The Knight's Tale (7 page)

***

In the Year of Our Lord 1469, the court of the Dux
Gareth Licinius celebrated the Festival of the Resurrection in the
great hall of Castra Marcaine.

Ridmark Arban walked across the hall, his boots
clicking against the black and white tiles of the floor. He wore
his finest tunic and mantle, both crimson with gold trim. A sword
belt of black leather encircled his waist, the soulblade
Heartwarden resting in its scabbard there. He felt the sword’s
magic, his link to its power. He had felt it ever since he had
become a Swordbearer, ever since he had spent the night in vigil in
the Chamber of the Well within High King’s citadel of Tarlion.

But now the sword’s magic was quiet.

For today was not a day of battle, but a day of
celebration.

The gates of the Castra had been thrown wide, and
townsmen and freeholders from the nearby farms filled the
courtyards, feasting and drinking in honor of the Dominus
Christus’s resurrection and the Dux’s generosity. Ridmark thought
it a curious custom, but found that he approved. He had grown up in
the south, in the court of Castra Arban, in the great cities of
Tarlion and Cintarra. There the high nobles, the Comites and the
Duxi, kept themselves aloof from the townsmen and the
freeholders.

But here in the Northerland, life was harder and more
dangerous. The southern reaches of Andomhaim had been cleansed of
creatures of dark magic since the defeat of the urdmordar and the
Frostborn, but the Northerland was far more dangerous. Urvaalgs and
ursaars and worse things haunted the hills. Pagan orcs raided out
of the Wilderland, and kobolds dragged victims into the darkness of
the Deeps.

Rich and poor, lords and commoners, often had to
fight side by side.

And so they feasted together to celebrate the end of
winter and the end of Lent.

Ridmark joined a man and a boy who stood together
near one of the pillars. The man was short and stocky, with curly
red hair and green eyes, while the boy was tall and lean, with
olive-colored skin and black hair. The man was nineteen years old,
Ridmark’s age, while the boy was still sixteen, but neither one of
them were Swordbearers.

Few men carried a soulblade at the age of
nineteen.

But, then, few men had slain an urdmordar at the age
of eighteen.

Ridmark pushed aside the thought. He had earned great
renown for that victory, but he did not want to think about
Gothalinzur now.

Nor of the disturbing things she had told him.

“Sir Ridmark,” said Sir Joram Agramore, the shorter
of the two men. “A blessed day to you.” He was already slightly
unsteady on his feet, no doubt from his fondness for wine. “A pity
the tournament is not today.”

The boy, Constantine Licinius, frowned. “Today is a
holy day, Sir Joram, and it is proper that we do not fight, but
dwell in peace.”

“Yes, true enough,” said Joram, “but we must be
vigilant. The pagan orcs and the dark elves do not respect holy
days, and we must be ready to fight. Did not the Frostborn come out
of the north on the day of the Festival of the Nativity? A knight
of Andomhaim must ever be ready for battle!”

Ridmark laughed. “So we must fight in the tournament
to prepare for battle?”

“Exactly!” said Joram. “You understand, sir. Indeed,
you understand better than most. A Swordbearer at eighteen? Ha!” He
slapped Ridmark upon the shoulder. “You’ll have your pick of the
ladies, I’m sure.”

“Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of Taliand will likely
pick his wife,” said Constantine.

Joram grinned. “Sir Ridmark’s father the Dux of
Taliand has four older sons. Likely he will let the Hero of Victrix
pick his own wife.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Ridmark.

“Anyway, I think,” said Joram, “that the man who
earnestly claims not to be the Hero of Victrix already has his mind
made up.”

He looked across the hall, and Ridmark followed his
gaze.

The Dux of the Northerland, Gareth Licinius, stood
upon the dais, clad simply in a red tunic and mantle. Like
Constantine, he had olive-colored skin, though his black hair had
long ago turned gray. His family claimed descent from Septimius
Severus, one of the Emperors of the Romans from Old Earth, and
Gareth indeed looked like an emperor, stern and commanding. His
older sons, all knights and Swordbearers and Comites of renown,
stood near him.

Aelia stood next to the Dux, watching her father as
he spoke.

She resembled both her father and her brothers, with
the same curly black hair and green eyes. Yet she was beautiful,
radiantly so, and Ridmark felt a little jolt whenever he looked at
her. He had learned to distrust beauty after he had learned how the
urdmordar and their daughters could shapeshift into forms of
stunning loveliness.

Yet Aelia did not have a malicious bone in her body.
She had taken over much of the household management of Castra
Marcaine after her mother had died. And she saw to it that no one
in Castra Marcaine or its town when hungry, that the sick and
orphans and widows were cared for in the town’s church.

She saw him looking, smiled, and then looked down.
Her younger sister Imaria caught him looking and scowled.

“Ha!” said Joram, slapping Ridmark on the shoulder
again. “The Lady Aelia likes you, my friend.”

Ridmark expected Constantine to protest, but the
squire only nodded. “Indeed, Sir Ridmark. I think you would make a
worthy husband for my sister. Certainly better than some of her
other suitors.”

Joram snorted. “And who might you mean by that?”

“It would be uncouth and unbecoming to say, sir,”
said Constantine, and then fell silent.

The man Constantine meant walked towards them, his
followers trailing after.

Ridmark stepped forward, resisting the urge to reach
for Heartwarden. Another knight approached him, a tall, lean man
about Ridmark’s own age with close-cropped blond hair, a neatly
trimmed beard, and blue eyes like disks of ice. Several other
knights followed him, like wolves trailing the leader of the
pack.

They stared at each other, waiting for the other to
speak.

“Sir Ridmark,” said Tarrabus Carhaine at last.

“Sir Tarrabus,” said Ridmark.

They had never gotten along, from the day both had
arrived at Castra Marcaine to serve as squires. Later Ridmark had
tried to put their rivalry behind him. Tarrabus was the eldest son
of the Dux of Caerdracon, would one day be the Dux himself. If he
was arrogant and proud, that was no different from the children of
many other lords and knights, and perhaps Tarrabus would grow out
of it.

But while he could not deny Tarrabus’s courage or
skill with a blade, Ridmark’s dislike of the man had only grown. He
was brutal and merciless to anyone in his way. If a freeholder or a
townsman annoyed him, he sent his followers to harass and torment
the unfortunate man. Once, when they had gotten drunk together with
the other squires, he had told Ridmark that he thought of the
peasants as cattle, as beasts to be shaped and used as their lords
wished.

Ridmark had given up trying to make peace with
Tarrabus after that, and would have preferred to ignore him.

But Tarrabus wanted to wed Aelia, and Tarrabus would
one day be the Dux of Caerdracon.

“A blessed Festival of the Resurrection to you,
Swordbearer,” said Tarrabus. He was always polite. Ridmark had
heard that Tarrabus had once killed a man, and then bid his
children a pleasant day before departing.

“And you, sir knight,” said Ridmark. “I did not see
you at the mass this morning.”

The knights behind him laughed, but Tarrabus lifted a
hand and they fell silent at once.

“I attended private masses in the chapel at dawn,”
said Tarrabus, “as is proper for a man of noble birth, rather than
attending the church of the ignorant rabble in the town. I
sometimes think the teachings of the church are useful for the
commoners, to teach them how best to spend their insignificant
lives, but are useless for men of power and rank.”

“That borders upon blasphemy,” said Constantine.

Tarrabus spread his hands. “Have I denied God or his
Dominus Christus? I have not. God has given us, the lords of
Andomhaim, power over lesser men. We must use it as we see
fit.”

“We must use it for the defense and welfare of the
realm,” said Ridmark, “not to glorify ourselves.”

Tarrabus almost smiled. “You shall quote the Pact of
the Two Orders at me next, sir.”

“It speaks wisdom,” said Ridmark. “The Magistri are
only to use their magic for defense, for knowledge, and for
healing. Never to harm another mortal. It is a wise provision. Else
we shall be like the dark elves, ruled by cruel sorcerers of power,
or like the pagan orcs, beholden to shamans of blood spells.”

“Perhaps we are not wise,” said Tarrabus. “Perhaps it
would be better if we used our magic as a weapon. The dark elves
can live for millennia, and the urdmordar are immortal. We live but
a short span of years, and face foes of tremendous power. Perhaps
if we used magic to elevate ourselves, to ascend…”

“As Eve ate of the tree to ascend to the knowledge of
good and evil?” said Ridmark.

Tarrabus offered a short, hard smile. “Let us leave
theological speculation to the priests. There is news of more
immediate interest. It seems that the Dux wishes for his daughter
to wed soon.”

Constantine frowned. “It is unseemly to gossip about
my sister, sir.”

One of Tarrabus’s knights, a scowling man named Paul
Tallmane, glared at Constantine. “You should keep a respectful
tongue in your mouth, boy. You are addressing the future Dux of
Caerdracon."

Again Tarrabus lifted a hand, and Paul stopped
talking. “What gossip is there, boy? I merely repeat common
knowledge. The Dux is fond of his grandchildren, and he would like
more. And Aelia is a noblewoman both fair in face and character,
ripe to be wed.”

Ridmark shrugged. “I am sure the Dux will choose a
worthy husband for her.”

“A man of high noble birth, set to rise higher,” said
Tarrabus.

“Or,” said Joram, “a knight of renown, who has made a
name with great deeds. A Swordbearer, perhaps.” He shrugged.
“Though I am sure I cannot think of such a man.”

Tarrabus started to answer, then the Dux cleared his
throat, the hall falling silent.

“My friends,” said Dux Gareth Licinius in his deep
voice, “I bid you welcome to my hall, on this joyous day of Our
Lord’s resurrection. We have faced many challenges this winter,
with raids from both the orcs of the Wilderland and from the Deep.”
He nodded in Ridmark’s direction. “And an urdmordar even sought to
enslave one of our villages. But by God’s mercy and the valor of
our knights, we have survived, and both Lent and the winter are
over. Let us then give thanks to God, and make merry with food and
drink and dancing.” A page hurried over with a goblet of wine, and
Gareth took a drink and lifted the goblet.

“To the Northerland and the High King!” he
shouted.

“To the Northerland and the High King!” the guests
roared back.

A cheer went through the hall, and the musicians upon
the balconies started playing a lively song. The lords and the
knights went to the ladies and started to pair up, dancing over the
black and white tiles of the floor.

“Pardon me, sirs,” said Ridmark, with a bow to both
Tarrabus and Joram.

Tarrabus opened his mouth to answer, but before he
could, Ridmark strode away and approached the Dux’s dais.

Gareth looked at him, an amused look on his face.
“Sir Ridmark.”

“My lord Dux,” said Ridmark. “I hope you are
well.”

“I am,” said Gareth, “for a man of my age. Ah, but
these northern winters get harder to endure every year.”

“I wish to ask something of you, my lord,” said
Ridmark.

“Certainly. You did a great service to my lands and
people when you slew the urdmordar Gothalinzur.”

“I ask for the honor of the first dance of the
evening with Lady Aelia,” said Ridmark.

Gareth chuckled. “Well, that is hardly mine to give.”
He looked at his daughter.

Aelia smiled. “If I must, father, I shall bear up
under this dreadful burden.” She grinned, holding out a hand, and
Ridmark took it. His hand went on her left hip, their right hands
twining together, and he led her upon the floor of the hall, moving
in time to the music.

“Shall we go faster?” said Ridmark.

Her smile widened. “Only if you think you can keep
up, sir knight.”

Ridmark laughed, their heels clicking against the
floor.

“Poor Tarrabus,” said Aelia. “He looks like he wants
to rip off someone’s head.”

Ridmark opened his mouth, and then closed it. He was
only nineteen, but he still knew enough of women to realize that
pointing out his rival’s flaws would not be productive.

“Well,” he said. “If he wanted the first dance, he
should have been faster. Fortune does favor the bold, my lady.”

“How flattering,” she murmured. “The sons of two
Duxi, racing to dance with me. And I will not even inherit my
father’s lands and titles.”

“They come with much responsibility,” said Ridmark.
“Your father labors endlessly to bear his burdens.”

“You aided him with that,” said Aelia, “when you slew
Gothalinzur.” Ridmark grimaced. “I know you do not like to be
reminded of what you did at Victrix, but it was a great deed.”

“It was necessary,” said Ridmark. “And I had help. I
could not have done it alone.”

“So have said all the great heroes of history,” said
Aelia.

“I have no wish to be a hero,” said Ridmark. “Merely
to discharge my responsibilities with honor.”

“As do I,” said Aelia. “Like my father, I must do
what is best for the people of the Northerland.”