Knight of the Tenebral Sword

When it was light again, the world was moving. Miall stared up at a laden cargo net as fear burned the fog from her mind. She did a rapid survey of her person. The scout was unbound, intact, clothed and armed. There were a few tender spots including a bump near her hairline but she was already healing and would show no ill effects for her participation in the brawl. She sat up circumspectly.

Her pack, which she had been wearing out of concern for thieves, hung on a hook in a wooden strut. Someone had apparently loaded her into a wagon along with the man she had dragged under the table. The scout doubted her benefactor had been Padraic. There was no sign of the tracker, which simultaneously cheered and depressed her.

Miall retrieved her pack to do a thorough search of her belongings. Nothing was missing and everything hidden was untouched, which suggested whoever had put her here had not rummaged through her kit. In their position she would have pried with a clear conscience. Mostly because the opportunity was unlikely to recur she investigated the Templar.

The bruises from Padraic’s attentions had turned purple over night. The contusion on the man’s neck was swollen red and his breathing laboured. The damage was consistent with the Serpent Punch technique used to stun opponents by restricting their airway. The tracker had been off target so the Templar would be hoarse for a few days but without lingering injury.

She looked beyond the damage. He was about forty, muscular and a little over-fed making him stocky. There was a scar across his forearm likely from a blade aiming to disable his weapon hand. She noted his tan, his close-cropped hair and only slightly stubbly chin. His clothes were dirty but he was not. A grey tattoo in the shape of a sword rested on his collarbone pointing down towards his heart.

That was the sign of an avowed priest of the Celestial Guardian. She returned his garb to a seemly order and sat back to think. Miall assessed the baggage in the wagon. There were sacks of rice, legs of mutton and a few cured hams hanging from the rafters, blankets, bags of dried vegetables and miscellaneous personal belongings. This presaged a long trip. Perhaps she had unwittingly joined a pilgrimage.

If that were the case, she did not wish to remain. The scout peeked out one of the little porthole windows at the back of the caravan. She saw a paved road, trees, a sliver of blue sky and the hind end of a bay horse trotting alongside. Miall sat back and contemplated anew. With a rider so close, she could not avoid detection should she climb out. It was perhaps best to wait.

The wagon eventually rattled to a stop about an hour later. The scout spent the intervening time debating what to do and cursing Padraic, who was likely sleeping off his debauch in a cell if he had not gone up in smoke with the barn. Miall did not consider his possible demise a tragedy for beyond their shared allegiance, she would not spit on him if he were on fire.

The scout shrugged on her pack and made ready to bolt as the wagon halted. Soon after, the narrow door opened to display a young man just old enough to shave. He had suspiciously brown hair the colour of boot polish and bright green eyes. He greeted her politely and offered an arm to help her down. So close he smelled of wood smoke and cedar soap.

Miall surveyed her surroundings and the new arrival. They were heading west through forest. The boy was muscular, almost six feet tall, left-handed with freckles across his aquiline nose like a dusting of cinnamon. Ignoring the hair colour, the young man’s description fit exactly with the one embedded in her mind. Dame Fate smiled upon her.

“You are quite safe, mistress.” He assured her. “We are on the trade road dusk-wise of Godric’s Ford. I am afraid we had to leave the village in rather a hurry. As you were unconscious, Sir Taryet suggested we take you with us rather than leave you helpless and alone. I apologise if we have caused you any inconvenience.” The boy stopped, colouring a little.

She doubted she had been unconscious long for her kind mended quickly and from the look of the sun, it was midmorning. A welcome night of sleep accounted for the rest of the time. Elms, poplars and a few willows edged the road. The trees were unpollarded, which suggested it was a far distance to Godric’s. They had probably departed the village in the hubbub of the fire.

Miall could not see why they had stopped until she strolled around the wagon and noticed a thickset man kneeling on the road facing north and praying. Devotees of the Guardian did that five times a day. She had fallen in with bad company. The scout took her gaze resolutely from the crouching man and surreptitiously moved her hand from the hilt of one of her concealed knives.

“May I ask where you are heading?”

“We are trying for Sanctum Auberon. Alas, brigands and fighting have forced us to skirt most of the direct routes.” He sighed. Despite his regretful speech, he looked content to be on the road. The boy was probably happy to be anywhere, considering the alternative. “You are welcome to travel with us, if you wish, mistress. We owe you our thanks for assisting Brother Matteo and Sir Taryet in the tavern.”

“Do not mention it.” Miall made a dismissive gesture to go with her sincere injunction. “I was only doing what seemed necessary to help someone in need.” The praying man was now on his feet and walking towards them, so she hastened to accept the boy’s invitation. “I would be glad to go with you to Auberon. A walled city is a welcome sanctuary in these troubled times.”

The devout person was brawny. Well over six feet tall, he was heavily built and muscular. The addition of field plate made him look even broader. His burnished armour was unfigured except for the simple outline of a downwards pointing sword on the breastplate. He carried several weapons bespeaking a militant vocation. Miall’s skin itched just looking at him.

He was definitely the Templar of the Autumn Spear from the barn, though studying him in daylight she decided he was only half sakoi. There were plenty of mongrels scattered across the countryside as his people were not particular about the rules of war and readily took captives. This discovery raised concerns in the scout though not because of his species.

The Templars said they admitted anyone who professed a calling into their various religious societies without prejudice as to heritage. Miall did not believe that but the hal-sakoi’s allegiance was not inconceivable despite his peoples’ reputation for lawlessness. Dame Fate smirked rather than smiled. He had heard the last of her words and raised a coal black eyebrow.

“You are journeying alone?” He had little accent, other than the smooth inflection of the convent educated. A foundling, she guessed, which was not so startling. Many religious orders sponsored orphans in their ranks, the Brethren included. Of course, there was no way to be certain of his background without asking and Miall was extremely disinclined to do so.

“For the time being, I am.” She did her best to sound slightly cautious as it seemed appropriate. Miall adapted the lie she had told the leasing matron. “I had hoped to find a caravan heading south but my luck was not good in Godric’s Ford.” The hal-sakoi nodded in acceptance. He introduced himself and the boy, who was allegedly Rhys of Cheswick, an estate on the north-eastern border of Niem.

“We are on a pilgrimage to a holy site near Sanctum Auberon.” Sir Taryet spoke carefully as though checking each word for truth. Miall listened just as closely to what he said and speculated about his ponderous way of talking. The supposed scion of Cheswick kept his peace, doubtless familiar with the tale. “What is your name, mistress?”

“You may call me Yasmin siJanina.” As she hoped to stay with them for some time, the scout used a familiar pseudonym. Miall added a matronymic in the southern fashion, aware her usual way of speaking the Niemi dialect carried the tones of the warm lands. Despite her suspicions of what he was, the scout forced herself to offer the half-breed her hand in the manner of the locals.

He looked a little surprised but clasped her wrist after a brief hesitation. The boy smiled at this courtesy obviously expecting a snub from her. Miall had no bias against sakoi having worked with and against the ‘wolf-warriors’ many times. A fair portion of the Brethren had sakoi blood as her society recruited for talent rather than purity.

“We had best be going. Sit where you wish.” Sir Taryet returned to his horse and mounted as did Rhys. The scout went to the front of the wagon and hopped up beside the roan haired young woman holding the reins. They started off slowly to let the carthorses get their stride but were soon trotting across the paving stones at a respectable pace.

The sky was the blue of robin’s eggs without a cloud. The sun shone. Birds sang in the trees as the gentle breeze stirred the branches. So much for ominous portents, Miall thought as she chatted with Branna the fourth member of the small party. She was almost seventeen and the daughter of peasant farmers on Rhys’s father’s estate though she herself was an apprentice to the head cook.

“Not much to do this trip. The cooking is boiling stew. I didn’t even get chance for bread at Godric’s.” The girl complained airily. Miall, remembering her meal at the tavern, assured her she had not missed an opportunity unless she was in need of ballast. Branna laughed; a high sound that made Rhys grin and Sir Taryet look uneasily at the trees.

Lunch was mugs of cold mutton stew eaten in the saddle. Branna kept the pot under the driver’s bench, clearly well accustomed to catering on the trot. They rolled through the day pausing only so the hal-sakoi could pray. Miall brought out her needlework and placidly continued the pattern. This prompted inquiry from the girl as to her profession.

“I was once apprentice to a seamstress.” That had been many, many years before. “I am not much inclined towards joining the Tailors’ Guild but I like to keep my eyes sharp. Besides, it is a peaceful way to pass the time.” She proffered a smile. Branna relaxed a little more in her company for the scout was very good at seeming harmless.

Sir Taryet set a cracking pace for the wagon. He seemed to find the carthorses’ plodding trot irritating and ranged up and down the road. Miall watched him out of the corners of her eyes. There was something about him that worried her more than his allegiance. She could not be sure of the cause of the trepidation, which only increased her unease.

Brother Matteo roused late in the afternoon. He was pale and sore but insisted on riding. The priest looked at Miall, clearly appalled at her presence then held a hushed conference with the hal-sakoi out of her hearing. He seemed to find Sir Taryet’s replies acceptable and made no protest at the scout’s company. After sunset, when the carthorses started to stumble, they called a halt and set up camp.

Rhys unsaddled the horses while Branna cleared a fire pit. Brother Matteo drew his fellow Templar behind the wagon and began to speak urgently but quietly to him. Miall surveyed the small clearing then smiled to herself. She ambled over to the girl and volunteered to find firewood. Branna bade her do so with no more than a laughing caution not to get lost.

Miall ventured into the woods, shuffling about in an amateur fashion until out of hearing of the camp. The scout quieted her steps and stalked through the trees like a hunting cat back towards the Templars. She stopped no more than three strides from them but hidden by a thick gorse bush. Their voices came to her clearly. As she had suspected, they were talking about her.

“She knew me for a Spear Templar by my badge, as I said.” Sir Taryet explained, speaking hurriedly. A hard, abrupt sakoi inflection had replaced his meticulous convent accent. Miall revised her impression of him. He was no foundling. “She seemed to find my badge of more import than either my race or the medallion of my faith.”

“You marvel unnecessarily, my friend.” Brother Matteo shook his head at the hal-sakoi’s astonishment. “You expect every civilised person to recoil from you. We do not know with whom Yasmin usually associates, however pleasant she may seem.” He directed a harsh look at Sir Taryet. “Your lapse brought her into our midst. Pray tell me how we shall be rid of her safely now?”

“Why do we have to be rid of her?” The burly Templar asked quietly. He quickly bolstered his argument in a firmer tone. “Surely keeping someone suspect close would be less of a risk than loosing them?” The hal-sakoi gestured to the woods and Miall stiffened, ready for flight. “Besides, I do not believe such a woman would plot with assassins.”

“I fear you are not thinking with your head. Judge her not by her fair face or gentle words. She struck that brawler readily enough to shake him from me.” Brother Matteo rubbed his throat, grimacing. “I will speak with her to get a better sense of her loyalties. Yasmin might be goodly and kind but we cannot take chances with our mission or the life of our charge.”

“What are your intentions if you find fault?” Sir Taryet’s hand went to his sword hilt, which did nothing for the scout’s peace of mind. The Templars shared a meaningful look. Miall sent a silent prayer to Irzabet the Merciful for Her protection and another to the Knight of the Tenebral Sword for His. After a long moment, Brother Matteo shook his head.

“It may not come to that. Guillaume’s invitation to the southern woman to accompany us to the Sanctum does not bind us. We can leave her in the next town, Elm Hollow I think, under the care of the bailiff if necessary.” The priest shook his head. “I fear I am beginning to see conspirators behind every tree, so long have we been beset by trouble.” He sighed. “May the Celestial Guardian guide us.”

The scout took the holy brother’s entreaty as her cue to leave. She crept away with all the discretion she could muster, increasing her pace only when she was certain no one in the camp could hear her. A few minutes’ walk deeper into the forest gave her the privacy she needed to contact her superior. She had to report her discovery and get new orders.

Miall lent against an oak and slipped off her left boot, looking as though she was searching for an inconvenient stone. Truly, the scout pulled a fine gold wire from the lining and twisted it into the ceremonial pattern for speech. The visionaries of the Brethren needed a familiar symbol to scry field agents, who were often completely unknown to them.

She was familiar with the intricacies of the mystical arts though she herself was incapable of performing the smallest cantrip. Her grandmother had once been a powerful wizard but the fey Court had stripped the ability to work magic from their line at their exile. Holding the gold knot concealed in her hand, Miall waited for the metal to grow hot to signal a scryer had noticed. It did not take long.

‘It is about time you checked in.” Into her mind the aggrieved voice burst stridently made blurry by transmission but distinct enough for comprehension. ‘Where are you and why is that drunken sot not with you?’ The tones were unmistakably those of Master Kiansu, her field commander, who disliked Padraic even more than did Miall.

‘I am along the west trade road between Godric’s Ford and the Willow Road. I left Padraic in a burning barn. There was a brawl.’ She stifled a wince as her words were plucked from her mind. A heavy feeling of disapproval from her superior coursed through her. ‘I found the Prince. He has dyed his hair and calls himself Rhys but I am certain of the identification.’

Kiansu sent a wordless thrill of pleasure.

‘Take him to the nearest hold for safe keeping immediately.’ They had hunted for the boy since his father’s murder. Thus far, they had found no certain trace beyond the direction of his flight and description of his companions. ‘Use zealous measures to ensure Prince Guillaume comes under our protection as soon as possible. We are not the only ones searching for him.’

‘He is travelling with a priest of the Guardian and a hal-sakoi I strongly suspect to be a sworn paladin of the same. They will object.’ For a moment, there was grim silence. She had taken a vow of obedience. If Master Kiansu told her to steal the boy, she would do so and likely die trying. The unseen visionary translated and relayed her field commander’s sombre reply.

‘We were not told about the holy ones. Our informant was most lax in that regard.’ The field commander’s displeasure did not bode well for the unfortunate informer. Few Brethren liked surprises and they had paid lavishly for information about the Prince. ‘Do not risk yourself. Stay with them however you can. It is vital we know where they are and where they intend to go.’

‘The Prince said Sanctum Auberon, which is rather far from his father’s allies. I think they have a mission. They are certainly kitted out for months of travel.’ Kiansu was silent for a long time as he considered this statement. Miall waited, growing progressively more light-headed as the connection continued. She normally did this lying down but that posture was inappropriate in her current surrounds.

‘You will be shadowed but from afar. We must handle this situation gently until we know their plans. Do no more than set markers so the trackers can follow. In the presence of Templars, direct contact is too dangerous.’ The Master did not have to tell her to be careful around the priest and the hal-sakoi. ‘We serve for the Honour of the Tenebral Sword.’

Miall echoed this prayer before the connection severed. She leant against the oak until her head stopped spinning. Then she went looking for firewood. The rains of the last few days had soaked the fallen wood. The scout collected an armful of smallish branches, which would dry quickly, and returned from a different direction than she had left.

Padraic’s company had afforded her the opportunity to study some of the hunters’ arts, reinforcing the practical woodcraft she had accumulated over the years. In defiance of the techniques thus learned, Miall rustled through the undergrowth and garnered a few leaves in her passing to bolster the impression of a keen but inept traveller.

Branna lounged by a stone lined firepit, pots at the ready, idly braiding her hair. She hopped up when the scout appeared. Between them they got a small fire going, enough to heat the food and dry the wood but not so large a blaze as to make much smoke. With the brisk evening breeze, there would be little chance of the fire giving away their position.

Neither Sir Taryet nor Rhys were in sight but Brother Matteo sat on a saddle and leaned against the wagon. He stopped rubbing his ribs long enough to give her a wave. Evidently, he wished to speak with her. Once they had the fire going, Miall ambled over and politely inquired of his health. She could be courteous to her worst sworn enemy.

“Battered and still a touch dazed but mending. You have my gratitude for coming to my aid. That ginger haired savage seemed intent on beating the life from me. To think, I did no more than bump him trying to get past.” He coughed then swallowed on an obviously sore throat. “I fear perhaps I was too soon back in the saddle. I feel rather old this evening.”

“I have some willow bark tea, if you wish a cup. It does wonders for aches and pains.” Over the course of their acquaintance, she had forced a hogshead of the stuff down Padraic to ease the morning-after hammers in his skull. Matteo accepted so she put on the kettle and brewed tea for the priest. The things one does to blend in. When the brew was ready, back she went.

The Templar thanked her and sipped cautiously. He seemed surprised at the taste, which was sweet and minty courtesy of the other herbs Miall added to the dry mixture. She used it herself when recovering from exertions and was not so much a martyr she wished to gag down the concoction. Sitting companionably beside the priest, she aired the question anyone with an eye and half a wit would.

“May I ask why you were in that tavern? It is an odd priest indeed who frequents dens of drink.” Their vows forbade clergy of the Guardian to imbibe alcohol. Violation of the stricture was a matter for penance. She kept her voice light, without hint of accusation. Miall wanted her query to be polite not scandalised. He seemed to take it in the way she intended and replied easily.

“Sir Taryet and I are hunting for a guide. We had asked at the more respectable hostelries but the Guildsmen we found there were not keen. They advised us to try the barn, which the itinerants frequented.” His words were an open door. The scout contemplated her options. The priest had presented her with an excellent opportunity to attach herself to the party.

She had her orders. Miall shuffled through her pouches, looking for her Venturers’ Guild badge. She found it among her handkerchiefs and extracted it. The copper disk was unpolished but untarnished, suggesting heavy use more than neglect. The embossed crossed club and staff crest was easily recognisable. The scout showed it to Brother Matteo.

“I have travelled extensively, though I am not a licensed guide by any means.” The books of the Wayfarers’ Guild were open to public scrutiny, which was why Miall avoided joining. She found it sometimes useful to deny local knowledge. The priest inspected the disk seriously, turning it over to read the number. “If you are hiring at Guild rates, I am interested.”

“Your badge is four hundred thirteen? That is very early. I have not seen one before less than five hundred and that belonged to an old man who retired to my abbey when I was still a novice.” He was too well-mannered to look openly sceptical but he needed convincing she was not a thief or an impostor. There were a variety of ways but she chose the one that would invite the least reprisal. She told the truth.

“This badge has been in my family for more than a century.” The copper disk had belonged to her mother, who had paid guild dues as a form of insurance. A Venturer’s badge provided a near infallible excuse for strangers going armed and armoured, particularly in places where foreigners were not welcome. “When I set out on my own, I inherited the badge. It has been something of a lucky charm.”

“We could do with some good fortune.” Brother Matteo massaged his side meditatively. From the bruises she had seen that morning, the scout did not wonder the priest was sore. Padraic had cracked several of his ribs. Come morning, he would doubtless be even more uncomfortable. “We are heading to the Sanctum to resupply and thence to the Iron Crags.”

“You want to go to the Crags?” Miall asked, genuinely taken aback. The Templar nodded and took some more tea. “Why ever would you want to go there? It is full of barbarians and wild things. Small wonder the guides turned you away.” This was a forward inquiry and the priest might demur. He sighed, looking at her and hopefully thinking her as innocuous as she seemed.

Miall worked hard to maintain this appearance. Other scouts in the Brethren got what they needed by intimidation and violence. Their methods were technically defensible in the service of the faith but ethically suspect. She preferred a more subtle approach and endeavoured to present herself always as pleasant and amiable. On this occasion, her placid demeanour was insufficient to inspire trust.

“I cannot say, alas. It is a matter of grave importance.” He was resolute on this. She did not press him further. They watched the clouds scutter across the stars for a while before the priest ventured a personal question of his own. “What brings you to the road, Yasmin? The difficulties here in Niem have discouraged most travellers from our country.”

“I confess to being something of a vagabond.” Here Miall diced with words. How much could she risk saying? Clergy of the Guardian had the ability to sense falsehoods. “There is so much in this world for me to learn. Godric’s Ford was merely a convenient stop on the road to knowledge. I have seen many places and I know the trade roads well.”

“We need a local’s eyes to steer us from trouble, particularly in these perilous times.” Brother Matteo briefly lamented the cloistered life he had led in his later years. Before this expedition, he had seen only two counties and although he knew them both down to the last tussock of grass beyond their borders he travelled by guess and road map. “What are the Venturer’s Guild rates for a guide?”

“A guide you cannot call me, or I risk the ire of the Wayfarers. They defend their purview jealously.” Miall wanted to be definite on this point as unlicensed persons poaching guild jobs could find themselves before a magistrate facing a complaint. “The difficulty is in the name, Brother Matteo. It would be best if you hired me as a caravan guard.”

“With respect, Yasmin, you do not seem the part.” The priest imperfectly smothered his laughter. He was not such a hermit not to have seen lady soldiers but Niemi womenfolk rarely picked up a sword. Brother Matteo had heard tales of vicious female mercenaries like Three Knife Jean and the battle-maidens of far northern mountains. He had difficulty imagining Yasmin as a valkyrie.

“There are many ways to keep something from harm.” The scout echoed his chuckle to hide her umbrage. Many other humans had said much the same to her over the years. Her family were warrior caste and maintained the traditions even after their exile. “Strife evaded is strife defeated. It may not be heroic but I find a fight avoided is often preferable to a costly victory.”

“Are you certain you are prepared to go with us into the Crags? You said yourself it is full of wild creatures and it is in the badlands we most need direction.” Brother Matteo thought of the comrades he had already lost to this journey. He had no wish to add another to the list. “If you are short of money, there are safer ways of earning it. A corpse takes only two coins into the afterlife; one on each eye.”

“Sound advice, I regard.” Miall turned her face serious to reassure the priest she did not consider the journey a jaunt. Whatever they sought was important to them and levity in this instance would serve only to alienate the Templar. “It is prudent for a woman to travel in company and I think I can make myself useful to you. The choice is yours.”

“I think you will do very well.” Brother Matteo suddenly smiled at her, evidently reaching a decision. They haggled for a moment over price. The priest was not particularly a good bargainer, he was too fair minded, but Miall did not push too hard. They settled in the end slightly above Venturers’ rates, which satisfied them both.

“To speak freely, I was most concerned as to how we would find our destination.” The priest confessed after they had clasped hands on the deal. “I had envisioned us trekking across the badlands for years, searching every ravine. The map we have is a mere scrap, incomplete. If you have personal knowledge of the Crags, we are well on our way.”

“I have crossed the badlands many times.” The memory of forced marches made her legs ache. The Brethren had fought a bitter campaign against a bandit lord’s forces holed up in the many cave systems in the Crags. The skirmishes had continued well into the winter. Miall had visions of red snow on black rocks and suppressed a shiver. “Perhaps if I may see your map, I could assist.”

It was a reasonable request and one the priest could not graciously refuse. He slowly pulled a scroll tube from inside his vestments and pressed his holy symbol to the seal. The top popped open. Someone had thought the contents worth an empowered lock. Miall made note of that. This was not some idle pilgrimage to keep the boy out of harm’s way.

He extracted an old scroll mounted on new vellum and unrolled it with delicacy. In the light of the wagon’s lantern, the parchment sparkled. The preserving oil archivists used for their most precious documents coated the surface thickly. The effort had clearly been belated as the map was torn and frayed. A large section of the top right corner was missing all together.

Miall studied the fragment, imagining the Crags and tried to find a landmark. There were many smudges and scrawls across the parchment, some indicating camps and others merely blots. She fancied one wavering line was a river and another was a curved ravine. Standing atop the Watchman’s Peak, looking north, the Troll stream and the Sickle Rift lay in such a formation.

“This section looks akin to a familiar vantage.” Of course, those lines could represent any number of places, if they were anywhere at all. Still, it was a start. Miall traced a finger over the markings, not touching the parchment itself. “It is on a major caravan route, so it is not preposterous to suppose the cartographer began at a regular meeting place. That is only a guess.”

“We can chance it.” Brother Matteo said firmly, his tone grim. Here he showed the determination that had made the Guardian clergy a force in Niemi politics. “How far is it from Sanctum Auberon? We need to make speed. The hunters are a bare step behind us.” He stopped abruptly. “I have let my tongue run away from me. Pray, pay my ramblings no mind.”

“No, good brother, I cannot do that. I understand your mission is important and secret but if I am to help, I need to know the risks. I have no fancy to be a slaughter lamb. Tell me what is going on or lock me in the wagon and immure me in the Sanctum. Is trust too much to ask?” The priest did not immediately offer an answer. Miall stared at the map as she waited, memorising it.

“I do not consider your request unreasonable.” He conceded after an unflattering amount of time debating her honesty. “Rhys’s father was murdered. He was a noble devoted to the Guardian and a powerful man. I can name no names. At the time we did not suspect foul play. We had no suspicions until an attempt was made on Rhys’s life.”

“What happened?” Miall asked mechanically. She could almost hear his words before he spoke them. This was the final confirmation of her suspicions. If she was correct, and she had no doubts, she would have to be very cautious indeed. The scout knew personally how ruthless Templars could be when defending what they considered the right.

“The family’s hunting lodge was burned to the ground. Through the grace of the Celestial Guardian, Rhys survived. Together with young Branna, he fled to our abbey. There Sir Taryet and I joined him, along with six other soldiers of the church. We had the map and a quest. It has not been an easy journey. Many people wish us in our graves.”

“Do you know who pursues you?” Miall asked instinctively and cursed herself lest she seem too inquisitive. She had heard of these events, as had most of the Brethren, but she dared not betray her knowledge. Too many questions might spark mistrust whilst too few would make her seem callous or cavalier. Brother Matteo shook his head wearily.

“I do not, but surely they want us dead.” He sighed. “Somehow they found us in New Porter. Had Sir Taryet not been wakeful, the assassin would have claimed the boy there. We have met one misfortune after another. Crossing the Sweetwater River cost us Sir Bereal. Then bandits cut down Toveen and Piers. I do not know what befell Brother Anselm. We found his body outside an inn in Kentorm, his throat slit.”

Master Kiansu had testily informed her and Padraic the boy was in Kentorm but had not added any specifics. The nearby hunting parties had hastily converged, only to find their quarry had already fled the town. She and the tracker had been in a tiny thorp fifty miles to the south, too far to answer the summons. That had been three weeks ago.

“We left him in a beggar’s chapel with enough coin for his funeral then ran like spooked squires.” The priest’s regret was audible. “After an enraged bear stormed through our camp, we had to leave Engar and Lars at the next church for they were too injured to continue on. The next calamity was the tavern fire in Godric’s Ford. That is the story of our travails. Do you still wish to join our quest?”

“You seem in need of my lucky talisman.” She ventured a small, commiserating smile. Miall did not like the prospect of travelling with the Templars in the slightest. The scout doubted she would become accustomed in time to their company. However, orders were orders. Master Kiansu would not find fault with her obedience.

“You speak truly.” Brother Matteo massaged his neck. “You take a weight from my heart. We shall start at dawn.” The priest levered himself to his feet. “I do not feel in need of victuals. My head is still quite jumbled. I will make an early night to be rejuvenated for the morrow.” He bade her good evening and retired to the wagon.