The Bringer of War

Hector desperately tried to slip his wooden shield between himself and the heavy, cloth padded mallet. He was an instant too slow, and the practice weapon took the air from his lungs as it crushed into his chest. The squire sprawled onto his back, rolling in grass still damp with morning dew.

“Pathetic!” said Bruno, looming over the boy. He bore a wooden shield much like Hector’s, the cudgel held easily in his left hand. “If that had been a real attack, you would be dead now!”

“Sorry, Sir Bruno,” said Hector painfully, rising to his feet with some difficulty. He squared his young shoulders and stood at the ready, his own padded club held diagonally across his torso.

Again they engaged in mock combat. Bruno was clearly holding back, but the squire could barely keep his feet under him and the shield at the ready. The knight did not relent, battering away the flimsy barrier and landing another solid hit, this one landing on Hector’s thigh. The squire gasped in pain, dropping both his implements to the ground. Bruno kicked him impatiently in the rump, shouting at him to rise.

Aven’s green eyes narrowed as she watched the scene. She was on her way into town, cutting through the open field behind the Templar residence as she often did. She had been curious about the sounds of battle, and had paused to view the faux combat. Bruno’s continued brutality made her feel cross indeed. Despite her every instinct telling her that it was a rotten idea, she found her feet moving towards the pair. Bruno glanced up at her approach, his expression softening a bit.

Aven swallowed hard, almost forgetting her anger as she took in the knight with her eyes. He had stripped to the waist, his ebony chest glistening with sweat. Catlike muscle rippled across his torso as he lowered his wooden practice weapons. The sound of Hector gasping on the ground as he clutched his injured leg broke her free from the reverie.

“Are you daft?” she said harshly, causing Bruno’s brows to arch in disbelief. “Can you not see that the boy is hurt?”

Bruno sneered at her, tilting his head to the side.

“The barmaid...” he said snidely. “Tell me something, dear, do I come to the Hammer’s Head and tell you how best to mop up vomit, or clear a table?”

Aven glared at him, her nose twitching.

“Beating your squire half to death is not the same as training him,” she said, choosing to ignore the slight.

“Ah,” said Bruno, baring his teeth in a fierce smile “but I’m afraid that it is. You see, if I beat him half to death every day, it’s that much less likely that no one will be able to beat him fully to death once he is a full fledged knight.”

“Do not be concerned for me, my lady,” said Hector with a nervous smile, having regained his wind. “The lot of an apprentice knight is a hard one, and I do not lament it for one moment!”

Bruno smiled appreciatively at the lad, turning back in triumph to Aven.

“Well said boy! Well said indeed.”

Aven rolled her eyes and turned to leave, grumbling something under her breath.

“What was that?” said Bruno dangerously.

The maid turned about on her heel, wide eyes flashing with anger.

“I said,” she began “that Sir Rufus was never cruel for the sake of cruelty. Perhaps you would like to strip me to the waist and have your squire flog me in the public square? That is what you Templars do when you are disrespected, yes?”

Bruno scowled deeply, knuckles popping as he held the cudgel in a death grip.

“Do not tempt me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Begone with you, barmaid, and leave these matters to your betters!”

Aven stalked off, the tension in her shoulders and her stiff stride displaying her barely contained rage. When she was a suitable distance away, she began to curse.

“Stinking puffed up, overbearing thug!” she said harshly.

“Cursed crotch rotted idiotic bumpkin!” said Bruno when he believed Aven was too far to hear him.

“She seemed nice to me,” said Hector.

“On your feet,” said Bruno in a low growl “you’re not done until you knock this mace from my hand!”

Hector squared his shoulders and sighed.

** *

Crown watched the exchange from the stoop of his modest hut, an amused smile on his face. Though the trio was too far away to hear their actual converse, he had little difficulty discerning the tone and content of their argument. He murmured in appreciation of Bruno’s hard line stance. In the assassin’s opinion, too few people stuck to their convictions—particularly when there was a comely young lass involved.

And Allison was comely, he had to admit to himself. Her generous bosom bounced gently as she stalked away from the knight, her dark brown tresses framing her lovely, freckled face in a pleasing way. For a brief moment, he regretted his life’s path, that he could never settle down and marry a nice maid. The secrets contained in his skull were more than enough to insure a quick retirement trajectory, should that day ever come to pass.

Shaking off such morbid thoughts, he returned to far more pleasant matters...like how best to spend the tithe the good folk of Ravensford provided every Endsweek.

“Being a priest,” he said to himself “is a far more enriching scheme than any I’ve yet witnessed!”

** *

Tired, sore and bruised from his training, Hector made his way slowly to the main street of the village. His and Bruno’s ‘lesson’ of the previous day seemed to have not been lost on the populace. All of them were stiffly polite, though he could not ignore the dark glances they gave him when they thought he was not looking. He overpaid for half a swine, watching as the butcher wrapped it in greasy cloth. Bearing the burden upon his shoulder, he smiled at Aven as he passed the Hammer. The maid was sweeping dust out of the open door to drift in low clouds.

“Hail, good lady,” he said, giving a slight bow.

“Hail, good lad,” she said with a bright smile. She winced at the sight of a large bruise near the boy’s temple. “Are you certain that you are all right?”

“Bah,” said Hector with a grin “if you think Sir Bruno is strict, it’s because you haven’t known many Templars! There are those that whisper in the corridors of power that he is far too lenient with his squires.”

“Still,” she said, leaning on the broom “it seems unnecessarily harsh. Does he know nothing but brutality?”

Hector gave a short laugh.

“Sir Bruno is given to interludes of gentleness,” he said “why, when I spotted him walking with Lady Katherine, he was positively...”

Aven frowned as Hector’s voice wound down, the lad’s face falling into a sad frown.

“Lady Katherine,” said Aven “she is no longer alive, I take it?”

Hector laughed as he saw the sympathetic reaction on her freckled face.

“No,” he said “though she nearly killed my lord when she broke his heart!”

The squire looked concerned, glancing up the dirt road at the Templar’s residence though it was too far away for Bruno to have possibly heard.

“Perhaps I have said too much,” he said, swallowing nervously.

Aven leaned the broom against the door frame and stepped onto the street next to the lad. She surprised him by laying a kiss on his forehead. He reached his fingers to brush the spot, shocked by how soft and warm her lips were.

“You are a brave boy,” she said “take care of yourself, you hear?”

“I...” said Hector, smiling stupidly “thank you very much, I will!”

He whistled as he walked back home, even smiling at a pair of laborers as they endeavored to move a pile of lumber from the ground to the back of a wagon. The haunch of swine was heavy, but he bore it with good humor. Still, his shoulder and arm were protesting the effort when he at last entered the rear door to the residence. He set the meat down on a stout wooden table and used flint and steel to start a blaze in the hearth. Using a ladle, he poured water from a bucket half the height of a man into the pot. He had just begun to carve strips of meat from the swine when Bruno strode into the kitchen. He had a dark expression on his face, hand stroking his smooth chin.

“Have you heard of the faerie that haunts these forests?” he said grimly.

“I have heard whisperings of some ‘Lady of the woods,’” said Hector slowly “but I doubt their veracity.”

“Mmm,” said Bruno, nodding his head “I have thought much the same, but something has these good folk spooked. I thought that tomorrow you and I might go for a hike.”

“Are you certain that’s wise?” said Hector “even if there is a Fey living in the wilderness, by all accounts she is a benevolent spirit. Perhaps we would be better served not to disturb her.”

“Bah,” said Bruno, waving the notion away. “Faerie folk are sinister tricksters, one and all. They refuse to acknowledge the Allfather, and stay with their heathen gods. The only good faerie is one that is kicking on the end of a spear.”

“Of course, Sir Bruno,” said Hector as he continued his task.

Several hours later, the residence was filled with the delicious aroma of boiled pig. Hector added in onions and leeks, tending his dish like a mother hen. When they sat down in the kitchen to eat, Bruno’s stomach growled loudly, which drew a grin from his squire.

“Hungry, lord?” he said as he spooned a ladle full of the brown semisolid into a wooden bowl.

“Better not give me the runs again,” said Bruno, taking a spoonful into his mouth. After a few moments of thoughtful chewing, he spoke again. “Seems palatable enough.”

“Thank you,” said Hector, trying the dish himself. “I think the butcher rather over salted the swine, though.”

Bruno shrugged, continuing to spoon the stew into his mouth, which was the best compliment the knight ever paid to his cooking.

After dinner, the pair made their way to the Hammer’s Head.

“It’s time to make a less formal acquaintance of our new neighbors,” said Bruno with a wink.

Hector had merely shrugged, hoping that Sir Bruno would see fit to buy him a mug or two of ale. When they strode into the common room, already thick with patrons, all conversation stopped and a multitude of hard eyes were leveled their way. Hector swallowed nervously, but Bruno merely grinned and waved cheerily at the peasants. He clomped across the wooden floor and laid a shiny gold piece upon the bar. Turning towards the crowd, he spoke in a loud baritone.

“Barkeep,” he said “a round of drinks for my new friends!”

A ragged cheer rose up, though a few patrons looked more angry. Aven passed by Bruno closely, stopping to whisper in his ear.

“Seeking to buy the affection of Ravensford?” she said. “I fear it will be a fruitless endeavor.”

She was gone too quickly for Bruno to respond. With effort, he kept his smile affixed and sat down on a three legged stool. Hector sat down next to him, smiling at Brutus as he approached.

“What will you have, my lord?” said the barkeep.

“Two mugs of wheat ale,” he said “and I am no man’s lord, but a humble knight.”

“Of course,” said Brutus as he moved to pour the drinks “Sir...Bruno was it?”

“Sir Bruno it is,” said the knight, gratefully taking a long pull on his ale. “Smooth. Rawlins?”

“No,” said Brutus with a broad smile “Brandywine, but you have a good tongue for spirits!”

Hector smiled smugly at the unintended compliment, though Bruno wiped it off his face with but a glare. The squire shrank a bit on his stool.

“I was a military man myself, once,” said Brutus, taking the focus off of a grateful Hector.

“Truly?” said Bruno.

“Aye,” said Brutus, his eyes growing distant as his mind summoned up the past. “Served in the Amber Wars, I did. Infantry.”

“Infantry is the backbone of any army,” said Bruno sagely.

“Indeed,” said Brutus with unconstrained pride “never thought I’d be killing men over land to grow wheat, though.”

“At the end of the story,” said Hector “every war ever fought has to do with what goes in your stomach.”

Brutus laughed, though Bruno gave his squire a hard stare.

“Templars go to war,” he said harshly “in service to the Allfather, the Crown, and justice, squire.”

“Of course, Sir Bruno,” said Hector “I was only speaking in jest.”

As the evening went on, Bruno made a point to try and speak to everyone at least for a moment. Many of the villagers were still standoffish, particularly the lovely barmaid Allison, but Bruno’s warm demeanor proved to be infectious. Hector found himself shaking his head in amazement at the knight, normally so dour, as he expertly worked the room.

The squire could barely keep his eyes open by the small hours, blearily scanning the nearly empty common room. He found Bruno speaking to a pair of old timers who apparently remembered the ebon knight from a past campaign. Sighing, he realized that his lord would not be soon be ready to retire, and cast his eyes about for something to put in his belly. There were walnuts in a wooden bowl not far from his stool. He dragged the repast over the smooth wooden bar and tossed a few into his mouth.

“It is well past our normal closing time,” said Aven, startling him. “Can you not tell your lord it is high time he left?”

“Ah,” said Hector, spraying a few particles of mashed nut out of his mouth “I am afraid that Sir Bruno is possessed of exceptional stamina. Comes with the Heartfire seared into his flesh.”

“The tattoos,” said Aven, nodding “I wondered at their purpose.”

“Did not sir Rufus have such decoration?” said Hector, thrilled to his core to speak to so lovely a creature.

“Perhaps,” said Aven, wrinkling her nose “but unlike your lord, he did not seek out every reason he could find to remove his shirt.”

Hector grinned, chuckling at the joke, but not too loudly lest Bruno hear him. They both stared across the common room at the knight as he regaled the old timers with some tale of daring.

“Must they hang on his every word?” said Aven crossly.

“Sir Bruno is not so terrible as you imagine him,” said Hector, feeling a bit guilty.

“You have no idea,” said Aven “how terrible I imagine him to be!”

She strode away from the squire, who watched her bottom as it sashayed beneath her dress. He sighed and leaned back against the bar, noting that though she claimed to despise Bruno, she nevertheless could not keep her eyes from wandering back to him.

Interlude

The ghastly, fang filled mouth of the primitive little fish hung open listlessly, its eyes milking over as it sat on the sandy bottom of the sea. A bit of blood trickled out of the orifice, spewing a red mist that drifted with the current. No easy repast could linger for long in that foreboding environment, and a larger fish with a prominent dorsal fin swam purposefully towards the corpse. It’s nostrils flared as it tested the scent in the water, then opened up its jaws to claim the tiny prize.

Suddenly, something narrow and dark shot out of the dead fish’s mouth. The tiny worm that had affixed itself to the fish’s stomach had matured into a scaled monstrosity, nearly twice as long as before from the tip of its toothy mouth to the end of its forked tail.

The gray predator spasmed violently as the smaller animal shot down its throat. In a moment the thrashing stopped as the worm attached itself to the lining of the new fish’s stomach. Though its new host was dying, secretions from the worm’s mouth kept it from feeling any pain as its life force was siphoned out.