Arc 5: Chapter 11: The Lance

Arc 5: Chapter 11: The Lance

Emma took one look at the room, sniffed and said, “I think I preferred that shack by the docks.”

I stepped past her, wincing as my recently stitched ribs twinged. “It’s not so bad. Just get rid of some dust, move some furniture in, and it’ll serve.”

“Dust, sure.” Emma shook her head, her expression strained. “But what about all the damp?”

It was mid morning of the second day after what many in the city were already calling the “Culling of Knights.” Melodramatic, but bards need to make a living. Emma and I had officially moved back into the Fulgurkeep, and neither of us felt particularly impressed by the new headquarters of my operations.

Consisting of a set of five chambers, the largest of which wasn’t much larger than the common room in that little house in the docks, it lacked any furnishment other than some rotten old crates. The walls sweated with damp, the stink of mildew hung in the air, and there were old cobwebs all over the ceiling. I guessed it to be an old stockpile.

There were some windows, which made the location clear enough. We were on an outer tower of the citadel, set just above the rocky cliffs atop which the castle had been erected. We were low enough that the foamy waves crashing against the rocks below occasionally sent spray through the narrow windows, which explained the damp.

It also produced a constant noise. The waters this side of the ‘Keep were tumultuous, slamming against the black rocks of the isle as though the sea were waging a dogged war to reclaim it.

Emma’s aristocratic features shifted from merely disappointed to wrathful as we stared at our new accommodations. “Do they mean to insult us?”

I paced to one of the rooms. Each of them were connected by a single central chamber, large enough I believed we could use it for most of ours needs, with the connected spaces left for storing equipment. The one I checked had no window, was smaller than the others, and seemed relatively dry.

“Keep in mind the Fulgurkeep wasn’t always meant to house the government for a whole confederation of realms,” I told my squire. “Reynwell was just another kingdom before the Fall. This castle might look impressive, but it was made for House Forger, not the Ardent Round.”

I turned to Emma and shrugged. “I imagine room is scarce. Besides, it’s tucked away and relatively private. I’d rather listen to the sea all day than crowds of officials.”

Emma cast a glum look at the window. “Speak for yourself. That racket is atrocious.”

Almost as though to make her point, she had to raise her voice on the last word to be heard over the slap of a particularly angry wave. Cold spray rained in through the main room’s window.

I didn’t tell her I had a suspicion the tower had been used as a prison at some point. This sort of environment would have been ideal for wearing down the will of captives. Instead I said, “No bitching. The Steward has offered some hands to help us get the place ready for operation. Let’s get started.”

Lord or no, I still helped do the heavy lifting, mainly because I was impatient to get this part out of the way. We brought what we needed to get started down what must have been every stair in the Fulgurkeep, including a pair of cots to sleep on, chests for supplies, and other essentials with the help of some palace servants.

I oversaw everything, making sure to note every face that came and went, as well as ordering Emma to listen to their conversations. They spoke little, and I suspected that had not a little to do with fear. The nobles might gossip and snipe at me in court, but things are different where common folk are concerned.

No telling who might be a spy. Or another assassin. Everyone was on guard after the Culling, and I was no exception.

Normally, I’d have a chamberlain to oversee this sort of thing. I imagined I’d be assigned one eventually, but I wasn’t about to go making more demands of the Emperor or his advisors. They had enough on their plate, and it was my job to get results. The kinks would be worked out in time.

My headquarters turned out to be a bit larger than I’d first assumed. A narrow set of stairs at the end of the hall outside wound down the guts of the tower to another corridor below, this one digging right into the island’s tough rock. It was lined in small rooms, with heavy doors cut with barred windows.

This confirmed my theory this had once been a dungeon.

A locked door across from the main set of rooms, after we waited three hours for someone to find the right set of keys, turned out to lead up a long stairway to another set of chambers. I guessed they’d once belonged to the captain in charge of the tower.

When I asked the valet who led the servants about it, she clarified that the whole tower was mine, including the rooms below and the more spacious chambers above. This took me off guard, though I had noted the wing seemed to be unused.

Perhaps the Steward wasn’t trying to sabotage me, after all. The tower was dingy, noisy, and hidden in the ass end of the isle, but the security and space it provided couldn’t be overstated.

I decided to claim the upper chambers for myself. I could turn its main room into an office, and the adjoined spaces into my personal quarters. The rest of the tower would act as a barracks and archives.

I suspected the Steward also expected me to use the cells below. I didn’t much like the thought. I didn’t like to think of myself as some sort of constable, but a more cynical voice whispered that was exactly where this had all been heading. The Headsman’s was a judicial position.

This didn’t end with me playing the white knight.

Getting situated in the tower was time consuming and tedious, and every moment could be one I would have used to hit the streets, run down what contacts I’d made since arriving in the capital, do something. I knew that having a proper setup here would make the rest far more manageable, but I wasn’t used to this. I was used to being given a mission, an enemy to fight, and that anticipation always helped quell my restlessness.

Nothing for it. Even still, by the time Emma peeked into the bare room that would be my office, I was practically prowling around like a caged beast. I turned as my disciple entered.

Emma wore the same clothes she’d bought not long after arriving in the city during her time as a guest of the Empress, waiting for the chance to free me from the Priory’s clutches. The outfit consisted of a loose-sleeved white shirt, black leggings, and high laced boots in a fashion popular with the capital’s highborn youth. It had seen some wear, yet she managed to make the ensemble look sharp, almost martial. She’d tied her dark hair, grown longer since we’d come to Garihelm, into a tail, and had her saber worn at her right hip. Caim’s armor gleamed beneath Emma’s high collar, freshly polished.

She didn’t much look like the haughty youth I’d met the past fall. Had that really been just three seasons ago? Her face and figure had turned leaner after months of my life style, hardened by travel and training. Her eyes had taken on a focused clarity, where they’d once been full of distracted resentment.

Emma didn’t look an angry girl anymore. She looked like a capable young woman. One I would have to lean on, if I were to survive this mess.

“They’re here,” Emma said in a more serious tone than she normally assumed.

I nodded. “Bring them up.” I adjusted my tunic, hoping I cut the right image.

In this, Emma outdid me as far as fashion went. The castle tailors had sewn me a new uniform for the post. I wore a tunic of dark red checkered in black, with black leggings tucked into new boots of dark brown leather. My armor adorned a stand by the window, with my red cloak hung on the wall beside it.

My knee had swollen up, giving me a bad limp, but the clericon who’d looked me over had seemed certain it wasn’t broken. They’d told me to stay off of it for a week, but I didn’t have that.

Despite all that, I had to hope I cut the right image, and not just look like a tired, injured man who hadn’t slept in days. I wore Faen Orgis at my hip, its handle freshly shaved to fit through an iron ring attached to a modified sword belt. I’d been given no badge of office as of yet, so the axe would have to serve as my mark.

A few minutes later, Emma returned at the head of a group of people. There were six of them, and my immediate impression was that they were a motley lot. They were all different ages, with different kinds of dress. Two looked like they might have come directly from the holding cells of a guard barracks, with unwashed clothes and unshaven faces.

I buried my sigh behind the most stony expression I could muster, keeping my lips tightly pressed and my eyes lidded with unimpressed neutrality. I’d been warned about this. The Emperor’s council saw my position as a tenuous one in need of refinement, and in the Steward’s words, experimentation.

For that reason, the bastard giant had decided to fill my command out with “disciplinary” cases. The six before me were all malcontents, or at the very least individuals who’d run afoul of some authority.

They knew what this was as well as I did — a punishment detail, a tenure under the command of the infamous blackguard, Alken Hewer.

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It made sense, in a macabre sort of fashion. I was something of a penitent myself, an outlaw who’d been brought back into the fold under strict stipulations and careful scrutiny. Perhaps this setup had fit the Steward’s sense of aesthetics. Or perhaps it had been Markham’s idea? Hard to say.

Six sets of hard, suspicious eyes met mine in that barren tower room at the edge of the Fulgurkeep. I stopped my pacing to stand in front of the desk I’d had brought in, which I’d set some material on. I picked up some of that material, a sheaf of papers I’d been studying the past hour. Emma stood nearby, back straight and hands clasped behind her back. One of the six glanced at her, but she ignored all of them.

Speeches, I thought glumly. Right. This is part of it.

I managed to start without doing anything so obvious as clearing my throat, my voice coming out hoarse from discomfort and fatigue. “Before we begin, I would like to know what each of you has been told about this.”

The man furthest to my left glared at me, openly hostile. He was brawny, in his thirties, with thinning hair and a notched ear. He looked like a dockhand who moonlighted as a leg breaker for some harbor gang. Perhaps he was.

The man in the middle answered me. He looked to be in his mid twenties, with a handsome face and bright, attentive eyes beneath a mop of black hair. He wore the polished breastplate and uniform of the city guard. “We’ve heard what they say about you, my lord. We understand that you’ve been tasked with hunting down the ones behind all these attacks, both from the other night and the past year.”

He smiled, the expression half nervous and half eager. “We have been told we’re to help you bring them to justice.”

I looked at the others. The man to the right of the one who’d spoken was an old, wiry veteran with the lopsided musculature of a longbow archer, his left arm longer and more muscled than the right. He nodded in agreement, his demeanor more neutral than most of the others. Next to the notch-eared bruiser, a square-jawed woman gave a sharp nod. She looked uncomfortable, but kept her peace.

The last two were both young men. One wore the amber robes of a clericon, and by his brass circlet and the ring design worked into his auremark I guessed him to be a member of the Abbey. He’d be my scribe, then. They’d given me that convenience, at least.

The last of the group kept his eyes forward, his tall frame properly straight, looking for all the world like a solid man-at-arms standing at attention. He refused to meet my eyes, ignoring my raised eyebrow.

Time for that later. I focused on the trim guardsman. “You are Ser Kenneth? Of House Garder, I believe.”

The dark haired man stood straighter, pressing his hands to the small of his back. “Not a ser, my lord. I’m the fourth son of a lesser House, and haven’t received that honor. I’m one of the outriders for the guard.”

I glanced over the paperwork in my hand. “This says here you were on the officer track.”

Kenneth’s smile turned more relaxed. “Yes, lord.”

“You can use ser with me,” I told him. Lord was a courtesy title in my case, and while technically correct given I was part of the peerage again, I owned no lands and held no castles.

An empty honor, all told. Markham had probably only named me a lord to give me legitimacy. Most nobles wouldn’t bother giving way to a mere knight, no matter how many bodies he’d stacked.

I wondered how long it would be before all this politicking drove me mad.

Kenneth nodded, unbothered. “Yes, ser.”

I kept reading the man’s resume. Though the archer was older and would have more experience overall, Kenneth was noble born and had impressive merit. He’d been a soldier of the Accord since not long after the war, came from a good family, and had been cited for a position of command.

He’d make an excellent second, someone I could put in charge of the others and delegate to. I also had a number of references in hand indicating his commanding officers had favored him, and that he’d been popular among his fellows.

Most captains would give up a thumb to get someone like him, which convinced me there was a catch. Why had he been stuck with me? Was this a gift chimera, or…

I’d earned a little paranoia, and would be keeping an eye on Kenneth Gard. For the time being, there were more pressing matters. I turned my attention to the others.

The archer’s name was Penric, and as I’d guessed just looking at him, he was a veteran. The man had fought for the Ardent Bough during the war, and participated in several large actions since. Age and failing health had earned him a comfortable retirement with the Fulgurkeep’s garrison, mostly mentoring new recruits. Apparently, he’d volunteered for this post.

The man with the barrel chest and mean look was called Mallet, and the records I’d been given had him as a member of the city militia, a volunteer who’d received training for times of crisis. He’d been on duty this season, and had gotten into an altercation with his superior that’d left the other man crippled. They’d given him to me rather than hang him.

I’d faced scarier things than an angry eyed militiaman. He’d provide muscle, at least.

The woman, Beatriz, was also a fighter, formerly belonging to the personal retinue of a Reynish noble. I’d been given little on her, other than a notice that she’d been dismissed by the family who’d kept her on retainer. Like Mallet, she had been jailed before being brought to this meeting.

In her case, it was for getting into a fist fight at an upper class inn. She still had a swollen eye from it.

The priest, Emil, wasn’t much to speak of. The Royal Clericon’s nominee, he was a member of the Abbey of St. Layne, an institution of healers and charitable pilgrims. The same order Lisette had been trained by originally. After questioning him, I learned he had a healing Art, along with some training in warding and cleansing. He seemed nervous about the whole thing, but I could tell why they’d given him to me.

Which brought me to the last of the six. I deliberately saved him for last, but soon enough I found myself pacing to the end of the line once I’d finished taking stock of the rest. I didn’t bother to hide my sigh this time as I met the young man’s eye. Twenty years old at most, and the only one in the room tall enough to nearly meet my gaze level, his height and bearish frame seemed mismatched to a boyish face and ashy brown hair.

“What are you doing here, Hendry?” I asked him.

The young man swallowed. He wore a white gambeson, the brassy armor and blue cloth of the Storm Knights absent since I’d last seen him. “I was assigned to your command for disciplinary reasons, ser.”

I nodded, keeping my tone and expression neutral. “Explain.”

Hendry’s eyes shifted, avoiding mine. Most people avoided direct eye contact with me, but I knew where his gaze went. He’d done a good job of keeping his composure up until then, but he’d just reflexively glanced behind me to where Emma stood. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged him since bringing the group up.

“Insubordination, ser.” Hendry lifted his chin, making an effort to stand straighter. “I missed two musters, got into a quarrel with one of my fellow knights, and spoke discourteously to my captain.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Yes, ser.”

I studied him for a long minute, trying to decide how to handle this. Hendry Hunting was the eldest son and heir of Brenner Hunting, a Venturmoorian nobleman who’d been Emma’s guardian for many years, and a benefactor to her parents before their death. Brenner had intended to marry the girl to his son in a scheme to elevate his House into the upper tiers of the land’s powers, something he could have accomplished with her storied bloodline.

I’d put an end to that plan by agreeing to take Emma on as my disciple and secreting her out of House Hunting’s clutches. Two seasons later, I’d met Lord Brenner’s son again in the Fulgurkeep. He’d won a tourney in the early spring and gotten a post with the prestigious Storm Knights, likely also one of his father’s schemes for influence.

Despite all that, Hendry seemed a good enough lad. He’d nearly died in a reckless charge against an infernal champion on Emma’s behalf, and so far as I knew he hadn’t divulged her true lineage to anyone else since learning she was here in the city. He was earnest, if perhaps naive.

And I certainly didn’t believe he’d suddenly shown his true colors as some sort of malcontent close to the same time I’d needed to gather a team. The boy still had feelings for my squire.

I considered sending him away. I could make do without him, and the council wouldn’t protest it. I doubted Hendry had joined my command at his father’s behest, or that the ambitious Lord Brenner would want such a dubious post for his son.

As if sensing my deliberation, Hendry spoke with a breathy haste. “I can make myself useful, ser. I am a good fighter, any of the palace guard will agree, and I…”

He trailed off, glancing at the others. There were some curious looks, and some impatient ones. Kenneth seemed amused by the display, his lips pursed as though holding back a smile. I caught Penric’s eye. The old archer shrugged. The cleric, who stood closest, mostly just seemed uncomfortable.

“Go on,” I urged him.

“I’ve faced monsters before,” Hendry said quietly, his gaze holding firm under mine. “I still have the scar to prove it. I know just what sort of things we might be going up against, ser.”

He had a point. From what information I’d been given, none of the other five had ever faced demons or other supernatural threats. Hendry had faced off with a Scorchknight of Orkael and survived. He might have simply been unhorsed by the hellbound warrior, but there were plenty who’d left such encounters worse off. Or not at all.

I turned to Emma. She sniffed disdainfully, refusing to comment. If that hurt Hendry, he didn’t show it.

Finally, relenting — mostly because I knew there was still a risk of the boy revealing to his father about Emma’s presence in the city, and deciding it best to keep him close — I walked back to my desk. When I didn’t dismiss Hendry from the room, he let out a breath of relief.

I ran my gaze over the seven people who were to be my subordinates. My lance, for all intents and purposes. I’d never had one, though most proper knights did. All the pieces of it were here. Several men-at-arms, an archer, a cleric, and a squire. The traditional chivalric war party.

And I had to make use of them, without getting them all killed. Or worse.

Taking a deep breath, I addressed the whole group. “The Emperor and his council have commanded me to find whoever is responsible for the string of attacks the other night. We don’t know much yet. We have more than a score of victims, many of whom were collateral damage to the real targets so far as we can tell. Few of the attackers shared similar methods, but they all acted within the same three hour window.”

I paced in front of my desk as I spoke. The pain in my knee grew worse if I kept it still too long. “We know most of the targets were expected to participate in the Emperor’s tournament. This has led some on the council to suspect this might have been a ploy to take out competition. If so, the perpetrator not only has immense resources, but is very likely insane. I consider that unlikely.”

“Which part?” Kenneth chipped in, his tone bright. “That they’re powerful, or that they’re insane?”

There were some chuckles in the group. They stopped when I halted my pacing to look at Kenneth.

“I do not believe our quarry did all of this to ensure a better chance at glory in the tournament,” I clarified. “It’s more likely they wanted to remove potential obstacles to some future plan. Most of the people who died were fighters of some renown, and nearly all of them had a strong battle Art.”

This much, I’d learned in the last two days while going over reports that’d touched the Steward’s desk. He’d passed all of it to me, leaving me and Emma to dig through the mess late into the night trying to look for threads.

My words settled on the group, and no one had much laughter in them then. Kenneth cleared his throat.

I walked around to the back of my desk, set the papers down, and splayed my hands on its surface. I met each pair of eyes in turn, not certain what I was looking for. Would one of them flinch at the lie-burning light in my gaze, if they were a spy? Would my glare impress the gravity of the situation on them?

“Somewhere in this city, a dangerous faction is lurking in the shadows, and I suspect they aren’t done. It’s no accident this is happening now, when all the Accord is gathering here for a show of unity.”

I decided then for a show of melodrama. Sliding my axe out of its ring, I placed it down on the desk over the stacks of reports. It settled with two solid notes, metal and oak together. The six stared at it, that ill-rumored weapon of the Headsman.

Best they see where their efforts ended. Whatever we found, Faen Orgis would have the final say.

“The Emperor’s tournament starts in four days. Find me something I can use before then. Dismissed.”