The Bringer of War

Roland walked briskly through the dismal corridors of Drakken Keep, stepping around a pair of serving girls who were busy scrubbing a dark stain from the limestone floors. He considered kicking one of them as he passed, but decided that the hangover he was nursing would be exacerbated by her high pitched yelp.

He passed by the throne room and instead mounted the spiral staircase adjacent. His feet trod upon steps worn smooth long ago, and he nearly slipped when he passed by an empty sconce upon the wall. Reminding himself to severely chastise the staff for such an oversight, he at last alighted on the top step.

A pair of guards stood at attention before an arched set of double doors, spears ceremonially crossed in front of the barrier. Roland did his best to hide a disgusted smirk, as the two men were hardly paragons of physical fitness. He silently wondered what they would do if, say, the Gray Death were suddenly to appear and demand entrance.

The pair snapped their spears to attention at his approach, and one of them held the door open for him. This only gave him a modicum of respect for the men, despite their silver and purple armor being shined to a high polish.

The chamber beyond was the king’s personal study, replete with bookshelves stuffed to capacity with tomes, scrolls, clay tablets, anything upon which written language could be scrawled. The room was the most brightly lit in the castle, the uncanny illumination provided by a chandelier that bore not candles but glass globes which seemed to burn with an inner fire. Roland blinked in the sudden glow, almost missing the King as he looked up from a large ebony table.

“Master Roland,” he said, rising lithely to his feet. Roland never ceased to be amazed at how spry the man seemed even at his advanced age.

“Your majesty,” said Roland, stepping forward and offering a slight bow. Once he heard the door shut solidly behind him, he visibly relaxed, standing with his thumbs hooked in his wide belt. “I fear I have ill tidings, my king...”

“Speak freely, old friend,” said Drakken, cupping a hand beneath his chin thoughtfully.

“Our coffers are getting low,” said Roland, clearing his throat and not quite looking Drakken in the eyes. “The costs of your...project are surpassing even your liberal estimates.”

“So raise taxes once more,” said Drakken, waving the issue away with his hand.

“Your Majesty,” said Roland nervously “I really must advise against that! There have been...whisperings of unrest, and not just in faraway villages. The peasantry are taxed to their limits, and even the most loyal of the nobility have had their patience stretched thin.”

“I see,” said Drakken, chewing his lip. Abruptly, he looked up and smiled, clapping his seneschal on the arm. “No matter, I have already found a solution.”

“You...you have?” said Roland, fearing what words would next tumble from the king’s lips.

“Indeed,” said Drakken “There are numerous caves below Breslin Forest, and my augery has shown me that those caves are lined with veins of gold. More than enough to cover our expenses, yes?”

Roland paled visibly, sputtering as he tried to speak.

“Your-your highness!” he said. “Surely, you cannot be serious! A centuries old treaty with the Faerie Folk clearly states that those woods are off limits!”

“Bah,” said Drakken “have you ever even seen a faerie? They are scattered to the wind like so much dust.”

“The logistics of such a mining operation, my lord,” said Roland, stammering in his fear.

“Speak, man,” said Drakken “I never intended for you to be a simpering yes man, I have more than enough of those at court.”

“Breslin forest is nearly two hundred miles from here,” said Roland carefully. “We do not have so much as an outpost less than two day’s hard ride of the cursed place! We will have to build infrastructure, revamp the roads, appoint a garrison and commander-”

“And once the gold begins to pour from the earth,” said Drakken “it will all be paid for. Fret not, Roland, this is why the Allfather, in his infinite wisdom has made me King.”

“Of course, your majesty,” said Roland, sweeping into a low bow so Drakken could not see the doubting look on his countenance.

** *

“Feels good to be on an actual road again, doesn’t it boy?” said Bruno, smiling down at his squire from atop his chestnut steed.

“Yes,” said Hector “it does at that! I just wish we did not have to wear our livery in this heat.”

They were trotting down Broken Elm Road, a wide dirt path grooved with many wheel ruts. There were farms dotting the landscape around them, mostly wheat and yam growing in the fields. They were dressed in their uniform finery, Hector in a shiny silk tunic bearing Bruno’s coat of arms with the reared up lion. The blue and silver garment was heavy, and seemed to trap his sweat against his skin to broil him like a fowl in a stew pot.

Bruno had a sheen of sweat upon his brow, proving that he too felt the effects of the humid day, but he bore it much more stoically than his squire. He was wearing a wide sleeved blouse in blue silk, his coat of arms emblazoned in bold stitching over his heart. He had not donned his full suit of magnificent armor, but did have his shield slung over his arm. Hector noticed with a touch of pride that it shone fantastically in the bright sunlight.

“We must be getting near,” said Bruno, shielding his eyes from the bright sun with his hand and staring hard at black plumes of smoke trailing into the azure sky. “Unfurl the standard.”

“Yes, Sir Bruno,” said Hector, matching his lord’s sudden officious manner. Soon he held the heavy cloth banner braced against his chest, struggling to keep it straight as his onager bounced along. The banner depicted the watchful Eye of the Allfather, the church’s official emblem.

They were just in sighting distance of the city’s low wooden walls when they heard a distant shout. Soon the church bells were ringing, a sound that brought a smile to Bruno’s face.

“I see we are expected,” he said. “Now be respectful, squire, many of these country folk have known but one Templar their whole lives. They will not warm to us immediately.”

“Yes, sir Bruno,” said Hector with a nod.

** *

At what passed for the north gates of Ravensford, Hurst stood up straight from the wall, adjusting the leather helmet on his greasy hair. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sun, then began to shout excitedly.

“The new Templar!” he cried “the new Templar approaches!”

Soon the shout was carried to every nook and cranny of Ravensford. Folk spilled out onto the dirt street, craning their necks to see the approaching knight. Crown cheerfully whistled as he pulled on the stout hemp line attached to the church’s rusty old bell.

Aven, who was haggling with an old woman over a brace of hens destined for Brutus’s stew pot, looked up in annoyance at the commotion. She sighed at the happy jubilation of something that likely would not improve their lot at all. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to join the throng that had gathered just inside the wooden walls. Hurst had dashed forward about fifty feet, straining his eyes to make out more detail about the stranger. Abruptly, he stiffened, turned about on his heel and cupped both hands to his face.

“The new Templar is a black man!” he shouted in near terror.

“What?” said a farmer.

“I think he said the new Templar is approaching,” said Thurston, startling Aven by sidling up next to her.

Hurst was unsure of what to do. He had heard legends of the heathen tribes to the south, men who lived in the sun until it baked them a rich dark brown. This was the first time he had ever laid his own eyes upon one, and he found himself frozen in place as the knight approached.

“Greetings, kind sir,” said Hector, riding a short distance ahead of Bruno. “Please lower your weapon, man, we are friends and not foes. I am Hector Brandywine, squire to Sir Bruno Cromwell, bane of dragons, defender of justice, and protector of the Church and its duly recognized King.”

Hurst stood there stupidly, trying to speak. At last the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush.

“He cannot come in!” he said, raising his spear horizontally as if to block their progress.

“What?” said Hector, frowning angrily at the man. “Good sir, did you not hear me? This is Sir Bruno, Templar of the Crown, sent here to defend your village against threats both fey and mundane! You owe him your allegiance, and respect!”

“What goes on here, squire?” said Bruno, staring down hard at Hurst. The militia man swallowed hard, wavering under the ebony man’s hard as flint gaze.

“This cretin,” said Hector “seeks to block your passage, Sir Bruno, after I had duly announced your arrival.”

“I see,” said Bruno, spurring his steed forward. The well trained horse snorted and seemed to glare at Hurst as well, nearly bowling the man over when he did not scamper out of the way quickly enough.

“Wait!” said Hurst, following with the forgotten spear clutched in hands damp with sweat.

Most of the villagers did not have as extreme a reaction as Hurst, but a communal gasp rose out of them when they were able to discern Bruno’s ethnicity. The bell stopped ringing as Crown exited the church, a wide smile on his face. He pushed through the milling mass of humanity as politely as possible, excusing himself with words and gentle squeezes. The little man made it to the front of the pack just as Bruno rode beneath the wooden gates of Ravensford. He waited patiently as the man’s squire announced his name and title, taking note of the sour expressions on the faces of many.

Aven watched with wide green eyes as Bruno rode into town. His odd skin tone drew a bit of curiosity in her, but it was the way he carried himself that truly stood out to her. He looked very assured astride his mighty warhorse, the set of his jaw and glint in his brown eyes suggesting that he was more than capable of unleashing havoc with the longsword sheathed at his side. Beneath the fierce pride she expected from a Templar, there was a hint of sadness in his expression as well.

Thurston noticed the flush of her cheeks, the way she stared at Bruno with dewy eyes, much to his chagrin.

“It is an insult,” he whispered quietly to her as the man’s squire droned on. “The king sends us a heathen brown skin for our new Templar.”

She scowled at him, stepping as far away from the mayor as the crowd would allow.

“Of course, you only see that which you wish to see,” she said.

Thurston crossed his arms over his chest and waited until the squire was done bellowing. Seizing upon the momentary silence that followed, he strode forward, rudely shoving people out of his way.

“Now see here,” he said, walking right up to Bruno. “I am the mayor of Ravensford, and we certainly are not going to allow for this....this atrocity to stand!”

Bruno glared down at the man.

“The mayor, you say?” he said. The knight cast a glance over his shoulder at Hector. “What is the current penalty for speaking out of turn to a Templar, Master Brandywine?”

Hector set his jaw grimly.

“I believe it’s ten lashes, my lord,” said the boy.

“Ten lashes?” said Thurston, sputtering. “You cannot! I am the mayor, the mayor I tell you!”

“And I am the Knight Templar,” said Bruno. He pointed his finger at two stout looking men, who blanched under his attention. “You. And you. Take the good mayor by the arms if you please and strip off his shirt.”

“You had best do as he says,” said Crown, stepping forward as dozens of eyes snapped his way. “He speaks with the voice of the King, and the Allfather as well.”

Grudgingly, the two men approached Thurston. He gave them pleading looks, backpedaling as far as he could until he brushed up against the back of a smithy.

“Please,” he said “please, fellows!”

“Sorry, Thurston,” said one of them as they grabbed him firmly about the biceps. In short order the mayor was thrown belly first across a bale of hay. Hector lashed the man’s hands with a narrow strip of leather, not bothering to be gentle. Thurston’s fingers were growing black even before the squire stood up and nodded to Bruno.

“Thurston Tawl,” said the Knight in a parade voice that easily reached all the ears of those gathered. “You have been disrespectful to a servant of the crown, and thus have been disrespectful of the King himself. You are sentenced to a public lashing of no less than ten lashes-”

“Get on with it, you dung colored heathen!” shouted Thurston, spastically jerking at his restraints.

“-and no more than thirty,” said Bruno as if he had not been interrupted. “Squire, administer the twenty lashes.”

“Twenty?” shouted Thurston “you said ten you lying heathen!”

“Thirty lashes, Sir Cromwell?” said Hector, eyes glinting.

“Thirty lashes it is, squire,” said Bruno. He motioned the boy over and handed him a single tail whip. “Don’t lean into it, boy. We’re here to educate, not maim.”

“Yes, Sir Bruno,” said Hector, stepping behind the man to administer punishment.

During the lashes, many of the townsfolk winced at Thurston’s every howl. Others seemed unconcerned, particularly Brutus. The big man seemed to relish seeing the mayor in such a compromising position and nodded his approval.

Aven could not bear to watch. She began jogging back towards the Hammer before the first blow had even fallen. She rushed inside and closed the door, shutting her eyes tightly and wincing in sympathy at each crack of the leather.

Crown watched the mayor’s ordeal with a passive expression. He was the first to go forward and tend to the man once it was concluded, being appropriately sympathetic as was his assumed station. Hector severed the man’s bonds, and Thurston stared up through a haze of pain as he flexed his tingling extremities.

“Let’s go, squire,” said Bruno, kicking his mount into a canter. Hector hastily followed, straining to catch up to his lord. As they approached the modest two story house that belonged to the late Sir Rufus, he dared to speak.

“Was that wise, my lord?” said Hector.

“It was,” said Bruno. “Men like Thurston are as common as sand in the desert. Petty little creatures who think themselves far more grand than they truly are. It is important that everyone sees the price of such folly.”

“Perhaps,” said Hector “but I fear you have done little to put the villager’s minds at ease.”

Bruno glanced sharply at his squire, but did not reprimand him.

** *

“This is an outrage!” said Thurston through clenched teeth. He flinched as Crown applied a solution designed to prevent infection upon the lacerations on his back.

“Now, my good mayor,” said Crown admonishingly “you should know better than to trifle with a Templar’s honor. I think you got off lightly, all things considered.”

“Lightly?” sputtered Thurston, his hands clenching into fists. “He has taken the skin right off my back! Probably plans to lay it over his coal black flesh and pass for one of us!”

Crown tsked, gently applying a wide, clean cloth to Thurston’s back.

“Sir Cromwell is one of us, my good man,” he said “he would lay down his life and spill every drop of his blood to protect you, protect me, protect all of us.”

“Bah,” said Thurston, though the soothing balm seemed to take much of the venom from his words.

“I am serious, Thurston,” said Crown as the man rose from the pew he had lain across. “Do not trifle with Sir Cromwell, nor attempt to gain any type of vengeance upon his curly haired head. It is for your own good.”

“We shall see,” said the mayor, picking up his shirt and gingerly slipping it on. Then he was gone, out the door and into the late afternoon sun.

“This shall be almost too easy,” said Crown with a smirk.