The Warder Read online

“No, this one is mine,” Allan said with a waggling finger and a smile. The kitchen personnel looked upward in irritation, acts not lost on the seneschal. “Never mind us,” he called to the staff. “Finish up and go to bed.”

  With appreciative smiles, the staff went to work.

  “Dech’s father once attended an extraordinarily brave knight who served the king well. Well enough to be granted a small barony for his deeds, the area around Abanor Castle south of here. When the old man passed without issue, the land was transferred to your grandfather, the mighty Greve John Moore, and with it the handful of knights serving the baron. Most of those knights were brought here, Dech’s father being one.”

  “And you became fast friends?” Rob said.

  “Not quite. A wonder we became friends at all. Dech was put to work in the stables. Not long after, one of the greve’s sons exhibited some brashness that resulted in a bout of boyish knuckle throwing.”

  “Father.”

  “How ever did you guess? Yes, Gerald came out on the losing end, but did he learn his lesson? Oh no, not a bit. He enlisted the aid of three friends to assist him in teaching the newcomer a lesson. I was one of those three.”

  Rob looked from Allan to Dech and back again. “You beat Sir Dech?”

  “No. Your father did while we held him. Beat him til he was bloody and limp. Dropped him in the straw and walked out laughing we did.”

  “What—?”

  Allan silenced the young man with a raised finger and a smile. “There were a few issues of which we were unaware however. Between the old baron and Dech’s father, they’d taught him a trick or two about fighting. Dech also possessed a toughness and ferocity we didn’t count on. While we walked away and laughed, he was pulling himself from the muck and ground with thoughts of violence in mind. About the time we stepped from the stable, a filthy, bloody mess of a boy tore into us. It was almost an even match. If there had but three of us, he’d have taken us in no time. As it was, it turned into quite an affair.

  “Your grandfather and a handful of knights soon stopped the battle, but by then there were five filthy, bloody boys. Dech’s father was sure his son’s actions would result in his dismissal, but the greve saw it different once the truth came clear. ‘That just one of my knights had such fire,’ the greve said. He was right about that. Never seen the likes of Dech Crouse in battle outside of highland ragers, but they’re blood-mad when in the rage and as likely to kill friend as foe. Your grandfather put Dech’s father to training the rest of his knights and took Dech on as his squire. A boy far too young for the job, but he stuck.”

  “And how did this end in the three of you becoming friends?”

  “It took a bit. The four of us bullies became stable boys for a full third of the season. Thirty days of moving muck and tending horses. Your grandfather’s sentence for behaving dishonorably. ‘Mucking is better than you deserve,’ he said. He was right, or so your father and I felt. We realized it was brash and mean. We were ashamed of what we did. The other two… not so much. Mucking stalls is a fine way to strip arrogance from a boy. Gerald and I asked Dech’s forgiveness and we never fought again, well, not against one another that is.”

  “What of the tournament circuit?” Rob asked.

  Allan laughed boisterously, “Ah, we were something to behold. Your father’s inherent ability to get us into riches, women, and trouble. Dech’s skill and fierceness, my stubbornness and good cheer. For—”

  “By stubbornness he means the resolution that resides within him,” Dech interrupted. “He won’t quit. Ever.”

  Allan looked at his old friend and smiled. “A veritable rock I am… especially between the ears. For more than two years we three wiped the fields of all comers in the melees, on foot and on horse, occasionally the joust, but it couldn’t last forever. Your father was called back here when his older brother died. Dech and I continued for awhile, but King Malig’s predations brought on the Throne War and at that, our youth came to an end.”

  “And the war, what of—”

  “It’s late, Rob. Well past bed time for men that must rise before dawn,” Allan said.

  “It is,” Dech agreed.

  Rob offered no argument and the three slid their chairs out and stood.

  “You have a room here in the keep,” Allan said to the warder. He pointed at a woman who stood near one of the doors. “She’ll conduct you there.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you before I leave,” Dech said.

  The woman led the contrition knight from the kitchen.

  “Why have you or father not ever mentioned Sir Dech?” Rob asked. “It’s obvious you were—are—as close as kin.”

  “It’s not something to air without considering those that might hear. It involves the crown and a host of others with power. It’s a painful thing, Rob. Long pain and unjust.”

  Rob’s brow furrowed. “Unjust? Sir Dech was innocent of the crime that led him to become a contrition knight?”

  “You might say that, but I’ll not speak of it without your father’s leave. There are many within the ranks of the order that are in similar positions. Few understand the order and that leads to falsehoods and rumor. Most of those who did commit a crime serve honorably. Remember that.”

  Rob nodded. “I will. He was wrongfully convicted yet he has attained the rank of warder. That’s equivalent to a knight-commander. Is it duty that leads him to serve so ably despite the injustice?”

  “Ask him someday. He might tell you.”

  “He’d tell a stranger such a thing?”

  “He’s as close to a brother your father has save for perhaps me. You’re more nephew than stranger. Give it some time though.”

  Rob glared. “I’m not going to awaken him and demand he tell the tale.”

  “A wise—”

  “I’ll ask him in the morning,” he said with a wide grin.

  Allan shook his head and smiled before shoving the young man toward the door. “Best you be joking. If not, I’ll miss you, lad.”

  . . .

  “What do you require for attendants, sir knight?” the woman asked from the doorway to Dech’s room.

  “Nothing. Members of the order are self sufficient and are forbidden such aid save for times of illness and wounds.”

  The woman dipped her head. “I thought as much, though I have heard of some not adhering to that stricture.”

  “No doubt. Not all are as obedient as they should be.”

  The woman smiled. “Do you wish to be roused at a particular time?”

  “I intend to depart shortly after first light.”

  “I will see to it you are awakened in time to meet your goal.” She dipped her head once again. “I will leave you then.”

  “I thank you,” Dech said as she closed the door.

  Dech undressed and prepared to sleep. As he slipped into the bed, he thought of his reunion with Allan and young Rob and the reminiscences of better days and smiled. How long has it been since last I laughed? passed through his mind. He paused in recollection and then leaned back. I cannot recall, but it must be months.

  . . .

  The Eastern March Inn sat along the Merchant Road just over the border from neighboring Arataine, the last stop before leaving the Grand Duchy of Byrmont, or the first upon entering depending on the direction of travel. A popular waypoint for legitimate travelers, it also served as a refuge for those fleeing trouble in Arataine. With no love lost between the two territories, it was rare for authorities from Arataine to appear there despite the proximity.

  Had the identities of certain patrons of the Eastern March been known on this night, the authorities in Arataine might have risked committing an act of war, but unknown to them, a threat brewed within the inn’s tavern walls.

  At the center of a large band of tankard bearing travelers sat a well-dressed and burly man of early middle age. Those with him were largely stout and well-armed men of confident bearing and gazed with the eyes of hardened warriors. The large crowd ga
ve the group ample space and veered wide when they passed. Near the man in the center sat another, a mage clad in a dark robe and until just shortly before, was a fugitive under hot pursuit in Arataine.

  “I have mages already,” the burly man said drunkenly over the music and general revelry among those in the tavern. “What makes you different? You’re something special?”

  “I am, King Malig. Feared enough within Arataine to warrant considerable pursuit all the way to the border.”

  “So you just made it then, mage,” Malig said. “If you be as formidable as you claim, who was fearsome enough to force you out?”

  “Contrition knights and a mage of some talent, Sire. A member of the King’s Mage Council no less.”

  Malig snarled angrily at the mention of contrition knights. “The order…” he growled. “I curse their very existence.”

  “I hold the same sentiment, Sire. Were it not for my skill in the dark arts, I would not be here now.”

  “Bah!” spat one of the entourage. “Dark arts or no, were it not for King Malig there, you’d not be here now either.”

  “Aye!” yelled another. “You’d be lyin’ split in two out in the dark.”

  “Food for dogs,” said a third.

  Malig laughed at his knights’ comments. “Come now, this mage has shown resilience. We need one such as he if we are to succeed, if he is indeed as special as he claims.”

  “With or without magickers, we’ll regain you the throne, Sire. This we swear,” said one of the warriors.

  “I will rule again. This I swear,” the drunken exiled king bellowed.

  “And my arts will see that it shall be done,” the mage said.

  “Fine words, King Malig, but only I can ensure you keep your oath,” a hollow, piercing, and otherworldly voice said over the din of the tavern crowd.

  The music ceased and voices quieted as all looked to the inn’s doorway for the source of the words.

  “Oh?” Malig replied. What he saw was a tall imposing form, hands folded into the sleeves of a worn and unadorned brown robe, face cloaked in the deep shadows of a generous hood. “And who might you be?”

  “Olk Mirkness, Grandmage and master of derkunblod.”

  The deposed king and his entourage burst into laughter.

  Malig stood with some effort and smiled cruelly as he steadied himself against the table. “Mage, slay me this jester! Show us this purported skill of yours.”

  “Gladly,” the mage said as he came to his feet. “Mirkness has been gone for twenty years,” he said walking clear of the crowd. “Formidable he was. No doubt of that, but never the legend he has become since and never a worker of derkunblod. Those that might pretend to be as fearsome as Mirkness should do so where actual practitioners of derkunblod are not present. You made a grave mistake, my friend.”

  “Practitioner?” the mysterious man said in an amused yet menacing tone. “So I have heard. I have sought you for a time. Let us see how practiced you are.”

  “Oh no! Not in my inn you won’t,” the proprietor of the Eastern March said as he stomped toward the two men.

  One of the exile’s entourage drew a sword and barred the way, stopping the innkeeper who threw up his arms in dismay.

  “Do not burn the inn down,” Malig slurred as he fell into his seat. “I do not relish the idea of looking for another this late in the day.”

  “Worry not, my king,” the mage replied.

  “The only thing that shall burn is this practitioner,” the man in brown said acidly.

  The mage laughed and raised his stiffened hands before throwing them toward his opponent. A red blast sprang from the hands and crossed the distance between them, engulfing the figure in swirling flame.

  Two hands emerged from the contained inferno and came down sharply, snuffing the spell as if it was no more that a sputtering candle stub. A malevolent laugh came from the hood as the mage backed away wide-eyed, his hands in a defensive posture.

  A rustle of heavy brown fabric signaled the mysterious man’s response, an outstretched hand with discolored and scarred skin, open with fingers spread. A tight column of red-orange light flared from the palm and lanced the gap between the mages, the beam striking the black-robed mage in the chest. A mere moment later, the same red-orange energy burst from his mouth and ears followed soon after from the two orifices at the crotch of his legs. With a crackling and ripping noise, the energy within split the mage in half and consumed him before he could fall. A diffuse cloud quickly dissipated and all that remained of the exiled king’s mage was the few metal accoutrements that once adorned his person.

  A pale-faced Malig stood, now grim and sober. “Are you truly Olk of old?”

  “I am,” the figure replied as he stepped closer. “And the Olk of now.”

  “And you’d see me on the throne of Arataine again?”

  “That and more.”

  “You said you could ensure this. How?”

  “By tying my fate with yours,” he said in a low voice. “You seek to rule Arataine once more. Your ambition thirsts to rule all the races. I seek to control magic.”

  Malig pondered the man’s words before replying. “How would you accomplish this, returning me to power?”

  “By initiating the Cataclysm and unleashing the dark powers of Laerdavile upon this plane.”

  “The prophecy? You seek to…” Malig trailed off with a shake of his head. “And they call me mad.”

  “Chaos will topple all who rule now. One who commands enough military force allied with one with the magical power to harm Laerdavile can stop the Cataclysm. In the aftermath, we both will have what we seek.”

  “You think you can kill the Lord of the Vile?”

  “No, one may not kill the immortal. Harming its avatar is sufficient enough to send it back to the Underealm as it has been in other days, in other Cataclysms. Provided one knows how. I do.”

  “Let us say this is possible. How do you intend to control magic?”

  “By cutting off access to the Font of Glaes, the source of most mages’ casting.”

  “Without the Font…” Malig quieted into a thoughtful scowl, “where would you draw this power to harm the Lord of the Vile?”

  “Derkunblod does not feed from the Font.”

  Malig’s eyebrows rose. “As you said, the aftermath would be chaos.”

  “Chaos requires a strong leader with powerful forces at hand to quell it. The one who does this….”

  Malig paused in thought before nodding. “I would rather rule chaos than serve or hide in shadows as I do now. My vengeance and ambition demand it.”

  “Then you shall rule. I wish to reorder the hierarchy within magic.”

  “Then we both get what we seek.”

  “I require the services of some of your men,” Olk said.

  “Orders?” Malig snarled.

  “No, King Malig. A statement of fact.”

  Malig calmed. “Come, sit. We will speak.”

  Olk raised his head and looked at Malig from under the hood. The exiled king could see little of the mage’s face, but even if he could have, it was the eyes that gave him pause. Olk’s were not human, just burning and glowing coals of the same red-orange color that consumed the other mage.

  “Yes,” Olk said. “There is much to discuss.”

  . . .

  Dech squatted and placed a wreath of yellow snapdragons before the tomb that held the remains of Grevess Vivian Moore. He knew they were her favorite in life and the early morning sun cast a similar color onto the tomb’s outer walls. He pressed a hand against the cool stone and was still for several minutes. Finally, he stood and found Allan and Robert waiting several paces away. He turned and joined them.

  “Give Gerald my regards,” Dech said offering Allan his hand.

  The seneschal pushed the hand aside and hugged his friend. “I will. Do not wait so long to visit next time. Rules are not all and the order can spare you now and again.”

  “I’ll take that unde
r consideration,” Dech said with a smile.

  “You best. I’ll drag you back here myself if need be.”

  Rob offered his hand. “I have a task that will put me on the roads in the near future, Sir Dech. Perhaps we might cross paths again.”

  The two men shook before Dech replied. “Perhaps. The kingdom is no small place. Fair travels.”

  “And the same to you.”

  Dech was soon underway. He looked at the brightening sky and nodded, thankful it was clear. His detour to the seat of Spring Shire added time to his journey, but he now felt it was well worth it. He patted his grey mount on the neck and said, “We’ve a long two days ahead of us.”

  . . .

  Allan and Rob stood on the battlements and watched Sir Dech’s receding form move westward at a steady pace, his packhorse trailing behind.

  “First time he’s been here since he joined the order,” Allan said quietly.

  “Why has he never been here since… since whatever it was that happened?” Rob asked.

  “Even paying respects as he did is forbidden the contrition knights. Breaking such a rule means something.”

  “And that is?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but I think he’s changing.”

  “Changing?”

  “Since he entered the order, he’s been duty bound. You mentioned that last night. He had little else once he lost his wife and child. Duty is a fine thing, but not if it’s the only thing.” With just a glance Allan could see Rob didn’t fully understand. “Duty needs to be tethered to something. Family, realm, crown, the people… something. It was those things Dech served before and he did it because he cared about those things, all of them. I’m not saying he ceased caring after he lost his family, but duty overshadowed all else. I think that’s what is different. For some reason he’s not closed off any longer.”

  “The man he was before is returning?”

  Allan thought for a moment before shaking his head. “I think not. A bit perhaps, but much of him died years ago. The trunk’s still there, but I think he’s growing new branches.”

  “So he won’t be the same as before.”

  “No. None of us are the same as we were. Life’s not like that.”