Oathbreaker: The Knight's Tale (10 page)

Then Michael Fellsfield broke his arm throwing a boulder as large as his torso, which prompted another angry rebuke. They were informed that though they were strong, they should give their bones time to adjust to these new muscles, and work their way up to such feats. Michael (who the others called “the Fortunate”) was given a tight dressing to ensure the bone knitted properly; there was no splint, and he was healed before the week was through. In the meantime, the others trained fervently in order to speed the adjustment.

Of the eight, Kelvin was the most charismatic, Michael the most adventurous, Tarrason the most ambitious, and Allan the most naturally talented. Kildare was the strongest, though not by much, Sonia the fastest, and Lyral the brightest. Pelagir was strong and fast and bright, too, but his talent lay in the nearly bottomless reservoir of endurance—or possibly obstinacy—that his father had built unwittingly.

But as talented as these new knights were, something inside of them had broken during the excruciation, as it had broken for all those before them. Neither did they cry or show emotion of any sort. Where before they were tough, now they were hard and empty.

They barely noticed what they had given away.

Caltash came among them then, with others of the Elite, and they trained the newcomers to marry their speed with their minds, and of secret techniques in unarmed combat. Each of them, Caltash said, would develop a unique fighting style; these new techniques would provide a cornerstone for each style. By the time of the final graduation, a month later, the newest Elite had developed formidable killing talents.

Their final graduation, then, was an actual ceremony, an induction into the Fellowship of Knights Assembled. The ceremony took place in the vast courtyard of the Knights’ Hall in the Imperial Palace, and half the knighthood was in attendance.

It was a bright blue day, and errant gusts snapped the pennons on the grandstand. The commander, Sir Ellionn Carderas, stood atop the podium, gazing with sharp eye upon all the knights of Pelagir’s class who marched before him: the Lesser, the Faithful, and the Elite. They gleamed in their armor, and their feet beat a thunderous cadence on the hard-packed ground. They formed into neat rows before the dais and stood at military attention as he spoke to them of duty, honor, and their service to the Empire.

And then he called forth the newest of the Elite. They came and stood directly in front of him as attendants placed slim boxes behind the commander. Carderas unlatched the first case and reverently lifted out a gleaming metal spear. Hints of red glittered from it in the sun, chasing each other up and down the shaft. The commander held it aloft, letting the assembled warriors view it, and called out, “Sir Michael, of the Order Elite, Class of the Hawk!”

Michael stepped forward and extended his hands. Carderas laid the spear across Michael's hands, and when he released it, Michael jerked slightly, his hands clamping down hard on the shaft of the spear. He bowed slightly to the commander over the spear, and blood welled between his fingers as he stepped backward to his place in the line. This process repeated for the other six—swords of varying size and shape for Kelvin, Sonia, Lyral, and Tarrason, a wickedly flanged mace for Kildare, and a morning star for Allan.

When it came to be Pelagir’s turn, Carderas lifted forth a greatsword five feet long. He lifted it to the sky: “Sir Pelagir, of the Order Elite, Class of the Crown!” The others restrained themselves, but their surprise was obvious—Pelagir had become one of the King’s Chosen, one of the king’s bodyguards, spies, and assassins, ordinarily a slot reserved for a knight who had proven himself over years.

Pelagir bowed and took the hilt of his weapon, and pain entered him again. It was if thorns shot from the grip, sliding into his tendons and veins, and the blade hummed in his grasp. The red tint in the blade became more pronounced as the sword fed on Pelagir’s blood and bound the two together. Even as Pelagir sheathed his weapon, he found that he understood its workings and its power, as if the knowledge had been implanted into his mind. And he realized that this blade was now his honor.

The Elite stepped back into formation. Carderas drew his sword and saluted the class with it, then swept the weapon toward the great gates. The Knights Assembled marched through them and into their new assignments.

That was the fourth graduation, and for a brief time, Pelagir felt united with his fellows.

On the side of the hill, just off the road, the lights of a tavern blazed into the early spring night. The dull murmur of a hard-working crowd crept through the open windows, and the child nestled in the crook of Pelagir’s arm stirred restlessly. He guided his steed to a copse of trees nearby and dismounted. He watched the tavern for a few minutes, his eyes flickering from the windows to the doors, through which flowed a stream of customers. He loosened his sword in its scabbard, ran his fingers through his hair, and strode toward the tavern.

He pushed open the doors to a wash of noise and the smell of old beer and sawdust.

The Taverner’s Tale

One account of Pelagir’s encounters with civilization, as told by Kilroy, former proprietor of the Half-Eagle Tavern and Inn. Recorded by Winthorn, Knight of the Order Faithful, Class of the Rose, Rank Five.

You want to know about the man who burned my tavern? The man who destroyed my livelihood and left me homeless and begging? The man who stole my right hand from me and left me for dead? All right. I see the darkness in your eyes, like the kind he had, and I’m not fool enough to try to gull your kind twice.

’Twas a dark night, and the clouds were rollin’ across the moon. The tavern was full that evening, the rough customers who make up most of my trade drinking and quarrelling and chatting up the ladies who use the upper rooms—and I don’t know what their business is up there, lords, I just rent ’em the rooms—and it seemed like it was going to be just another busy night at the Half-Eagle Tavern. Figured that meant I was out at least a dozen mugs, two tables, five chairs, and three squares of tar paper in the window-holes. Good thing it was a busy night—it’d more than make up for the damage they’d be doing.

Of course, I’d be paying all the taxes on my take. Never missed a collection yet, sirs, so don’t you be eyeing me up like that. I keep a good running tally in my head of what I make and what I spend. I’ve got a good memory.

Anyway, like I was saying, the night was shaping up to be a good one. It was windy enough that the nip was in the air and people’d want to be out of the cold, but not so cold that they’d want to stay in their drafty houses when I had a fire roaring. Perfect tavern night, in other words, and most of the drinking part of town was visiting. It was a good night for old feuds to flare up. Or for new feuds to come calling.

I recognized him for trouble the moment he walked in. No one in their right mind brings a baby into a roadhouse unless they’re desperate and in need of something. The sorts of people who usually come into my place, well, they can smell that desperation. This is a hard-working town, lords, and the folks around here don’t take well to strangers, and since no one saw him coming in, no one thought anything of it. Now, he was carrying a sword at his side and a knife at his other, but begging your pardon, being on the road to Terona we see plenty of fops who think a sword’s for decoration, if you get my meaning. Besides, he was dirty and his clothes were rumpled and sweat-stained but obviously good quality. That made him a natural target. Likely on the run, not wanting to call official attention to himself, and probably with a fat purse for an enterprising lad.

Some of the local boys like to try these would-be nobles out. When their target’s a dirty, tired-looking rich man carrying a baby, well, the pickings start to look a lot easier, if you catch my meaning. They don’t kill the unlucky ones, but they do leave the travelers wishing they’d taken a different route.

I watched them size up the stranger out of the corners of their eyes, and I added a few more repairs to the carpenter’s bill come morning. I ain’t a hero, and I ain’t going to stop ’em from a bit of fun.

He got himself a table by the fire, ordered some warmed milk for the little baby, who was starting to get a little cross, and some bread and meat for himself, with water to drink. That provoked a few sniggers from the boys at the nearby table, but they died quick enough to keep him from getting suspicious. I brought all this out to him.

It started innocently enough, but I knew what was happening. I kept looking up to see when it was going to start, see if I could guess what was coming next. I must have looked up four or more times between the intended victim and the thugs. These things develop a sort of pattern, you see, and it usually starts with a spilled drink, a couple of “accidental” shoves, and if the target don’t take the bait, why, it just becomes a little more obvious. This man, I figured he’d be taking offense with the first or second spill, especially if it involved the baby.

I misread that night for sure. It took longer than usual to start, and that was a bad sign, because it meant the boys were working up for a serious beating. The drunker they got, the harder they hit and the later they stopped. I wanted to pass word to him that he was in for a bad night, and maybe to put the baby somewhere safe, but it wouldn’t’ve been safe for me, and I had to live there… so I just let it go and kept my counsel to myself.

It took at least an hour. The man finished his food and tended to the child, and when they were both satisfied, the kid dozed off. He closed his eyes by the fire, too, leaning back against the wall, and it looked for all the world like he was sleeping.

That was pretty much the perfect moment for the boys to start in, and they took their best shot. A hell of a shot it was, too—a shout and hurled mug of beer started the whole mess off. The mug crashed into the wall by the man’s head, too close to the baby for my comfort, and that’s when the boys would have pretended to be fighting amongst themselves.

Only the man moved way too fast for them to even start their false fight. Much faster than that—faster than any man I’ve ever seen. Before the pieces of the mug hit the floor, before Big Tom was even done recovering from the throw, before the baby could even start crying under the wet of the beer, that man was off his bench with his naked blade in his hand. He skewered Big Tom right in the shoulder, ending Tom’s throwing days for good, and then he slipped that big sword across Tom’s throat, ending Tom’s breathing and swallowing days for good, too.

Big Tom fell backward. His friends looked at the body.

The man looked at them. His sword arm hung loose and relaxed at his side, and his sword hummed just under hearing so you could feel the power in the thing. That’s when we all knew him for one of the King’s Chosen.

The boys looked at each other and then at the stranger. Their night got a whole lot more serious then, and I could see them calculating their odds: a good five to one, and likely the rest of the tavern’d be on the side of the local boys. But then, he was one of the fabled Knights of the Empire, and that meant blood. That meant they’d have to finish him, and do it before he got the law on them.

The locals watched the boys, then, ready to follow whatever card they played. With the eyes of the town on them, the boys didn’t have much choice. Wordlessly they went for him. Their neighbors came in right after, bent on avenging Big Tom, and they meant to kill the man, never you mind that Tom started it or that they were against one of the King’s Chosen.

Now, I help out during the Harvest Festival, and I’ve seen people reaping the wheat and barley, and sometimes someone drinks a little too much and starts spinning and cutting down the stalks without a care for how they fall. This man was like that. He ducked and spun and turned and everywhere he went his sword went, too, leaving stumps and blood spraying in its wake and the bodies of the townsfolk toppling. There wasn’t a wasted movement that I could see. He made my customers look slow and stupid, and maybe they were, but he was so much faster than them that they never laid a hand on him, let alone one of their cudgels.

It was a massacre in there, the place laid to shambles. All I could do was stand behind the counter with my mouth open. I couldn’t even run for help.

When he was finished with his work, there wasn’t a single person moaning. They were all dead, and the blood was running in freshets from their wounds.

He sat down again, his bloody blade dripping on my table, and those dead eyes looked at me and nailed me to the spot. I ain’t a coward, but I knew right then that he’d kill me if I gave him the slightest offense, and I went on my belly like a dog. I didn’t care then if I disgusted him, and I don’t care now. Way I figure it, if he felt contempt for me, he’d despise me, but he wouldn’t want to put a sword in me, except maybe out of pity. And I thought that his sword had just tasted battle, and that he wouldn’t want to execute someone after that heat. I guess I was right, too.

Anyway, he fixed me with his eyes, and in that monotone voice he started talking. Said something like, “This is a bad time, taverner. We’ve all turned into sheep, because we ain’t got the sense to know who’s a good ruler anymore. We just let those arselickers in Terona make our decisions for us, and it’s making us animals, not people, and when we get too smart to keep our heads down, why, we ask for someone to put our eyes out so we don’t see too close. And then those bastards in charge take our eyes like they’re doing us a favor.”

Now look, I don’t agree with what he was saying. I’m telling you what he said.

So then he kept going, saying, “We don’t believe in real heroes anymore. We believe in jesters and mummers and monsters who suck away our dreams and give their tiny visions, and instead of trying to dream bigger than that we pretend this is the limit of the world.”

His voice held me there, and I knew he was speaking treason but I didn’t have the strength to stop him. It seemed like he was speaking too much sense then. Not that I agree with it, though, oh no! He talked longer in that vein while the fire died down on the hearth behind him and the bodies started cooling, and I think he’d have kept talking ’til dawn came if the baby hadn’t started crying then.

He let those eyes slip off me then to focus on the infant, and I found I could breathe again. He set the baby down on the bench gentle as can be, stood, turned from me, and stoked the fire ’til it burned brightly again.

“Pack me a bundle, taverner. Include bread, milk, water, and whatever fruits you have in season. Pack the best you have, if you value your life.”

I hurried off to do that. I don’t think there was any doubt in his mind that I’d follow his order. When I was done, I came back and laid the pack down beside his blade.

He didn’t take his eyes off the child, but he grabbed my right wrist and pinned it to the table.

“Taverner.” His eyes met mine.

“Yes, m’lord?” I tried to keep my voice from quaking.

“You knew what they were planning.”

“No, my lord, no! I had no idea!”

“You lie, taverner. I saw you watching me. I saw you watching them. You thought of warning me, but instead held your tongue. You also overcharged me for the inferior food you brought before you knew who I might be. You thought you’d take advantage of a tired man, a man who needed help.”

“No, Sir Knight, no, that’s not the case, no,” and I found my tongue running away from me as he settled the baby down into his lap. I tried to tear my hand away, but his grip was like stone. He drew his knife from his belt, said, “You’ll suffer only lightly for your sins,” and took my hand off with a single blow.

He let go of my spouting wrist and picked up his sword as I howled. It hummed to life again, and I crawled backward away from him, and I knew then what my death looked like. But instead of killing me, he grabbed my stump and laid his blade on it and the blood stopped spraying from the wound, and that hurt worse’n all the rest put together.

He stood above me, and I could see he was tired, but oh lords, still powerful! I curled up on the floor. He wiped his blade on my shirt and stuck it back into its sheath. He turned and picked up the baby and bundle of food. He bent to the hearth and picked up a piece of burning wood and walked toward the door while I struggled to stand up. He stopped at the door and said, “Get out.”

I hurried past him, and as I rushed out, he tossed the brand behind him into the tinder by the fireplace. Then he told me that I better not put it out, or I’d find out that losing my hand wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to me.

He took himself to the trees right over there. I saw metal glimmering in the firelight from behind me, and it moved out of the woods and I realized it was his metal horse. He swung himself up and rode west without looking back as my inn burned.

I didn’t dare put it out. The villagers who came to put out the flames stopped when they saw the bodies inside. Even those who might have helped, I stopped—I didn’t want him to come back, because I know you fellows always keep your vows.

The village put me out because they thought I’d had something to do with the deaths of their friends, even when I showed them where I used to have a hand. I was lucky to escape town with my life. I’ve been without a home ever since, begging because I have no hand and know no other work. He stole everything from me. The way I figure it, the knighthood owes me at least a way to get out of the fix I’m in.

And I been helpful to you, ain’t I?