The Wandering Knight Read online

  THE WANDERING KNIGHT

  Jonathan Moeller

  Description

  Banished by his father, MAZAEL CRAVENLOCK has spent the last six years wandering the realm as a landless knight, fighting for gold and his own amusement. But when escaping from a gang of robbers, Mazael finds a desperate young nobleman in dire need of aid to save his own father.

  Rescuing the boy's father could be Mazael's path to fame and glory.

  Or to a shallow grave...

  The Wandering Knight (World of the Demonsouled short story)

  Copyright 2013 by Jonathan Moeller

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC

  Cover image copyright Vladimirs Poplavskis | Dreamstime.com & Andreiuc88 | Dreamstime.com

  All Rights Reserved

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Wandering Knight

  Mazael Cravenlock was cheating at cards.

  Of course, every other man at the table was cheating, too.

  And, to be fair, they were planning to kidnap him.

  He sat at a table of crude planks in a gloomy tavern, the only light coming from a sputtering hearth on the far wall. The town of Knightport, visited by merchants from across the realm, boasted many fine taverns and inn. This, alas, was not one of them. The air stank of mildew, and the only patrons were four villainous-looking men at the plank table.

  And Mazael himself, of course.

  "Deal," said the leader of the men. He was gaunt, with ragged gray hair, cold black eyes, and a black robe adorned with a gleaming badge of office. Men called him Reccard the Fist, and he presented a public face as one of the Lord of Knightport's customs collectors.

  He also controlled several gangs of robbers that lurked in the hills outside Knightport, attacking wealthy merchants traveling to and from the town. Reccard read the ships’ manifests, noted the wares of caravans leaving the town…and sent his men to steal the choicer items.

  "Very well," said Mazael, passing cards to the other men.

  "So," said Reccard. "You are the youngest son of the late Lord Adalon Cravenlock, yes? Your brother Mitor is Lord of Castle Cravenlock?"

  Mazael smirked. "Mitor the mushroom? Aye, he holds Castle Cravenlock in his flabby fingers, last I heard." He finished dealing out the cards and looked at his hand. A Queen of Swords, a Knight of Coins, and three nines.

  Reccard grinned, and the other men leaned closer.

  Mazael tried not to laugh.

  "You must be very close to your brother," said Reccard. "Helping him bear the dreadful burden of lordship. I'm sure if you were taken hostage, your brother would pay dearly for your safety."

  "I doubt that," said Mazael. "I haven't seen him in six years."

  Reccard's smile froze. "You haven't?"

  "No," said Mazael, sliding some silver coins towards the pile in the center of the table. "After Lord Richard the Dragonslayer prevailed, my father banished me from the Grim Marches. Gave me a horse, a sword, and told me never to return." He patted the worn pommel of his longsword. "Thought I would make trouble for Mitor. Which, I admit, I probably would."

  Reccard's smile hardened into a scowl. "Then you are an impoverished vagabond?"

  "That is an insult," said Mazael. "I fight for whoever will pay me. A good fight and a willing woman at the end of the day...that's all a man really needs, isn't it? But, true, I do not have much in the way of coin, and my brother certainly would not pay to get me back."

  "I see," said Reccard.

  "Which means," said Mazael, "if you and your friends were planning to kidnap me and ransom me back to Mitor, you should rethink the plan."

  Reccard spat upon the moldering straw covering the floor. "If you knew this was a trap, why did you walk into it?"

  "Because." Mazael grinned. "I like to fight."

  Reccard looked at his henchmen, and the thugs laughed.

  "We may not be able to ransom this young fool back to Lord Mitor," said Reccard, "but we'll able to get some coin for his sword and chain mail. Kill him. One more body floating in the harbor will draw no..."

  Mazael moved faster.

  He surged to his feet, gripped the table, and flung it on its side, sending coins and cards flying. Reccard's thugs scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords, but Mazael already had his blade out. The familiar battle rage thundered through him, and the nearest man stabbed at him. Mazael dodged, and his sword plunged between his attacker's ribs. The thug toppled as the other two men rushed Mazael. He parried a blow from a short sword, twisted, and caught his first attacker across the hip. The man stumbled back with a cry of pain.

  "Kill him!" roared Reccard, backing away from the melee. "Damn you, kill him!"

  The second thug stabbed, but the chain mail beneath Mazael's weathered leather jerkin turned aside the blow. Mazael grunted and thrust his sword, his blade opening a line of blood on the thug’s jaw. The first thug caught his balance, and Mazael laughed in delight. Good! Let them come! He would kill them all...

  Reccard fled through the back door, and his thugs followed.

  Mazael laughed again and started to pursue them, but some of the mad rage drained away, and his reason reasserted himself. Reccard had retreated...but he was a powerful man among Knightport's robbers, and could summon more men than Mazael could fight. Worse, Reccard was in the service of the Lord of Knightport. Reccard could claim that Mazael had murdered the dead thug...and the town's militia would believe him, not Mazael.

  It was time to go.

  Just as well. Knightport had grown dull.

  Mazael collected the scattered coins from the card game, and then hurried out the tavern's front door. Night hung over Knightport's streets, though the sounds of laughing and singing came from the taverns near the docks. Sailors from across the realm came to Knightport, and Reccard would have no trouble hiring enough muscle to kill one landless knight.

  Mazael made his way to the hostel and retrieved his horse from the stables. A bribe to the watchman opened the gate in the town's wall, and Mazael rode to the east. The road climbed into the hills, and he had a fine view of Knightport and the ships crowding the town's harbor. Pine trees covered the hills, and Mazael soon found himself in a forest, the air tangy with the smell of sap.

  He led his horse from the road, tied the beast to a tree, and bedded down in his cloak. Mazael would have preferred a bed, and a woman to warm it, but this would serve well enough. The gods knew he had spent enough time sleeping in the wild, ever since his father had exiled him...

  For a moment, just a moment, he felt a pang. Sorrow, perhaps? Grief? He had loathed his mother and held his father and brother in contempt, but he missed his sister Rachel.

  He pushed aside the thought. Tomorrow, he would go in search of new battles to fight and new glory to win. As he had told Reccard, he loved fighting...and the realm had no shortage of opportunities for a strong man with a sword.

  Mazael drifted to sleep.

  ###

  The next morning Mazael saddled his horse and took the road east.

  The pine-cloaked hills rose around him, and he considered his next move. Should he ride south? The Dominiar Knights ruled Mastaria, and they kept an iron hand over the Mastarians. No opportunities there. North, perhaps? North would take him through Knightreach and to Greycoast and the great city of Barellion. But Lord Malden of Knightcastle and Prince Everard of
Barellion ruled with firm hands, and their lands were orderly. Little work for a wandering knight.

  Besides, Mazael had spent some time in Barellion, years ago, and had no wish to return. He had seduced a noble widow, and if Mazael returned, she might very well hire the Skulls, Barellion’s brotherhood of assassins, to take off his head.

  East, then. East would take him to the deep valleys and forests of the Stormvales, where the Stormvales’ petty lords warred against each other constantly. Their feuds offered opportunity for gold and glory. Mazael decided to ride for Knightcastle, take the road east to Tristgard, and then north to the Stormvales.

  Then he heard crashing in the underbrush to his left and drew his sword.

  Fierce eagerness filled him at the prospect of a fight. Had he walked into an ambush of robbers? Or had Reccard sent men after him? Mazael's hand tightened around his sword hilt.

  He loved battle…and he would dance laughing through the blood of any foes.

  A moment later a boy of eleven or twelve years stumbled onto the road, breathing hard.

  Mazael blinked in surprise.

  The boy glared up at him. He had blond hair and blue eyes, and wore chain mail, trousers, and fine leather boots. A blue tabard adorned with a silver greathelm sigil covered the mail.

  "Do you, sir," said the boy, "do you mean to rob me?"

  "No," said Mazael. Though he supposed he looked the part of the villainous robber. He had slept outside, after all, and he hadn't bathed for a while. "Are you going to rob me?"

  The boy drew himself up, affronted. "I most certainly shall not! Petty brigandage is a crime and it is...it is beneath me!"

  "Good to know," said Mazael. "Though that doesn't explain why you're running around the woods by yourself."

  "I am trying," said the boy, "to get away from robbers."

  "Indeed," said Mazael, intrigued. That greathelm sigil was the badge of a noble house of Knightreach, though Mazael could not remember which one. Which meant the boy was a squire in service to a knight of that house. And if the boy was running around the woods by himself, his knight had encountered some misfortune.

  And rescuing a knight often meant a reward.

  "But by fleeing the robbers," said the boy, "I fear I have only found another one."

  Mazael made a show of sheathing his sword. "You have not. I am no highwayman. My name is Sir Mazael Cravenlock."

  The boy frowned. "You are a knight, sir? You..."

  "I hardly look the part, I know," said Mazael, "but I have spent the last six years wandering from one corner of the realm to another, fighting as it pleases me."

  "As a robber knight, perhaps?" said the boy.

  Mazael sighed. "I'll say this plainly, boy. I am no thief, and while perhaps I enjoy fighting a bit too much, I’ve never robbed a man. If you want nothing to do with me, I'll ride on. But if you want my help, you'll have it...and I will teach those robbers of yours to fear."

  He gave his horse a gentle tap, urging the beast forward, and walked past the boy.

  "Wait," said the boy. "Sir Mazael, wait!"

  Mazael turned his horse.

  "It seems I have little choice but to trust you, sir," said the boy, "for I might not reach the gates of Knightport as I planned." He took a deep breath. "My name is Gerald Roland."

  "Gerald Roland," said Mazael, and his eyes widened. "Wait. A son of Lord Malden Roland?" Gerald nodded. "The liege lord of Knightreach?" Gerald nodded once more. "So why the devil is a son of Malden Roland blundering around the woods by himself?"

  "I was traveling with my father and his retainers to Knightport," said Gerald. "Bandits infest the hills around Knightport..."

  "Yes, I noticed," said Mazael.

  "And my lord father wished to chastise Lord Randerly for his lack of action," said Gerald. "But bandits fell upon us a few miles east of here and scattered our men. I fear the brigands took my father captive. He told me to run to Knightport for aid...and here I am."

  Mazael scratched at his jaw. "Just as well you didn't make it to Knightport."

  "Why not?" said Gerald, folding his arms over his chest. "Lord Randerly is my father's vassal, sworn to obey him."

  "And Lord Randerly's officers are sworn to obey him," said Mazael, "but half of them work with the robbers anyway. If you'd made it to Knightport alone, they would have taken you for ransom. Which I assume is why they took your father captive." He laughed.

  "Do you find our predicament funny, sir?" said Gerald, affronted.

  "It's bold," said Mazael. "Holding the liege lord of Knightreach for ransom. The bandits will end as either very rich men, or as heads rotting atop spears. Or they'll make a mistake and kill Lord Malden, and then they'll end as heads atop spears."

  "What...what do you suggest we do, sir?" said Gerald. For a moment the arrogant hauteur drained away, leaving only sick terror. Mazael felt a touch of sympathy for the boy.

  "The first thing," said Mazael, "is to find your father. You said they fell on you about three miles east of here?" Gerald nodded. "There's a nest of robbers near the road there, led by a rogue named Waller. I'll wager they took your father."

  "And then?" said Gerald.

  "And then," said Mazael, "we wait until night, sneak into their camp, and make off with your father."

  "But that's..." began Gerald.

  A flicker of motion caught Mazael's eye, and he spun his horse.

  A man crouched in the underbrush near the road, a short bow in hand. Mazael yanked his sword from its scabbard and kicked his horse to a gallop. But even as he did, the archer released. Mazael ducked low, swinging his sword in front of him, and by sheer chance he struck the arrow. The weapon clanged, the impact almost tearing the hilt from his grasp, and the arrow tumbled aside, its fletching brushing over Mazael's cheek.

  The archer cursed and reached into his quiver for another arrow, but he was too slow. Mazael's horse crashed into the archer, and Mazael swung his blade.

  The archer fell dead, blood gushing from his neck.

  Mazael dropped from the saddle, his heart pounding, the blood surging through his veins.

  "Gods, Sir Mazael!" said Gerald, hurrying to his side. "You blocked the arrow with your sword! I've never seen anything..."

  Mazael looked at Gerald and the boy flinched. For a wild, mad instant, Mazael felt the urge to kill Gerald, to keep killing and killing...

  He pushed aside the fury.

  "Good fortune," said Mazael. "Another inch higher and I'd be dead. I suppose you could have claimed my horse then." He looked at the dead man for a moment, and saw the cut on the corpse’s jaw. It was one of the thugs who had escaped the tavern with Reccard.

  "Who is he?" said Gerald, voice quiet. Mazael wondered if the boy had ever seen a man killed in battle before.

  "A petty thief from Knightport," said Mazael. "He worked for one of Lord Randerly's customs collectors, a fellow named Reccard. Reccard controls some of the bandit gangs in the hills. When a rich cargo comes into the harbor, Reccard makes a note of it, sends word to his men...and they all share in the profits."

  "But that is brigandry!" said Gerald.

  "I believe that is the word, yes," said Mazael, relieving the dead man of his purse.

  "Lord Randerly should hang this Reccard villain," said Gerald. "His crimes are against the laws of both gods and men."

  "He should," said Mazael, "but from what I've heard of old Lord Randerly, the man wouldn't notice a fire if he sat in it."

  Gerald scowled. "He is a lord of Knightreach, and you should speak respectfully of him."

  Mazael looked at Gerald.

  The boy sighed. "But my father does share your opinion of him. Though why does Reccard want to kill you?"

  "He tried to take me captive," said Mazael, "not realizing that my brother hates me, and would probably pay Reccard to kill me, not to ransom me."

  Gerald blinked. "That explains why you were leaving Knightport." He was clever, for the son of a high lord. "How did you get away?"

 
Mazael grinned. "I like to fight."

  "I see," said Gerald. "So this Waller villain took my father captive at Reccard's bidding?"

  "No," said Mazael. "Waller is chief of his own gang. He and Reccard hate each other."

  Which, if Reccard sent more men after Mazael, might prove useful.

  "Come along," said Mazael. "The sooner we find your father, the better."

  He walked his horse from the road, into the woods, and Gerald followed.

  ###

  Waller's bandits lurked in a narrow gully between two stony hills.

  It was the perfect place for bandits to build themselves a nest. The gully was secluded and narrow, nearly invisible from a distance. The bandits had constructed a stockade across the gully’s entrance, masking it with piled rocks and branches.

  Perched a nearby hill, Mazael saw over the stockade. Inside the gully lay a half-dozen ruined wagons, no doubt taken from robbed merchants. A score of ragged men in leather armor stood within the stockade, surrounding a middle-aged man in a fine blue cloak, his expression one of disdainful scorn.

  "Your father, boy," murmured Mazael. He crouched behind a lichen-spotted boulder, gazing down into the gully. The bandits had set only one sentry, a bored-looking man perched atop the stockade.

  So far the man hadn’t noticed them.

  "Aye, Sir Mazael," said Gerald.

  "That's Waller," said Mazael, looking a stout man, his head crowned with a shock of fiery red hair. "He's got more men than I thought. We're not fighting our way in, even at night."

  "Was that your plan?" said Gerald. "Just to cut your way in and free my father?"

  Mazael shrugged. "More or less."

  "I should have continued to Knightport," said Gerald, "and gotten Lord Randerly's aid in lieu of this foolishness."

  "Foolishness?" said Mazael, annoyed. "Had you gone to Knightport, Reccard or one of the other bandit chiefs would have grabbed you off the streets."

  "Lord Randerly would have aided me," insisted Gerald. "It is his duty as a vassal of the House of Roland. His oaths bind him."