Authors: Garon Whited
Apparently, His Majesty raised troops from his vassals in a simple formula: one knight equals one hundred men under arms. “Arms,” in this case, meant “with appropriate weapons.” Crossbows, polearms, or something similar; not pitchforks and woodchoppers. Places that could afford a hundred men and enough sharp objects to go around sent them; a lot of knights would fork over cash to help out, rather than actually go to battle.
My opinion of chivalry really took a nose dive at that revelation, let me tell you. I began to have some inkling of why Sir Raeth and Sir Bouger were so impressed with me for cutting them loose. I was likewise more impressed with them for getting into trouble in the first place; it’s apparently rare to find a member of the gentry out
looking
for trouble!
Eastgate didn’t have the money (read: didn’t want to shell out) for a hundred peasants with some basic instruction on which end of a pike to hold. The local knights (if you want to call them that) also didn’t like the idea of heading off to war.
So the three of us were worth three hundred conscripts. Handy for lord Heledon.
Sir Raeth did arrange for Lord Heledon—that is,
Duke
Heledon—to knight me, though. It carries more weight than when another knight does it, I guess. And, since he was already willing to fob us off on the King as
his
knights, a little sword-waving wasn’t so much more.
What the hell. It’s not like I had any serious plans for next week. And it would let me stir about the country, see the sights, do some traveling.
Standing vigil this evening sounds boring, though.
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21
ST
I
was in the privy when the sun went down; I’d complained of a bit of constipation and warned Sir Bouger I might be a while.
Good thing, too. The sunset brought with it a slightly-lessened blaze of power in my blood. It had diminished a little, but it was going to be a while before I stopped feeling giddy in the evenings.
Altogether, I was probably in the toilet for close to half an hour. Bouger gave me an inquisitive look as I walked carefully into the chapel, but he didn’t ask. He showed me where to sit, clapped me on the shoulder—in sympathy, I think—and left me to my watch.
So here I am, in a chapel, standing vigil over my own sword and a suit of armor I’ll never wear. Apparently, I’m supposed to defend them against anybody who comes along to try and grab them. I’d like to see someone try and grab Firebrand, actually. At present, I can
see
the matrix of the enchantment in it; part of a dragon’s spirit is in there, all right. It’s a sharp-edged bar of mystic fire, poorly hidden in fragile steel.
Still and all, I’m nervous. It’s night, I’m not breathing, and I’m in a chapel. I’m taking part in some sort of consecration ritual, but I’m not crisping.
Yeah, I’m nervous. Aside from that, I’m bored.
Sir Raeth dropped in. We had a chat about knighthood. He’s apparently of the opinion that
noblesse oblige
is more than a phrase in a foreign language. That whole noble-service-cheerfully-rendered thing means something to him. Don Quixote would understand Sir Raeth; they speak the same language.
I also found out some interesting things about the local chivalry. Shada wasn’t exactly wrong about chivalry, just a mite confused.
All the noble houses, from the King on down the vassal tree, are knights of the Order of the Crown. Which basically means they inherited the title. Such knights range from the chubby fellow with the asthmatic wheeze to sword-waving lunatics like the Baron Xavier Baret. The majority aren’t interested in risking their necks; they have a bigger title to inherit. Encountered in the army, they are the guys on the hill, at the rear, watching the battle and telling people what signals to give. Nobody was a member of that Order without a noble pedigree. Second sons and suchlike who don’t stand to inherit something more grandiose also wind up in the Order of the Crown.
Their
offspring have to earn their spurs and don’t automatically wind up in the Order of the Crown. Instead…
Another Order of Knighthood is the Order of the Sword; that’s the one offering me a membership card. These are men ballsy enough to go looking for trouble and are generally dangerous enough to give trouble a hard time. With no other claim to nobility than a knighthood, a strong arm, and a good heart, they were the core of what I think of as the actual
knights
. The officers of the army, if you will, that led on the field. These guys would be yelling for men to follow them as they hacked their way into the enemy line.
Commoners who join (or are conscripted) into the army sometimes become knights. More often, an existing knight will take a commoner for a squire and train him. This
sometimes
is enough to let the squire advance to knighthood. Earning a knighthood is supposed to be damned tough. It requires years of squiring… or one act of great heroism, valor, and force of arms. I got in through the second method. A few get in via bribery, if some wealthy commoner decides a son ought to look good in armor, but members of the Sword are almost as picky as the Order of the Crown, although about different things. Having a sword as part of a heraldic device—all Knights of the Sword are required to—is sort of a badge of quality. Knights of the Crown have their family crest.
Sir Raeth seemed almost apologetic about my being stuck with the Order of the Sword. But then, he was an hereditary noble and doubtless felt it was a lesser honor. Which, by his lights, it was. Personally, I think nobility isn’t something you’ll find in a gene sequence.
We also talked about where we would be going. As I suspected, the destination was much farther north, facing off with the northern barbarians.
“What lunatic starts a war in the winter?” I asked.
He chuckled. “It is not lunacy; this war is outright madness.”
“This I gotta hear.”
“We have southern duchies that are yet warm enough to lay in a crop over the winter. We have heavier armor, and great stores of food every year. We have many wizards who will help to move supplies and aid troops at His Majesty’s behest. We sometimes have a few fighting wizards—such as yourself—who will lend their skills in battle. They have a few wizards in their ranks, but not so many as we.”
“We still have to go to them,” I pointed out. “Isn’t that going to cost us?”
“Aye, that it would,” he answered, and looked less than pleased. “I was coming to such things. It is their land, and they know it better than we do. They have shorter lines of supply, difficult to disrupt, and greater numbers on their side. So it was decided that the river bridge would mark our northern outpost. We have a single fortification upon which they may mass their assembled might, and in so massing, break against it. It has been many, many years since last we sallied across the river to carry the attack to them.”
Sir Raeth grinned widely at me. “But we may always hope we shall do so
this
year!”
He should have been a Knight of the Sword.
I think I dozed off after Sir Raeth left. I think. Because this is what I think happened—at least, what I remember happening.
The chapel dimmed. I say “dimmed” because it seemed to be less
there
than I remembered. It wasn’t
darker
, because I have excellent night vision—even back before I developed a drinking problem. But someone turned down the gain on my eyes, or maybe on the local reality.
The statue of the god spoke. It was a smaller version of the thing in the temple at Baret, complete with little oil lamp in the torso and fish-eye mirror where the head should be.
What bothered me about it wasn’t the fact it had anything to say, but the way the featureless mirror
looked
at me, like a great, reflective eye. More evidence I was dreaming, I suppose.
“My son, my son,” it said. “Why are you troubling my Church so?” The voice made my skin crawl despite the quiet, benevolent tone. It was a crooning, seductive voice. One that made you want to listen to it and agree with it, just so you might sound that good by association. If I hadn’t been so worried about terminal sunburn, I might have been more receptive.
“They started it.”
“Yet, they do that which I have instructed. Return to your own world, my son, and live out the balance of your days there.”
It’s a dream. Why not just say it?
I thought.
“If you’re the one who told them to murder my wife, myself, and a bunch of good people, as well as to make deals with ancient demons, then I don’t think I’m going to take any suggestion from you.”
“I see. No, I gave no such orders—but this world is not yours. This is not your place.”
“It is now,” I countered.
“If you stand against me, I must smite you down,” it warned.
“You already tried that in my homeworld. If you’re so much more powerful here, why haven’t you already? I’m in a chapel that belongs to you.”
Long pause. The flame reflected from the mirror seemed to burn darker.
“You will pay for your insolence,” the voice said, and the benevolent tone was gone. Now it was a tone of menace. Hissing. Threatening. Angry. Somehow familiar.
“Not nearly as much as you’ll pay in loyal followers and clergy. Or were you not watching when I broke into your church and killed both guards and priests? What happened to your omniscience? Or your omnipotence? Or is it just that you need someone to weed out the weaklings in your ranks?”
Gods don’t like to debate, I guess. The voice shut up and the chapel undimmed. But I could swear I almost heard it snarl.
I’m pretty sure that’s when I woke up. At least, I think I did.
Fortunately for me, the chapel has no windows. A god of light, and he doesn’t like windows? I haven’t got that figured out yet. The only light was from lamps and from the statue’s mirror-face-head-thing. Maybe it’s significant in that the only light is that
of
the god. Doesn’t like competition? It sure fit with the policy regarding Tamara, and fire-witches in general.
Regardless, it isn’t a sunrise. I stood it well.
Once the day was well under way, I realized that the sheer power of my victims was gone to wherever such things go in the daylight. Doubtless, it would be back at sunset. It bothered me, how much I missed it. It was a
good
feeling, a feeling that made anything possible. A boundless sense of capability, strength, competence… Power.
I liked it, and it scared me that I liked it. It still scares me, but I’ll shut up about it now.
A bath came next, and new clothes—I expected to be dressed in my armor, but they don’t seem to go for that here—before I got ushered in to the sound to trumpets.
I felt like I was getting married. A long, long walk down a bright red carpet (if a trifle worn) with people simply
packed
into the ducal hall. Being knighted is a spectator sport.
The Duke was long-winded and fanciful. He praised my martial prowess (which he’d never seen), my commitment to noble ideals (which he’d never asked), my steadfast loyalty and honor (which he’d never tested), and the fact I was an inspiration to all chivalry everywhere (which, I have to say, I’m
not.
)
He did it really well. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have bought it. The court surely did; there were
ooh
s and
ahh
s at every eloquent turn of phrase. The Duke was a good speaker, had a good voice, and knew how to impress the crowd. He pulled out all the stops and made the crowd do that excited murmuring thing that sometimes happens when there’s supposed to be silence.
I wondered what advantage it would give him. I didn’t doubt for a second it profited him to invest his time like this.
On the other hand, maybe he was just something of a ham.
Once he finished his speechmaking, he actually tapped my shoulders with his sword, pronouncing the actual knighting. I rose on cue as he picked up a red sash—red tassels, since I wasn’t of noble birth—and offered it to me, draped over both of his outstretched hands. I took it, wound it around my waist, tied it off, and I bowed. He bowed very slightly and then dismissed me. I’d been briefed on what to do; back up seven steps, then turn and exit, stage left. I did so, while applause and huzzahs followed me.
Damned if some of ladies didn’t throw flowers and flutter eyelashes at me.
My Sirs were waiting for me; they were dressed in what looked like a cross between brigandine and chainmail—that is, small rigid plates, about the size of a playing card, with a lot of close-spaced chain links holding it all together and comprising the joints, the whole of it worn over quilted padding. It looked freshly polished, and they had a suit for me. The fancy plate I’d stood vigil over wouldn’t fit me, so it was staying here. I wondered who really owned it.
They helped me get into the tinware. I needed the help; armor is awkward until you have it on. But they knew what they were doing and had me dressed in nothing flat. We mounted up. I was on Bronze; Sir Raeth and Sir Bouger had fresh horses. There was a mule with supplies on it in tow as we set out. People cheered us as we left.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m positive I was getting a lot of significant looks from the ladies in the crowd. I may be wrong but I’m certain. I guess they just love a man in uniform.
Once we were in the hills and out of sight, we halted to rearrange stuff and get out of the armor. It was actually fairly comfortable armor, but it was going to be a long ride. We put a lot more gear on Bronze—it wouldn’t have looked good to have the Conquering Heroes loaded with camping gear—and on the other two horses; the mule had been seriously overloaded.
“Duke doesn’t waste any time, does he?” I offered, while we were unloading and repacking.
“Not a bit,” Sir Bouger agreed. “The quicker we are on our way, the quicker the King can be told. His Grace has met his commitments now, and will be unmolested for at least half a year.”
“And His Majesty’s proctor can be sent packing,” Sir Raeth added. “Few nobles enjoy having a man with the King’s Writ in their demesne.”
“It’s always bad when the boss is looking over your shoulder, yeah,” I agreed. “So where
are
we going, and how long will it take to get there?”
“We will ride north to Delvedale, then turn westward. The place we are bound for is Crag Keep. Twenty days to Delvedale and another fifteen to Crag Keep, if we have good weather all the way.”