𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙊𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙆𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩'𝙨 𝙎𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙚𝙧, 𝙔𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙬𝙞𝙘𝙠

In a hall stood a man nervously milling about, a birthmark shaped like a strawberry hung from his jaw. His shoulders were fairly oval, slanted and wide. Metal rerebraces, squared, and layering his upper arms sat perfectly under the shoulder plates. The rest of his body hid beneath a coat of mail, firmly tucked away by the belt snaked around his waist.

“… The Gwaldon Chapter reports our Seeker has yet to contact them.”

A conversation between superiors was taking place behind closed doors.

“You mean never bothered too. Your captain outside failed to monitor him, now the agent is loose.”

“Forgive me your lordship, Knight-Captain Odell—”

The man ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, shuddering. That was Knight-Commander Wessler mentioning his name. The other was the Earl of Yvorwick; two men easily surpassing him in rank within the Order and station as nobility. A single word from either of them and he would find himself disgraced, Knight-Captain no longer.

“—No matter. The Grandmaster is soon to retire, a council is to convene, and the election for candidates will begin.” What sounded like footsteps thudded closer, louder, until the door flew open. The hulking figure of Commander Wessler appeared, Odell glimpsed at the Earl shuffling papers behind him.

“Odell…” A mountain of solidly built muscle loomed over the Knight-Captains vision. Hairy and usually toting a two-handed sword of Drachen design, Knight-Commander Wessler or ‘The Bear’, was born ill-fitted among Spartan nobility. With a dishonest nose, unkempt brown beard, and roguish features, the Bear looked more a king of bandits than a viscount.

The sandy-haired knight broke out in a sweat as Commander Wessler wordlessly motioned him to walk. Like a child, Odell followed obediently at his heels. Wessler led them out of the building to the stone pavilion, stopping at a garden. Carefully trimmed hedgerows, like a complex puzzle, divided the space into a maze. Eventually, Odell wound up sharing a bench with the giant Seeker. Water splashed, flowing from a fountain nearby. Commander Wessler leaned over, smiling at his subordinate like an old friend as several brothers passed. He clapped Odell’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. When they were out of earshot, the hand retracted along with the smile.

“Pray tell, Captain surely the task I gave you,” Wessler’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Keeping track of a single bastard — I daresay, was not beyond your ability?” The Bear wasn’t one for excuses, only the truth. And the truth hurt — more than the Earl or Knight-Commander cared. Loyal service? Faithfully carrying his task for several years without a complaint? The bastard murders the two brother knights accompanying him and escapes, suddenly it’s a mistake.

Odell gripped the bench, his fingers circling the grooves beneath. No meant refusing to take fault by ignoring the fact Ser Forrester escaped. It was no better than saying yes, an admission of being unfit for the Knight-Commander’s second-in-command.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

[Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.] The Knight-Captain thought grimly.

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Leondre stared at the translucent lines running across his hand. The scars hadn't completely healed, and perhaps, never would. His mind kept playing that scene, the first bandit—'No, person' he killed. The moment he swung, there was no hesitation. The leather grip fitted well as if molded in the shape of his hand, and the blade perfectly balanced. Wielding Roi Soleil became mesmerizing; the way its patterned steel rippled as he cut, a blue wave in the air, running through men like water, felt natural—It all did.

And the realization sickened him.

"Why so quiet? You are young and should be out enjoying life. Perhaps with friends or special someone, yes?" Ser Boudicat slowed his mare beside him.

Leondre merely shook his head, "I've never had luck making friends, and the one I did become friends with...H-he died recently."

"A shame, I too have lost friends." The former chevalier twisted in his saddle and nodded to the far back. Forms wrapped in blood-stained sheets were visible in the cart behind.

"They were good, honest men. I met most of their wife and children, and soon I shall again." Suddenly, Ser Boudicat aged twenty years past his senior, and the vigor he had carried disappeared. Leondre was at a loss on how to respond but felt pity for the old man and a little guilty. Here he was, grief-stricken over one friend when this man had just lost dozens but still pressed on.

"Le fardaeu du commandement," Ser Boudicat began, "They call it-"

"Burden of command." Leondre interrupted quietly, he rubbed Noir's head. The hairs up top Ser Boudicat's upper lip curled, smiling, pleasantly surprised.

"Parlez vous françaesh?"

"Oui, I speak—" Leondre immediately shut his mouth, realizing the mistake he made. Commoners had regional accents like the one Cendric faked while others learned to talk proper, taught by priests and priestesses in temples. But a lowly adventurer knowing another language other than Spartan tongue? That begged the question.

Ser Boudicat placed a hand over his chest, bowing his head. "'Forgive my rudeness, I speak at you yet never asked for a name. Let us introduce ourselves, I am Ser Boudicat d'Yound, born in the grand city-state of Ardose and granted the title, Chevalier, by its master. Many would have died under my command today if not for your swift intervention."

I-um," Leondre stumbled over his words, "Am Leon—Leo!" He blurted out. Leondre looked around and found his cousin conversing with the other soldiers, becoming rowdier by the minute. Cendric had not introduced himself as a Knight Seeker. Were they not continuing the guise of the knight-errant and his squire?

"And we are adventurers! Born in Spartha. Yes!" He said nervously.

"I see..." Ser Boudicat nodded and faced away, twirling his mustache as he sat there, atop the mare, deep in thought. "You must be very dedicated. To learn two languages at your age, I admit I am impressed." He turned to Leondre, "Perhaps because of your name, short for Leondre. Yes?" A twinkle of amusement sparked within as he winked, something had caught his attention.

Leondre followed his eyes to the bronze plate hanging on his chest, Leondre vae Karrath. The teenager froze as if a deer hearing the snap of a branch nearby.

"Shame I am no longer a chevalier. The way you handled yourself, fighting on horseback no less! I'd have taken you as my squire." The former chevalier smiled knowingly.

"I could not help notice your stead. When I was a boy, the Champion of Ardose led the city knights in a parade atop this beautiful black but most terrifying horse I ever see. So big!" Ser Boudicat exclaimed holding his hand out, raising it well over the mare in comparison. "And his eyes! They were red like the wine we drink." He pointed at Noir's bony protrusion, "There was this bone on his head too, so much like rams horns."

Leondre paled as Ser Boudicat heartily laughed next to him. "Truly a fearsome horse, fit only for a knight of high caliber such as the Champion of Ardose."

"Mithra, help me," Leondre muttered.

It was going to be a long march.