Knight of the Tenebral Sword

Dawn found her seated beside Branna on the wagon with the others riding. Rhys’s mount was a fine thoroughbred stallion, while the Templars’ horses were of less distinguished heritage. They made good time, considering the carthorses’ reluctance to move faster than a trot. In Miall’s opinion, the wagon would be more hindrance than help in the Crags.

She whiled the morning away contemplating provisions, keeping her mind busy to fend off boredom. The scout had served part of her novitiate as an actual caravan guard and knew how tedious it could be to stare at landscape all day. Branna chattered like a sparrow, seemingly not noticing her companion’s abstraction. The girl probably found it emancipating to speak her mind without chastisement.

The first tremor in Miall’s placid day was the crows. They circled over the trees to the north-west in slow, tight rings. That presaged one thing to her. The veteran of many battlefields, she understood what those black shapes meant. The scout frowned slightly as she reviewed the terrain in that direction. Was there a position for ambush near the crows?

“Something troubles you, mistress?” Sir Taryet had noticed her expression and urged his horse a little closer to the wagon. His voice was carefully controlled without hint of his heritage. Given the strength of his accent, the smooth inflection must have taken much practise. She envied him the talent, for disguising her voice was not a skill the scout had mastered.

“Please call me Yasmin.” Miall remarked absently to her boots as she fished a map out of the backpack resting at her feet. She spread the parchment across her knees and confirmed her suspicions. The scout traced a finger along the dark line representing the trade road. The hal-sakoi leaned over, hanging half out of his saddle, to look. “Those crows mean carrion ahead.”

“I mistrust so many birds gathered together.” His thin lips pulled across his pronounced canines and made him look ferocious. Miall echoed his sentiments heartily. She was about to agree with him when he started and his face blanked of all expression. Sir Taryet hastily straightened away from her. The scout did not look at him as he self-consciously composed himself.

The hal-sakoi tried hard to hide his heritage, making himself seem as human as possible. Miall could not help but sympathise for she lived that lie every day. When he had arranged his features in a less brutal look, the scout glanced up from the map. She did not make eye contact but she kept her tone smooth so he would not see he unsettled her with his proximity.

“Three miles down the road there is a dell flanked by thick trees on either side.” She and Padraic had come down this road into Godric’s Ford but had skirted the small gully, preferring to go cross country rather than risk being waylaid. Although the Brethren encouraged martial prowess, the society also counselled caution.

“I will tell Brother Matteo of this.” Templar nudged his horse forward to speak to the priest. Branna, who had eavesdropped on the brief exchange, looked worried. She did not like the sudden change in her companions’ manners. That augured something amiss and the young woman had suffered enough surprises in the past season to last a long, dull life.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, evidencing a certain amount of peasant fatalism. Miall stowed the map carefully. The girl was not stupid though her education was not extensive. Too often people of her class put more emphasis on work now rather than profession later. The scout decided it would alienate Branna if she did not answer candidly.

“Those crows tell me there is death ahead.” She had never mastered the art of breaking bad news gently. Branna paled under her tan. “Sir Taryet has gone to consult Brother Matteo. He will instruct us what to do shortly.” The scout clandestinely loosened a knife hilt, though if there was an ambush ahead and came to a fight their chances were not good.

The priest had evidently come to the same conclusion as after his conference with Sir Taryet and then Rhys, he gave the order to hurry. They would ride through the dangerous area as quickly as possible and pray they outrode any trap set there. In three months on the road, Branna had shed her serf deference far enough to object to this proposal out loud.

“Gwen and Clara can’t run like racehorses. They’ll puff themselves out before a mile.” She was genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of the animals in her care. The carthorses belonged to her father and represented a significant portion of his worldly wealth. The young woman had promised to look after them and she took her obligations seriously.

“The wagon does indeed dictate our pace.” Brother Matteo accepted. “It is three miles to the dell, Yasmin?” The scout answered with a nod. “Just before we are in sight of the dip, tell Branna. Spur the carthorses then, girl, and keep them going as long as possible. If there is no pursuit we can slow to a canter. Gwen and Clara, as you say, can surely manage that.”

With their plan decided, they resumed their places. The Templars and their ward drew their swords in anticipation of assault. Branna’s knuckles were white on the reins as the carthorses resumed their steady trot. Miall scrutinized the forest keenly until the appropriate moment but when the time came, her signal was unnecessary.

The dell was steeper on one side than the other so when they approached they had a clear view of the destruction ahead. Their carthorses shied, bringing them to a rough halt. A merchant’s wagon lay on its side, half in the ditch with its horses dead in the traces. Crows lofted into the air like a black curtain at their arrival, revealing the strewn corpses.

Branna stumbled down from the driver’s bench and into the bushes to be noisily sick. Rhys, looking little better than the peasant girl, turned his head away and swallowed convulsively. Brother Matteo blessed himself then dismounted to see if there was anything he could do. Sir Taryet also slid out of his saddle but with sword ready. Miall stepped down carefully and walked over to the wagon.

Her eyes had not been mistaken. On the bottom of the vehicle, scrawled between the axles in what she suspected was horse rather than human blood, was a symbol she had seen before. Done in rough lines like a child’s drawing, was a man hanging from a gallows with his legs kicking wide. There were four red hand prints beneath the scaffold.

She turned away without drawing attention to the emblem of the Dancing Man. They were a pack of outcasts who dabbled in what they thought was old magic, waylaying travellers for sacrifice not profit. Miall had not run across them before but her mother had for the Dancing Man often hunted their kind for the power in their blood. The scout mutely rejoined Branna.

The girl smiled shakily and made a show of nonchalantly settling the carthorses while Brother Matteo prayed over the dead. Rhys made himself help the Templars dig graves though he was ashen faced and trembling by the end of it. The priest brusquely stopped Miall as she began to search the merchant’s wagon then apologised and bade her continue.

“It galls me to gain from bandits.” He sounded old and looked it. The scout put a hand on his arm though she wanted to recoil from the corpse-scent on his clothes. Normally, the dead did not trouble her but the Dancing Man’s attentions made the bodies unclean. “Take only what we need, then we leave. There is nothing more we can do.”

They set off and did not stop until well after sunset, pulling up only after the riding horses began to stagger. They were perhaps three hours from the tiny village of Long Meadow but no one wanted to push on. A day beyond the village, the trade road merged into the more popular Willow Road, which followed the Shining River all the way to the Imperial border.

There would be more traffic once the roads merged, a prospect affording Miall a little comfort. Alone, they were easy prey. One wagon could disappear without anyone remarking upon its absence. A bustling thoroughfare greatly diminished the incidental dangers of travel. Of course, the risk of their identities becoming public was much greater.

Branna cooked another mutton stew while Rhys fed the fire. Sir Taryet sharpened his long sword and Matteo washed a tunic in a bucket of cold water. Miall darned some socks. The scene was very domestic. Due to the tumult of the day, they all retired early. Everyone bar the peasant girl took watch. The scout drew the third shortest straw and therefore the third shift.

Rhys woke her in the small hours. The boy yawningly informed her nothing beyond owls had disturbed his guard duty. He retired to his blanket, chastely separated from Branna’s by the priest’s slumbering form. The scout found a concealed vantage with her back to a mossy boulder and stood sentry for an hour as the camp quieted into heavy slumber.

When she was as confident as she could be her companions slept the sleep of the just, Miall extracted the gold wire from her boot. She bent it into a subtly different shape than the one she had previously used to link with her field commander. This form signalled presence only. It was far safer than an active link for it used less energy and was much quicker. The Templars would not be able to detect it.

Miall waited for the metal to heat, showing it had been detected then she straightened and replaced the wire. The Brethren knew where they were now. Master Kiansu said she would be shadowed, which the scout hoped meant she did not have a long wait. Nothing of import occurred on her watch and she woke Brother Matteo at the appropriate time.