The Knight's Tale (2 page)

“As you say,” said Linus.

Ulacht nodded, grunted, and picked up his club. “You
come to Rzoldur, sir knight, and all Ulacht’s kinsfolk will speak
with you.”

“Or come to Victrix,” said Linus, “and my flock will
speak to you of what they have seen. Little enough as it is.”

“Who is lord of Victrix?” Ridmark said.

Ulacht and Linus shared a look.

“Sir Hamus,” said Linus, “may God preserve him.”

Ulacht scowled. “Bloated lecher that he is.”

Linus winced. “Sir Hamus has grown somewhat…indolent
of late, true, but I am sure he means well.”

“Does Victrix have one of the Magistri?” Ridmark
asked. A Magistrius, skilled in magic, might know more about
whatever dangers dwelt nearby.

“We do,” said Linus, “the Magistrius Sempronius,
though he is a touch…eccentric.”

For a moment Ridmark hesitated. He didn’t know what
to do next, and he felt like a child attempting to command his
elders. Yet he was not a child, not any more. He was a Swordbearer,
and it was his duty to defend the realm of Andomhaim from dark
magic, and from the sort of creatures that would carry off children
in the night.

“I will see the Magistrius Sempronius first,” Ridmark
said. “Perhaps his knowledge of magic will lend some insight.”

Ulacht snorted. “Or he’ll drool on your boots.”

Father Linus gave the orcish headman a reproving
look. “I am…sure he will be glad to see you, sir knight. Please,
follow me.”

Ulacht insisted on accompanying Ridmark, and after
some negotiation, the other orcs returned to Rzoldur, and Linus led
Ridmark further along the road to the village of Victrix itself,
deeper into the hills of the Northerland. The road cut back and
forth between the hills, and at last the village itself came into
sight.

Or, rather, both the villages of Victrix and
Rzoldur…and the thing that stood between them.

A steep hill, at least five hundred feet tall, rose
out of the forests of the Northerland. A farming village of perhaps
six hundred people nestled in a valley at the base of the hill,
surrounding a stout square keep, a sturdy church, and the kind of
tall round tower favored by the Magistri. Upon an outthrust spur of
the hill, overlooking the valley, stood a cluster of the domed
houses of rusticated stone preferred by the orcs – the village of
Rzoldur. If the villages were so close to each other, that meant
the orcs and the humans had coexisted peacefully for some time.

So why turn on each other now?

The ruin of white stone high upon the hill held
Ridmark’s attention. It looked like a delicate castle of gleaming
stone, pale, beautiful…and utterly wrong. The angles of the
crumbling towers were odd, and the shape of the arches and windows
reflected an alien mind.

It was a ruin of the dark elves.

“You live near that,” Ridmark said, “and you wonder
why your children have disappeared? All manner of ill creatures can
lurk in a dark elven ruin.”

Linus shrugged. “It is safe enough, Swordbearer. Men
settled here a century ago, and the ruin has been deserted the
entire time. We even store cured meats and dried vegetables in the
ruin’s cellar during the winter.”

“Your folk are miners, headman?” Ridmark said,
looking at the stone domes of Rzoldur.

“Aye,” said Ulacht. “There are ores and gemstones in
the hills, and many caves as well.”

“Did you ever tunnel far enough to reach the Deeps?”
said Ridmark. There were thousands of miles of unmapped caverns
below the surface of Andomhaim, and the Deeps housed many dangerous
and powerful creatures. If the orcs dug deep enough to awaken
one...

Ulacht snorted, the muscles of his scarred face
tightening. “And awaken some horror, you mean? We are not so
foolish. Ulacht does not let his clan dig too deep. Some things are
better left to slumber.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the
Magistrius’s tower at the edge of Victrix. The Magistri, Ridmark
understood, preferred to work in towers, since the position of the
thirteen moons altered certain magical effects. (According to the
scriptures and ancient Roman books, Old Earth had only one moon,
which seemed like it would be altogether peculiar.) Ridmark strode
towards the tower’s door, preparing to knock.

The narrow door swung open before Ridmark could reach
it, and a tall, forbidding old man in a white robe with a black
sash stepped out. He looked like the very image of a learned
Magistrius – stern, wise, and solemn.

“Magistrius Sempronius,” said Father Linus. “I bring
before you Sir Ridmark, son of the Dux Leogrance Arban of Taliand,
and a Knight of the Order of the Soulblade.”

“I have come seeking your counsel, Magistrius,”
Ridmark said.

Sempronius gave him a grave nod, and opened his mouth
to speak.

“Chickens!” bellowed the Magistrius.

Ridmark blinked, and Ulacht and Linus shared a
look.

“Pardon?” Ridmark said at last.

“Chickens!” said Sempronius, deadly serious. “Do you
not see the purple chicken upon your shoulder, Swordbearer?”

Ridmark looked at his shoulder, baffled. “I…fear I
cannot.”

“The purple chickens!” shouted Sempronius, his eyes
growing wider. “There is a purple chicken standing upon your
shoulder, wearing a hat with feathered plumes and reciting the
uncouth poetry of Ovid while juggling flaming apples with its
beak!” He leaned forward, and the Magistrius’s breath smelled…sick.
When Ridmark was a squire, one of his father’s knights accidentally
ate some poisoned berries, and his breath smelled much the
same.

“Yes,” said Ulacht, his voice heavy with disgust.
“The chickens.”

“Do you not see them?” shrieked Sempronius. “The
purple chickens are everywhere! Plotting their conspiracies,
tunneling beneath my tower, and listening to my thoughts! They are
scheming against me! They make me hear colors! I know that they’re
planning to wage war against the sun and turn my shoes into
breadsticks!”

“Has he…always been like this?” Ridmark said, utterly
at a loss.

“Not this bad,” said Linus. “I feared he had been
growing senile, but he has taken quite a turn for the worse.”

The old Magistrius was likely hallucinating, and
suddenly Ridmark wondered if the old man had been poisoned. If he
had, the power of Heartwarden might cure the poison.

“Magistrius,” Ridmark said, stepping forward. “I can
see the purple chickens, too.”

Both Ulacht and Linus gave him a startled look, but
Sempronius bobbed his head up and down.

“You can see them?” said the old Magistrius, coming
closer. “Then you know their villainy! You know they cannot be
trusted! The purple chickens are building mansions beneath the
grass, and they are plotting against us! All of us!”

“Yes,” Ridmark said. “And I can help you.”

“How?” said Sempronius. “Will you raise the Order of
the Soulblade and the armies of the High King and march to war
against the sinister armies of the chickens?”

“Something like that,” Ridmark said. “Please hold
still.”

He stepped forward, drew upon the power of
Heartwarden, and clamped his free hand on the old man’s temples.
Sempronius’s eyes bulged, and he started to cast a spell, but he
was too slow. White light pulsed from Ridmark’s fingers and into
Sempronius’s head, and the Magistrius flinched and almost fell
over.

And as he did, Ridmark felt…something flee from him.
Some taint, some corruption in his blood. The Magistrius had indeed
been poisoned. Sempronius stumbled back, blinking…and some lucidity
came back into his wild-eyed face.

“What…what am I doing here?” he said, looking at
Ridmark and then at Linus. “Father? What is going on?”

“You don’t see the chickens?” said Linus.

“Chickens?” said Sempronius. “What the devil are you
talking about? I am a Magistrius. I do not keep chickens in my
tower.”

“You were poisoned,” Ridmark said. “Some sort of drug
that made you see things that were not real.” Such as, apparently,
purple chickens.

"Poisoned?” said Sempronius, shaking his head. “But
that…that is preposterous. I am a Magistrius! Who would dare to
poison me?”

“What is the last thing you remember clearly?”
Ridmark said.

Sempronius blinked and looked at Ulacht. “You,
headman. I saw you…I went to Rzoldur at your invitation, to heal an
orcish woman with a putrefying wound.”

“Aye,” said Ulacht, “Ulacht remembers.”

“The healing was a difficult one. After that I felt
like talking a walk,” said Sempronius, “to the top of the hill, to
clear my thoughts.”

Which would take him near, Ridmark noted, the dark
elven ruin atop the hill.

“After that…all I can remember is a gray mist,” said
Sempronius. “Then I was standing here, with you, Linus, and…and
this Knight of the Soulblade.”

“Sir Ridmark Arban,” Ridmark said.

“Magistrius,” said Ulacht, “it is as you said, you
did heal Uzrbella…but that was six weeks ago!”

“Six weeks!” said Sempronius, aghast.

“How long have the children been missing?” Ridmark
said.

“The first disappeared eight days ago,” said
Linus.

“The first orcish child,” said Ulacht, “six.”

“Children?” said Sempronius. “What is going on?”

Ridmark opened his mouth to answer, and then the
rattle of armor came to his ears.

He turned and saw five men-at-arms in chain mail
approaching the base of Sempronius’s tower, hands on the hilts of
their sheathed swords. At their head walked a stocky, balding
knight of about thirty, his face like that of a disgruntled
bulldog. To judge from his oft-broken nose and the scars on his
jaw, the man knew how to fight.

The men-at-arms stopped, and the stocky knight took a
few steps closer to Ridmark, his eyes hard and flinty.

“So,” said the knight, looking Ridmark over, “it
seems Lady Gwenaelle was correct.” His mouth twisted, just a bit,
at the mention of the name. “We are honored by the visit of a
Knight of the Soulblade.”

“I am Sir Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark, offering the
knight a bow.

The knight bowed back. “And I am Sir Thomas Cultran,
son of Sir Hamus Cultran, the lord of this village.” He looked at
you. “My father and his…wife have heard of your arrival, and sent
me to escort you to their presence. They wish to meet you.
Now.”

His tone was just short of a threat. Ridmark decided
it was best not to offend the local lord.

“I would be honored,” Ridmark said, “to meet Sir
Hamus Cultran.”

Sir Thomas relaxed a little, and Ridmark realized
that the older man feared him. Or, at least, he did not want to
fight Ridmark. Understandable, given the power granted by a
soulblade. “Thank you, Swordbearer. Please, follow me.” He looked
at Linus and Ulacht and Sempronius. “Father, headman, Magistrius,
you might as well accompany us.”

Sir Thomas led them through the village of Victrix to
his father’s keep. Victrix looked prosperous enough, with houses of
whitewashed brick roofed in red clay tiles, but Ridmark saw a pall
hanging over the village as they passed through the streets. People
kept to themselves, and mothers pulled their children close as
Ulacht passed. The aura of fear was plain, and Ridmark wondered how
long it would be until the villagers did something drastic.

Sir Hamus’s keep was stout and grim, and Thomas led
Ridmark to the great hall. Fires blazed merrily in twin hearths,
and tapestries on the wall showed scenes of Arthur and Lancelot,
Gawain and the Green Knight, and other tales of Old Earth. Sir
Hamus himself, a man of about sixty, sat upon the high seat. He did
not look well. If Thomas abandoned exercise, stuffed himself with
pastries every day, and aged thirty years, he might look like
Hamus.

But Ridmark barely noticed the old knight.

The two women standing at Hamus’s side captured
Ridmark’s attention.

The first was an old, old woman in a loose black
dress, so old that her skin looked like parchment and her hair like
tufts of white thread. Her green eyes were amiable and unfocused,
and she hummed to herself, looking at everything and nothing.

The second woman was quite probably the most
beautiful woman Ridmark had ever seen. She was only a few years his
senior, clad in a rich green gown, with long red hair and brilliant
green eyes. Her features and skin were perfect, absolutely perfect.
Ridmark realized that he was staring at the stunning woman, and he
only managed to make himself stop with difficulty.

“Sir Ridmark Arban,” said Thomas, clearing his
throat, “my father and lord of this village, Sir Hamus Cultran. His
wife and my stepmother the Lady Gwenaelle,” he gestured at the
stunning woman, “and her mother, the Lady Gotha.”

Vaguely Ridmark wondered why on earth a woman like
Gwenaelle agreed to marry a man like Hamus. Perhaps she was a
commoner had seduced Hamus to improve her station in life? But
surely she could have captured the eye of a Comes, even a Dux.

“Thomas!” said Lady Gotha, squinting at Ridmark. She
tottered forward, leaning on her cane. “Is that the man from the
village who delivers our bacon? The last batch was spoiled! Young
fellow, if you do not deliver my bacon, I shall beat you with my
cane.”

“Mother,” murmured Gwenaelle, taking the old woman’s
sleeve, “that man is a Knight of the Soulblade and our guest.”

“I know that, girl!” said Gotha. “And he sells us
questionable bacon!”

Thomas’s mouth thinned with contempt as he looked at
his stepmother and her mother.

“You are welcome here, Sir Ridmark,” said Hamus, his
voice weak and watery. “Your aid…your aid would be welcome. You are
here about the disappearances, yes? I do not to know what to think.
One man says one thing and I believe him, and then another says
something else and I believe him.”

Thomas’s look of contempt did not waver as his gaze
turned to his father.