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The Knight-Errant I
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Lance-Lief could feel bile in the back of his throat. The taste was bitter and noxious on his tongue, so he spat a green glob on the ground to escape the foulness of it. It took all of him and then some not to lay a fist in the dirt and scream out toward the sky. 'Why!' He would yell, 'Why, God, must I be cursed to sleep like a winter bear?' Instead of yelling, he muttered and kicked loose a pebble from the stony ground. It went careening into the air with a puff of dust and a thud. He placed his arms on his hips, exhaling as he looked around what little was left of the campsite.
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The fire had gone out sometime at night, yet, the ashes looked black and muddy. 'Must've pissed on the embers before spiriting away my possessions.' The longer Lance-Lief surveyed the campsite, The more flushed his face became. His pouch of silver was taken, as well as his horse, a pair of good leather boots, and a square of hard, sharp cheese. Yet, most important of all, they had stolen his father's sword. All that was left for him was his pack mule, old arms and armor, a travel cot, and his silver bell. 'At least I still have you.' He rang it to be sure. The note the bell made hung in the air, like smoke from a flame, fleeting and ever-changing. It started high, the way a bird's call might sound at dawn, and then ended low like the howl of a trumpet many yards away. Looking down, the glyphs etched outside the bell glowed a bright blue before petering out. Lance-lief closed his fist around it, placing it back in a breast pocket.
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'Cruel, dishonorable thief!’ Lance-Lief thought, guiding Winnie, his mule, up the stone-marked road. The culprit had eaten his meat and bread. Drunk from his wine skin and sang drunken chivalric ballads under a night sky. Lance-Lief might have even divulged a personal tale or two of himself in his cups. They were roadside companions for a fortnight, had his fellowship meant so little? The chap seemed amicable enough when he first chanced a look at him. He had a round head, balding. The little hair he had left grew on his upper lip, thick, coarse, and black as ink. His nose was round and bulbous, pock-marked with huge pores. His gut hung below his belt in a heft, threatening to burst through his woven tunic. The man would have looked benign enough were it not for his arms. Both were corded with muscle, and the war hammer at his back told Lance-Lief he knew how to swing it. Yet, despite that, when he smiled, it reached his eyes. He was quick to laugh and quiet when listening. Furthermore, he always had an embarrassing tale or two of himself to share in solidarity. Never did Lance-Lief think a man like that could be a bandit. ‘If our paths cross again, I’m going to give him a punt right in that fat nose of his.’
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He called himself Sir Davyd of Thornwood when Lance-lief had met him upon Pygrino’s Path. Both men were making for the same destination, Clara Luna, the town of clear moons. The Town was hosting a festival, Dya Del Pygrino Streyada, which roughly translates to Day of the Starry Pilgrim, in Norrish. It was a grand and lavish celebration known throughout the whole of Aultar. People from all over Al'Stoya and the lands beyond the Strait of Kaltuche would come to Clara Luna to celebrate the Winter Solstice. A fortnight before the festival, all manner of Tradesmen would journey to the mountain town. Chefs, Silversmiths, Blacksmiths, Artisans, Thespians, Clerics, Knight Errants, Hedge Mages, Nomadic bands of Seers, Carpenters, Masons, Apothecaries, Fishmongers, Fruitsellers, Skinners, and Axehands, would make Clara Luna their home for the next three weeks. Not to mention Heralds announcing the coming of their liege lords and entourage. Arriving late would mean Lance-Lief would have no room to camp and no real opportunity to find a lord to swear his shield and sword.
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‘I must find coin to buy a shield.’ The thought lit a fire within him. Ceasing his climb up the rugged trail, he approached the pack strung across his mule's back. Winnie huffed and pawed at the ground.
“Mind your manners, Winnie. Huffing isn’t ladylike.” He said, patting his mule's neck to calm her indignation.
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The Mule jerked her head away from his touch, ears flopping wildly, but she fussed no more afterward. Lance-lief began to dig through the pouches that hung across Winnie’s back, looking for the glint of coin, listening for the clang of copper. Pack, purse, and sack were all scoured to no avail. He had even upturned a bag hidden in the lining of his saddle pouch. All the effort yielded little and nothing. As he was forfeiting his endeavors, a glimmer of light caught his attention from the corner of his eye.
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The sun had risen above the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant blue. The rays of light reached out, embracing the road in its warmth, embuing the sparse foliage and stones with an ambient glow. There, by his old campsite, a few feet away, Lance-Lief saw the undeniable shine of copper awash in sunlight. He left Winnie to graze on the dry shrubs on the road's edge. Lance-Lief stood over the pouch, examining its spilled contents. The cut to the drawstring was clean and done by a dagger, most like. Yet when he knelt to count up the coppers he had left, he arrived at the same total sum as the night before the burglary. It would seem this Sir Davyd of Thornwood, or whatever his real name was, either dropped the pouch or left it behind. The latter left Lance-Lief confused and even a bit more frustrated.
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Taking ahold of his mule’s reigns, Lance-Lief continued his trek. Looking upward at the vast clear sky, he wondered what and who he would find in Clara Luna. Hoping, neigh, praying his fortune would turn in his favor in this strange, dry, beautiful land.
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Lance-Lief could smell the bustling mountain town before he saw it. The Knight had traveled most of the day. Watching the sunrise, making its trek across the vast blue sky, where it now settled low and setting. The journey had worked up a hunger that burned within him. The scent of half a dozen ingredients and dishes wafted over the crest at the top of the hill. The smell of food barreled down the road, filling Lance-lief’s nostrils. It snaked its way past his gullet and into his rumbling stomach. He could almost taste the peppered squash served with a bowl of quinoa. And the familiar smell of roasted meat over an open flame set his mouth to water. He clenched his belly and gritted his teeth.
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This far up the mountain, the wind possessed a bite that would make even a wolf envious. It rushed down Pygrino’s path with a fury the young, poor knight had seldom seen or felt before. Even north in the Mossy Isles, rarely did he ever experience a wind with such a cold bite. It felt like the air penetrated his thin frame, seeping its icy tendrils past his flesh and settling deep within his bones. The further he climbed up the craggy road, the more he struggled to catch his breath. The gale ripping down the trail blew with such a force that it snatched the air from Lance-Lief’s lungs. Winnie huffed and shook her head back and forth.
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‘She's had enough of this, just as I have.’
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“Just a few more steps Winnie,” Lance-lief said through chattering teeth. “My word is my bond; I’ll have an apple for you at the end of this.”
‘And soon, I’ll have myself some onion soup to warm up, might be I’ll even tell the cooks to add a few bits of meat.’
Such a request would cost him more, yet, as he lacked a pavilion or tent, it was a luxury he could justify.
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By the time Lance-lief made it to the top of the hill, his legs were two torches lit aflame. His lungs were naught but a burnt and shriveled husk. His nose was cold, red, and leaking. Yet there the town stood in all its wonder. Clara Luna, the town of clear moons, looked like a mirror of the night sky. However, he had several yards to go before entering the settlement proper. Every torch, hearth, and lantern twinkled like distant stars in the fading light of dusk. The beauty of it made him rest at the hilltop, drinking in the sight. Even Winnie ceased struggling and stood unmoving at his side. He touched her neck and gave his ornery mule a good scratch.
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“This town will hold treasures and good fortune for us, Winnie. I can feel it.”
‘Or is that just the chill of Winter that I am feeling?’
Even with his newfound optimism, a voice of pessimism and doubt lingered in his thoughts. Brushing it aside, he made for Clara Luna, feeling a second breath of energy.
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Clara Luna, perched atop The Starry Mountains, overlooked Tutuatjuan, the desert that blanked the whole eastern coast of Al’Stoya. While the lands below were warm and pleasant this time of year, the bitter chill of winter had embraced the mountaintops. Snowfall made itself felt once the young Knight took his first steps into town.
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Terraces lined the mountainside, snaking this way and that. They reminded him of ripples in a pool. Many common folks worked that land with a direct bluntness lost in the rhythm of their labor. Snow continued to fall, and some flakes stuck to the pointed wool hats worn by men and women. Some were plain, but others looked richly decorated. The more ornate hats had yarn dyed blue, embroidered with small crescent moons of yellow thread and dotted with white, like the night sky. The hats possessed no brim but were fitted with flaps on either side that could cover the ears.
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The ponchos the locals wore were lined with wool and fastened at the breast with a button or clasp. These, too, were often plain, dyed deep cobalt, almond brown, or egg white. Occasionally, a wealthy citizen would pass by the newcomers and pilgrims. Their ponchos were ornately decorated. They lined them with jewels and gems, depicting mythical or religious scenes. With the clothing underneath, they all looked like nesting dolls, bottom-heavy and enveloped in layers of warmth.
‘When in town, do as the locals do.’
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It took some time to find a weaver peddling their wares. It took even longer to haggle the price down from five coppers to three. However, once draped in a poncho of a deep brilliant blue, Lance-Lief felt it had been worth every penny.144Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkKD1se2l5N
‘Onto the fields, and then food.’ Winnie's huff stole Lance-Lief from his thoughts.
‘She’s not forgotten about that apple.’ He turned back to the weaver and, in his broken Stoyish, asked where he would find a stable. An old, thin finger pointed northward was his only reply. He peered through the crowd looking for a long moment before spotting the building.144Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡesrDDtuLd1
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Inside, he found a small boy, no more than nine years of age. His hand and arms were spotted with big yellow bruises, most likely from the livestock he tended to day in and day out. Sniffling, he said in his best Norrish. “Three pennies a night, a missed payment gets you a warning, and after that, we take everything.”144Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQbdkdzA4p8
“Everything? What do you mean?” Lance-Lief gathered the coins all the same despite his apprehension.
“The animal, saddle, and whatever else therein, I guess.”
“What do you mean you guess, don’t you work here?”
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The boy sneezed. A glob of phlegm plopped atop Lance-Lief’s leather boot. The only reply was a nod as the boy wiped his nose again.
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Lance-Lief had fifty coppers once he set out this morning and now only had forty-seven. It would be enough to see Winnie fed, brushed, and tended to for a fortnight but would leave little for himself. He held onto the coins in a clenched fist.
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“When are the games of valor set to start?” Said Lance-Lief. He did not know the word for valor, so he mimed swinging a sword and raising a shield.
The stable boy cocked his eyebrows at the sudden display of mummery, searching for a sword belt or shield on either Knight or mule.
‘He doesn’t think me a Knight.’ The realization left Lance-Lief’s face flush. Clearing his throat and regaining his composure, he reiterated his question.
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“The games for warriors and the like. When will they start?”
The boy managed to raise three fingers before sneezing again. This time the boy's spray of sickness landed at Winnie's hoofs. She pawed at the stable floor, kicking up dirt, hay, and droppings alike, sneezing well and loudly. The brunt landed square on the boy’s face, coating him in spit and snot. The sight was almost too much to bare. Lance-Lief stifled a laugh, thinking it unchivalrous, and started counting coppers. He gathered up nine coins and placed them into the boy's hand.
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“See that she is well tended to. I expect her to be fed and brushed every day. And take a look at her hoofs. She might be needing some shoes, especially in this terrain.” Lance-Lief said in a strange mix of both Norrish and Stoyish.
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Nodding along to the Knights instructions, the boy understood his meaning well enough. Before relinquishing the reigns, Lance-Lief went into his saddle bag and produced a small, bruised apple. He had gotten it from his service to the Limonero family of Lemonguard. They had paid him in silver and fruits at the end of his service some time ago. The fact that the apple had grown no worse was quite a surprise. Drawing a small knife from his boot, Lance-Lief cut a piece for himself, a bit for the boy, and gave the rest to his Mule. The boy smiled, eyes alight with delight at the sweet taste. The Knight turned to go but stopped just shy of the door's threshold.
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He called out to the boy once Winnie was situated in a stall. The small skinny stable hand came rushing to meet him.
“Have you seen a speckled Destrier by chance? White mane, white spots, and a gray-blue coat? Old and well-mannered?”
The boy pondered on that for a moment, biting his lip before answering.
“We took in a Warhorse today just back here, big and blue like you say.”
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The horse shown was not his missing destrier. It was big and blue but had a yellow mane and brown speckles and was lean and tall. Not big-boned and muscular. The child looked up, smiling.
“This is not the beast I seek. You have my thanks all the same, boy. May God bless your night.”
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And with that, Lance-Lief left. He must go to the field and set up camp before it was too late. In the morning, he would find the Master of Games and enter his name into the lists. He had no horse to joust with, but there was plenty of silver and copper to win in the melee. ‘All I need is to distinguish myself. No need to go the distance if I can steal the attention of some lord or noble.’
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The smell of Onion soup brought Lance-Lief back. He made his way to where it was being prepared and had himself a bowl. The dish was loaded with bits of squash, carrots, cabbage, and onion strips. The soup had been boiled to perfection and set to sit with hunks of meat. It left a greasy, savory film over the top. One penny was for the soup and three to add the meat. The splurge was well worth the cost between the poncho and the soup.
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Lance-Lief found himself a spot to rest and camp for the night, pressed against the stone wall of the lowest terrace. Here he would be safe from the brunt of the wind. His eyes felt heavy when he rested his feet and finished the last of his soup—the day had been long and rough. He patted his pockets and pouches, assuring all his possessions were on his person. Reaching for his sword belt, the young Knight unclipped it and placed it behind his back. Looking out at the crowd gathering on the field outside the town perimeter, he could see pavilions being erected. Large ones, small ones, some were little more than makeshift tents. Some Knight-errents’ would share their tents with other traveling swords.
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It was a gesture that, to Lance-Lief at least, seemed to be an unspoken rule of brotherhood and fellowship. Yet, traditions of hospitality were only extended to those under the employment of the same individual. A courtesy rarely extended to a lone sword, especially one that would be a stranger to them.
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Moving about town had warmed Lance-Lief’s extremities. It left him comfortable and hardly noticing the chill unless the wind rose sharp and sudden. Yet after some time, sitting down on the cold hard earth, the frigid air began seeping past his layers.
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At this pace, he would be bound to freeze during the night. The thought of introducing himself to some of the others returned to him. Yet looking at the knights, they all seemed too hard and untrusting. 'Half will not take me, and the other half I wouldn’t dare try.’ He stood up, grabbed his scabbard, and made for the main road. It cut through Clara Luna like an arrow straight up to the town square.
‘I’ll ask if I might be welcome to stay in the stable. I could convince the boy with a copper just for himself.’
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Lance-Lief was several steps away before he heard a whistle, followed by a shout.
“Good Sir! Good Sir! Over here!”
The young Knight turned on his heel, searching for the speaker.
“Yes, you! Over here, Sir!”
He saw an arm flailing above the sea of people through the crowd, jutting out like a tentacle reaching for the sky.
“Oi!” Lance-Lief shouted in response, making his way through to find the speaker.
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Lance-Lief had to look up at the stranger. There they stood, tall and finely clothed. The sword worn at their hip was encased in a leather scabbard, expertly crafted, dyed forest green. The checkered gambeson of snow white and sanguine red they wore was new and seldom used, judging by its immaculate condition. On the chest, the Stranger bore a device, a personal coat of arms. A crimson stallion’s head, with a white-hot flaming eye on a field of green, enveloped in a diamond patch outlined in a red border. His hair and beard shone like orange flames, long but neatly bound in braid and bun.
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He had skin the color of almonds, making his pale green eyes dance and come to life. They were his softest feature. Everything else about him was sharp. His hair was thick, healthy, and ended in a widow's peak, pointed as a spear tip. His nose was long and tapered off like an arrowhead, with the bridge rising as a great hill might in a valley. On both ears, drooped one gold earring. He would have looked a wild man if it were not for his fine garments and jewels. The tall Knight put out his arm in greeting. Lance-Lief took it into his own.
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“Well met, stranger.” Said the tall Knight, in a Stoyish accent.
“Aye, what need must you have of me, Sir?” Lance-Liefs tone betrayed his suspicious nature more than he would have liked.
“HA! A blunt man, I appreciate the directness of your speech, good Sir. Forgive me, but I am having no need of your labor. Only your company, what say you, hmm?” The tall Knight gestured toward a pavilion, flying a heraldic banner. The sigil was new to Lance-Lief, as were most in this land.
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“A white horse rearing on a quartered field of red and green, with little white crowns in each square? You are nobly born, I assume?”
“What is giving this away, hm? My smell or my flags?” The Stranger bellowed a laugh loud enough to echo through the night air. “I am having the pleasure of being Añofrio of house Cavyero. These are my men, and this is my pavilion.”
Añofrio outstretched his arm, motioning it to show all his leal servants.
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All men were almond-skinned, like their liege lord, and huddled up close to a fire, eyes narrowing in suspicion at Lance-Liefs approach. Most men were clad in the green and red of the Cavyero family. However, those that were not were plainly dressed, like himself.
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‘A collection of way-ward warriors and Knight-errands.’ Lance-Lief noted.
“Quite a band of warriors you have here, my Lord. You seek company from all Hedge-knights?” Said Lance-Lief.
“Only poor ones, poor knights with the look of honor upon them. You have that look. Am I mistaken?”
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Lance-Lief chewed on the question for a moment. Was this a game? If he answered in the affirmative, would that show hubris or confidence?
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“Aye, I am a man worthy of trust, or so my mother tells me.” The slight jest planted a smile on Añofrio’s face.
“You poke fun. I like this. For the past three years, a member of my House journeys to Clara Luna, seeking men who need employment, and every year fewer and fewer are worth their salt. So they send me, Añofrio. Judging the spirit of a man is a gift granted to me by God’s own hands.”
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He placed a hand on Lance-Lief's shoulder. The grip was tight but reassuring.
“It is time you mingle. Take some lemon wine and speak with your kind. Tomorrow I should see you at sword and shield to test your worth. What do you say?”
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Lance-Lief’s grip tightened on the scabbard of his sword, and his free hand closed into a fist. His stomach knotted at the thought of being plucked from a crowd and promised employment based on... what exactly? A look? A feeling? Something was amiss, but the promise of a warm place to sleep at night was too tempting.
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“Tomorrow, I will distinguish myself. I promise this in my Father's name.”
“Good, at first light, I will be seeing you.” Añofrio turned from Lance-Lief to address the rest of the motley crew he had assembled.
“I will be seeing all of you. Drink, eat, and make merriment, for tomorrow, God shines down on those most favored. Pray, excuse me. I must needs retire.”
With that, the Noble Knight retired to his pavilion. He left Lance-Lief alone in a grouping of loyal men and hand-picked vagabonds.
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