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The Knight-errant II231Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc8f9M7UIhl
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“So there I was, cock out, socks on, naked as my name day, with her father red as a beat, just staring, jabbering like a fool not knowing what to say.” the storyteller said, rising to his feet, miming the act of lovemaking.
Crude laughter abrupted from the gathered Sell-swords and Hedge-knights. The Cavyero men had branched off from the freemen shortly after Lance-Lief had arrived. He found them to be cold and more than a bit rude but didn’t mind their segregation. This lot of vagabonds, crass as they were, was a more lively bunch of fellows, and laughter had been in precious little supply since the burglary.
“Just then, his wits return, and he grabs the nearest thing to him, some hoe or something, and starts yelling, swinging the bloody thing around like a mace!” This time the storyteller chuckled at his recollection.
“What you do then, ay?” a skinny youth with dirty blond hair asked.
“I ran is what I did, cock flapping in the wind and all. The wench was beautiful but not that beautiful, and I like my head right on my shoulders, thank you very much.”
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“What was her name?” Lance-Lief asked with a smile.
“Lad, if I could remember, I might have returned!”
More laughter erupted, and the storyteller excused himself to piss in the bushes. Everyone had been drinking except Lance-Lief and the man with the scarred face. The man sat at the edge of the campfire’s light, casting his face in ribbons of shadows. Lance-Lief misliked the look of this one. His scowl was harsh, mean, and permanently etched into his face. His brows constantly furrowed. He did not even smile whilst the storyteller told his tale.
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‘A man that is not given to laughter is a man hard to trust.’ The storyteller returned, a fresh wine cup in hand. He plopped down on a stump beside Lance-Lief, taking a long deep drink.
“What do they call you, friend?” Lance-Lief asked.
“Little Djon of Drowned Hill. Pleasure.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand. Both men shook hands.
“Lance-Lief of the Mossy Isles, Glass Isle, to be specific. Well met, Sir.”
Lance-Lief turned to the thin youth with sandy blond hair and asked his name.
The youth poured something into his wine cup, taking a swig before answering.
“Munaer Fuontaine La Dauterive, but my kin just call me Sable for the color of my hair.”
“You’re from Úntaer?”
“All over, but me folks hail from there, aye.”
“Well met traveler.” Lance-Lief then turned in the scarred man’s direction.
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His eyes slowly drifted from the campfire to meet Lance-Lief’s. He said nothing.
“And you friend, what do they call you?”
Only now did Lance-Lief realize the man was chewing on something. He spat out a glob of brown liquid and continued chewing.
“Babalos.” He said. His tone was stoic.
“Well met, Sir.” Said Lance-Lief.
Babalos’s top lip was twisted upward on the left side, pulled from the flesh reforming into scar tissue. The mark continued past the corner of his left eye, over his ear, and behind his head. It was a grisly sight. He was skin bald and pale as milk. Lance-Lief had not seen him rise but guessed he would be six feet high and just as wide. He looked like a beast of a man.
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“From where do you hail?” Little Djon chimed in.
“All over, like our gaunt friend here.” Babalos said, pointing to Sable.
“I’ve not been where you’ve set foot, friend. We’re cut from different cloths.”
The faintest hint of a smile crept on the scarred man’s face. Had you not the eyes to see, it would have been invisible. Babalos stared the young man down with a predator's fervor. He spat. The spittle barreled through the air, landing into the flames with a hiss.
“Where was it you said you were from?”
“Glowood if you wanted a name,” Sable said, staring daggers at Babalos.
The only reply was a dry chuckle.
“I think I mislike your tone, Sir. You’re welcome to share the Cavyeros campfire if you like.”
“No… I like it here. I will stay. Mayhaps it should be you slinking off into the night.”
Sable rose to his feet. The sudden movement sent his tin wine cup to fall on the ground, crashing with a clang and rolling to the stone circle that contained the campfire.
“Is that a suggestion or a threat, Sir.” Sable made the title a curse. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I think that’s enough,” Lance-Lief said, jutting an extended arm in the space between both men.
“There will be time enough to settle scores during the Melee.”
Babalos stood up, confirming Lance-Liefs original suspicions.
“Your handmaid speaks the truth, boy. You will be seeing me on the field of contest.”
He spat one last time before departing.
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Sable sat back down on his log, sighing. Little Djon’s eyes were wide, seeking contact with anyone else who might be on the same line of thought as he was. Lance-Lief turned to his newly made companions.
“Did he just call me your handmaid?” Lance-Lief asked Sable. Little Djon’s wide-eyed expression turned to mirth as a guffaw escaped him. Lance-Lief laughed alongside him, and even Sable, worked up and upset, managed an easy smile.
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“Looks as though you require more drink, my friend, and you as well Lance-Lief. I will be back.” Said Little Djon.
“None for me. I do not wish to over-extend myself tonight.” Said Lance-Lief.
“Look around. No one is overextending themselves. You will be fine.”
“Just a cup then, no more.”
That put a smile on Little Djon’s face, and he was gone.
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“Have you been here long?” Lance-Lief asked.
“Arrived early last night, though I’ve been with Añofrio since this afternoon. You?” responded Sable.
“Early on this night. I placed my Mule in the stables just an hour or so ago.”
“I know a thing or two about Mules, bred for riding or hauling?”
“Hauling. She's also well-mannered for a Mule.”
“You needs to get a horse. Nothing like crossing the big open country on a steed of your own.”
“I had one as recently as yesterday, but a man I traveled with stole her in the night along with other possessions of mine.” The memory still stung. Lance-Lief might have moved on was it just his, silver, and cheese, but having his Father’s sword and horse taken was a sleight not easily forgiven.
“What did they look like?” Sable asked with a tilt of his head.
“Who, the thief or horse?”
“Both might be I’ve seen either. This town is more city than village, but still, I speak to many folk.”
“She’s a speckled Destrier. Her name’s Blueberry. White mane, white spots, and a gray-blue coat.” Lance-Lief said, looking for a hint of recognition or recollection in Sable's face, and grew dismayed when none appeared.
“And the Thief?”
“Oh right…” Lance-Lief continued, “Big bulbous nose, thick mustache, round belly, huge arms, and carries around a Warhammer.”
Sable shook his head reluctantly. His eagerness to help was replaced with obvious pity. Lance-Liefs face turned red. The transparent display of sympathy made him feel worse and more embarrassed.
“Can’t say that I’ve seen either. But you have my sympathies.”
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Just then, Little Djon returned, two wine cups full to the brim, smelling of lemon and cloves. He handed them the drinks and sat back down on his stump. Sable poured some out and topped his cup off with something from a flask. Lance-Lief held the tin cup to his nose, sniffing the beverage, taking in the aroma.
“What's this now? Who’s looking for who?” Little Djon picked up his cup at the base of his stump and drank.
“I’m looking for the man who stole from my camp this morning. Well, in truth, I am looking for my possessions. Bugger the thief, I just want my things back.”
“The world is surely cruel and unjust. Did you know this fellow?”
“We traveled along Pygrino’s path together for a fortnight. Only this morning did I wake to find him gone, and my things went along with him.”
“Did you catch his name, perchance?” Little Djon asked, wine cup pressed against his lips, drinking before truly finishing his question.
“Sir Davyd of Thornwood.”
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There was a spray of lemon wine. Mist floated in the cool night air, leaving behind a citrus scent. Little Djon began coughing violently. Lance-Lief had to give three hard smacks across his back before he could speak again.
“You’ll be searching for a forever and then some friend.” Little Djon said in a hoarse voice.
“Why’s that?” Lance-Lief asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Sir Davyd of Thornwood. The Prickly Shield, he was called. Died some five years ago of a chill.”
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No one spoke for a long while. Lance-Lief sipped his wine, praying the drink would clear his head enough for coherent thoughts. The flavor was sour and fruity with notes of cloves and nutmeg. It was delicious. However, it left a weird aftertaste that felt familiar to him somehow. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Lance-Liefs stomach. This and Little Djon’s news had left him feeling uneasy.
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“Are you certain of this?” Lance-Lief asked, placing his wine cup down.
“As certain as the sky is blue. I served the Flórez family during the Mud Wars and fought many a battle alongside the man. We became fast friends on the battlefield. On my journey here, I stopped by Thornwood to visit the Old coot. They brought me to his tombstone instead.” Little Djon said, trailing off at the last word.
Lance-Lief could see the truth of it in his eyes.
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“Could’ve been some rogue assuming his identity. There are no ghosts here. For that, you gots to travel west.” Sable chimed in.
The theory seemed sound, but why?
“Might be, but why? Why not rob me on the road or follow me on the trail? Why befriend me first?”
“A man with horse and mule, a fat purse, and a friendly disposition. Could be you were just an easy target, or the hassle of a fight not worth the effort. Who knows the mind of a brigand?” Sable said, gingerly sipping at his drink.
Lance-Lief made for his own wine, swishing the drink around his mouth before swallowing. The aftertaste crept back. It was faintly noxious and bitter, and he resolved not to finish his wine.
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Lance-Lief looked up at the night sky. The moon was almost at its zenith, and he knew the hour was late. Remnants from the campfire drifted upward, sprinkling the scene with orange embers that faded into nothing. He focused on the sparks, not thinking of anything but feeling everything. His legs felt tight, his back sore, and his arms fatigued. He was more than tired. He was exhausted.
“Thanks for your company, lads, but I am very weary from travel. I’ll be retiring now.” Lance-Lief said, getting up and nodding to his newly made friends. They bid him a good night and went on to chat amongst themselves.
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Laying down in that small tent, it felt like his body weighed a thousand stones. The day's stresses pressed hard against his form, crushing his already worn-out body. He reached into his breast pocket, rolling the silver bell between his thumb and forefinger to take his mind off his discomfort. Just before sleep took him, his last thought was of the wine and the bitter taste it left on his tongue.
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