Knight from the Ashes by Shari L. Tapscott
Henrik
“And then hesaid he killed five calnauths in one hunting trip, but everyone knows that’s impossible.” Bartholomew takes a deep breath, preparing to continue. “So I told him—”
“Just a minute,” I say, glad to have a reason to cut my squire’s story short. “Hector, mind that goat. It’s chewing on the wagon wheel.”
It’s the morning of the fourth day, and an all-too-familiar headache already stiffens my shoulders and neck. So far, except for a few rainy days, the trip has gone smoothly. But after we cross the Ileastra River, the road will be less traveled and far rougher. Our progress will slow by half. I’m afraid it will be at least another week before we reach the northernmost guard post.
Bartholomew continues, “I told him if he didn’t have the furs to prove it—”
“The barge isn’t crossing today,” Simon hollers to me as he walks back into the meadow outside the village of Riverwren, where we made a temporary camp for the night. “We’ll have to wait for the captain to return.”
“Where’s the captain?”
Simon ambles over, giving the wagon with the cheese a wide berth. The trip has done nothing to improve its aroma.
My second-in-command is a tall man, a few years older than I am, with close-cropped, cool brown hair. He’s efficient and trustworthy, but he has an easy way about him that I envy. The men all like him.
They don’t feel the same about me.
“They said his mother is sick,” Simon answers. “He had to ride to Cabaranth for medicine.”
“Of course, he didn’t have a single fur to show for his trip,” Bartholomew finishes smugly, unaware that I stopped listening to him ages ago.
“You’re telling me there’s only one man in the entire village who can run the barge?” I say to Simon.
The captain shrugs.
“What do we do, Henrik?” Bartholomew asks, finally focusing on the situation at hand.
Concealing my irritation, I say, “I suppose we wait.”
The young duke looks at the sky. “What about the birds?”
In the last day, we’ve attracted a whole flock of Calendrian vultures. They circle high in the air for no apparent reason, making the livestock nervous.
“They’re scavengers,” I answer. “They won’t bother us.”
Bartholomew looks as if he wants to disagree, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts aloud. Instead, he asks, “Why don’t they build a bridge across the river instead of relying on a barge?”
Simon answers, “I’ve heard the river is unpredictable. Past bridges have been swept away with heavy spring runoff.”
“And the High Vale elves decided not to rebuild to keep the aynauths out of lower Caldenbauer,” Hector adds, ambling over now that he’s distracted the goat. He’s a young man, not much older than Bartholomew, but he’s been on plenty of supply runs. “The monsters can’t swim.”
The mention of the beasts catches my attention.
“Aynauths?” Bartholomew asks, surprised. “I thought they were reclusive. Don’t they usually stay in the mountains?”
Simon answers, “Before the humans came into power, they migrated lower and caused all kinds of trouble. Rumor has it they’re on the move again.”
Bartholomew’s eyes go wide. “Why?”
Simon shrugs. “No one knows.”
“Stay with the wagons,” I command. “I’m going to speak with the dockhand.”
Leaving the group, glad for a moment alone to hear myself think, I enter the village of Riverwren.
“Afternoon, soldier,” a young woman says from the door of the local tavern, leaning on her broom. Her eyes wander to the badge and pennant on my arm, and her face lights with interest. Practically purring, she amends, “Or should I say commander? Care for a rest? First drink’s on me.”
“Good day,” I return, politely ignoring her invitation. “Where would I locate the attendant who runs the barge tollhouse?”
“Luck is with you.” She nods her head toward the entrance. “He’s just inside.”
I pause, not entirely sure I believe her. With little choice, I give her a curt nod and walk up the old wooden steps.
“Trendleman,” the barmaid calls as she comes in behind me, her attention on the men at a full table. “Someone’s looking for you.”
The man in the middle of the bunch sits leaned back in his chair, with the two front legs off the ground. He appears to be close to my age, with a flop of blond hair and a lopsided hat, and he doesn’t bother to take his feet from the table to greet me. “You with the supply group? Listen, I just talked to your man. The captain’s not here. Consider yourself on holiday for the next few days.”
“The supplies are scheduled to arrive in Fortress Lintanry in a week’s time. It’s imperative we stay on schedule.”
With a knowing glance to his comrades, the man drops his feet and brings the legs of his chair back to the floor with a thud. “You’re new at this, aren’t you? All eager—I can spot your type. Now listen, I applaud your enthusiasm, but let me tell you, life is a lot easier if you just go with the flow.”
The men around him laugh, and I grit my teeth, grasping for patience.
“Take a load off,” Trendleman says. “The captain will return when he returns.”
“There’s no one else who can man the barge?” I demand.
The attendant extends his hands as he looks around the table. “I don’t even have a boat. Do you, boys?”
Laughing, the rivermen all shake their heads. They’re lying, obviously, but it’s not going to do me a lot of good to stand here arguing with them.
“How about that drink, handsome?” the barmaid says, coming to my side. “I promise I can make your wait more pleasant.”
Declining tightly, I leave the tavern.
“Did you find someone to take us across?” Bartholomew asks when I return.
“No,” I answer, trying, but likely failing, to hide my frustration. “We have no choice but to wait for the captain. Get comfortable—we might be here a while.”
* * *
Two days later,a boy walks into camp, announcing the captain has returned and we may begin the tedious crossing.
The man we’ve been waiting for must be nearing his eightieth year, and he reeks of drink. If he was truly tending a sick mother, then I’m a gnome.
He gives us a friendly grin when we meet him, smiling with all five of his teeth.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, boys,” he says as we begin to load onto the barge.
The long, flat vessel is only large enough to transport a few wagons each trip, and the first few crossings end up taking most of the day.
The barge is fitted with an ancient Vallen propulsion apparatus that wheezes and sputters as its gears turn the massive paddle in the rear of the barge. Its bronze casing is dull and dented, and it’s smudged with black oil. It was likely crafted before humans ever stepped foot in Caldenbauer.
Bartholomew catches me frowning at it, and he leans close. “I shudder to think how many energy crystals the captain goes through in a week—not that he didn’t charge us enough to replace them.”
I nod, not entirely at ease with the High Vale elves’ creations. Many have been banned since King Telgin’s time, including the armored, weapon-wielding golems that once guarded their cities. The forbidden contraptions were melted down long ago by order of the king, and now the elves use the rare, magically conductive talvernum metal to create the charmed trinkets and jewelry they sell.
As we slowly float across the long, wide river, the conversation turns to last month’s joust. I stare across the water at the Dorian mountain range as it steadily rises in the distance, thinking of the task ahead of me, making a mental list of all I must accomplish before I may return to Cabaranth.
We’re just making the last crossing—trying to ignore the potent fragrance of the sun-warmed cheese as it mingles with the burnt scent of sludge that at one time might have been oil—when one of the circling vultures grows brave.
Hector hollers as the bird swoops low, knocking him off balance as it passes.
Spooked chickens begin to squawk, disliking the sudden appearance of the massive scavenger.
“Lousy vulture stole my pocket pie,” Hector says, astonished. “Right from my hand. Did you see it?”
I’m about to answer when a man who boarded the barge on this last crossing steps forward. He tilts his face toward the sky, and his large rack of antlers tilts back, nearly gouging my shoulder as he passes. “Magnificent creatures,” the Woodmore elf says. “I’ve never seen so many gathered together. What do you think has drawn them?”
“Our supplies,” I say tonelessly.
The elf meets my eyes. “They’re rather pungent, aren’t they?”
I nod, cursing myself for agreeing to take the cheese with us.
“I’m Pranmore.” He offers a friendly hand. “From Dulane, on my way to the Furlaskin Ruins.”
“Henrik,” I say brusquely.
He gestures toward the wagons. “What is all this?”
“Supplies for the northernmost guard post.”
“Are you in charge?”
“Yes,” I answer, not feeling up to making small talk.
“That’s quite an honor.”
Apparently, he’s easily impressed.
I give him another curt nod, hoping he’ll move on soon.
“Henrik is a man of few words,” Bartholomew says, joining the conversation. “But don’t let his humble silence fool you—he was hand-selected for the task by the king himself.”
A task usually given to an aging knight who fancies an outing.
But my mission isn’t merely a supply run since King Algernon wants me to check on the situation with the aynauths once I reach the guard post—at least that’s how I’m trying to convince myself the assignment isn’t a step in the wrong direction.
I think back to the men’s discussion about the creatures.
Simon said the aynauths moved lower before. Perhaps it’s a normal migratory pattern? Even though humans have been here for several hundred years, there’s still plenty we don’t know about the land.
“Aggressive creatures, aren’t they?” Bartholomew says as another vulture sweeps close to the barge, circling the wagons.
“What do you say we toss the cheese into the water and let them have at it?” Hector suggests with a cheeky grin.
While I would like nothing more than to do just that, I made Lady Forlentia a promise.
“No,” I tell them. “It’s part of our supplies—recorded and accounted for.”
Hector rolls his eyes toward Simon, but I ignore him.
The bird drops again, this time pulling the canvas from atop the cargo.
“Away with you!” a guard hollers, waving his hands in the air as if that will scare the vulture away.
Before we make it to the opposite shore of the river, two more of the ugly brown and gray birds swoop down, attempting to snatch our supplies. But it’s not until we drive the last wagon from the barge that they become aggressive.
I’m just thanking the captain when Hector suddenly cries out. I turn and find the young man on the ground, under a large vulture’s hefty weight.
Immediately, I draw my sword from its sheath and take after the bird. It lifts itself into the air before I reach it, cawing angrily.
“Are you all right?” I demand, offering Hector a hand up.
His shirt sleeves hang loose, torn. Deep slashes line his upper arms where the vulture dug its talons into his skin. He swears when he spots the blood dripping from the wounds, turning pale.
But there’s no time to worry about Hector’s injury right now because more of the winged beasts descend upon the group.
“Don’t kill them!” the Woodmore elf yells, frantically waving his arms in the air as he runs into the fray. “They’re only hungry!”
“Unless you want to offer yourself as a meal, get out of the way,” I growl, shoving the elf back just before one of the vultures makes a dive at him.
The bird meets my blade and falls to the ground.
“Henrik!” Simon yells. “The supplies!”
Two of the vultures have successfully torn the canvas off one of the wagons, and they’re poking through the contents with their sharp, hooked beaks, tearing into sacks of grain. Rice flows from a slice in the burlap and spills onto the road.
The livestock bray, squawk, and squeal as the birds attack.
Several of my soldiers run after them with swords, but the vultures simply fly away.
“Don’t we have an archer in the group?” I holler.
“I have a crossbow!” Bartholomew says from somewhere behind me.
“No, wait—” Before I can finish, one of the vultures attacks me, grasping my shoulder with its talons before it meets my sword. It falls to the ground, as large as an eagle, with a wingspan that’s as wide as a grown man is tall.
“No!” the elf hollers when Bartholomew aims his massive crossbow into the air. He bumps into the young duke, causing the bow to fall sharply just as the bolt is released.
It whizzes past my shoulder and lodges itself into the side of a wagon, barely missing one of the tethered goats.
“Sorry, Henrik,” Bartholomew yells, wrestling his crossbow away from the elf.
This is madness.
I kill five more vultures, but the feathered beasts keep coming. The few archers assigned to the supply run all prove to be nearly worthless. They send arrow after arrow into the sky, missing every time.
“Can’t anyone shoot a bow?” I yell, losing my patience with the lot of them.
Suddenly, a vulture falls to the ground in front of me. It lands belly up, with an arrow protruding from its chest.
I turn around, looking for the archer who shot it…and then I spot her and wish I hadn’t.
Clover strides forward, dressed in a sapphire riding gown fit for a day on a formal hunt, bow raised as she concentrates on her next target. She releases another arrow, and one more vulture falls like a dead weight.
Lowering the bow, she turns her eyes on me. “Are you going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to help?”
Giving myself a mental shake, I return to the fight.
Finally giving up on their quarry, the flock begins to move out. Clover takes aim once more, preparing to shoot one of the last vultures that lingers, when a large one makes a dive at her from behind.
“Lady Clover!” I holler, racing across the road to intercept.
Just before the vulture can sink his wicked talons into her unprotected shoulders, I grab hold of the girl and yank her out of the way.
“What are you doing?” Clover cries, not yet realizing the bird is behind her.
Losing her balance, she drops her bow and falls against me. Trying to catch her, I step backward, twisting my ankle when I step in a rut in the road. Suddenly, we’re tumbling back, back…and then down.
I manage to twist midfall, landing flat on my back to cushion Clover’s landing. She ends up on top of me, with her long hair splayed across my face.
Before she can utter so much as I word, I grasp the back of her head and roll, protecting her from the vulture’s attack. The bird digs its talons harmlessly into my leather brigandine before it flies away.
Breathing hard from the shock, Clover shoves the hair out of her face. She then slowly pulls her gaze to mine. We stare at each other for several long seconds, startled to find ourselves so close. So close, I can see the dark emerald specks in her spring-green eyes.
So close, in fact, that if I were so inclined—which I am not—I could prove to her that I do not kiss like a fish.
As soon as the dust settles around us, I realize the air has gone silent. The last of the flock has finally flown off, and my men have nothing better to focus on than their commander…and the girl pinned underneath him.
Suddenly realizing our awkward position, I jerk back, releasing my grip on her.
“Lady Clover!” Bartholomew exclaims, breaking the silence as he runs through the mess of wagons, spilled supplies, and dead vultures. “You were magnificent!”
After giving me a questioning look I can’t decipher, Clover pushes herself to her feet. I follow her, dusting myself off as I stand.
“Truly, Lady Clover,” Simon says, joining us. “That was incredible.”
She shrugs as if humble, but I see the pride shining in her eyes.
Suddenly, all my men are crowding around the lady-in-waiting, acting as if they’ve never seen a woman use a bow before. I get butted out of the way until I’m on the outside of the group, standing amongst the birds that I almost single-handedly killed.
“It was nothing,” Clover says, and for some reason, I glance over. Meeting my eyes through the crowd, she hides a smirk. “Henrik killed a few, too.”
Slowly, the men turn back to me. Simon says, “Oh, yes. Good job, Henrik.”
Shaking my head, I survey the damage. Immediately, my gaze lands on the elf nuisance. Tears flow down his face as he crouches over one of the scraggly vultures, holding it tenderly in his arms as he whispers soft nonsense.
Suddenly, a golden orb encircles both elf and bird. When it fades, the bird jerks away from the man and staggers into the air, flying off as if drunk.
“I can’t do anything for the rest of them,” the elf says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand before he shoots me a reproachful look. “They’re dead.”
“What did you expect us to do?” I ask, not used to dealing with his people. “Look around—half my men are injured—and you would have been as well if I hadn’t pulled you out of the way.”
Sniffing, the elf glances at the group, attempting to smooth his long brown hair as he nods. “Though it’s tragic, I suppose it’s not entirely your fault. I will lend my magic to your men.”
“You’re a healer?” I ask, taking a second look at him.
He’s a slender man, with fair skin and faint, fawn-like freckles along his hairline. He wears a simple brown linen tunic over black trousers, and his boots are tall. Oddly enough, even without his antlers, he’d resemble a deer.
The man nods sagely. “It’s my gift.”
“We would appreciate any help you can offer,” I say, and then I scan the group, looking for a particular girl. When I spot her, I command, “You—follow me.”
Clover presses her lips into a thin line, looking like she would like to argue.
Reluctantly, she leaves her group of ardent admirers and follows me to the side of the road where we won’t be overheard.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, hoping to sound like an authoritative figure and not a simple blacksmith’s son who’s still flustered from the ridiculous situation we found ourselves in.
Clover glances over her shoulder, smiling to herself. “Saving the day, apparently.”
“I had it well under control.”
“Sure you did, soldier.”
When the barmaid called me by the title, it was mildly obnoxious, but when Clover says it, I want to grind my teeth together.
“Why are you here?” I ask again.
She slips her hand into a deep side pocket of her gown and produces a sealed letter. “It seems your beloved believes I’m a courier in my free time.”
“This is from…” Even though Clover saw us together, I won’t say the princess’s name aloud.
“Camellia,” Clover so helpfully supplies, and then she cocks her head to the side, her eyes wickedly bright. “Do you have more than one beloved?”
Scoffing, I take the letter, wishing Camellia would act with a little more discretion. Why would she send Clover of all people, and what could she possibly need that is so urgent, she had to tell me while I was on a supply run?
“And now, my task is complete,” Clover says, already turning. “Good luck with your birds.”
“Wait,” I call to her, ignoring the letter for now. “How did you get across the river?”
Clover wasn’t on the barge.
“I saw you crossing, so I asked one of the local men if he would take me.” She gestures toward the riverbank, where the floppy-haired man from the tavern waits for her. When he spots me, he raises a smug hand in greeting.
I walk with Clover, meeting him.
“Nice boat,” I deadpan.
The man laughs, unrepentant. He then turns his eyes on Clover and offers her an exaggerated bow. “Are you ready to return, my lady?”
Clover takes his hand as he helps her into the small vessel, barely giving me a second glance. Though she’s not my responsibility, she’s still a noblewoman of the kingdom, and I don’t like the way he’s leering at her.
Sternly reminding myself Clover is none of my concern, I turn away and break the seal on Camellia’s letter.
My eyes scan the note, and my frown deepens. What does Camellia mean she suspects Clover of nefarious deeds? Black magic? Sorcery?
I read the last bit, growing increasingly agitated.
Watch her for me, Henrik. Keep her close and don’t let her out of your sight—and whatever you do, don’t listen to a word she says. I’ll gather the evidence needed to convict her by the time you return.
You’re the only person I can trust.
Yours truly,
Camellia
I turn backtoward the water, watching as the girl floats farther and farther from the shore. Surely Camellia doesn’t expect me to keep Clover with me on the supply run? Haven’t I been saddled with enough? Does she know what she’s asking?
After exhaling a weary sigh, I holler across the water, “Lady Clover, wait!”