The Bringer of War

As soon as he heard the pointed whispering behind him on the darkened road, Hector knew he was in trouble. He was walking home from the Hammer, having stayed out late speaking with the barmaid Allison. Though he had offered to walk her home, she had politely declined, and no amount of convincing could change her mind. Frustrated, he had begun his walk back to the residence, head hanging low and shoulders slumped.

The hour was late, and most of the homes in Ravensford were dark. For some reason he felt particularly apprehensive that night, as if the air were filled with energy as it was right before a thunderstorm.

He ignored the voices and subtly increased his speed, remembering that Bruno had taught him running often triggered a chase. The whispering gave way to laughter, and he scowled as he heard several voices taunting him.

“Look,” said a slurred voice that Hector knew belonged to Thurston “it is the black son of a bitch’s errand boy!”

“Why are you out so late, boy?” said one of Thurston’s toothless cousins. “Did your master send you for bootblack, that you might paint your face to resemble his own?”

“Nay,” said Thurston “he’s gone to get some balm from the apothecary. You know Templars like to shove their affairs up their squire’s arses!”

Hector bore the insults with as much grace as he could muster, not looking back at the men even when their footsteps grew closer.

“Hey,” said Thurston, “have you gone deaf, boy?”

“He’s not deaf,” said one of his fellows “he’s just ignoring us, he is!”

“That’s not polite,” said Thurston. Something in his tone made the boy panic, and he began sprinting away from the men.

“Catch him!” said Thurston, and the chase was underway. Hector tore around the corner of a woodpile, his feet slipping in the damp grass. He only went down for an instant, but it was long enough for Thurston to catch up. The mayor put his foot squarely across the young man’s jaw, snapping Hector’s head around. The squire’s eyes went glassy as light exploded behind his eyes.

Though he was struggling to remain conscious, Bruno’s lessons had not been lost on the boy and he gave a good accounting of himself. However, the outcome was never in doubt, and his counter attacks were often met with escalating violence.

Thurston wiped blood from his face, his nose bent badly by Hector’s fist. His cousins held the squire between them, propping up the barely conscious young man.

“Make him look at me,” said Thurston. One of his cousins roughly slapped a palm under Hector’s chin and raised his bloody face to look at the mayor. “Do you wish for this to stop? All you have to do is beg me.”

Hector’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Thurston moved his face in closer, a sinister smile creasing it.

“What’s that boy?” he said “I can’t hear you-”

Thurston’s head snapped back as a wad of frothy red spittle shot from Hector’s mouth and spattered across his face. He swore, backpedaling as he used his forearm to wipe the fluid off. Thurston looked into the bruised, grinning face of the squire and lost all control.

The mayor balled up his fist and slammed it into Hector’s belly. The squire doubled over and would surely have fallen if not for the massive farmers holding him upright. Thurston continued to rain blows down on the boy’s head, animalistic grunts escaping his torn and bleeding lips. So savage was the fury of his beating that his cousins were forced to drop the squire face first onto the grass.

“Easy,” said one of them fearfully “I think you have gone too far, cousin.”

Thurston wiped his brow, cursing as he smeared blood across it. He peered down angrily at the crumpled, mewling form of Hector.

“He breathes yet,” he said, spitting a stream of crimson onto the ground. “Leave him there to stew in his own blood. That should teach the uppity black Templar who truly rules this town.”

The turned and strode away as Hector’s battered body finally gave up the fight for consciousness.

** *

“No, no, no!” said Lord Mannix, berating the servant displaying the dark purple dress. “A Midsummer festival dress should be lightly colored, as airy as the sweet sound of a maid’s laughter!”

“Father, please,” said Kate with a helpless smile.

They were ensconced in the lady’s bedchambers, no less than two dozen rejected gowns laying haphazardly around the room. The flustered servant looked as if he were about to forget his place and scream at Lord Mannix to stop being so persnickety.

“Please, nothing!” he snapped, though with much less venom than he had used on the lowly servant. “You have one chance, one, to impress the king. Your dress, your hair, your cosmetics...they must all be perfect, you understand?”

“Oh, father,” said Kate, rising from her perch on a stout chest and striding over to take the man’s hand. “You really must not worry so! It is as if you have a chance to marry Drakken.”

“Bah,” said lord Mannix, dismissing the notion with a wave of his wrinkled hand. “You do not worry enough!”

Kate sighed, releasing his hand and walking over to examine a light green sleeveless gown woven from silk. Satin ruffles appeared at the hemline and bust, giving it an elegant look.

“I rather like this one,” she said, running her painted nails down the shimmery gown.

“That?” said Lord Mannix, bottom lip out thrust “why, it’s so...so plain!”

“But it’s light and airy, father,” she said, holding the gown up against herself.

“There are no sleeves,” he said grumpily “because you see fit to expose yourself to the sun in ways no noble lady should, you have so many blemishes upon your arms. The king will be repulsed!”

Kate’s brows came low over her brown eyes, and she put her hands on her hips defiantly.

“Freckles,” she said “are beautiful. You did not speak so of Mother’s ‘blemishes.’”

Mannix’s face fell, and he seemed to have trouble looking in his daughter’s eyes.

“You shame me,” he said “of course, you would look lovely in whatever you chose to wear.”

“Good,” said Kate with a smile, turning to the servant. “I have made my decision. This is the gown I shall wear to the King’s ball.”

The servant gratefully gathered up the unchosen dresses, casting a withering look towards her father. Lord Mannix matched his fiery stare spark for spark as the little man stalked out of the room.

“I shall have that uppity runt flogged!” said lord Mannix.

“Oh, father,” she said teasingly.

“His attitude is not befitting his station!” he said harshly.

“But he is the best tailor in Fort Drakken,” said Kate with a merry laugh “perhaps the best in all the North!”

“Bah,” said Lord Mannix, heading towards her door. “I shall see you at the dinner hour, my dear.”

“Fare thee well,” she said at his departing back, affection in her voice and eyes.

Kate stood up and adjusted her belt. She was wearing dark brown trousers, which she often did when working in her garden, and a simple white cotton shirt. Calf high boots designed to protect her from both thorns and snakes adorned her feet, polished to a shine. Her thick, curly hair she gathered up into a bun atop her head, affixing it tightly with two silver pins.

Thus prepared, she exited her bedchamber and walked down a carpeted hallway to reach her garden. She took a small basket of tools from off a hook set into the exterior wall and set about pruning her magnificent rose bushes. Humming contentedly, she bore the bright sun and beads of perspiration in her eyes with good humor.

Abruptly she stopped, staring in disbelief at the thorny plant before her. Hand shaking slightly, she reached out to touch the petals of one of the flowers. Unlike all the rest on the bush, which were a rich scarlet red, this one was black as pitch. Her eyes watered up, a stifled sob escaping her painted lips.

“Oh, Bruno,” she said, stroking the flower as if it were the Knight’s ebon cheek “would that my own skin were as burnished as your own, then perhaps father could see that it is what on the inside that matters most.”

She cast her eyes skyward, folding her hands in prayer.

“Allfather,” she said “please hear this undeserving heathen’s prayers...please, let Sir Bruno be safe...let him be happy. Even if it’s not-”

Her words were choked off by another sob.

“Even if it’s not with me,” she said sadly.

** *

“Father!” shouted Bruno as he used his boot heel to fling the church door open. “Father!”

In the knight’s arms lay the bloody, limp body of Hector. The boy’s chest still rose and fell, but in a fitful and ragged way. Bruno’s panicked gaze scanned the church interior and found it to be empty. Cursing, he carefully bore his burden around back, making a beeline for the one room hut occupied by Father Cornelius.

He continued to shout as he approached the worn wooden door. Abandoning all pretense of

civility, he kicked hard on the bottom of its surface, voice still raised in alarm.

A moment later the red-eyed, swollen face of Crown appeared in the entrance. He took one look at Hector and flung the door open wide.

“Lay him upon my table,” said Crown, whipping the heavy blanket off of his shoulders and folding it into a makeshift pillow. Bruno gingerly laid the boy down on the splintered surface of the table, barely able to keep his hands from shaking. Crown peeled back the boy’s eyelids and stared into them, mindful of dripping wax onto him from the candle he held aloft for illumination.

“I found him in a heap near Mason’s woodpile,” said Bruno helplessly as Crown laid two fingers across Hector’s throat. “He’s been beaten.”

Crown bit back a sarcastic retort that would have been out of character for Father Cornelius and instead nodded sagely. Using a short bladed knife, he cut away the boy’s shirt. He ran his fingers over the numerous dark spots on Hector’s torso, alarmed when his fingers sank in more deeply than should have been possible.

“Prepare yourself, Knight,” said Crown with as much kindness as he could muster “your squire may not last the night.”

Bruno’s shocked look actually struck a tiny string of sympathy in the assassin’s breast. He cleared his throat nervously before speaking again.

“But if he does survive til morning...well, it will be in the Allfather’s hands.”

The knight held tightly to Hector’s hand, putting it to his own lips and kissing it softly.

“Stay with me, master Brandywine,” he said softly.

“I will do all I can,” said Crown, rummaging about for unguents and herbs that he knew to be effective at preventing infection and easing pain. “I suggest that you retire to the church and offer what prayers to the Allfather that you will.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Bruno staunchly.

“Please,” said Crown, his expression as pleading as his tone “for the boy’s own good, do not linger. He may awaken and wish to put on a brave face, and thus not tell me of some pain that could indicate a grievous injury. There is precious little you can do for him, now.”

Bruno began to argue, but a glance at the all seeing eye on the priest’s robe caused him to hesitate. Silently nodding, he made his way out of the hut, casting a last miserable look at the squire.

Crown closed the door gently behind him, then turned to regard the bloody body on his table.

“Well, my boy,” he said as he began to clean Hector’s many wounds “what are we to do with you? Normally, I would not deign to slay one so young...but you have to admit, this is a grand opportunity! For if you don’t last the night, Sir Bruno will surely go on a vengeful rampage, perhaps causing enough unrest that the folk of Ravensford will turn on him. It will be a minor matter to connect these dolts to the rebels that plague his majesty so...”

He sighed as Hector’s head lolled to the side, a low groan escaping lips black with dried blood.

“What a puzzle,” he said.

** *

Aven could not put into words the feeling of dread that had suddenly gripped her. It was not a conscious thought, more of a sensation that something terrible was happening. She cast her emerald gaze back towards Ravensford, though it was an hour’s walk behind her. Long ago she had learned that her Faerie senses went beyond the mundane, that she could hear things that were never so much as whispered, see things that had never been kissed by the light of day.

“Tomorph...” she said, and her form shifted from that of the human lass Allison. Standing in the feeble moonlight was Aven of Still Hollow, with curled horns and her bizarre bent legs and cloven feet. Stretching out her long limbs, she began to run. The darkened trees flashed by in a blur as she drove her body to its limits. Plumes of dust followed in a trail behind her, kicked up by her rapidly moving feet.

She slowed her pace when Ravensford came into view. Carefully, she picked her way through the trees so as to avoid the watchman, though he slumbered as expected. Following her instincts, she came upon the spot Hector had been assaulted. Nose twitching, she scowled as she recognized the boy’s scent. Soon she was off at a run, heading towards the church.

Her acute sense of smell led her past the church and towards the priest’s hut. Peering inside one of the windows, she relaxed as she saw Cornelius attending to the boy’s wounds. Still, Hector looked bad, and she silently cursed herself for not allowing the child to accompany her at least partway to her forest home.

Aven’s jaw dropped a moment later when Cornelius laid a white cloth over the squire’s face. Using a clay pitcher, he poured a small amount of water atop it, then laid another cloth flat atop of it. With a snarl, she laid her hand across the windowpane and called upon her innate faerie magic.

“Rasqu!” she said loudly, and the glass shattered inward with a terrific crash. The priest’s eyes darted upwards, widening further when he witnessed the fey creature standing in his dwelling.

“Step away from the boy,” she said, her tone clearly indicating that it was not a request.

“I but attend to his injuries,” said Crown, holding his hands up helplessly. A bit of a smile turned up the corners of his thin lips. “I say, have we met before, my dear? You seem awfully familiar...”

Aven silently cursed herself for her carelessness, but did not respond to the priest. She crossed the floor in one long legged stride and whipped the damp cloth off Hector’s face. The boy gasped as he sucked in lung fulls of air. His eyes fluttered open briefly, seeming to recognize Aven before they closed once more.

Laying her hand upon his breast, Aven began to call up her faerie power once again. She was forced to tear herself away a split second later when Crown suddenly attacked her with a lightning fast slash from his tiny knife. The faerie leaped backwards, hooves crunching the broken glass on the floor.

“I seek to help the boy, priest,” she said, eyes watching the priest as he tossed the knife back and forth between his hands. “If priest you truly be!”

“We all wear our masks,” said Crown with a smirk “don’t we, my dear Allison?”

Aven flinched at the remark, which nearly caused her to be impaled by something sharp and small and nasty that the priest flung at her. The metal dart stuck by one of its many points into the wooden wall of the hut. Crown followed up the attack by charging in and slashing viciously with his knife. Despite her being taller, and possessed of fey agility, she was hard pressed to avoid being cut. Desperately, she lashed out with a hoofed foot and landed a glancing blow on the man’s wrist. Just that minor contact sent the blade spinning from his grip, hand dangling limply. Crown backed up quickly, cupping his injured limb against himself.

“If you interfere again,” said Aven, her eyes dark with anger “I shall stomp a mud puddle in your arse, and proceed to walk in it long after it is dry!”

She laid her hands on the boy’s chest once more, summoning up most of her remaining power. The energy crept up from her core and danced like lightning into her arms to be channeled through her fingers.

“Pythia!” she cried in the fey tongue as the energy was released. The same power that shattered the glass, that altered her form to appear human, now coursed through the squire’s many wounds, berating them into healing. Gradually, the boy’s breathing grew easier, the color returning to his face. Sagging against the table, she weakly tried to will her legs to move, wary of the injured priest still dangerously near.

“Feeling a bit tired, my dear?” said Crown as he picked up the knife from where it had skittered across the dingy floor. “I am injured, you are exhausted...I suppose that makes it a fair contest, yes?”

Aven glared at him and painfully drew herself to stand on her cloven feet. Her own weapon appeared in her hand, a sword with a wide, flat blade meant to chop vegetation as much as flesh.

“I will not allow you to harm this child,” she said in a wavering voice.

Crown sneered.

“My dear,” he said “you can barely stand. I renounce my earlier prediction. This shall not be a contest at all..”

Aven braced herself for the attack, but it never came. Both their heads whipped around to face the door as it exploded inwards, splintering into fragments. Bruno landed hard on the floor but scrambled to his feet a split second later. His eyes went from the priest, to Aven, and then to Hector’s still form.

“This faerie is trying to kill him!” said Crown, changing his stance to appear less threatening. Bruno’s eyes narrowed as he peered at the blade in the priest’s hand, but he still turned to face Aven. With a metallic ring his blade was bared, point leveled at Aven.

“Then,” said Bruno “she must die.”