Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (20 page)

• Chapter 13 •

Dirk’s Last Ride

It happened in the darkest and deepest part of the night.

The lamps in the streets of Eventide were all dark. The pixies had, many hours before, all been released from their confinements. Only the narrow crescent of the moon gave the barest light to the courts and alleys of the town, and that was occasionally shuttered by the passing of low clouds caught in the breeze in the night of an early summer.

Through the darkness—through the night—rode the highwayman.

The clatter of his black steed’s hooves rattled down the streets. His shrill cry echoed between the walls like the wail of a banshee spirit. It startled the sleep of many as he passed up Cobblestone Street. Ariela shrieked in her own small house, adding considerably to the commotion as the dark form of the highwayman rode madly through the town at full gallop. His black hood obscured his face from any who leaped from their beds in panic and managed to open the shutters on their upper floor windows in time to catch a glimpse of the dark form, cape flying behind the rider’s shoulders.

The highwayman pulled up his steed slightly as he entered Trader’s Square, rounding the countinghouse. Deniva Kolyan, peering through the slits between her bakery’s front windows, saw clouds part for a moment, the moon illuminating the square and the silhouette of Dirk Gallowglass on his steed, the horse’s steel-shod hooves scraping against the stone, sparking in the night. She was surprised by this, as the legend of Gallowglass had it that he was an expert horseman. The figure astride the mount certainly looked shorter and somewhat heavier than she had thought would fit his description, no doubt the purpose of his disguise as he rode. The highwayman pulled the horse to his right, his arm flashing a blade in the night as he screamed, “Evangeline! Evangeline!” Mount and rider plunged through the night toward Bolly’s Bridge—with Charter Square and the Griffon’s Tale Inn just beyond.

In that moment, the clouds veiled the lunar light, plunging all the streets in the town again into darkness.

Dirk never made it across the bridge.

There was a horrible crashing sound and the distressed whinny of a horse. Angry shouting carried above the muted rumble of Bolly Falls and the Wanderwine River rushing beneath the bridge. Then the distinct ring of steel on steel pierced the night on both sides of the river.

A sudden, terrible squeal rent the air.

There was a loud splash from the river.

The night was silent once more . . . except for the clopping of the riderless horse of the highwayman walking aimlessly back into Trader’s Square. When the clouds parted again, the moonlight revealed an empty saddle on the horse’s back, glistening darkly.

Ward Klum, dressed unconventionally in his nightshirt, boots, and official tasseled cap, emerged moments later from the countinghouse with a storm lantern held high. Garth Bolly was also rushing into Trader’s Square from the mill, a stevedore’s hook in his hand. They met, speaking with each other for a moment before Garth pointed and the two of them ran toward Bolly’s Bridge.

At nearly that same moment, Jep Walters—at the most urgent insistence of his wife, Livinia—burst from the cooperage red-faced and gripping an antique casting wand in one thick hand and a sputtering torch in the other. The wand looked like a relic crafted from the time of the Epic War and had most probably not been re-enchanted or fired for more than twenty years. Jep looked encouraged when Joaquim Taylor and both Harv and Merinda Oakman came out of their shops—Joaquim brandishing shears and Merinda her largest rolling pin. Harv had his own torch as well. All three of them rushed toward the west side of Charter Square—from where they had heard the cacophony.

Both groups converged on the bridge at nearly the same time—and were brought to a sudden halt at the tableau that was revealed under the lantern and torch light.

The crimson shine of blood was everywhere. Squire Tomas Melthalion knelt on the bridge breathing heavily, his clothes stained in scarlet. He still gripped a long, elegant saber in his right hand. The blade, too, was streaked with blood. The Squire was shaking from head to foot and gasping for air.

“The . . . the highwayman,” the Squire gasped.

On the bridge nearby lay a crumpled black hood and a trampled black cape.

Merinda Oakman, seeing the Squire’s blood-soaked shirt, dropped her rolling pin and rushed forward. “Tomas! We’re here for you! Where are you wounded?”

“No, I’m not harmed, Merinda,” the Squire croaked, trying to catch his breath. He pushed himself up to stand on his feet but his legs were not quite up to the task. Ward Klum and Jep Walters rushed forward to catch him before he collapsed again.

“You said it was the highwayman?” Ward asked, an urgent brilliance in his eyes as he held the Squire firmly on his feet.

“Yes,” Tomas answered with a hoarse voice through a long, shuddering breath.

“Dirk Gallowglass?” Harv Oakman asked in astonishment.

Tomas cast his eyes to the ground. “Yes. Dirk Gallowglass.”

“Tomas, you idiot!” Jep Walters said with some heat in his voice as he too held up the Squire. “What were you thinking, going up against a man like that? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

The Squire turned toward the cooper and smiled faintly. “Why, thank you, Jep. That’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me in years.”

“Over here, Jep,” Ward urged the cooper, indicating with his head the north side of the bridge. The two of them helped Squire Melthalion to the low wall and leaned him against it. The Master of the Counting Guild then looked into his friend’s face. “Where is he, Tomas . . . where’s Dirk Gallowglass now?”

The Squire gazed back steadily as he croaked out the words. “Dead, Master Klum.”

Ward reached down and forced the fingers open on the innkeeper’s hand, freeing at last the bloodied sword from his grip.

“Dead,” Tomas repeated in a raspy voice. “I killed him.”

The double doors of the Guild Hall swung violently open, banging against the walls loudly as the imposing figure blew into the room like a violent summer storm. He wore an ornamental breastplate covered in golden filigree signifying his rank. The pauldron on his right shoulder was also of a distinctively decorative and unique style. He had a jutting jaw and deep-set eyes that shifted to each face as he entered the room. His golden hair was graying slightly but still flowed from a high forehead back into a tightly tied tail. His eyes were of a brown color so dark as to be nearly black. Twin long scars ran down his right cheek, one continuing down his neck and out of sight beneath his armor. He presented at once an image of authority and officious impracticality, as the village was hardly under siege, and, other than to impress the locals, there was absolutely no reason for him to be wearing the armor at all.

“Who thinks they are in charge here?” he boomed in a voice used to issuing commands from a distance.

Everyone turned as one to face the newcomer. The Guild Hall was packed with as many of the townsfolk as could manage to fit inside the doors.

Ward Klum, adorned not only in the hat of his Guild office but also in his official mantle as the town clerk, stood at the opposite end of the hall. “I am, my Lord Pompeanus. I speak for the village elders and all the people of Eventide when I bid you welcome and—”

“By the authority granted me by his most august personage, King Reinard, I, Lord Pompeanus, claim the right of jurisdiction over matters before this inquiry and to the prosecution of those parties found guilty in the eyes of justice and the King’s Law!” Two enormous men followed Lord Pompeanus into the hall, both more sensibly dressed in linen shirts and matching doublets. Everyone in the hall knew at once that they were knights in Lord Pompeanus’s service, as the power of their form was exceeded only by the enormity of their contempt. They followed their master as he moved forward, limping with each step to heavily favor his right leg on his march toward Ward Klum. Dust from their lord’s cape and leggings gathered on the long ride from Mordale now billowed onto the polished floor around him with every stride down the center of the room. “I will conduct this inquiry as I see fit, is that clear to everyone here?”

“We had news of your coming,” Ward Klum offered the rapidly approaching warrior. “We trust we have anticipated your needs and—”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Pompeanus pulled off one of his gloves as he stepped onto the raised platform at the end of the Guild Hall. He sat down at once in the guildmaster’s chair. His companion knights took positions on either side of him, folding their arms across their massive chests. “You seem to know the particulars—who are you?”

“I am Guildmaster Ward Klum, my Lord,” he replied with a slight bow. “I am also the King’s Clerk in Eventide.”

“Very well, Master Klum,” the old warrior said, waving his gloves in his hand. “Present the proceedings.”

Ward nodded and then turned to face the assemblage. “By decree of His Highness, King Reinard, and in his Most August Name, we proclaim open the inquest into the death of—”

“HOLD!” bellowed Lord Pompeanus.

“My lord?” Ward said evenly as he turned to face the king’s cousin.

“The arrest of the highwayman Dirk Gallowglass is what interests me,” Pompeanus said under his barely controlled breath. “It is the only reason I have ridden all these hours to this pointless little collection of huts!”

“Aye, my lord,” Ward nodded with a calm that astonished everyone in the room, including the escorting knights of the lord.

“Then what’s this Blue Lady baggage about an inquest?” the lord bellowed.

“It is an inquest into the death of the highwayman Dirk Gallowglass,” Klum answered.

“He’s dead?” It was Pompeanus’s turn to be astonished. “When?”

“Last night,” Ward answered.

Lord Pompeanus leaned forward, a dangerous edge to his voice. “He died in your custody?”

“No, my lord.” Ward cleared his throat. “The man originally arrested as Dirk Gallowglass later proved to have been falsely accused as a ruse by the highwayman to divert suspicion from himself. He was a most sinister and cunning rogue.”

The lord’s eye’s narrowed.

“He died in a most gruesome manner,” Ward added. “Would my lord care to hear the particulars?”

Lord Pompeanus sat back. “Proceed.”

Ward turned to face the assemblage. Jarod sat on a bench in the front row next to his mother, who held his hand tightly in her own. Orlynda had been in a panic ever since her son’s arrest—even though it largely involved him moving from his small room above the countinghouse into the dungeon two floors below. No amount of coaxing by Ward, however, would convince her that the distance was trivial. She visited him several times a day, bringing him so many tarts, breads, and apples that he had to start sharing them with Xander Lamplighter. Tomas Melthalion and his wife, Daphne, were in the front row on the opposite side of the aisle from Jarod although their daughter, Evangeline, was conspicuously absent. Even that fool Bard stood leaning against the back wall, his scribe near him in the corner faithfully and completely recording every nuance of the proceedings—for which Ward would later be most grateful.

“The inquest calls Merinda Oakman to answer truthfully in the name of the king!”

“Constable Pro Tempore, you examined the area where Dirk Gallowglass died?”

“Aye, sire, that I did, with utmost care of duty! Wouldn’t want nobody thinking that the Constable Pro Tempore were not doing his job right proper!”

“Please, just answer my questions,” Ward sighed. The constable was the fifth of his witnesses after Merinda and Harv Oakman, Garth Bolly, and Jep Walters. By far the constable had been the most troublesome of the witnesses, most likely owing to the fact that he was an official and, as such, knew less about what was going on than anyone else. In truth, it had taken a troubling amount of time to even find the Constable Pro Tempore, who had not been discovered until after sunrise this morning.

“That are what I be doing, yer sireship!”

“What did you see on Bolly’s Bridge?”

“It were a most horrible sight indeed, Master Klum! There were blood everywhere . . . beggin’ your pardon, ladies! It were even on the highwayman’s horse when I examined it later.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Ward said as if to dismiss Xander. “You may sit down now.”

“That’s Constable Pro Tempore, Master Klum. Oh, and it were all down the horse’s flanks, that blood was, and on them saddlebags, too, and—”

Ward called out loudly as he ignored Xander, “The inquest calls Tomas Melthalion to answer truthfully in the name of the king!”

“Yes, he was very much a rogue,” Tomas said, standing with his hat in his hands before the platform. “And a man whose acquaintance I was sorry to make.”

“Then you had met this highwayman before?” Ward asked.

“Yes, Ward . . . er, sire. He came to the inn in the middle of the night just nigh over six months past, banging on the door and threatening us all. He forced his way into the Griffon’s Tale and threatened not only myself but my daughter, Evangeline, and Lord Gallivant as well.”

Lord Pompeanus leaned forward. “Lord Gallivant, you say?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Can’t be the same,” the lord muttered, shaking his head and leaning back. “Go on.”

“Well, he threatened us with our lives!” Tomas continued. “He was wounded—bleeding in the shoulder—and demanded that we treat him or he would kill everyone in the house and burn it to the ground!”

A murmur ran through the crowd in the hall.

“Just a moment,” Pompeanus interrupted again. “You say this was about six months ago?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And he was wounded in the shoulder?”

“Aye . . . most seriously, sire.”

“HA!” Lord Pompeanus smiled, banging his fist on the arm of the chair. “Sir Konrad! You lose! Settle up!”

One of the escorting knights sighed, drew out a coin purse, and slapped it into the beckoning hand of the lord.

“Proceed!” said the grinning Pompeanus.

“So you treated his wounds and he left?” Ward prompted.

“Would that were all there was to it,” Tomas said, shaking his head. “His wounds were deep and required some time to heal. We had no choice but to keep him hidden in the inn on the very threat of our lives! Sadly, it was my dear daughter, Evangeline, who was forced to care for him the most . . . and in that dark time the villainous highwayman began making unseemly advances on my innocent daughter!”