The Warder Read online

  The Warder

  D.K. Williamson

  . . . . .

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright 2018, DK Williamson

  Deadeye Fiction Manufactory

  . . . . .

  Map

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Map

  The Kingdom of Arataine and the realms of the Southerlies

  The Warder

  . . .

  Chapter 1

  From the Hieronymus Institute’s School of Arts Arcane, Reference Volume 1,

  Warder - n [Middle Common Speech wardeir, from Eastern Human Old Tongue vardere to ward or guard] (ancient) 1: One who guards, protects, or keeps 2: A rank within the Aratainian Order of Contrition Knights

  . . . . .

  A horse and rider moved down the incline into the hollow, a packhorse trailing close behind. The man in the saddle held a slow pace, prudent given the darkness heavy tree cover brought over this portion of the Hydell Road. Despite the bright moons, the shadows in the low ground made it difficult to see until one’s eyes adjusted. The highwaymen lurking just inside the tree line had no intention of letting the rider live that long.

  “Leave the rope across the road,” one of the robbers whispered. “It’s not likely to unhorse him at that pace, but he’ll stop.”

  “And that’s when we move,” answered one of the others.

  “Looks like the man’s wearin’ a helm,” another said. “A man-at-arms, maybe even a knight?”

  “More than likely a dispatch rider,” the first replied. “Only a messenger or a fool would be out this late on his own.”

  “Or a knight.”

  “If so, he’s still a fool and we’ll be rich men then. Arms, armor, horses, dispatches, all got a market. Knight or not, he’s one. We’re five.”

  “He’s still moving slow.”

  “That means he hasn’t seen us. Snuff the chatter and be ready, he’s close.”

  The five crouched in practiced silence and waited.

  Casually reached to the front of his saddle as he neared the rope, the horseman showed no awareness of the hazard ahead as he gave a slight tug at something. The highwaymen tensed, but remained still, experience and survival had taught them well.

  The packhorse slowed to a stop, its lead rope free as the other horse plodded on, worrying the robbers that the motionless horse might have sensed them and alert the rider to the threat.

  Halting his mount just short of the hanging rope, there was still no indication the man or his horses realized the danger that lurked just steps away. He turned in the saddle, likely noticing the packhorse was free, or so the bandits thought.

  The highwayman nearest the prey gave a slight signal and as one, the five came to their feet and rushed from the black of the tree line, daggers and clubs in hand.

  The horse turned as a flash of movement came from the man aboard, a streak of bright steel in the scant moon dapple that made it through the trees. A descending blade severed the rope that crossed the passage and dropped the unraveling ends to disappear into darkness as they trailed away to the edges of the road.

  Reaching for the reins of the horse, the lead robber soon found himself tumbling roughly across the road, the equine shouldering him away violently. As he struggled to draw breath from his prone position on the cobbled surface, he watched his partners swarm the man.

  Two bandits circled to attack the man’s left, another held back to watch for an opening while the fourth advanced from the right.

  The horseman fended off blows from the left with his shield as the highwayman to his right slashed at his exposed ribcage. The cut struck hard and raked diagonally down the man’s side, but other than ripping a line down the target’s surcoat, the robber knew he’d done no damage once he felt the blade trace across a uniquely hard and net-like surface.

  “I told you, he’s a knight. Wearin’ mail so strike at—” was all he managed before his yelled warning became a shriek of fear and agony. The bandit staggered back several steps before he fell silent and toppled to the ground, both arms severed near the elbows.

  The robbers to the left reversed a step, but the horseman turned in his saddle to face them once again, shield up and sword sweeping in an arc at them. One ducked, hearing the hiss of keen steel pass dreadfully close to his head just before a warm gout of his companion’s blood doused him. He had time to look up and raise his club to strike, but never saw the reverse stroke that cut short his criminal career.

  The bandit lying on the road managed to regain his feet and searched frantically for his knife, while behind the horseman, the other robber closed. Seeing the man wore high leather boots instead of chausses—mail stockings that covered the legs and feet—he closed knowing where to strike. Leather would offer little resistance to a dagger’s pierce and a leg wound could kill. As he drew back his arm to stab, the horseman turned his head and saw the closing threat. The robber smiled knowing the advantage was entirely his as no man weighted in armor could move swiftly enough to counter his attack.

  A sound that was part whistle and part hiss caught the robber’s ears, a sweeping flash of silver registered in his eyes, and then shock and numbness as he fell. He knew he was on the road, the horseman looking down on him with a dripping sword in hand, but he felt no fear or anger. Darkness was closing on him and he laid his head back and let it come.

  The remaining highwayman stopped his search for his weapon and looked on in horror. The last of his criminal band lie cut in half below the ribs, the others resting in pools of dark fluids and body parts. The horseman dismounted gracefully and closed on him, sword and shield at the ready. The highwayman backed away two steps and heard the metallic sound of his dagger raking the road surface as he brushed it with his foot. He stopped and looked from the dagger to horseman and back again.

  “Step away and yield,” the man said in a deep and clear voice muffled slightly by the helm. “Otherwise you’ll die.”

  The highwayman sneered. “I give up and I’ll have my head on a block in a few days’ time or be testing the strength of the hangman’s rope. Here, in the dark, I got a chance.”

  The highwayman moved for the dagger and deftly swept it from the road surface as he tumbled and sprang to his feet. He lunged at where he knew the armored man to be, but discovered he was terribly mistaken. A powerful hand grasped his wrist as a sword blade glided its way through his torso. The dagger fell from his hand as life ran from his body.

  “No chance at all… was there,” the bandit said calmly.

  . . .

  Five bodies rested grisly in a neat rank at the side of the Hydell Road, placed in respectful positions by their killer before he departed. Standing after offering a brief prayer for the five, the man walked toward his horses dangling a chain with an attached sphere of metal he’d taken from one
of the corpses.

  After this, I must keep an eye out for King’s Legion patrols, the man thought as he cast a final look at the bodies he left behind.

  He mounted his grey horse and brought it to a canter, the buckskin packhorse keeping pace behind. They slowed to a walk as they rode from under the tree cover into the light of the moons, the small reddish satellite called Ruddy and the larger and brighter blue-white Sahr.

  The man blinked at the relative brightness and pondered his next stop nearly a full day’s ride ahead. “I hope I’m not making a mistake,” he muttered. He patted the grey on the neck and said, “Let’s go see the Greve of Spring Shire.”

  . . .

  “What foul deed did you commit, wretch?” came a young man’s voice from the stable’s entryway. Behind him, the gloaming sky was giving way to night.

  “What I did or did not do is no longer of any consequence, and not something that concerns you,” a tall man in surcoat covered mail replied over his shoulder as he rubbed down a grey horse. A lantern hanging from a nearby pole lit his work and shown on a pair of saddles stored nearby, one a packsaddle, the other a riding saddle with high cantle.

  “Why are you here?” the young man asked.

  “The usual reason one might be in a stable,” the stranger said as he continued his work.

  The young man noticed a lengthy and clean cut on the right side of the man’s surcoat. “Do me the courtesy of looking at me when you speak. Or are contrition knights exempt from possessing manners?”

  “You expect manners with such an approach? If so, be prepared for disappointment. Such brashness is an easy way to find trouble, friend.” The knight continued his task calmly.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. It was simply advice. Jumping to conclusions will also lead you to trouble.”

  “I am the eldest son of a greve, the lord of this shire, one of the largest in Arataine. I will not take advice from a criminal such as you,” the young man spat angrily as he bristled at the knight’s calm demeanor.

  “Then do not,” the stranger said in an even voice.

  “You'd be foolish not to listen to him young master Robert,” said another voice from behind the figure in the doorway. The voice was that of a mature man, deep and as steady as that of the stranger with the horse, but tinted with merriment.

  The young man turned and said, “Seneschal, do you know this, this knight?”

  “Aye, that I do,” the burly seneschal said as he stopped next to Robert and clapped him on the back. “That, m'boy is Sir Dech. A Warder of the Order of Contrition Knights. In our youth he and I rode the tournament circuit with your father, fought in more than a few battles together, and saved each other's lives a time or two.”

  “A time or two, Allan?” the tall man said with a lightness not present in his voice until just then.

  The seneschal burst into booming laughter. “I’ve always been a humble man. We never kept count, but perhaps the figures favor your side, old friend,” he said as he forced Robert into the barn with a shove.

  “You'll forgive young Rob here. He's as blond and bold as his father was at the same age.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” Dech said as he led the big grey into a dark stall and closed the gate as he exited. “Is he as skilled as his father?”

  “Given his age, he just might be better, but he's had me giving him instruction,” the seneschal said with a broad smile.

  “Good,” Dech said lifting the lantern from the pole. “If he gets into as much mischief as Gerald did, he will need those skills.”

  The seneschal laughed again. “And a few friends to come to his aid.”

  Dech looked at the seneschal and smiled. “You look well and fit, Allan,” he said.

  “It's the firelight, Dech. I always look good in firelight.”

  Dech offered his hand.

  Allan brushed the hand aside and bear-hugged the much taller Dech, who laughed and pounded his friend on the back with his free hand while swinging the lantern clear.

  “I have missed the sight of you Dech Crouse,” Allan said as he pulled his friend toward the doorway. “And give me no guff about calling you that. It was your name in our youth and it will be your name until you pass from this world as far as I am concerned.”

  “A pleasure, Robert Moore,” Dech said offering his hand to Robert on approach. “We’ve met, though you may not remember.”

  Robert was taken aback by the contrition knight. The knight was half a head taller than he was and Rob was no small specimen. Dech’s gaze was intense and weary, his black hair trimmed to stubble. On the left side of his deeply tanned and clean-shaven face ran a lightning bolt shaped scar from his ear, down the jaw line, and ending at the side of his chin. The surcoat he wore over his mail armor was a dull green; on the left breast was the black, white, and red shield emblem of the Order of Brothers of the Contrition House just below two opposed chevrons and a star marking his rank.

  “Sir Dech?” Robert said. “I recall the name.”

  “You were quite young when he was last here. Five as I recall. Not long before…” Allan trailed off for a moment with a pained look, “well, never mind.”

  “That’s right!” Rob said. “You taught me how to tumble-roll! I recall your height, but not the scar.”

  “Memory is like that, malleable and faulty, but he had it then,” Allan said. “I recall that day also. What brings you, Dech?”

  “I heard of the grevess’ passing just recently. I’m here to pay my respects.”

  Allan nodded. “I’m sorry to say Gerald’s not here. Been a rough year on everyone. He feels it the most of course.”

  “They told me the greve was in the capital city when I arrived,” Dech replied. “I would imagine Gerald was devastated. He truly loved her.”

  “Every man that ever met her did.”

  “True enough. But his love was different.”

  Allan agreed with a single nod. “That’s why she chose him and no other.”

  “So we’re all widowers now,” Dech said grimly.

  “Aye. You heard of my Anna then. Not four months after….”

  “Yes,” Dech said.

  An uncomfortable silence took hold.

  “What happened?” Rob asked.

  “Not now!” Allan snapped. He grimaced and shook his head in regret. “Sorry, Rob. It’s old, old wounds, but sore ones.”

  “How could he know,” Dech said.

  “He couldn’t.”

  “I apologize for my rudeness,” Robert said. “Brashness is a shortcoming of mine, or so says the seneschal.”

  “No need to apologize,” Dech replied. “You do not agree with Allan’s assessment?”

  “I do agree. I have difficulty overcoming it, and the seneschal is quick and oft to remind me. It is my nature, passed on from my father.”

  “Changing your nature is a challenge. A challenge few can overcome. Persistence is the key.”

  “As I discover time and time again.”

  Dech smiled. “Persistence.” Looking at Allan he said, “So you still run things for Gerald?”

  “So it seems,” he replied with a grin. “I see to it the steward runs the household, the cook prepares the food, the knights stay sharp, the marshal sees to the stables and horses, and so forth and so on. Place competent people in charge and it’s easy. I stroll around and look stern, yell at Rob here, and drink ale. On occasion I deal with petty disputes and crimes and send the major issues to see the earl’s seneschal. As Greve Gerald Moore’s seneschal, I’ll pose a question, why do we stand in a stable when there’s food to eat? Come,” Allan said with a gesture at the stable door.

  The trio crossed the castle grounds to the keep, an old but still formidable structure of grey stone.

  “King Harold called many nobles to Cruxford to discuss strategy,” Allan said. “Gerald was one of them. Rumors abound that Harold’s half-brother is raising a force to reclaim the throne. I’d have hoped Malig’s madness might have consu
med him by now.”

  “You and father fought him,” Rob said. “Is old King Malig truly insane?”

  “He’s only a few years older than King Harold, but aye, lad, he’s not right in the head. He’s cruel, bloody-minded, and just mad enough to make him dangerous. They call him King Lunacy for a reason. The Throne War was our first taste of big battle, Dech’s as well.” Allan paused and shook his head. “The last time we served together.”

  “Rumors say he is in Byrmont,” Dech said.

  “So close?” Rob said in surprise. “Grand Duke Charles would risk war and aid him?”

  Allan chuckled. “Not likely. The old duke will let him raise forces to vex us though.”

  “I agree,” Dech said with a nod. “If Malig has the funds, he’ll clear the grand duchy of scum willing to sign on to his cause, but they won’t strike from there.”

  “Aye,” Allan agreed. “Foolish that would be and Malig’s no fool.”

  Rob trotted ahead a few steps and opened a thick wooden door. The smell of cooking food wafted out, stirring the appetites of the three men.

  “Surely you must have tales of Allan and my father they wouldn’t want me to hear,” Rob said with a grin as the two knights passed through the doorway.

  Dech smiled. “Many, but I have few enough friends in this world as it is. Perhaps I might share a few things not too damning.”

  The three ate in the kitchen, forgoing any formalities. They swapped stories and laughed, but despite this, Allan knew Dech carried a great deal on his shoulders, an unseen burden he recognized in his eyes.

  The evening passed quickly, as often happens when tales fly. Despite the late hour and the fact the three needed to be up at first light, another tale or two required telling.

  “So that is why you tend to your own horse?” Rob asked.

  “It is,” Dech replied. “An order requirement and a task any knight needs to perform if they spend time alone. I know that stable from my youth.”

  Allan laughed. “It’s where your father and I met Dech.”

  Rob’s eyes lit up. “Do tell, Warder.”