The Knight-errant IV.
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The Line felt like trudging through the mud. Slow-moving and endlessly frustrating.
Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Lance-Lief let out a sigh. He was trying to relieve some of the tension growing in his legs and expel the boredom building within him. With each step forward, he thanked the Norns under his breath.
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Several others had lined themselves up behind him during the day, Norrishmen all. He had tried speaking to these fellows but was quickly shut down by crass comments or half-hearted responses. His countrymen were an ornery lot made more so by their exile. Still, despite all that, did they have to be so grim in their comportment?
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He guessed they had come from similar backgrounds, soldiers, and warriors allotted the title of Knighthood on the battlefield. Only to have it stripped away, forced to give up their newly won titles at the feet of King Elaric, or be forever banished under threat of imprisonment or death. Some chose to vacate their designations, and others proudly proclaimed they would do no such thing. The King made good on his promises, and several failed uprisings later saw a slew of dispossessed knights exiled and fleeing their homeland. Lance-Lief was among the diaspora of warriors, embittered and homesick but too full of pride to give up his hard-earned title.
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‘Too much blood has been shed for me to do such a thing. Too many of my friends, dead for no cause other than His war of vanity.’ Lance-Lief thought, biting his bottom lip. The pain brought him back from the depths of his brooding.
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A shout of delight rang out about the town square. Children burst forth from the crowd that had gathered around the Nobles. A skinny youth ran at full speed with a ball or something of the like above their head, a trail of other children following close behind. Lance-Lief smiled, thinking back on all the games he used to play with his peers in his village when he was just a youngling himself. Games of Catch and Release, Hide and Seek, Ring Tossing, or playing at Knights. ‘All dead and gone, and me alive but exiled. How I miss my old lot.’
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The line moved again, just a few steps, but every advance was a welcome reprieve from his mounting anxiety. How was he so foolish to frolic about town, knowing damned well he would have a tight schedule to maintain? This was not his first bout of distractedness, nor would it be the last he feared.
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Lance-Lief glanced over at the crowd once more. It looked to be thinning, the Lady of the Keep imparting the last of her gifts to the commoners. The line had shrunk significantly since he first made it; for that, he was glad. He took count now and saw only five others ahead of him. The current potential participant struggling his way through the interaction. Lance-Lief had thought his Stoyish severely lacking, yet seeing his own countrymen try and fail one after the other to communicate with the Master of Games bolstered his confidence.
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After a bout of shouting and spirited cursing, the Master of Games rose to his feet, big belly pushing the table aside. He threw loose pieces of parchment in the Norrishman’s face, cursing and telling him to leave. The scorned Norrishman made for his blade but stopped short, looking around and seeing guards posted about the premises, most now watching the show. The foreigner cursed a final time and left in a hurry, shame following close behind him like a foul wind.
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The Game Warden never sat back down but instead collected his papers and yowled at the rest of the men gathered about. They all exchanged confused glances at one another, none of them moving. The Warden straightened the desk and shouted again. Most took his meaning and went, some grumbling under their breath. Others still made their discontentment loudly known but did so, walking away.
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No, it could not end up like this. Lance-Lief had traveled far and long to be here. From the comforts of Lemonguard to his short stint at Stronghill, down the southern tip of the Starry Mountains and up Pygrino’s Path. Dismissed, robbed, humiliated, and dismissed again, his journey could not end like this. Not in this way, all because some brute couldn’t understand the language.
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“Purvor Eñyoro!” Lance-Lief shouted out, stepping forward.
The man looked up incredulous to hear his native tongue out the lips of a Norrishman. Making a rude sound with his mouth, he waved Lance-Lief away.
“Go away, Northman. The list is full. There is no place for you.”
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Stern as he was, Lance-Lief would not give up. At the moment, the weight of his worries and travels seemed to crush him. Heavy on his shoulders and back, like a burden meant for several souls. He wanted to make a home for himself wherever he was welcomed. He needed this.
“I see that, my Lord,” Lance-Lief continued in the best Stoyish he could manage. “However, I was hoping you could make an exception, perhaps? You see, I have traveled a long way and am seeking employment. I must needs-”
“Enough, Northman, I said go. There is no place for you. If you continue to pester me, I will call the guards.” Growled the Warden.
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Lance-Lief looked about, two spearmen on either side of the gate. Not to mention the entire entourage of the Lady of the Keeps would be on him like coyotes on a bleeding pig. He stepped closer, lowering his posture to appear more innocuous.
“I could pay double if need be,” Lance-Lief said, pleading.
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The clomping of hooves could be heard as the last of his words left him. Looking over his shoulder, his gaze trailed upward, past the brawny neck of the black draught horse to meet the eyes of the Lady of the Keep. The sun silhouetted her form, casting her in a halo of light.
“Apologies, my Lady, I did not mean to block your path,” Lance-Lief said, head bowed in respect.
“No Apologies needed. You speak Stoyish well. Where did you learn?” The Lady asked, voice airy and playful.
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Keeping his head down, the young knight spoke.
“My Lady of the Keep does me honors in recognizing me. I have traveled well and far throughout this land, from Saltmarsh Tower, past Salmon Lake, and around the southern tip of these mountains. I have just picked it up along the way.”
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The Lady of the Keep giggled, hand covering her teeth. Freehand on the reigns, she turned her horse about to have a better look at him.
“I will forgive your error Northman,” She said through her mirth. “But I am not the Lady of the Keep. That would be Baetriz Pieadrra.” She stopped giggling and switched to Norrish, her accent lithe and remarkably natural. “I am Najara, her daughter. A pleasure to meet you, Northman. You may look up.”
“You speak my mother tongue better than myself, my Lady.” Lance-Lief proclaimed.
“And you speak mine own only half as well as I do,” She giggled once more. “Which is more than I can say for your countrymen.”
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A Knight clad in a burnished half plate, cobalt cape flowing in the breeze rode between Lady and Northman. Lance-Lief fell back into the table, the wood noisily scraping along the cobblestone ground. The Game Warden eyed him down, still collecting pages.
“My Lady, if we are to remain on schedule, we must depart for the Bazaar immediately.” The knight said, voice gruff and stern. Once he was finished speaking, he looked down at Lance-Lief, face stoic, almost bored. The Knight put heel to horse, walking the beast away.
“Ah, you are right, Sir Rudolfo,” She switched back to Norrish. “I must be going Northman. Duty compels me elsewhere. However, it was a pleasure to converse with you in your native tongue.”
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She made to leave but stopped, turning her massive horse around.
“Before I depart,” She said, eyebrow raised. “What were the two of you discussing before my interruption?”
“My Lady,” The Game Master spoke, head bowed. “This one here has been pestering me for a position in the lists. I have already told him we are full, yet he does not take no for an answer.”
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‘Norns take you, old man!’ Lance-Lief glared at the man, who met his leer with the same level of vitriol. The Lady spoke.
“Does the Game Warden speak the truth, Northman?”
“Yes, my Lady,” Lance-Lief said, abashed. “Many of my countrymen and I have been ousted from our motherland, set to roam the whole of Aultar heedless and blind. I am not in search of charity or sympathy. I only seek opportunities to prove my worth. To find a Lord to swear my sword and shield. To prove that I am worthy of the title of Knight. That is all.” He swallowed, wondering if he was making a fool of himself.“If my Lady commands me, I will pester the Warden no longer, gather my possessions, and make for Pygrino’s Path.”
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Najara studied him for a long while, her golden-brown eyes narrowing as if she were reading a book by candlelight. Was she trying to read him now, search his features for falsehoods or sincerity?
“Another wondering Knight, come from the North,” She said, switching over to her native tongue. “Yet one most earnest in his convictions, or so it seems.”
“My Lady, I do not mean to hound you but-” Sir Rudolfo said. He was silenced at the raised hand of his Lady.
“Where is your Squire, Knight? Why does he not shadow you about your duties?” Najara said, voice calm and placid.
“At the stables, tending to my horse and mule,” Lance-Lief said promptly.
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‘There goes that lie again. I am becoming too accustomed to the fib.’ He scrunched up his toes tight, better to hide his anxiety. A wind blew, and Najara's braided twin tails rode the current like a kite string. Her indigo caplet rustled from the breeze, yet she was unmoving, looking down at the young Knight. She spoke, never taking her eyes off of him.
“Game Warden, allow this man to enter his name.”
“But my Lady, there are truly no slots left to fill.” The Game Warden said, incredulous at the command.
“And what about the Free-for-all? Surely there is room for that.” She said, now looking at the Warden, who had turned red as a beet.
“I suppose, but the composition will be -”
“Excellent,” She said with a smile. “You will allow him to enter his name for the event.”
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Dropping his head low, the Warden capitulated. He bade Lance-Lief approach, parchment in hand, placing it on the table.
“The Free-for-all is an all-out brawl,” the Warden said, no life coating his words. “The last man standing wins the bout and is rewarded three hundred, I mean,” He shook his head, correcting himself. “Three hundred and fivecopper crescents. If you choose, you may advance to the one-on-one face-off portion of the competition, putting three-fourths of your earnings from the first bout up forcollateral. Is this understood?”
“Absolutely,” Lance-Lief said, trying to contain his smile.
“That will be five copper crescents for admission…Thank you…. And your seal here if you could.”
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Taking the quill handed to him by the Warden, he dipped the tip in a pot of ink recently produced from the man's sleeve. Swiftly Lance-Lief sketched out a horizontal line, one end curved up, the other downward, and a vertical line dashed across. The mark resembled a curved sword—an ode to his father’s craft.
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Lance-Lief backed away from his seal, taking it amid all the others. He saw a few lettered signatures and wondered who had made those. ‘Curious to have learned men joining the field of contest.’ He thought.
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The Warden sprinkled the wet ink with fine sand and shook the page clean of the excess.
“Arrive at the field just down by the lakeside before Noon tomorrow. Best of luck, Knight.” The Warden made that last word a curse.
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Turning on his heel, Lance-Lief got to one knee, unclipped his sword, and laid it before Najara’s horse. The beast shifted its weight and snorted. She kept hold of the reigns, keeping her mount steady.
“I would like to beseech thee, Lady Pieadrra, that I might wear your favor for my bout, to give my arm good strength and grant my cause your endorsement.”
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She laughed, not unkindly, but the sudden burst of levity made his face feel flush. Lance-Lief rose to his feet, sheathed sword in hand. He scratched the back of his head, fingers entangled with black curls.
“I am sorry dear Knight. I do not mean you offense.” Najara started, hand covering her mouth once again. “I was taken aback, is all. I have dreamt that a Knight would ask for my favor, but I never thought it would come from a Northman.” She stopped giggling and continued. “Even us Star-singers are do for surprises from time to time. I am sorry, but I will not grant you my favor Northman.”
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‘Fool of a Knight, what made you think you could so easily garner the favor of a noble lady?’ He continued to scratch his head abashed at his sudden outpouring of chivalry. ‘Come on, you dolt, right this ship, don't just stand there gawking.’
“Then I shall have to work to be worthy of your favor,” He stopped scratching his head, placing both hands on his hips. “To beat sixty others for such a reward seems a right steal in my eyes.”
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Najara’s eyes grew wide, exaggeratedly gasping.
“You presume too much, Knight!” Dropping the act, she gave an easy smile and continued. “Fine, have it your way. Should you win this, Melee, I will grant you my favor in the one-on-one. But not before. Goodbye, for now, Northman.”
Hand on reigns, she gave her horse a lazy whip.
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‘I can not believe that worked.’ Lance-Lief thought. Just then, Najara’s voice rang out, echoing throughout the square. She turned her head back but kept her horse moving.
“Before I forget, what am I to call you, Sir?!”
“Lance-Lief! My name is Lance-Lief, my Lady!”
“Lancé-Lief,” She repeated. “I shan’t forget you!” Her shout grew further now. “Do not disappoint. I will be watching!”
And with that, she disappeared, along with her entourage, down a narrow street.
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Great, where am I to find a squire? I suppose I could pay a local beggar, but they’d be just as likely to steal from me rather than go along with my ruse. He had told the falsehood so frequently today, and without hesitation, he never stopped to consider the ramifications of such a lie. He opened his coin purse and saw it was lighter than he would have liked.
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He sighed, the tension in his body stubbornly clinging on. Clipping his sword back, he made to sit on the fountain's edge to recompose himself. War, travel, fighting, working, staying still for too long,… lying, and even fraternizing made his body stiffen; his core held so tight at times it would feel sore for weeks.
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Good fortune or bad, it mattered not, his body would react all the same, and it took deliberate effort to let it not build and fester within him, lest he succumbs to his brooding. Yet despite himself, even amid what should have been good fortune, he felt his heart flutter, his palms sweat. ‘All it takes is one wrong step, one silly mistake. A misread, an unfortunate spill, and it's all over. My journey over.’ He bit his lip hard, his father's words ringing unbidden in his mind. ‘Muss up one part, and it’ll follow you down to your final result.’ He could still hear his low, gruff voice as if he were still in that shed on Glass Isle.
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As a child, he often sat outside the hut his father worked in, watching him beat away at his anvil, crafting tools the village needed and mending the ones that broke. Yet he was most engaged in his father's work when crafting weapons for their liege lord.
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Often the place was silent apart from the metallic clang of hammers beating on steel. His father worked in silence and demanded it from Lance-Lief. He was not a talkative man and was not prone to explaining himself while he did things. “I’m not for teaching, son. I learned by watching. If you want to follow me, watch. That's it.” And so Lance-Lief watched. He didn’t always understand what he saw or what his father did, but by the Norns, he watched.
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From a fat round rod of blackened metal to a flat, elongated piece of steel, his father molded the template of a blade using only his oven and hammer. He would beat away at the metal, glowing bright red, fresh from the furnace, keeping a rhythm. Bang, bang, bang, cling the hammer rang, constantly bouncing off the anvil on that fourth stroke.
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His father would take that time to turn the steel over, inspecting it, making silent judgments, and executing his plans. Should his visions come to fruition, his eyebrows furrowed, and his jaw clenched as if he was prepping for something yet unseen. If things went poorly, he would bite his lip, often stopping. Arms crossed, presiding over the anvil, like a menacing judge, looking down at his work, thinking. He would be so long at it that the metal would cool and turn black, becoming cold enough to handle with bare flesh.
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Between thumb and forefinger, he’d squeeze the length of the steel, mulling over secret thoughts, sometimes returning the metal back to the oven, sometimes not. On this one occasion, when crafting a sword for the birth of their Liege Lord’s firstborn son, Lance-Lief asked what he was doing.
“Thinking.” His father said.
“About what?”
“The blade.”
“It looks good to me,” Lance-Lief replied, looking up and awaiting a response. A grunt was all that his father gave in return.
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“Why just look at it?”
“Have to see what needs doing.”
“Why not finish and just do that stuff after? This is taking so long.” Lance-Liefs said, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. His father sighed, shaking his head slightly from side to side.
“Every step is important, down to the swing of the hammer, to the way you temper the steel.” His father started running his thick corse fingers along the surface of the metal. “By the Root of Ramiel’s Tree, even the conception of the thing is important. Muss up one part, and it’ll follow you down to your final result.”
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That blade won them fortune with their Liege Lord, granting his father, a position as the Keeps blacksmith. It was also for that reason Lance-Lief could not return home.
“Every step is important,” Lance-Lief whispered to himself now. Chewing on the meaning of those words.
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A mule pulling a wagon strolled by, heedless to those around him. The wagon's wheels almost ran over Lance-Liefs toes, and he had to move his feet to the side to avoid having them crushed. He wanted to yell at the animal's driver but thought better of it as he saw the man apologizing.
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‘I should probably go to the stable and check on Winnie. I’ll have to think of acquiring a squire and a place to sleep on the way there,’ Lance-Lief thought. ‘Might be I could speak to the owner and spend the night in the stables until I win some money at least.’ Funny how he thought that. Lance-Lief did not doubt his skill at arms, yet he did not truly think of himself as a champion. He had only wanted to showcase his talents and hope a lord or noble would pluck him from the lot and do them service. Yet, walking down the main road staircase, his head was full of fanciful daydreams. Common folk cheering, Lords clapping, Noble Knights nodding respectfully, and Najara…
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‘Best keep those thoughts away.’ He shook his head, dispelling the fanciful imaginings. As he made his way down the steps, all manner of exclamations, shouts, and disclaimers could be heard, coming from this way and that. Weaving through all the noise and joining it together was a discordant chorus of instruments and singing from alleyways, hovels, taverns, open yards, or terraces. Stoyish guitar, small violins, accordions, rhythmic clapping, and pounding sheepskin drums set the stage for the festivities to come.
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All the sounds melded and molded into a wall of noise that Lance-Lief found both disorienting and enthralling. Occasionally, he would stop, stepping to the side to hear the music better. Whether it was the mournful, undulating calls bellowing from Tuyatese singers playing accordions or the frantic guitar and violin duets from Stoyish musicians, accompanied by dancers and aided by the claps of onlookers, he found it was stirring something within him.
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Feelings of longing, wanderlust, belonging, and wanting to belong. A desire for life and a yearning for love. ‘What am I doing here, truly? Amongst these people who know me not. Why do I keep moving?’ He felt a pang of discomfort in his chest, a feeling of unease taking hold once again. He sat on the cobblestone edge of a terrace and breathed deeply. ‘Every step is important.’ He thought to himself.
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A young Tuyatese woman with dusky skin, a long bridge to her nose pieced on one side, and plump lips that curled into a playful closed smirk peered at him through a gathering crowd of her own folk. He met her gaze and smiled, then turned away. There was a sudden hush that fell, not just the crowd, but it seemed the whole world grew still for an instant, like some odd synchronistic command. A voice, soft at first, increased in volume, backed by a slow-wailing violin.
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The woman's voice oscillated, mournful and hopeful all at once. The violin contrasted her singing, maintaining long, slow-moving notes, complementing her every word. Her bittersweet voice and the shrill contemplative ringing of the violin seemed to pierce Lance-Lief as if the music had fangs, gripping at his mind, refusing to let go.
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‘Mayhaps I should just go back when this festival is done. Lay my sword at King Elarics feet and abdicate my title of Knight. See my friends and family again.’ The thought left a bitter taste in Lance-Liefs mouth. ‘It is too late for such ideas anyway. I had my chance and chose this path.’
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Looking over at the crowd distracted him from such ideas. Fathers with children up on their shoulders, mothers nursing babes at their breasts, youth dancing with one another. Laughter, shouting, cries of merriment, and impassioned conversations were all things he longed for again. All things he had. ‘...And lost. All my friends, dead and buried. My family, out of reach.’
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The singing woman met his gaze again, smiling as she sang and closing her eyes, head tilted as she let out a long solemn note. Her wail seemed like a python, grabbing his heart and squeezing tight. Burying his head in his hands, a flurry of memories rushed back to him. ‘...You would remain dead, forgotten, and unmourned. This thing I can do.’ ‘Sable is a thief, a liar, and perhaps even a spy.’ ‘Be weary, fool!’ Whispering under his breath, he chided himself and the world.
“Damn this place. Damn, my stubbornness, damn Añofrio, damn Babalos, Norns take-”
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A hand on his shoulder stole him from his brooding. Looking up Lance-Lief could see a youthful man of age with himself. He, too, had dusky skin, a round face, and a long bridged nose. He looked back at the Norrishman, curious, and spoke.
“You dance, yes?”
“Huh, oh me? No, my apologies, I was just leaving.” Lance-Lief said, rising to his feet.
“No leaving, dancing, yes?” The young man mimed a dance to get his meaning across.
“No, Thank you,” He responded, switching to Stoyish. “I really must be going.”
“No going, dance. Is music for dancing.” The young man stated as if that would end the matter. The violin petered out slowly, and the singing woman soon followed. A silence took hold, broken by the cutting tone of an accordion.
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Small short bursts of notes hung in the air briefly before speeding up. A drum came in, pounding away swiftly with the accordion. That's when the woman and violin rejoined, the solemn song now taking on a different character. It was faster, more upbeat, and even hopeful. The boy held out his hand expectantly. Shrugging, Lance-Lief thought, ‘When in town, do as the locals do.’
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Lance-Lief took ahold of his hand reluctantly and followed. The young man brought him into the middle of the crowd. Bodies moved and swirled all about in rapid, dizzying motions. Looking downward, the young man pointed to his bare feet and started moving. He jumped up and down, kicking and stomping down on the earth as if attempting to crush hoards of invisible insects. He stopped, looking at Lance-Lief. ‘He wants me to follow suit.’ Lance-Lief tried to imitate the other's movement, his deep blue poncho rising and falling in time with his kicks. The young man smiled and danced alongside Lance-Lief.
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Unlike the Stoyish folk of Clara Luna, the Tuyatese wore long, layered skirts in place of ponchos. The first layer of the skirts canopied outward like a parasol in the wake of their spinning and stomping. The men’s dresses were often plain, sometimes died a faded yellow, splotchy green, or pinkish red. The women’s, by comparison, were intricately embroidered with colorful and complex floral patterns that often gave way to highly detailed geometric shapes. When they spun, it left dizzying after-images in Lance-Liefs eyes, his vision full of green, red, yellow, and brown.
The dances between genders also differed. Where the men were frenetic, jumpy, and intense, the women, with their spinning, were consistent, momentous, and unceasing. They spun and spun and spun, seemingly without tiring or growing dizzy.
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The woman singing was now joined by several others, a chorus of voices rising and fading in time with the music, matching the tune's intense energy. Lance-Lief, despite himself, picked up his pace, speeding up to match the young man. The young man smiled and started clapping, matching the song's tempo. Others joined in, and soon there was a cacophony of popping claps.
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Lance-Lief didn’t dare join in, fearful of ruining the tempo, but his dancing grew more furious, more energetic. The young man reached out a hand, and Lance-Lief took it. The young man pulled him close with frightful strength, and now they were dancing on opposite ends. The song sped up, and so did the male and female dancers. The men switched sides with whatever dancing partners they had, and the woman started spinning in the opposite direction.
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As the song became more kinetic, dancers started falling or willingly bowing out. Some women dropped, falling in heaps, bursting out in raucous laughter. Some men fell on their asses, hooting and hollering between rushed and shallow breaths. Lance-Lief remained with a few others. Those that did not notice the foreigner amongst them now took heed. The young man who had invited him was still up, stomping away, determination behind his eyes. ‘He means to out-dance me!’
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The song sped up again and again; they switched sides. More dancers fell, chests heaving up and down, sucking in the cold mountain air. Those that did not dance joined in on clapping and shouting in Tuyatec. Lance-Lief supposed they were words of encouragement, for the young man continued to pound on the ground, green skirt flapping about wildly. He caught a second wind just as Lance-Lief was slowing down.
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The tempo quickened once more, and they switched sides. Fire sparked between bone and sinew. Beads of sweat turned to rivers upon the young Knights brow. His pits were slick with perspiration, and every breath burned his chest. He smiled despite himself, a stupid ear-to-ear grin. The young man laughed, short and shallow.
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More dancers fell, and now only Lance-Lief and the young man remained. On and on, the music went. The rhythm grew so fast that only the original singer was still singing along. Lance-Lief could feel his knees weaken, and his right side was starting to hurt from his scabbard constantly smacking against his hip. He sounded like a great big ring of keys, jangling around in a tempest’s wind. This was a competition now. ‘I will not fall, by the Norns, I will not fall!’
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Gray-brown dust hung in the air, the sun's rays peering through the haze, silhouetting both participants. The Instruments started to phase out, one by one. First to go was the violin, followed by the singing woman. The accordion soon stopped short, ending on an uplifting note. The only thing that continued was the beating drum and the people clapping. However, soon the drum stopped, and only the clapping was left.
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Looking into each other's eyes, they silently dared the other to quit. Lance-Lief’s movements were rough and ungraceful, but he maintained his pace. The young man’s had a finesse about it, a fluidity that made it look like he was almost gliding atop the soil. Just as Lance-Lief felt his knees would buckle from under him, a plume of dust shot upward. The young man was down, heaving heavily and choking out short bursts of laughter.
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A wave of younglings tossed their little bodies atop Lance-Lief, screaming in his ear. The young man crawled on hand and knee to slap him on the cheek, smiling like an oaf.
“Dancing is done,” The young man said between breaths. “Is winning Northman.”
“Winning?” Lance-Lief responded. “Winning what?” Yet no one responded to that, not understanding his Norrish tongue. Instead, they lifted him to his weary feet. His legs felt like jellied fat, squishy and unstable.
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They sat him in a circle, woven blankets on the ground, with a campfire just a few feet away. The young man sat next to Lance-Lief, the children scattering and running off to bother others of the group.
“Ta’loco is name,” Ta’loco said, pointing to himself. He then pointed to Lance-Lief and asked for his name.
“Lance-Lief, Pleasure to meet you.” He said, sticking out his hand to shake Ta’loco’s. The young man took it in his own, awkward and uncoordinated.
“Lanze-Lif,” Ta’loco repeated, and Lance-Lief shook his head, chuckling at how odd his name sounded out the man's mouth. Ta’loco returned the laugh and gave him another gentle tap on his cheek.
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For the rest of the afternoon, Lance-Lief was made guest and given food and drink. The singing woman came by and introduced herself as Eztili. She spoke a dialect of Tuyatec, which Lance-Lief assumed unique to this group but conversed with him in broken Stoyish. Ta’loco knew neither Norrish nor Stoyish and so Eztili did all the translating. They spoke about crossing the face of Tutuatjuan, crossing the Yellow Inferno, spending time in the wondrous grandeur of the capital city of Green Haven, and being permanently barred from Bright-rock under charges of gambling.
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Lance-Lief took all their stories with a pinch of Gem-powder, as he was used to meeting nomads on the road and was accustomed to how tall their tales could become. Yet that did not stop him from laughing and listening intently to the most dramatic parts. He wanted to grow comfortable, take off his poncho, and unclip his sword belt, but even with all their generosity and courtesy, he did not fully trust them, could not fully trust them. He would periodically check his breast pocket for his bell and his left side for his purse and felt a pang of guilt every time they were there.
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As the day progressed, he asked either Eztili or Ta’loco if they knew a youth willing to participate as his squire for the tourney on the morrow.
“No boy can do this thing,” Eztili said between bites of freshly cooked chicken.
“I have coin to pay. I am just needing assistance with my armor and arms before the bout.” ‘And to keep face in front of Añofrioand Najara.’
“We can not do this thing, is forbidden,” she said, repeating herself in her mother tongue, Ta’loco nodding in agreement.
“Why?”
“No game of death, Sky Mother weeps seeing.” Ta’loco chimed in. Eztili nodded in agreement, whipping away grease with her hand.
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“This thing makes the Sky Mother weep to see it. Death must be dealt in war and survival but never games. We live one life and no more. To throw such a thing away is foolish and thankless.” Eztili said, still chewing on the burnt skin of her chicken.
“One life? And what of Ramiel’s sacrifice, huh? Did he not give his life away to allow us to enter Heaven? Or Yosif of Saumír, The self-decapitated, who proved the existence of God’s Heaven?” Lance-Lief said a bit incredulously. “Do you not believe?”
“What is this to us, we of Tuyatecamicozi’s blood, grown of mud and returned to dust upon death. This God of Ramel and such is for Northmen and Stoyish, not us.” Eztili said with a finality that brooked no argument. Lance-Lief looked down at the chicken in his hand, dripping with grease, and said nothing. ‘This is a queer lot, this is.’
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As he ate in silence, he thought of what to do. None of the younglings here would be willing to help him. He could visit a tavern and find a patron to help for the nonce. Yet, even that idea didn’t sit well with him. He couldn’t trust anyone, he slowly realized. Lance-Lief looked up at the setting sun, thinking about what to do.
“Stables,” Ta’loco said nonchalantly.
“Excuse me?”
“Stables, is place for working folk,” Ta’loco said, shrugging. “Men always needing coin.”
“Hmm, I suppose,” Lance-Lief said, rising to his feet. He reached for his purse on his left, pulled out two copper crescents, and tossed one to each of them. “Thank you for your hospitality, truly. I am indebted to you both. I must be going. I must check on my mule and see about hiring a Squire.”
“Sky Mother watches over you now, Knight,” Eztili said, rising to her feet. She was quite tall and almost at a height with Lance-Lief. She reached over and kissed his forehead before walking away without saying another word.
“Sky Mother watches you.” Ta’loco echoed and kissed his forehead before departing.
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Lance-Lief walked away, smiling but also feeling a sense of longing. He had wanted to stay. He might have done so if they had asked him, but alas, a Knight-errant's journey was his and his alone. Travel would be his companion and duty, his family. He could only settle down once he proved his worth and was employed permanently by some Lord or Noble. Only then would his journey come to an end.
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He continued down the main road staircase, heading for the lowest terrace. Orange light filtered through the pine trees and focused the sun's rays into concentrated beams. One of those beams caught Lance-Lief square in the eyes, blinding him momentarily. He lost his footing slightly and slipped. Down he went two or three steps before crashing into a big-bodied man. They both almost toppled over together but recovered last minute.
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The large man grunted in pain as his back foot held the brunt of his and Lance-Lief’s weight.
“Apologies, the sun blinded me. I did not mean to-”
“It is quite alright.” The large man said between gritted teeth. He spoke Stoyish fluently, but there was a hint of an accent hidden behind his words. When both men were right, the larger of the two dusted his green and crimson robe.
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The body of the robe was dyed a deep forest green, and each sleeve was encircled by two crimson rings made of a different fabric. On the chest was the Yosifien Cross embroidered in gold. His head was bald, his skin a deep brown, his nose was large and wide, and he had a fat mole in the middle of his cheek. His beard was long but neatly trimmed, with his upper lip being clean-shaven. His upper lip and cheeks were tattooed, made to look like the roots of a black ash tree, wriggling and crawling upward, ending at his temples and eyes. The man must have been a Priest; of what order Lance-Lief could not say.
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He realized he must have been gawking for the Priest made to speak again.
“Excuse me, young man, I am needing to go up.” The Priest said with a pained grin. He reached into his robes and pulled out a pinch of tacky leaf.
“Of course, you have my apologies, Priest,” Lance-Lief said, getting out of the way. He was followed by a long line of odd-looking people, all foreigners and flanked by guards carrying spears. The oddest of them all was the Seven-foot woman with blue skin. Apart from her skin color, her height, blood-red eyes, and dark crimson hair told Lance-Lief she was an Esmerian.
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He scowled at her, knowing her for a Shadow-dancer. He had seen their witch magics at work on the battlefield once before and did not wish to ever see such obscenities again. As the crowd passed, she looked down, locked eyes with the young knight, and smiled playfully. Those piercing red eyes seemed to peer through him and into his mind. He looked away, not wanting to have to stare down the witch, and proceeded to descend the stairs, never looking back.
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The sky was dark when Lance-Lief arrived at the stable, its lantern light pouring out from the windows and spilling onto the stony soil. All seemed quiet at this end of the town, the only sound emanating from where the livestock was kept. Looking around, Lance-Lief could not find either the boy or the owner. He resolved to go in himself, remembering which stall held Winnie and went to it.
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Winnie snorted, moving side to side, shaking the walls of her pen when she caught a glimpse of her owner.
“Missed me, old girl?” Lance-Lief asked. Winnie snorted in response, her ears flapping about wildly. She poked her head above the gate, expecting a good scratch. Lance-Lief complied and started working his way down to her neck. She contentedly huffed in response.
“I sure missed you, Winnie,” he said, scratching her chin and neck continuously. “This place still might hold out good fortune for us, yet it has also given me sorrows,” he let out an exasperated sigh and continued. “God, I wish you could talk back. I wonder what you would sound like?”
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A crash rang out from somewhere at the back of the stable, followed by a high-pitched cry. A man’s voice could be heard shouting over the pleas of a young child, screaming about something. Instinctively, Lance-Lief reached for the hilt of his blade and listened.
“Bastard! You cost me money!” The man shouted through slurred words. There was a smack followed by a cry.
“I’m sorry! AH! I’m sorry!” A boy cried out in pain.
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Lance-Lief stalked toward the sound, quiet as a cat. He moved to the left, going for the door on the side. The closer he got, the more he could see. At first, it was just the dim outlines of a man and a boy painted by way of lantern light. Rounding the corner, he could see them both in true. The presumed owner was towering over the same boy who had taken in Winnie just two days past. He was huddled up, arms over his head, covering himself, squatting low to the ground. Lance-Lief whistled.
“Oi! What's happening here?” Lance-Lief shouted, trying to put as much bass as possible behind his voice. The man turned. The boy continued to whimper.
“If you must know, Northman,” The owner started, his voice thick with drink. “This bastard has ruined a customer's bridle and saddle. Now I am out of coin.” His face twisted in confusion and rage. “Who’s asking?”
“Lance-Lief of the Mossy Isles. Knight-errant and customer in my own right.”
“Well, you can kindly piss off Knight. The boy is my ward. This is none of your concern.”
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‘Is this man truly this boy's father? They look nothing alike.’ Lance-Lief looked at the man long and hard. His nose was twisted from too many breaks, and his head was oval-shaped. Black hair framed a mean face with eyes too narrowly set together. The boy looked more Tuyatese than Stoyish with his round head and long bridged nose. Even if the owner spoke true, he could not be his father.
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“Is this man your father, boy?” Lance-Lief asked, looking down and the quivering stable hand. The boy only shook his head. Lance-Lief approached.
“I said, piss off, Knight! You have no business being here.” The owner said, pointing a fat finger toward him.
“I paid nine copper crescents to have my Mule stay here. I would say how you treat your helping hands is my business. If not, I demand repayment,” Lance-Lief continued to approach.
“I never took you in! Now kick the stones beneath your feet, or I will call the guards!”
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The boy chimed in, speaking so fast he could barely get all the words out coherently.
“I took him in just one day ago! He’s no liar!” The boy said, wiping snot from his nose. The owner lifted his hand up high and made to bring it down on the stable hand with savage force. Before his hand struck the boy, it was stopped short. Lance-Lief held onto the owner’s wrist with brutal strength. His lean muscles bulged out, tight and tought.
“I will not allow you to strike this boy in my presence, is that understood?” Lance-Lief growled. He had a firm grip on the owner's wrist. He wanted to twist it, break it in two, and watch the man writhe in pain. He wanted to release all his anger and pent-up frustrations on the man. Wanted to see him squirm and beg for apology.
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Lance-Lief looked into the owner's eyes and saw fear. He also saw Añofrio’s smug, coy smile, Babalos’s red judgmental eyes, and Sir Davyd’s stupid, thick mustache. He squeezed tighter, twisting upward. The owner’s wrist was now bent at an unnatural angle. Tears weld up in the drunk man’s eyes. ‘If I go any further with this, he’ll scream out, and I’ll have guards descending on me in an instant. I have to put an end to this.’
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“Keep your coins, drunkard,” Lance-Lief said, shaking the man’s arm. A jolt of pain shot through him, and he fell to a knee and cried out.
“I yield, Knight! I yield!” The drunkard shouted. Lance-Lief ignored his pleas and spoke to the boy.
“I have a job to offer you. I’ll pay in coin once I win the tourney. Will you join me?” The boy looked slightly confused, and only then did Lance-Lief realize he had spoken in his native tongue. He repeated himself best he could in Stoyish, and before he could finish, the boy nodded in agreement. “Excellent, gather your possessions. The Games start on the morrow.” Lance-Lief said, struggling to maintain his grip. “As for you, old man...”
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Lance-Lief reached for his belt with his free hand. The drunkard looked down, eyes widening, too afraid to yell out. The young knight pulled the string loose and threw his purse at the stable owner. Coins splashed against his chest and went splattering onto the ground, rolling here and there. Lance-Lief let go.
“...I will not have you call me thief. Take my money and leave us be. I will be collecting my mule and possession and leaving.”
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The boy was no longer in sight, having run into the stable to gather his belongings presumably. The owner fell onto the ground, whimpering as he assembled the copper crescents. 109Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhzDcrkaqNv
“Fine, just go! And do not come back! Go now! Before I change my mind and get the guards!” The owner shouted, crawling on hand and knee to gather the remaining crescents.
“I do not intend to stick around.” Lance-Lief backed away slowly, never taking his eye off him. Once he reached the threshold, he noticed Winnie had been saddled, with the boy putting the last pouches on. He motioned that they should be on their way, so they left. The boy silently crying and wiping his nose the whole time. ‘I barely had coin to feed myself, and now I am this boy’s ward and teacher. God, what have I done?’
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“Isn’t there some kind of ceremony… or something… for this?” The boy said in between sniffs. Ceremony? Had there been any ceremony for Lance-Lief when he squired for Sir Adden Glosstil? It was so long ago he genuinely could not remember, though he supposed he would have if there had been anything special about it.
“I think they had me sign my seal on a piece of parchment under my Sir’s name. But I can’t read, so I am just guessing as to what that was about.” Lance-Lief said, looking down at his new squire.
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They turned a corner and were at the base of the main road staircase. Lance-Lief stopped Winnie, looking for the rampways herders and animal drivers used.
“I can’t read either,” The boy responded, head down and kicking at the ground. “Does that mean I have to sign something? I can’t write either.”
“Neither can I, youngling. A seal is more drawing than letters, truly.”
“I like drawing.”
“That's good. Start thinking about your seal. I’ll be needing it soon.” Lance-Lief said, half distracted. He spotted the dirt rampway flanking the side of the terraces and started moving again.
“What should I draw? Can I draw a monkey?”
“A monkey? What? Have you ever seen such a beast?”
“No, but I’ve heard funny tales.” The boy said, smiling despite his eyes still dripping with tears.
“Then no, it can not be a monkey.”
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“What can it be?”
“Well, it should, um, you see, it should be…,” Lance-Lief paused, mulling over the question in his mind. “It should be something important to you. Learned folk know how to spell and sign their names to identify themselves because it means something. We lot, do not have such a luxury. So our seals need to mean something to us. They need to be special.”
“Special.” The boy repeated under his breath.
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They moved up the rampway, periodically hugging the rockface on the right when a herd of alpacas or sheep passed in the opposite direction. ‘No coin, very little rations, and no place to rest for the night. I suppose we can sleep outside, but that’ll be hard going, and the boy seems sickly as is.’ Just when Lance-Lief felt like giving up, he heard the sound of familiar music and knew, just then, what he should do. 109Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDKQ1MzfqoI
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End of Part One109Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8sxXNHYoaV
