The Knight-errant III.
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Lance-Lief awoke with celerity, wide-eyed and panting. What time was it? The archetypal sounds of a bustling town in the throes of merriment and preparation resonated outside his tent walls. This hustle and bustle were accompanied by birdsong and the rustling of foliage from a light wind. Either the citizens of Clara Luna awoke early to gain a headstart on their day or, instead, the most likely answer, he had overslept. On hands and knees, he peeked out of the entrance looking toward the sky. Tears welled in his eyes as they adjusted to the day's brightness. Lance-Lief made to rub them but lost his balance, faceplanting on the cold ground. He took in a mouth full of soil caked in frost from last night’s flurries.
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A roar of laughter emanated from the Cavyero’s side of the camp. Whether in innocent mirth or derision Lance-Lief could not tell. Rising swiftly, The young Knight acted as though nothing had happened. Putting his hands on his hips and sighing, he looked from side to side, attempting to see if anyone else in the camp saw his fools fall.
People went about their business seemingly unaware of the harlequin of a Knight.
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He looked back toward the sky with a beat red face covered with dirt. The sun hung lazily just above the stunted tree line in the east. ‘I still have time!’ White-mist billowing from his nostrils, he resolved to believe that he had not arisen too late but instead right on time. Looking about the campsite Lance-Lief noted that he was not the only victim of last night's revelries. Free-swords littered the field, still abed or groggily arising, swaying this way and that, unable to stand on two feet. Yet the Cavyero men seemed to have all their faculties about them, evidently unphased by the night's drink or shenanigans, with few exceptions. ‘What a sorry lot we must look to them.’
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Hanging his head low, he briskly walked past leal Knights and sworn swords. His primary concern was to find a water basin to wash the sleep from his eyes and clean the smudge of dirt on his cheek. Frozen soil crunched underneath the heel of his boot as he furtively walked through a crowd of loyal men, servants running about, and women of the night. Coming to the pavilion that housed Añofrio, a ludicrous scene played out. The two senteries that stood watch last night were dragged away, Añofrio standing tall, arms behind his back, overlooking the arrest.125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvXi353RLdy
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One of the detained men shouted that he had been poisoned. The other sheepishly kept his head down, saying nothing. Slowing his pace just a bit, Lance-Lief took in the scene, curiosity guiding his attention.
“Throw them in the stocks. It shall give the men some good target practice, I am thinking,” Añofrio said to the guard at his flank, never losing sight of the two prisoners.
The guard nodded, saying nothing, and chased after them.Just then, some courtesan emerged from the threshold. She swaggered out, gently caressing the tall Knights arm before departing. The woman was almost at a height with Añofrio, long dark hair that ended in tufts of curls and skin the color of polished teak. Her touch impressed a yearning countenance on the noble Knight, or so it seemed to Lance-Lief. ‘That's his woman, his paramour seems like, best keep away from her.’ She swaggered out, gently caressing the tall Knights arm before departing.
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She strode past him, close enough that he could smell the scent of lemons and mint wafting off her hair. For a brief moment, they made eye contact. The courtesan winked rather brazenly, and Lance-Lief could not shake the feeling that he knew those eyes.
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“Good Sir! Come hither, good Sir!” Rang out Añofrio from across the way.
Lance-Lief did as he was bid and did not look back at the woman.
“Fair Morning, my Lord,” Lance-Lief said, bowing low and long.
“Fair Morning indeed. The day starts with a beautiful woman, rubbish being discarded, and the sight of a friendly face, it would seem, hmmm?” Añofrio said, leaning in for agreement. Lance-Lief nodded his head.
“It would seem you have been indulging in frolics of your own, yes?” The tall Knight asked, pointing at his cheek.
“Oh, this?” Lance-Lief turn aside, quick as a jackrabbit, wiping dirt off his cheek with the palm of his hand. “That was… I fell.”
“HA! You are a jester of a Knight, I am thinking. All nerves and spasms!” Añofrio said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He looked down at Lance-Lief now, pale-green eyes burning with something. Was it contempt, pity, or curiosity? The young Knight could not say. ‘Best correct the course of this ship before I am out of an Employer.’ He thought.
“True enough, yet I’ve been told my twitching makes me hard to hit,” Lance-Lief boldly stated. Añofrio raised an eyebrow. His voice grew low and gruff.
“Is that so?”
“Marched with fifty of my kinsmen and townsfolk to make war on orders of King Elaric. I still stand today. I would say I am pretty hard to hit, my Lord.”
“I’ve heard tales of these border disputes. Your King feels entitled to some bits of rock past the coast of the Boreal Shelf if the rumors are to be believed.” Añofrio said, tugging at his braided beard.
‘My king, pfft.’ Lance-Lief thought bitterly. He nodded his head in agreement and spoke.
“Aye, the very one. Our Majesty of Norriland saw fit to let loose his subjects on the Esmerians.”
“And who came out the victor in this skirmish? Your lands are so far, and news travels slowly.”
“Well, that would depend on which King you speak to.” ‘We were the true losers.’ “That was many years ago. I was but fifteen, and now I stand here, a man freshly turned twenty.” Lance-Lief said, puffing his chest out just a bit.
“It would seem I have found myself a true and proud warrior,” Añofrio stated, perhaps a bit derisively.
Lance-Lief turned away, abashed, and said, “Perhaps not. Perhaps I am just lucky, thank the Norns.”
“I should like to see this luck in action, my bold friend. At noon I am testing the Errants of this motley crew I have assembled. I expect you to impress myself and my men.”
“At noon, aye. You shall see me. For now, I am looking for the Master of Games.” Lance-Lief stated, looking around the camp as if the Game Warden would materialize before him.
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A guffaw erupted from Añofrio.
“I mean you no disrespect, my Knight-errant, but the games are for the wealthy, renowned, and Noble of our ilk. You can not mean to enter your name without a squire, and I saw you with no horse.”
Lance-Lief clenched his fist. Digging his nails into his flesh until all five knuckles turned white from the strain. Whatever semblance of warmth or respect he had held for the Noble Knight quickly vanished. In his chest burned a rage. A rage that would be sure to burn him if it was not adequately contained.
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“I have both squire and horse. They are at the stables, keeping each other company.” The lie escaped Lance-Lief’s lips before he even had a chance to ruminate on the thought.
“Ho-ho, is that so? Will they be attending today’s tryouts?”
“No, but I assure you, you shall see them at the games,” Lance-Lief said, head held high, almost believing his own falsehood.
Añofrio leaned in close, the smell of lemon water and pine scenting his breath, and spoke in a low and menacing tone.
“Tread lightly hedge-knight, I do not need you nor your kind mucking up the Field of Contest for me. I offer you employment, a fair wage, and an honest living should you prove yourself.” Taking hold of his shoulder, the tall knight squeezed until Lance-Lief wrinkled his face in discomfort. “I implore you to reconsider. You are out of your depth here.”
“Apologies, my Lord, but I can not do that. I will be entering the games.”
Añofrio looked down, hand still gripping his shoulder, laughing to himself, and spoke.
“You are a variable that I will not suffer.”
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He threw the young knight back with a fury. Stepping back from the blow, the heel of Lance-Lief’s boot caught on a rock sending him careening toward the ground, landing hard on his ass. A plume of dust shot upward, painting the scene in a brown-gray haze. Two guards came rushing, the familiar sword song of steel scraping against scabbard ringing out in the morning air. Añofrio held both guards back and approached.
“What an easy thing it would be to cut you down here and now. Whilst your soul travels toward the afterlife, my men would be bedding women, and I winning my prize. Yet you would remain dead, forgotten, and unmourned. This thing I can do.”
“Shall I do you the honors, my lord?” The guard on the left said, smiling from ear to ear.
“Allow me to cut this dog’s heart out for you, my lord.” The guard on the right said, a cold detachment coating his words.
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“No, I am done toying with this fool. Look at his face! He cowers in fear.” Añofrio said, turning his back to the Knight. “You are no longer welcomed in camp, fool. Be with your squire and horse in the stables. That seems a more fitting place for you.” Kicking his feet back, another cloud of dust blanketed Lance-Lief, causing his eyes to water. He let out a cough, stifling a curse. He resolved to pound his fist into the ground and grunt instead.
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Lance-Lief looked like a mule, bundled in warm layers, with his dark blue Poncho and a bedroll on his back, old short sword at his hip. He made for the main road, eyes fixed on the ground, too ashamed and embarrassed to look at friendly faces. The main street was more a staircase than a road in truth. Up and up, it ascended with platforms at varying intervals giving way to side roads, where cobblestone dwellings were lined in neat rows. Their pinewood roofs were wonderfully ornamented with banners, spreading from house to house, copper disks, wooden chimes, and woven decorations dangling and chiming in the wind.
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Reaching the midpoint, Lance-Lief stopped to catch his breath. The sound of sizzling meat over a spit called to him from an alleyway. ‘What's the harm in grabbing a bite before entering my name into the lists?’ looking at the sun, he could see that it had hardly moved from the east, still presiding over the world lazy and awakening.
Letting his stomach guide him, the young Knight found the outdoor kitchen quickly.
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Coming to a clearing with no buildings and only space, he noted a crowd had gathered. To his surprise, there was no spit in sight nor any rotisserie present. Smoke bellowed from a hole dug into the earth, lined with smooth stones. A series of women, speaking Stoyish so fast that Lance-Lief could not keep up, tended to the pit. One of them presided over a fire where the stones were heated until they turned black. Bowls of food and ingredients were laid on a long table, with one of those women scrutinizing each bowl.
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When the stones grew sufficiently hot, two women, using iron clamps with elongated handles, would transfer them from fire to pit. The woman at the table then emptied bowls of red potatoes, massive ears of white corn, and bright orange carrots, skinned and dripping wet from their wash into the pit. The vegetables landed with a great Hissss, and all the women spread them about evenly using sticks. Placing another layer of heated rocks, it was time for the bowls of meat.
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Mutton, poultry, and alpaca were all present, marinating in yellow chili sauce, complemented by dandelion greens and coriander. The smell of the steam from the earthen oven set his mouth to water. Off to his left was a second outdoor kitchen with a mirror configuration to the right. There stood the brunt of the crowd awaiting their chance to purchase the hearty breakfast. Lance-Lief entered the mass of people and ordered a plate for himself. Five coppers thinner, and the food was his.
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Digging into the veritable feast of vegetables, meat, and greens with a fervor akin to a starving wolf, Lance-Lief looked like one that had not fed for years. The meat melted away in his mouth, its blood mixing with the natural juices from the fat corn curdles and the soft, slightly charred carrots. There was an earthy quality to the dish that, in conception, gave Lance-Lief pause yet, upon execution, in fact, enhanced the flavors. Grease trickled down his chin, and he swept it away with a knuckle. Others were enjoying their meal alongside him in the open plaza air.
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The sun was not visible from his vantage point. The way was blocked by roofs on the lower terraces. He took this for a good sign as it meant it was not yet noon, and he still had more time to explore and take in the sights and sounds of this beautiful mountain town.
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Handing the plate back, licking his fingers, lips tingling from the spices, Lance-Lief was in need of a drink. Water, wine, mead he cared not, anything to wash down the flavors and set his belly to digest would do. Lance-Lief stopped an amicable-looking man in his late fifties to ask if he knew where he might be able to get a drink. Not knowing the Stoyish word for tavern, he mimicked drinking from a cup in response to the old man’s confusion. The rude gesture upset him so much that he whacked him across the head with a bundle of straws, chasing him away from the plaza.
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‘The young Knight looked more like a mime than a warrior going from person to person and acting out what he thought best conveyed the word for tavern. Finally, an ordinary woman with a playful smirk took his meaning and pointed him toward a tavern. He bowed, thanking her in Stoyish, and entered the building.
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Dust motes stirred as the bead curtain chimed to life, the rays of daylight catching every individual speck. A fire crackled and popped from somewhere deep within the tavern. The floorboards creaked and whined under the weight of his step. No one manned the bar, yet clay cups were already laid on tables. Old men and shadowy figures nursed their drinks, steam rising like billowing columns of smoke.
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No one looked, no one stirred, no one cared. Lance-Lief took an empty seat at the bar. He ran his fingers along the grain and felt that it was smooth. Not from polish nor care but from years of hard use and sliding cups along its length to patrons.
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A spittoon rang out, hollow and tinny, from the back of the tavern. It was a sharp sound that cut through the silence like a sword. Lance-Lief turned and saw a familiar face seated at the back of the tavern. Shadows held court this far into the building, and Babalos presided over it, legs splayed out wide, right arm resting on the round table at his side. The Pale man stared back, unblinking.
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A drink steamed in a clay cup, just a sliver of mist left, fighting back against the frigid air. Yet the man never took a sip. Instead, he chewed. Brown spittle trickled down his chin, his mouth bulging from sticky tobacco pressed against gum and bottom lip. He spat. The sound the brass container made was like a miniaturized temple bell. ‘The bloke is half mad with a stare like that.’
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Those eyes seemed to glow redly in the shade. Lance-Lief turned away, not wanting to put more thought into this awkward interaction. He was here for a drink, and that was that. The young Knight sat patiently for a while. Growing bored, he began tapping his fingers on the bar, half-heartedly drumming to a song in his head.
“You’ve got to hit the chime,” Babalos said, breaking the silence.
“Got to what?” Lance-Lief asked. In truth, he heard the man but was more taken aback by his sudden need to chat.
“Hit the chime. It's the only way the barkeep will come out. The man is tending to his cellar. Or so I think.” Babalos spat again.
“Right…Sure,” Lance-Liefs responded in a low voice, hoping the conversation would come to a sudden end.
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Ringing the chime, the barkeep took another few moments until he came out. He was a short, thin man with skin the color of teak and a full head of straight hair peppered from age.
“What will you have?” The barkeep asked, looking the young Knight up and down.
“I just had my meal and need something to wash it down.”
The old man scratched at his chin which was a patchwork of long course hair, grey and straggly. He spoke confidently.
“Hot Cacao. Good for digestion, good for mood, and vitality. Two copper crescents if it please you, Sir.”
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Placing both the coins on the bar, the old man snatched them up and ventured to a back room barred by another beaded curtain. Soon Lance-Lief had a clay cup of steaming drink to nurse himself. The liquid inside was dark brown, thick, and bubbling. Its aroma was strange to him. Earthy and sweet all at once, with savory notes underlining the whole thing. ‘Looks like river mud, but it doesn’t smell too bad.’ Sticking his nose closer, the sweet notes prevailed over its companions, making the beverage more enticing. He took a sip.
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Warmth spread from his pallet to his chest. It was a hearty drink and perhaps a bit more bitter than Lance-Lief expected.
“I like mine cold,” Babalos said, taking a seat adjacent to Lance-Lief. The stool creaked under the weight of his tall frame.
“What? What do you mean?” Lance-Lief replied.
“Cacao, he only serves it hot, don't like it that way. Prefer it cold.”
“Right.” It was the only response Lance-Lief could muster. He downed the drink in one swift motion. It was quite delicious, but he’d had enough of this man inserting himself in his own affairs and wanted rid of him.
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“Well, I'm off. The Norns have you,” The young knight made for the exit. Pale fingers coiled around Lance-Lief’s lean arm, preventing his departure.
The air grew still, and the silence was deafening. Dust motes froze in place. The weary patrons were watching. Waiting to see if they’d get a show.
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Instinctually Lance-Lief’s left hand reached for his short sword, ready to cut this man down if it came to it. The extent of his movement concealed by the poncho, he loosened the blade from its scabbard.
“You’d do well to lay your hands off of me, Babalos,” Lance-Lief said.
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Looking at the man in the morning sun's light, he could see that Babalos wasn’t just pale but as white as snow. Red shaky eyes framed a stern face, scar pulling at his lip. He was bald but had brows and lashes that seemed to blend in with the rest of his face. Baring his teeth, he looked more like a wolf than a man. Brown slime coating lips and gums. ‘Is that supposed to be a smile?’ Letting go, Babalos sat back down.
“My apologies Sir, I meant no offense,” Babalos said, still smiling and looking like his mouth was full of rotten blood.
“Yet what you meant and what you gave are two different things. Do not speak to me again.” Lance-Lief responded swiftly, hand still on the hilt of his sword.
“You owe me no audience, I know. However, I am compelled to speak to you.”
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Lance-Lief turned and left the tavern. The bead curtain chimed behind him, followed by heavy, ungraceful footfalls. ‘What I would give to cut him down here and now.’
“Our first encounter was a bit uncharitable, I admit,” Babalos said right before spitting. “I just couldn’t help but notice you were up early. Curious, isn’t it?”
‘What does he want? Why does he insist on pestering me!’ Lance-Lief was not in the habit of being unchivalrous, yet this persistent trailing was grating on his already frayed nerves. Counting his steps, he was doing anything not to lose his temper and draw the attention of the towns folk just going about their day. Brown spittle splattered on the floor just centimeters from his boots. And with that, Lance-Lief had had enough.
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Spinning on his heel, his poncho twirled from the momentum, getting close to the albino man’s face.
“If you must speak your mind, speak it! I do not wish to be in your company longer than is needed, Freesword. So, please finish your thought and go!”
“Sable is a thief, a liar, and perhaps even a spy.”
“Whatever quarrel you have with that man is yours alone. Leave me out of it.”
“All us vagabonds arose groggy and unsteady, yet the Cavyero men woke, refreshed and steady as a horse. I-”
“Enough! I am done with this, and I am done with you! The Norns have you, Freesword.” Lance-Lief's proclamation earned him a few stares and raised eyebrows. Being overly aware of this fact, he spun away and left. Babalos shouted out after him but did not pursue.
“Check your purse, boy! He is no friend to you or that drunkard! Be weary, fool!” The baritone voice rang out, echoes trailing after Lance-Lief as he climbed the stairs heading for the town square.
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Banners flapped restlessly in the wind, each square cloth differing from the last. An array of blues, whites, browns, and yellows caught the sun's rays painting the promenade in a spectrum of shades. Prayers written, scenes drawn, constellations mapped out, all this and more rendered by the townsfolk, young, old, artistic, or devoid of talent, it mattered not. At the center of the square stood an enormous granite fountain, pearlescent. Its streams of water, a cerulean blue, glittering like diamonds when it caught the light. The fountain itself easily took up a quarter of the court. Townsfolk and visitors congregated around it like babes at their mother’s skirt.
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Families laughed and made merriment in the square. Kids chased their peers about with tassels tied to the ends of sticks. Alpacas, small herds of sheep, long-necked almeyecas, and donkeys hauling carts were guided with care and precision by their masters. Some folk sat peacefully on the fountain's rim, scribbling what they pleased on cloth squares. Others were engrossed in conversation. Lance-Lief needed to have a closer look at the fountain himself. He suspected he was near where the Master of Games would be stationed, as most are wont to do right outside the castle. And it happened that the town square sat directly at the base of the peak that held the Starry Keep. Inspecting the fountain wouldn’t take longer than a few moments.
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Finding a lone part of the rim so as to not disturb anyone, Lance-Lief ran his fingers along the length of the granite. It was polished and smooth as glass. On the inner lip, a ring of frost clung stubbornly, refusing to melt away. The rim itself was as wide as a man is tall. He wanted to look into the fountain. Mayhaps even dip a finger into the water, but he thought better of it. To get to the water, he would need to sprawl out on his belly and worm his way up, lest he gets his dirty feet all over the pearlescent stone. ‘That would be a bloody travesty, I’m sure.’ No, instead, he admired from afar.
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‘Sable is a thief, a liar, and perhaps even a spy… Check your purse, boy,’ The words rang in his ears, refusing to be dispelled. They stubbornly clung to his mind, much like the patch of ice clinging to the fountain's rim. Putting his hand in his breast pocket, he felt around for the silver bell. The cold metal sphere gave a muffled ring in response to his touch. Yet this was insufficient proof, and he took the bell out to examine it with his own eyes. He had lost plenty the past day. He would not lose this.
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‘That's enough of that. It’s time to meet this Game Master.’ Lance-Lief rose, tucked away his bell, and dusted off his poncho.
“Dór poso a nezta Eñyora del Custodo! Dór poso, dór poso!” A booming voice rang out from the opposite end of the fountain. He only understood three words of the whole sentence. Dór poso meant ‘make way,’ and the most obvious to him, Eñyora meant ‘Lady.’ A crowd had gathered around a group mounted atop horses.
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All were lavishly ornamented, adorned with polished leather saddles dyed indigo, azure, argent silver, egg white, sunflower yellow, or reddish browns. A woven blanket sat buttressed between horse and saddle; its rich colors and embroidery differed from rider to rider. The figure at the center of the procession rode on a massive black draught horse. The creature towered above the shorter, more slender Styoish war steeds. Its mane was tied in a neat row of buns bound at the stem with silver and blue ribbon. The headdress the horse wore elongated outward like a unicorn's horn, on which a silver crescent adorned. This, too, was wrapped in the silver and blue ribbon save for the crescent that shone like a beacon when it caught the light.
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It was quite luxurious, and the draught horse bordered on impressive. However, the Lady riding atop it was a vision to behold. She wore a satin-weaved capelet, indigo and glossy. Her hair was neatly parted and braided into Twin-Tails that flowed to the middle of her back. The base of each braid was held in place by silver ribbons of cloth neatly tied into a bow. The excess fabric was weaved intricately along with the braids, spilling out at the tips and tied back in loops. On her ears were a pair of muffs made of wool, white as a cloud. Her dress, too, seemed to be made of wool, dyed a lighter shade of blue than Lance-Liefs own poncho. Her skin was a dark shade of chestnut that seemed to complement her darker brown hair and golden brown eyes. ‘That must be the Lady of the Keep.’
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A pair of standard bearers rode on their flanks, wielding long pinewood poles, ending with a heraldic banner flapping in the wind. It depicted a tower perched atop a mountain peak, overlooking a river on a field of navy blue speckled with white stars, a full pale moon framing the tower. This heraldry Lance-Lief knew and was the reason for his coming. When he took up service for the Limoneros, he spent plenty of time in their halls, supping and conversing with others of his ilk. Those halls were filled with the banners of families who had aided the Limoneros in times past. The Stoyish men who knew enough Norrish to be understood told him of those families and a little of their history with the Limoneros. The Pieadrras were among those revered houses forever enshrined in honor among their halls for past heroic deeds. Unfortunately, he could not recall the tales of their deeds or their significant figures. However, he did latch on to the news about the upcoming festival and thought it best to seek new employment opportunities elsewhere.
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The procession was somewhere by the square's edge, with a crowd trailing along after them. Most townsfolk migrated toward the Lady and her entourage, shouting and calling out. Some shouted pleasantries, and others requested food, money, and blessings.
The magnetism of the crowd drew him in closer, yet, looking at the sky, the sun had moved a considerable amount since he last noted its position. ‘Noon is fast approaching! Oh God, what a meandering dolt I’ve been!’
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The crowd swelled in size, eagerly awaiting something to happen, though what that was Lance-Lief could not say. Nor would he be around to find out. Making his way against the flow of the crowd, he searched for a break in the wave of people to free himself and find the gate that would surely house the Game Master.
“Dysúlpe, purvor,” Lance-Lief said, speaking to no one in particular. For every person who stepped aside, there were two more to fill their place. Once he broke through, he was nearly trampled by some wealthy merchant riding atop an Almeyoca. The beast towered well above everyone present. The length of its wooly neck, the size of a full-grown man, and its body were just as large as the draught horse the Lady of the Keep rode.
“AFURA DEL POSO ASYNO!” The merchant yelled down from atop his steed. A wagon full of rugs and other woven goods rolled behind the beast of burden, two spearmen following close behind. Tapping his foot impatiently, Lance-Lief waited for the merchant to saunter on past. Once the way was clear again, he briskly walked to the gate.
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During the commotion and turmoil, he had not noticed the line of people forming outside the gate. It was long and slow-moving. Glaring, one of the Free-swords pointed to the end of the line tilting his head. Lance-Lief couldn’t help but notice the row of pallid faces and northern features making his way to the end of the line. ‘Discarded warriors, like myself, the whole lot of them.’
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He got to the back of the line, hoping it would be fast enough for him to still be insured a spot. Bored, he decided to speak to the man in front of him.
“Where are you from, friend?” Lance-Lief asked, smiling.
“Shut the fuck up.” The man growled, and like that, Lance-Lief waited in silence. 125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6tP586KbZO
