The Bringer of War

Interlude

A wriggling little mass of pale flesh squirmed its way out of the black shelled egg, no larger than a minnow. Little sunlight reached that far below the ocean’s waves, and the creature seemed quite vulnerable in the murky depths. There were no limbs visible on the rope like body, only a slightly larger area near one end that may have been its head.

Darting past a curtain of seaweed, a primordially ugly fish opened its toothy maw, intent upon swallowing up the morsel. The little creature only drifted helplessly as the predator approached at a rapid clip. With a snap of the fish’s jaws, the worm like thing disappeared.

The fish swam on for a moment, its triumph already forgotten as it hunted for greater sustenance. It had no way of knowing that the creature’s head had split open into a ring of spikey teeth, and latched onto the lining of its stomach.

Hector frowned at the parchment held in his slender fingers, eyes squinting nearly shut. He glanced ahead briefly, mindful of getting too far behind Bruno’s chestnut steed. The knight was sullenly walking his horse, jaw clamped firmly shut. The squire sighed, not used to seeing the normally vivacious Sir Cromwell in such a despairing state.

“I have never even heard of this Ravensford,” said Hector, returning his attention to the map. “Why would his majesty send a knight of your reknown to protect a tiny hamlet?”

Bruno did not speak, nor respond in any way. Hector decided to press the issue, fearing that if the man did not speak soon he would forget how.

“It is unfortunate to hear of Sir Rufus’s untimely demise,” he said. “I understand that you once served under him in the Breslin Skirmishes.”

“A tragedy,” said Bruno, his tone as dull and listless as his dark brown eyes.

Hector kicked his heels into his onager, but the stubborn beast did not comply. He dug in harder, and its pace increased just a bit. Slowly, he drew abreast of the knight.

“It is said that a pickpocket bit off his finger in order to remove the finely jeweled signet ring upon it,” he said.

“Bah,” said Bruno “it was crushed by an errantly aimed hammer as he tried to shoe his horse.”

Hector’s freckled face lit up a bit, as it was the most his master had spoken in days.

“Really?” he said. “It seems that Sir Rufus was rather unlucky in his dealings with the equine species!”

“Is this your way of complaining that you don’t have a proper horse, yet again?” said Bruno, actually fixing the lad with a smile.

“Perish the thought, Sir Bruno!” said Hector. “You cuffed me about rather viciously the last time I dared to speak of it!”

“A good war horse is like anything else worth having, squire,” said Bruno “it must be earned.”

Hector held a palm out towards the knight.

“I will not dispute that sentiment,” he said.

Bruno frowned at the young man. Looking uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and fixed his gaze firmly forward.

“That day may be coming soon,” he said “you are impetuous, and have much yet to learn, but I believe that if you continue to work hard, train hard, and pray hard, that you will become a great Templar.”

Hector’s eyes widened, his jaw opening in slack silence. It was the kindest thing the harsh knight had ever said to him. He began to speak, but decided not to ruin the moment.

They were plodding along an open field, there being no direct roads from the capital to Ravensford village. A gaggle of geese rose noisily into the air from where they had alighted on a small pond, frightened by their approach. Bruno kicked his horse into a trot and approached the water. He dismounted and allowed his steed to slake its thirst. Hector followed suit with his onager, idly scratching the obstinate beast on the haunch while it took its fill.

They had been traveling for several days, the capital long since vanished behind them. Bruno had catatonically accepted his new posting with nary a comment. Hector had found it strange, as Bruno often complained of knights who chose such small settlements purposefully because of their lack of ambition.

“Why do you think you’re being sent to Ravensford, master?” said the squire, daring to risk spoiling the man’s good humor.

“Obviously,” said Bruno with a sad smile “they wish for the dark skinned man to fall for some peasant girl, and not sully their noble line with tawny skinned half breeds.”

Hector winced at his matter of fact declaration.

“It cannot be,” said Hector, shaking his head “for one thing, it seems unnecessary. Surely there could be no other woman in your heart than Lady Katherine.”

Bruno scowled.

“That is no doubt their motivation as well,” he said “the lady was...reluctant...to break off our engagement. Perhaps they fear we would try to elope.”

“Allfather pardon such folly!” said Hector, making a warding sign against evil. “Only those unions blessed by the Church are considered holy in his eyes.”

“Indeed,” said Bruno, his tone indicating clearly that the conversation was over.

The pair remounted their steeds and resumed the long journey. Hector withdrew deer jerky and hard tack from his knapsack, offering a generous portion to the knight. Bruno accepted with a polite grunt, jaws working hard to gnash up the chewy repast.

The afternoon sun was momentarily hidden by a solitary dark cloud as it drifted across the sky. The Heartfire brands upon Bruno’s wrists and forearms glowed faintly for a brief moment. Hector swallowed hard and looked up at the man’s face.

“Is it...painful when they brand you?” he said uneasily.

Bruno turned to look at his squire, an incredulous expression on his tan countenance.

“What do you think?” he said with a mirthless chuckle.

“I think,” said Hector “that when Sir Perth was given the Heartfire, his screams carried all the way from the Steeple Tower down to the apprentice quarters.”

Bruno nodded grimly.

“There are some,” said Bruno “who cannot stand the pain, and expire upon the table as their flesh is riddled with needles.”

Hector paled visibly, mouth falling slack. Bruno grinned at him.

“Perhaps now you will understand why I cannot be gentle with you, good Squire,” he said “why I must ever drive you to be the strongest, most disciplined man that you can become. Despite what you may think, I have grown somewhat fond of you, and would rather not see you die in the Heartfire ceremony.”

“I see,” said Hector “and they offer you no reagents, herbs or liquor to dull the pain?”

Bruno laughed, slapping his thigh with a meaty palm.

“To become a Templar is to become a dealer of death with no equal,” he said. “You will be far stronger, tougher, and more enduring. Only those of stalwart faith in the Allfather, who think only of others and never of themselves, deserve such power. The pain of the ceremony is meant to linger in your memory for the rest of your days, reminding you of your duty and purpose.”

“I see,” said Hector, suddenly seeming squeamish.

“Master Brandywine,” said Bruno in a soft tone “all three of my previous squires survived their initiation. If I did not believe you had the mettle, I would have dismissed you back to your father’s vineyards long ago.”

Hector managed a smile at his words. His shoulders were a bit more squared, his jaw a tad more set, which brought a slight grin to Bruno’s lips as well.

** *

The door to the Ravensford chapel creaked open, spilling a wedge of bright sunlight across the smooth wooden floor. The priest turned and smiled warmly at the old farmer entered, removing his straw hat first. His wrinkled visage became more crinkly as he squinted in the gloom, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. He was tall and lanky, with wiry muscle showing in his bare arms. Simple homespun trousers and a heavily patched shirt adorned his body, his leather sandals slapping angrily on the floor as he stalked towards the priest.

“Father Voss,” he said, approaching the priest “it is terrible, my....who are you?”

Crown smiled at the man, adjusting his simple frock.

“I am Father Cornelius,” he said, giving a slight bow “pleased to meet you, my good man.”

The farmer’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“But,” he said “where is Father Voss? Has he taken ill?”

Crown approached the man and took his wrinkled hand in both of his own.

“Your concern touches my heart,” he said “but it is needless. Father Voss has been called back to the Grand Cathedral, due to be promoted to Vicar for his lifelong dedication to the Allfather.”

“Oh,” said the man, looking disappointed.

“Fear not, good man,” said Crown, giving his hand a gentle squeeze “for while I know I could never replace the kindly old gent, who has served your village for these past twelve years, I do hope I can still assist the faithful when they lose their way. Now, what troubles you?”

He released the farmer’s hand and draped an arm over his shoulder, guiding him to a seat on one of the two dozen pews facing the pulpit.

“It is my daughter,” said the farmer, staring down at his hands as he wrung them nervously. “I...I believe that she may have lain with a youth I despise!”

“I see,” said Crown, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “I suppose you did not catch the two of them in the carnal act?”

“No,” said the farmer “but I am certain! The boy is an orphan whom I generously allow to live in our barn in exchange for his labor. Often I catch the two of them smiling at each other from across the field, or hear their mutual laughter, which ceases the moment I enter the room.”

“And what does your wife make of this?” said Crown.

“She,” said the farmer haltingly, the pain of an old wound rising in his eyes “she passed some eight years ago, Father. Crushed by a bale of hay.”

“I see,” said Crown, patting the man’s hand. “I am sure she dwells with the Allfather.”

“Of course!” said the man quickly, eyes full of panic “she was a pious woman, Father, and I do not mean to doubt the Allfather’s divine plan. I am certain he...had good reason to take her from me.”

“Hmm,” said Crown “are you certain that you not simply afraid of losing the last piece you have of your departed wife? Perhaps you do not loathe this youth so much as you think. Perhaps you merely cling to someone that you love more than life itself.”

The farmer began to hotly contest the priest’s words, but his face fell and he hid his wizened face in his calloused hands.

“It is...hard to live without her,” he said “she was the sun to my wheat, the wind to my mill...”

The man began to sob gently, and Crown put a reassuring palm across his shoulder.

“There, good man,” he said “feel no shame that you weep for your lost wife, for it is your own loss you grieve and not her own! The Allfather will not judge you for feeling so!”

The farmer nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of dirt streaked hand.

“Thank you, Father...Cornelius was it?” said the Farmer. Crown nodded gently. “You have given me much to think about. I’ll not burden you further.”

“Bide a moment, if you would,” said Crown, a calculating look coming to his eyes. “I could use your assistance with a small matter.”

“Of course, Father,” said the farmer. “How may I be of service?”

“It seems that there is a heavy wooden chest in Father Voss’s old chambers that I lack the strength of limb to lift.” he said “it would please me greatly if you could aid me in removing it to the fire pit behind the chapel.”

“Absolutely,” said the old man. Crown led him out of the chapel and across a brief expanse of patchy grass to the modest one room hut the former priest had dwelt in. The swollen door dragged noisily across the wooden floor, adding another strip of color to a wide series of scrapes. The interior held a comfortable looking bed flush against the far wall. A round oak table occupied the center of the hut, ink pot and quill at the ready. A hearth sat a few paces away from the men, cold and ashen on that warm summer day. The farmer’s eyes went wide as he spied the chest Crown had spoken of. It was massive, nearly half the height of a man.

“I can see why you had difficulty,” said the farmer. “It seems a fine chest in good condition. If you are going to burn it anyway, might I take it off your hands?”

“Ahem,” said Crown, a rare flash of panic in his eyes. “Well, I...”

“I can compensate the church...” said the Farmer, digging in his leather coin purse.

“That is not the issue, good man,” said Crown, a flash of inspiration coming to him. “For you see, it is not the chest itself but rather the contents therein that I wish to see immolated.”

“Could you not just remove the contents and burn them?” said the farmer.

“Ah,” said Crown “that would be the normal solution, yes, but I fear that these particular contents are a bit...unseemly.”

“How so?” said the Farmer. Crown sighed, realizing that subtlety would not serve him here.

“It seems that Father Voss,” he said slowly “while quite pious and kind hearted, had a bit of an unsavory habit. He liked to...dress himself as a young noble girl, only in the confines of this hut, I can assure you. I would not see him shamed, and wish to simply burn the entire chest.”

“I see,” said the farmer, his eyes growing wide. “I never would have guessed....of course you have my assistance....and my silence!”

Crown beamed at him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, kind sir!” he said.

The two of them each gripped one of the stout metal handles on either side of the chest. Grunting with exertion, they managed to lift it off the wooden floor of the hut and slowly eke their way out the open door.

“This...” said the Farmer between grunts “is quite....heavy! It is as if Father Voss himself were inside!”

The man’s back was to Crown, preventing him from seeing his cunning smirk.

“What a ridiculous notion,” he said.