, three stories tall. There was evidence the tower had once been higher, as great blocks of limestone lay in a jumble about the base, and the top looked uneven and rough. They were led up a flight of cracked stone steps to a door that looked much newer than the rest of the structure. Inside the first floor there were men busy with the sharpening of spears. Thurston and Crown were led past the pair up a staircase which wound around the outer wall of the structure. The second floor bore more than two dozen men laying in bedrolls, sleeping deeply in a way that spoke of pure exhaustion. Up they climbed, until they reached the topmost floor. Here Davros had set up a command center of sorts, complete with a large oak table covered in a huge map. Sticks of charcoal lay scattered about the surface, the edges held down with smooth river rocks.

There were furnishings were scant, only the table, a modest bed and a straight backed chair. Davros sat in the chair and fixed Thurston with a hard glare.

“So,” he said “One Eye tells me that you bear little love for your king these days.”

“Aye!” said Thurston, who dared to take a step forward. “He sends his black dog to lash us like animals, raises our taxes and has not the wisdom to appoint me to a regional governorship. We in Ravensford have grown tired of his tyrannical ways.”

Davros nodded slowly. He took a long pull from a leather water skin, savoring the cool liquid on his tongue.

“Are there many others,” said Davros at length “who feel strongly enough to take up arms in this cause?”

Thurston grinned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I can attest to nearly twenty men having swore that they would spill blood to be rid of the Templar,” said the mayor.

“To be rid of the Templar,” said Davros “is to bring down the wrath of the king. Are they certain?”

“Dead certain,” said Thurston. He stared into the eyes of the old man, sensing his inner turmoil. Reaching into his jerkin, he withdrew a small wooden scroll case. He felt the jab of something sharp in his ribcage and glanced down to notice one of Davros’s men had a knife to his side.

“It is only a scroll case,” said Davros with a chuckle “look at this little man, he could not threaten a fly from a lump of shit!”

Thurston’s cheeks flushed even as he handed Davros the scroll.

“It is an order of conscription,” said the mayor stiffly, trying to regain his lost dignity “signed by the King. Ravensford is to give up twelve young men for the king’s armies.”

“A draft?” said Davros “there has not been one since the Amber wars...”

“Aye,” said Thurston “and once the townspeople hear of it, we can make it seem as if the Templar is here to take their sons away from them.”

“An excellent lightning rod to draw their ire,” said Davros, nodding his head as if impressed. He glanced over at Crown, breaking into a grin. “This one is a master of deception so adept even the Adversary is jealous.”

Thurston frowned at the comparison, but forged on ahead through the laughter than ensued.

“Will you aid us or not?” said the mayor, daring to shake a fist at the old man.

Davros’s smile faded, and he scowled at Thurston through half lidded eyes.

“Aye,” said Davros “we’ll aid you, but on our terms. Once you spill blood with us, you will be rebels as well, traitors to the king. The risk of the folk of Ravensford and the risk of Davros’s men will be equal. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Thurston, his eyes growing cold and reptilian.

** *

Aven ran her finger lightly over the raised, indigo patterns that swirled about Bruno’s naked chest. She lay partially draped over him, their naked skin covered in a sheen of sweat. Birds chirped merrily in the trees above them, while a babbling little brook churned along a few feet from the thick blanket they had spread on the forest floor. He moved a calloused hand along her spine, pulling her closer against him.

“I could lie here forever,” she said, sighing into his neck.

“I could as well,” he said “but for my duty.”

“Is that all that men care about?” she said, propping herself up on one arm to pout into his face.

“Well,” he said, grinning “not all...”

Their lips met in a lingering kiss. Nearby, flies buzzed about their uneaten picnic, while a bottle of wine warmed in the summer air. She lay her head back upon his chest and began exploring his Heartfire tattoos once again. If she wished, she could sense the power pulsing through them with her faerie sensitivity to the arcane. They were undeniably beautiful when viewed through mortal eyes as well, however.

“Have there ever been women Templars?” she said.

“Why ask such a question?” said Bruno, his laughter rumbling against her face.

“Your tattoos are very pretty,” she said with a sly smile “I would love to have such decorations.”

“Bah,” said Bruno “the pain involved is hardly something I would wish upon you, my darling.”

“So women are not allowed, then,” she said, sighing “pity.”

“There was a woman in the Templars, once,” said Bruno “in Drakken’s grandfather’s time.”

“Really?” said Aven, patting his chest “you must tell me of her.”

“It is not a happy tale,” he said “but I will recount it as best I can. There was once a proud noble family, who had a long tradition of their sons joining the knighthood. However, there came to be a man of this house whose wife had borne him no sons. Seeing that her father was heartbroken, the eldest cut off her hair and entered a jousting tourney.”

“Let me guess,” said Aven, her breath tickling his naked skin “she bested all the men breaking nary a sweat.”

“No,” said Bruno with a chuckle “she barely managed to survive the first round of the tourney. However, her determination and strength of character so impressed the nobility that they demanded she be allowed to become a Templar.”

“So she became a great warrior of reknown, of course.” said Aven.

“Indeed,” said Bruno “there are...rumors that she may have been tainted with faerie blood, and the Heartfire runes seared into her skin glowed more brightly than any other knight before or since. She slayed many dragons, and fought bravely in the skirmishes of what would become the first Amber wars.”

“I’m guessing that things did not end well for her,” said Aven.

“No,” said Bruno, stroking her thick auburn hair “they did not. She was sent to quell a rebellion...I actually think it may have happened near Ravensford...at any rate, she wound up falling in love with a rebel leader and turning traitor. She was captured and tried for treason.”

“Executed?” said Aven.

“Worse,” said Bruno “condemned to live in eternal torment. Locked inside an Iron Maiden which was enchanted to keep her ageless and alive even as the spikes pierced her body.”

Aven shuddered.

“Horrible fate,” she said “what was the poor girl’s name?”

“She had no name,” said Bruno “the king took it from her, as well as her family. It is said that she still suffers beneath Fort Drakken, waiting for the day she is released to wreak vengeance upon the crown.”

“Is it a true legend?” said Aven, frowning.

“Bah,” said Bruno “no doubt there was some kernel of truth in it, but you know how legends grow in the telling. Besides, magic is illegal in the kingdom.”

“Your tattoos are magical, my dear knight,” she said, pulling herself atop him. “You are hypocrites!”

“The Templars have been blessed by the Allfather,” said Bruno “so our souls are not tainted by the dark forces of the Adversary.”

“I am more powerful than your Adversary, then,” she said with a half lidded grin “as you cannot resist the temptation of my flesh...”

“Allfather forgive me,” he said just before their lips met “I cannot!”

It was many hours later as the pair walked back towards the village that they spoke again. Their hands were clasped in the wood, but as the smell of smoke and shout of voices heralded their return to civilization, Bruno drew gently away from her.

“Do I embarrass you, good knight?” she said stiffly. “You often grow cold towards me when the eyes of others are upon us.”

Bruno looked a bit abashed, struggling to meet her green eyed gaze.

“No, my lady,” he said “rather I would spare you from the ire of those villagers who think ill of me.”

“Bah,” said Aven, taking his arm in both of hers “I care not what they say, think or do.”

“You are...fierce in your own way, lady,” said Bruno as they strode through the treeline and stepped onto the dirt roads of Ravensford.

“And you had best not forget it,” said Aven, kissing him on his smoothly shaven cheek.