Brittle walked at Sir Thomassin’s side, following the snaking dirt road as it weaved into the heart of the village. Stone cottages rose up on either side, their square windows glowed dull yellow, like eyes in the dark, lit from hearths within. Trails of wispy smoke rose from the chimneys into the sky, filling the cool night air with the smell of wood-burning fire.

Brittle shuddered at the smell.

The hour was dusk and the streets were empty. Sir Thomassin strode on undeterred, his confident steps leading them through the empty village and delivering them to the steps of a building with barred windows. “Have the scroll ready,” Thom whispered as he raised his fist to the oak door.

“Oh right.”

Brittle scrambled to retrieve the very official-looking decree. Dissatisfied with Sir Thomassin’s penmanship, Lastar had taken it upon himself to forge it properly. Marked with neat, scrolling letters and words Brittle couldn’t pronounce any more than he could read, the decree certainly looked as if it’d come from the personal scribe of the king.

In addition to a human body, Lastar’s glamour had come with a new wardrobe as well. Brittle tried not to get caught up on the logic of magical robes and bodies as he reached his hand into the inside of his cloak and withdrew the scroll. “Ready.”

The heavy door drew open before Sir Thomassin could knock.

“Good night, Sheriff. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and–” A stocky man jerked to a stop in the doorway.

Sir Thomassin recovered from his surprise the fastest. “Good evening, sir!” he boomed, placing his gauntleted hand onto the man’s shoulder in a welcoming fashion. “My apologies for giving you a start. My squire and I seek an audience with the village sheriff. We would be most appreciative if you could point us in the correct direction.”

“We have a scroll!” Brittle said, waving it overhead as proof.

The man had the droopy eyes of a basset hound. His stare darted from Sir Thomassin to Brittle and back again. “I, uh,” he sputtered, tripping over his own words. He stopped and started again, puffing out his chest. “Now see here, you can’t just go barging in on people in the middle of the night–”

“It’s barely twilight,” Brittle said.

Sir Thomassin stepped forward, silencing Brittle with a kick as he slid past and assumed center stage. “Again, you have our deepest apologies, but it’s a matter of utmost urgency.” The knight leaned closer and lowered his voice to a fervent whisper, “Official business of King Eluard himself. High priority. Very important.”

The man’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “The king?”

“The king,” Sir Thomassin confirmed.

“We have a scroll!”

“Oh my. That is important. Rodrick will surely want to know this. Can’t wait ‘til morning, I suppose.” The man pulled at the corners of his worn leather vest as he mulled the information over, mumbling to himself. He started to turn back around and then stopped, as if remembering something. “And who are you?”

“Sir Thomassin the Noble.” Sir Thomassin stepped aside, gesturing to Brittle with a sweep of his arm. “And this is my squire.”

Brittle opened his mouth to introduce himself, but Sir Thomassin beat him to it.

“Quiet Boy.”

The man in the doorway blinked several times in confusion. “His name is Quiet Boy?”

Sir Thomassin shrugged, causing his armor to creak in protest. “You know how it is with squires. Impossible to keep track of names when you run through them as quickly as I do. I find it’s easier to name them myself. It’s best to keep it simple, stick to a defining trait, if you will.”

Brittle glowered at the back of Sir Thomassin’s head. For someone who’d protested his involvement, the former knight was enjoying his role far more than he had any right to.

Sir Thomassin reached back and clapped Brittle on the shoulder approvingly. “The lad’s a real step up from my previous squire, Stop Crying.”

“I see,” the man in the doorway said.

“Now, about the sheriff?” Sir Thomassin reminded him with a tight smile.

The man’s gray, push broom mustache twitched. “Oh, right. Yes, let me fetch Rodrick for you. He’s been a bit under the weather lately, but he’ll make an exception for business of the king.” He turned around, gesturing for them to follow. “Come wait inside, gentlemen. I’ll go fetch him. It’ll be but a minute.”

Brittle stomped up the creaky wooden steps in Sir Thomassin’s wake. The room was depressingly bare. There was a desk and chair at the front, an unlit hearth at the back, and a scattering of cupboards that hung crooked along the wall. The front windows were so clouded with grime, they no longer qualified as see-through. The glass reflected the light of the candle on the desk, casting the musty room in flickers of dirty yellow.

Brittle crossed his arms and glared at Sir Thomassin. “My name isn’t–”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Quiet, boy,” Sir Thomassin said, doing his best to disguise the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The best squires are seen, not heard.”

A hacking cough reverberated along the adjoining hallway, sparing Sir Thomassin from the earful he so rightfully deserved. The stout man from before, a deputy, by Brittle’s estimation, returned with the sheriff in tow. The sheriff hobbled along, gripping his deputy’s shoulder with one hand as he braced against the wall with the other. A glistening sheen of sweat coated his sallow brow.

The sheriff reached the end of the hallway and pushed off from the wall, straightening his posture as he approached. Tried to, anyway. The effect reminded Brittle of a wilted flower. No matter how you angled it, it still flopped to one side. The sheriff ignored Brittle completely, focused on Sir Thomassin. He squinted his beady eyes, peering hard at the knight’s armor. Whether it was due to the poor light or simple exhaustion, he gave up, conceding the matter with a confused shake of his head.

“A knight, really?” he said, moping at his brow with a liver-spotted hand. “All the way out here?”

Sir Thomassin struck his clenched fist against his breastplate. It produced a metallic clang. “Sir Thomassin the Noble, on the behalf of his royal highness, King Eluard.”

The deputy bowed. “We’re honored, your knightly-ness.”

Sheriff Rodrick’s bloodshot eyes roved upwards in exasperation. His mouth slung open to speak, but the words were stolen from his lips, replaced by a rattling cough. The sheriff lurched forward, coughing and sputtering into the crook of his arm. He forced his words out between wet hacks. “Why…are…you here?”

Several painful seconds passed before Brittle realized Sir Thomassin was staring expectantly in his direction. The knight cleared his throat. “The scroll, squire.”

“I have a scroll!” The one and only line Brittle had committed to memory came tumbling out of his open mouth on its own volition. He brandished the scroll overhead, unsure of what else he was expected to do. He gave it a little shake for added measure.

“Well?” Sheriff Rodrick said.

“Well what?”

“Are you going to read it?” Sheriff Rodrick coughed into his arm again, waving Brittle on with his other hand feebly. “Go on. Get on with it already.”

The deputy whispered to no one in particular, “The sheriff’s eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Son of gum tree! Of all the scenarios they’d rehearsed, none of them had required Brittle to decipher Lastar’s artistic penmanship. He broke the seal and unraveled the scroll with a flourish, eyes darting to Sir Thomassin for help. The knight’s face was pinched tight with concern.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Brittle pretended to skim the neat lines of black ink. “The Kingdom of Weigh has received word of the ailment that’s stricken the good people of Pleasant Valley.”

So far so good. Unfortunately, Brittle’s nerves got the better of him and his imagination plunged steeply downhill from there. “Take the mushroom if you know what’s good for you. Also, it’s not nice to take innocent people prisoner. Please stop doing that. Love, King Eluard.”

“He’s paraphrasing!” Sir Thomassin snatched the scroll from Brittle’s hands with a nervous laugh. “Truth be told, I don’t even think the lad can read.”

“My spelling's not much better, either,” Brittle admitted.

Sir Thomassin continued, “The short of it is, gentlemen, word of your predicament reached the king. Yours is not the only village to have fallen ill to a mysterious sickness. The king tasked his best doctors with finding a cure and now we have it. I was sent here, on the behest of King Eluard, to deliver it in person.”

“Hear that, Sheriff?” The deputy turned to the bent man. “It’s a plague. Not witchcraft, after all, like you sa–”

Sheriff Rodrick silenced his bumbling deputy with a glare. “Of course it’s not witchcraft. I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. You said old Barnabus Nettles and that granddaughter of his were to blame. Insisted they’d put a curse on the whole village and the only way to lift it would be to–” The deputy’s account was cut short by the Sheriff’s boot slamming against his toes.

The deputy hopped on one leg with a howl, clutching his throbbing foot between his hands. Sir Thomassin tilted his head to the side curiously, pretending not to notice. His question was directed at the sheriff. “You have witches?”

Sheriff Rodrick also pretended not to notice his deputy. “We won’t come tomorrow morning.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take them with me.”

“What for?”

“Evidence,” Sir Thomassin replied straight-faced. “King Eluard’s orders.”

“They’re still researching the cause of the sickness,” Brittle added, lifting his fist into the air dramatically, “‘Leave no stone overturned’ the king said.”

“Quiet, boy.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Ah.” The sheriff nodded, stifling the cough clawing up the back of his throat. “I see.”

“Now, to the heart of the matter. I must see to my mission and get the cure distributed to the people, as ordered.” Sir Thomassin clasped his hands together expectantly. “I will need the assistance of your town doctor. Bring him to me at once.”

“Or her,” Brittle said.

“Quiet, boy!”

“The doctor died this morning,” the deputy croaked, still hopping on his left foot like a miserable, one-legged stork. “The curse, er, sickness got him.”

“...That’s going to be a problem,” Sir Thomassin said hesitantly. “Due to the distance, the cure had to be sent in ingredient form. It requires the knowledge and skill of someone versed with medicinal plants to put together.”

Sheriff’s Rodrick’s face darkened.

“There’s always Old Man Nettles,” his deputy said from where he was bouncing in the corner. “This sort of thing seems right up his alley.”

The sheriff spun around at him, snapping, “For the gods’ sakes, man. He’s a witch!”

“I’m afraid he will have to do.” Sir Thomassin tucked the scroll into a pocket hidden in his armor. “Fetch me the witches and a private room to work. Now, I'll need a volunteer. Which of you upstanding gentlemen would like to supervise? If these witches are as powerful as you say, it will require a man pure of heart to keep their black magic wiles at bay.”

The sheriff and deputy traded nervous looks.

Brittle let the pair squirm for a few uncomfortable seconds before coming to their aid. His hand shot straight into the air. “Me, sir!”

“Really?” Sir Thomassin remarked with a sigh. “No volunteers at all?”

“Me, me me!”

“Very well. I’ll see to it personally, then. Lead the way, gentlemen. Best get this over with.” Sir Thomassin followed the pair as they led him down the dim hallway, bellowing over his shoulder so loud it caused the surrounding stone to shudder, “Quiet Boy, come.”

Brittle stomped after them, silently vowing to sew rocks into the knight’s mattress the next chance he got.