The jostling of a wagon ride really got to Alistair. Whatever the pavement, how ever smooth the ground was, it always rattled beneath the seat. His preferred method of travel would be to sleep on a pile of hay or a sack of spuds, but alas, those were unavailable this trip. And besides, he had a reputation to keep in mind now. Would one of the Lady’s blessed sleep in such a compromising position?
Well, Alistair would consider it if it meant a good night’s rest.
Things had moved rather quickly in the hours after he learned that he had less than a month to prove his worth to the Lady of the Lake. His family and what few friends he had were as supportive as they could be, but in the end, they were all simple peasants and had only so much to spare. Thankfully, his newfound acquaintance Sir Manus Druim had given him an offer Alistair would have been a fool to refuse.
With their duty to escort the maiden Isabele to her post in Wyrdwood finished, albeit with a tad more excitement than anyone had expected, it was time for the duke’s knights to return home. The trip back would be a long one, spanning at least two weeks that would see them travel through quite a number of towns and cities. All of which were perfect opportunities for Alistair to complete his quest.
When they first arrived at the castle, the riders had gone ahead and left in their wake a pair of supply wagons with their squires and other servants riding along. The same day Alistair made to leave, Manus received word from a runner that the squires had restored the necessary supplies for the trek back home. Since Alistair didn’t know how to ride or prepare a steed, nor did he have the money or clout to request one, a wagon would be his only option apart from walking.
And if he hated the rattle of a wooden cart on his posterior, he absolutely despised a forced march on his already sorely abused feet.
Now, he sat up front next to the coachman as their band of knights and retainers lazily trundled back up the way they came in through the valley. Wyrdwood rested in the middle of a valley of gentle green slopes surrounded by rolling hills, trailing grasslands, and thick patches of forest. The valley itself was secluded, doubly so as it rested on the effective border of the kingdom. There were a handful of settlements apart from Wyrdwood there, but none that would take more than a day or so for a group on horseback to visit.
That meant they would be quick to leave Alistair’s home behind. As they began their gentle climb up those mountain slopes, he came to realize this was his first time leaving the valley. A part of him felt a rush of excitement as his mind began to imagine what new sights and smells he might come upon first. A small part of him in the back of his head nagged, saying he should stop. That he should hop off the cart and run back home to his family, to safety, to normal.
“How are you faring, Alistair?” Manus had eased back from his leading position to trot next to the wagon.
“Good, milord,” he said, offering the old knight a forced grin.
Manus looked in good spirits as he held aloft his duke’s banner once again. The cloth had the illustration of a field of green and white with a golden and magnificent stag plastered over top. The dukedom was known for its teeming wildlife scattered among the thick woodland. It was also the youngest of the twelve territories of the kingdom so it stayed sparsely populated, especially after the costly border conflicts with the undead.
“I told you to call me Sir Manus, lad. Or have you already forgotten with all the excitement?” Manus asked. He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes as if displeased but still clearly in jest.
“I’m sorry, Sir Manus. I just have a lot on my mind,” Alistair said.
“No doubt the daughter left you with much to consider. All the same, I’m envious of you lad.” Manus chuckled. His eyes glossed over as he began to reminisce. “Watching your adventure at its humble start reminds me of the beginnings of my own knight-errant days. What a time that was.”
Somehow, Alistair felt as if his adventure had a much less glamorous start.
Well, beggars can’t be choosers.
“We have some time before we’ll make camp for the night. Feel free to introduce yourself to the rest of our companions. No doubt they will be quite interested in meeting a supplicant. You are a rare breed, after all.” With that Manus clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward again to take the lead on the convoy, kicking up dust as he did.
Alistair glanced at the coachman and in response, the man glanced back. He was an older man with a tuft of salt and pepper mixed hair and a scraggly beard. From the short time they had spent together, he didn’t seem the talking type. The only word he had uttered so far during their trip was ‘Nels’, presumably his name.
Sat behind him were the rest of the servants that were made to attend to the knights. Altogether there were eight of them, all peasant men on the youngish side, with two each being assigned to a single knight. It was their responsibility to pitch tents, hunt and cook food, and do any other menial task the squires and their knights had no want to bother with. That made their list of responsibilities quite long by the end of the day, and so Alistair knew better than to bother them as they all tried to get what rest they could before night descended.
The squires were up in the first cart. They were four young men, one to each knight this time, that were each a noble in their own right. These were apprentices on the job learning what it meant to be a warrior for a lord, a privileged position only highborn could aspire to. At least, that was the little Alistair knew about it. He was doubly sure those men wanted as little to do with him as possible.
At best they saw him as an extra peasant mouth to feed, and at worst an upjumped charlatan that lied and cheated his way onto their little caravan.
“Oi! Psst,” said someone in the back.
Alistair turned his head and was greeted by a man’s face inches from his own. He recoiled and almost fell off the wagon itself. That got a rare laugh out of Nels and the man who played the prank also looked quite pleased with himself.
Alistair glared at him. “What was that about?”
“No insult meant, friend. Just a humble attempt at your attention ‘twas all,” he said cheekily, his smirk not shrinking an iota. “I merely meant to ask where one might acquire such a trinket as the one ‘round yer neck. One like it would look quite fetching on me, I’d say.”
“This was a gift,” Alistair said. He gripped the relic token tightly, wary of the man.
“A gift? You jest, sir.” He laughed as if it were truly a joke. “Who would offer such a bauble to a pauper like yourself?”
Alistair certainly didn’t want to see where this conversation would lead, and yet he felt afraid to leave the subject unattended. His father had warned him of unscrupulous folk like this. They could be noble or peasant, man or woman, but they all had in common an intense greed for material wealth. So, rather than debate the man or humor his poor attempts at argument, Alistair instead decided to try out his newest trick.
Just as Isabele had taught him Alistair focused on the man with great scrutiny. It was just long enough for the self-proclaimed jester to make a funny face, like he thought Alistair might have a screw loose. Then soon enough the man’s expression changed to pure terror and he threw himself back into the wagon, toppling over a couple of his compatriots.
“Freak! Rotter!” he cried, startling those around him.
The Sight offered Alistair nothing of value on this man, nor any of those present in the cart for that matter. He had learned through experimentation at the start of this cart ride that the magic only provided written words on a limited band of subjects. People were included, but only those important enough to warrant it. At the time he had felt a sting of disappointment that he couldn’t pick any man’s name out of a crowd. That would have been a nice trick.
At the same time, he couldn’t blame the Lady for not wanting to track the thousands of men that went by the name Rolfe or Smith.
After a moment or two, the glow faded from the inside of his eyes. Alistair maintained his glare for another second or two just for added effect, before finally turning back in his seat. He continued his bored vigil of the dusty track ahead. Nels whistled in silent amusement at the altercation before he too went back to the reins.
The peace didn’t last long, unfortunately. When their party crested the lip of the valley, everyone could spot a trail of smoke in the sky. One of the knights further ahead blew into a horn to signal the convoy to stop. Alistair got off his seat and ran up the twenty paces or so to the first wagon. He wanted to get a better look.
They were still a small distance away from the source of the smoke, a league or less he guessed, but well within his view was a village on the horizon. It looked to be the source of the smoke, and it was clear even from where Alistair stood that there were multiple fires. This was no accident.
Manus Druim remained at the front. Any humor he had from before was gone as he watched and waited, hands tight to the reins of his warhorse. Alistair counted only three of the riders, and so maybe one had ridden ahead to check things out. The squires inside the first wagon were scrambling to ready their lords’ shields and lances with conflict on the horizon.
“Sir Manus!” Alistair ran up to the knight and couldn’t control his voice. His inexperience in combat showed among the knights, as they remained rigid and silent.
“Calm yourself, Alistair,” Manus said, still looking toward the village. He was waiting for his scout to return. “We won’t do anyone good there if we don’t know what we’re up against.”
“R-Right, of course,” Alistair said, tucking his head down. He cursed his anxiety and tried to still his quickly beating heart.
The few times he had seen combat before, they were against little bands of hobs. More importantly, he had always been part of a large group of his fellow men-at-arms. Militiamen always worked best in large groups like that. Having the numbers on your side certainly gave a morale boost, especially when you were fighting hideous monstrosities. He would be embarrassed to admit the few ‘kills’ he counted to himself were surely shared with a half dozen other men, as the polearms they used were all thrust forward at once to skewer their enemies.
Alistair still had much to learn when it came to how a knight, and paladins for that matter, fought.
The clip-clop of a heavy steed galloping along the grassy path brought Alistair back to the present. Manus’s knight had returned. He rode right up to their formation before yanking the reins, easing up mere feet away from Sir Manus. His expression was hidden beneath his helmet, but his urgency to return no doubt meant there was nothing good to report.
“A band of hobs, lord Druim. They’re raiding the village.” Hobs by themselves weren’t particularly difficult creatures to fight. They were squat things, no more than three or four feet, and disgustingly thick with clay-like skin. Slow movers, their one advantage remained the toughness of their skin against a human’s blade or axe.
“Just hobs?” Manus asked.
The knight shook his head. “Supported by an orc, my lord.”
Alistair’s confidence fell a tad at hearing that. Orcs were like the larger, uglier cousin to the hob. Even stronger and more mobile on account of their two cloven feet and upright posture, the creatures were a strange mix of man, hob, and pig. They lacked the conniving intelligence of hobs, however, and were often just used as muscle. That alone was enough, however, to make them a serious threat.
But with four knights and whatever Alistair counted as, he felt somewhat confident in their chances. He had only activated his mantle form once so far, but he felt confident he could do it again. Adrenaline pushed his fear to the back of his mind. He became eager to go and fight.
“Ready your weapons, lads!” Manus said over his shoulder. As he did, Manus readied his helmet and slotted it over his head.
The squires ran out of the wagon with a variety of weapons and armor in their arms. Together the four of them set to work equipping the knights in record time. A lance in their right arm and a shield on the left. Each knight already had their swords tucked into their scabbards, ready to pull out for when their lance struck its first target.
“Give me your hand, Alistair.” Manus approached on horseback, one hand still free and outstretched for the supplicant to take. “You will ride with me until we reach the gate, then I’ll have you hop off. I trust you can handle yourself?”
“Yes, milord,” Alistair said. He then took the knight’s offered hand and pulled himself up. With a bit of effort, he managed to find a spot to comfortably sit behind the armored knight.
Manus’s squire then handed him his lance. It was a beautifully crafted narrow shaft of ash wood, painted in weaving stripes of white and red, with a single sharp point of steel on the tip. With the right speed and careful aim, guided by a skilled rider, the weapon would smash even a well-armored opponent to the ground with grievous injury.
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“Onward men. For the King! For Isen!”
The knights echoed his battlecry and the four horses charged off toward the fray. This would be the first time Alistair had experienced riding on horseback. It felt nauseating, doubly so because of the rapid speed at which they went. The village grew larger and larger. Alistair smiled knowing it would soon be time to get off the horse.
Manus expertly eased his steed down from galloping into a controlled canter. His men sped past him to his left and right, tearing through the village’s main thoroughfare at breakneck speed. There were no gates or walls to go around or avoid, but there were people and creatures scattered everywhere. Utter chaos surrounded them.
“This is your stop lad!” Manus shouted over the din of combat.
Alistair did as he was told and slipped off from the horse’s back. He felt close to hurling but he forced that feeling down into the same gut it was coming up from. There were bigger things to deal with now.
Manus said nothing else, but he did offer Alistair a slight nod of respect. A silent wish of good luck even. Then he turned his horse and galloped a ways back. He ran it in a wide circle and before long Manus once again angled for the gate. The time it took to do the maneuver couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. It allowed him to get his speed up again for a more devastating use of his lance.
Alistair was humbled by the knight’s skillful performance and watched him ride into the village. Only when Manus fell out of sight did the screams and clash of swords remind him of what he was meant to be doing. This time Alistair merely focused on the thought of his red, hulking form for a moment and it was enough to activate his mantle form. After a mere moment or two, he managed to transform into his Aegis body. From there he ran into the village proper.
The first thing he saw was blood, the unmistakable red stains stood out right away. Bodies were strewn about the muddy, filthy streets of the small settlement. The smell was awful. The burning of wood and the oppressive stink of iron.
Alistair first ran into two of the gray-skinned hobs dragging a woman by her legs. She clawed at the wet dirt and screamed bloody murder, but they were too strong for her to fight. He came at them from the front as they made their way out of town. The moment they saw his hulking eight-foot form they dropped the woman. Together, they aimed their crude spears at him.
He slowed just enough so that he wouldn’t accidentally overstep and crush the woman underfoot. Their pitiful wooden weapons snapped against the armor of his chest plate and then he was on them in seconds. His enhanced strength felt like second nature now as he sent one punch hurtling into the side of one’s head. It got hit so hard it flew into the wall next to it, and what was left of its noggin turned to jelly.
The second one had just enough time to scream before Alistair’s other gauntlet whacked him from the dorsal side. Its body landed in a heap clear onto the other side of the road. He could hear no more noise from its throat.
The woman had scrambled to her feet and ran back inside to the relative safety of her home. He hoped that she could fend for herself as he went further down the road to try and assess the damage. These were farmer families, evidenced by their simple wooden hovels and humble fashion. Everywhere he looked he found more of them, dead and dying. They were being slaughtered wholesale by these evil creatures. And those who weren’t killed were dragged away to a fate surely worse than death.
Further down, he saw evidence the knights had passed by. Shattered remains of hobs littered the streets there. Some had been run through with lances, others simply trampled to death. Alistair even saw some humans still alive peeking out from their windows. It gave him hope that they weren’t too late to save some.
Out from an alleyway, a hob wandered into view just a few paces ahead. It peeked around the corner, perhaps hiding from the knights. Alistair increased his speed to a full sprint again, thanking the Lady for his newfound stamina. He smashed into the hob with great force, trampling it underfoot. The impact barely felt like anything to him. Before the creature even had the chance to figure out what had happened, Alistair brought his foot down onto its egg-shaped head. Its brains scattered like yolk.
Alistair ignored the gore and moved on, lest he get sick. Before long, he had arrived at a sort of central square. There he saw some of the knights engaged in combat against the gray-skinned monsters. They were deflecting the hobs’ attempts to spear them and their steeds with sword and shield, their lances already used and discarded.
The creatures lacked skill but at the moment they had the numbers. One attempted to get around to the rider’s blindside and got a deadly face full of the horse’s rear hooves. The knight and horse were a deadly pair and not to be easily outmaneuvered. Still, they were vulnerable when they weren’t on the move and the tight confines of the village had taken away the knights’ mobility.
Alistair leaped into action at the nearest hob and threw it to the side. His strength and natural defense made their attacks bounce off him without much effort on his part. The ones he would punch or throw that managed to survive were swiftly dispatched by his mounted friends. Together, the three of them finished a half dozen hobs in no time flat.
They heard the snort of a pig as something entered the square, an orc. It wasn’t alone. A group of hobs surrounded it, all with a collection of shoddy spears and shields made of splintered wood. The orc itself wielded a rusted axe the size of a human child in one hand, a shield in its other arm.
Alistair and the knights prepared to face this new threat when they heard the familiar sound of a galloping horse. From behind where the orc and his compatriots were running from came Sir Manus Druim and the other knight, their lances aimed low and leveled at the orc. It happened so fast that Alistair honestly couldn’t say which one took the kill, but he did see the pig snout fly high into the air with a spray of arterial blood beneath it. Their charge ripped through either side of the hobs and sent them scattering, with at least one being trampled underneath the weight.
The knights next to Alistair shouted into the air and proudly lifted their swords above their heads in triumph. They rode forward with what momentum they could muster from their mounts and attacked. Given the hobs’ height, the riders had to sweep their sword arms low for a decapitating strike, much lower than would be necessary for a human target. It left them more vulnerable to attack and to being dragged off their saddle by a savvy enemy, but these hobs were anything but.
This raiding party clearly didn’t expect warriors of their caliber to appear, and it showed in their lack of equipment and the poor tactics they displayed. Sure, they were intelligent enough to fashion tools and simple clothing for themselves, but Alistair had never heard one speak a proper word or even attempt diplomacy before.
Just as the hobs had slaughtered the villagers, so too had the knights slaughtered them with equally little effort.
Before long the battle was clearly over. There were no horns sounded in triumph or flower petals thrown at their feet like one might imagine in a storybook. No, all that was left to greet them was a half-burned village covered in bodies and soot. This reality brought Alistair’s adrenaline high crashing back down. He thought his first victory was meant to be filling and wholesome.
Rather than celebrate, he stood there and came to accept the reality of death.
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The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity that Alistair felt as if a mere bystander to. Sir Manus Druim of course took charge right away and directed the wagons be brought into the square. It was a risk leaving them outside the village alone when they knew a number of hobs had escaped. They were witnessed by the knights and the remaining villagers dragging their loved ones away into the forest nearby.
Fires were a struggle for a village of this size to put out. The best they had was a well of water and certainly not enough buckets to fill or time to go for the nearby stream. Most of the damage was done already and the rest was left to burn. The villagers consolidated into what they viewed as the largest and most intact structures left, namely the local tavern and town hall.
Heads were counted, children consoled, and lists of the missing and the dead were slowly compiled as day turned to evening. The knights took turns patrolling the outskirts of the village and made passes at the forest where the hobs had disappeared off to. There were no signs of the creatures or the people they had taken, and before long it grew too dark to see.
Every human still alive and remotely capable of action was now gathered in the town hall to discuss their next course of action. The knights and their squires had gravitated to one end and the remaining men of the village to the other. In the middle of them was a long table that had strewn about it, among other things, a scribbled map of the surrounding area. Alistair found himself off to the side as he listened close.
“We must go in after them,” said one of the villagers.
“They took my wife!” said another.
One man wailed. “My son’s missin’. I know the bastards took ‘em.” His eyes were bloodshot from tears.
Sir Manus was quiet and his expression grave. Despite the crude makings of the map beneath him, he stared daggers at it. No doubt he was wracking his brain, searching for the right plan of attack.
“Well, sir knight?! Please, say somethin’,” one of them begged.
The knights and squires looked to Sir Manus. They put their full trust in him to know the best course of action. None dared speak until he did.
The noble shook his head. “It’s simply too dark. Even by torchlight, we’d be at a significant disadvantage. They would see us coming a mile away. And we don’t even know exactly where their lair is.”
“We could set the wood on fire,” said one of the knights. “It would no doubt scatter the easily frightened creatures out of hiding.”
“Just as likely to harm the villagers,” added another. The knight that had offered the suggestion thought for a moment and then shrugged.
“We don’t know how many of them there are,” said Manus. “Even with the strength we displayed today, in the woods we could easily be ambushed and overwhelmed.”
The villagers looked between the knights as they debated. Their moods were souring quickly as it became clear that no clear plan was in shape. It was their loved ones in danger and the longer they waited the worse things would get out there. The fear and anxiety in the room was palpable.
“You can’t be meanin’, you won’t go save ‘em? They need us, sir,” said one.
“They took my wife!” one man repeated, this time even more emphatically.
“I’ve dealt with hobs before and I know how you feel.” Sir Manus’s expression was pained. “In my time I have liberated dozens, nay hundreds of captives these creatures have taken. I know what horrors we’ll find out there, and what will happen if we wait. But if we go now, we will be just as likely to join the dead that now lay gathered in the village square.”
“What are ya suggestin’ we do then? Wait?!” asked someone.
The sounds of discontent and anger were growing on the peasant side of the table. This was starting to look ugly. Alistair found it hard to blame them though. The thought of his mother or sister, or anyone he cared about in the clutches of monsters was horrifying. Knowing in your heart that unspeakable things could or would be done to them, and yet also understanding your own inability to save them. That would kill the hope of anyone.
Manus’s voice boomed over them. “At first light, we’ll send a rider to Wyrdwood. With a proper horse-drawn cart, we can have a squad of men-at-arms here in less than a couple of hours. We’ll march in force and save whoever we can.”
“None’ll be left, ya git!” Many echoed that statement.
“Stay your tongue!” said one of the knights, his hand tightly held to the hilt of his sword. “You speak to a trusted retainer of the duke. Show some respect!”
All the nobles were on edge now. They were afraid this would turn violent.
Then for whatever reason, the peasants turned Alistair’s way. Despite his present company, he still dressed humbly like most lowborn. He wore a simple leather plate over his linen tunic and trousers, with a rusty scabbard hanging loosely from his belt. The old thing had been a gift from his sergeant, as Hughe hadn’t the time nor the permission to properly craft him a blade. On Alistair’s back was a large rucksack that carried what few belongings he had, and it marked him immediately as a type of traveling beggar.
They clearly recognized one of their own in him.
“Sir, you must be of the mind to help us, yes?” someone asked.
“Yes. You have some magic to ye. A paladin, wasn’t it?”
That got the crowd up into an excited frenzy. Just the word ‘paladin’ was enough to get their imaginations running wild. Paladins were effective legends if it was this easy to rally the people to your cause. But, Alistair remained a mere supplicant. A supplicant who knew no tactics or strategy. His most glamorous kill had been with his fist rather than with a stunning slash of the blade or the thrust of a spear.
“Uh, well…you see, eh.” Alistair stumbled over his words. He was never good in front of a crowd.
“Young Alistair is a fine warrior, but he isn’t a paladin. He’s a supplicant, an apprentice,” Manus said to the people frothing in front of him. “The lad has promise but he can’t take on an army alone!”
“I saw ‘im smash a hob’s skull underfoot!”
“An’ I saw ‘im bash one’s ‘ead in wit his fist!”
“He saved me wife from two of ‘em. Didn’t break ‘is stride doin’ it!”
None of them were wrong in their animated retelling of the battle. Yet it was also fair to say he had taken most of his enemies by surprise. The hobs weren’t the true concern, but instead the orcs. No doubt if he were to have fought that one directly it would have been more than a match for his fists. Their height was just a bit shy the same as his Aegis form, and its green hide was tough.
Thankfully they had the advantage of cavalry to knock it down, but in a tightly packed forest in the dead of night? He feared it wouldn’t be so easy.
Alistair bowed his head to the peasantry. “I’m sorry, but I think Sir Manus is right. We don’t know what’s waiting for us out there. Best we stick with his plan, lest more die.”
“Cowards and rotters, all ya!”
“If you won’t do it, we’ll go ourselves!”
The crowd of men worked themselves up into an emotion-fueled hysteria. Together they all stormed out of the hall, off to collect torches and makeshift weapons. His answer sounded right, and yet Alistair still felt like he had done something wrong. Even if he was just a supplicant, was this really where he had to draw the line of what he was truly capable of?
He didn’t know the limit of his strength, and it scared him to think that maybe he could have done something more.
Alistair stirred from these thoughts as a heavy gauntlet fell on his shoulder. Sir Manus looked at him with a difficult expression. It was a mix of sympathy and maybe a shade of doubt. As if he too wondered if there was another option.
“I don’t like it any more than they do, but it’s suicide. Someone has to stay here and protect the women and children still left. At first light, I promise we’ll go.”
Alistair felt numb but he nodded all the same.
“Get some rest lad, you’ll need it.”
The knights would take turns keeping an eye out until morning to ensure no hobs returned. For a while Alistair could hear the peasant men outside, rumbling and raving until eventually, they left together in one big mass. No doubt headed straight for the heart of the forest. He prayed for their success and safe return, but he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
To escape these horrid thoughts Alistair tried to find a place to sleep. The town hall lacked any kind of proper bedding, but he was lucky to find a storeroom of sorts. Tucked away in a corner was a sack of, you guessed it, spuds. That improved his mood at least a little. With any luck, such a spot would help him fall asleep that much faster.
He settled on his back and tried to level out on the potatoes beneath him. What normally took him some time to find just the right spot, happened instead right away. It was in just a simple moment his eyelids suddenly felt heavy. The relic token around his neck glowed a bright golden light as the young man was lulled into a deep sleep.