The muck clinging to Dinadan was becoming unbearable. Every shift in the saddle released a fresh wave of the stench—sour and thick, like stagnant water left to stew with rotting vegetables. It curled into his nose, clinging to his hair and seeping through the padded gambeson beneath his armor. No amount of fresh air could escape the wretched odor.
Bracken, ever the stoic mule, flicked her ears with increasing irritation, stomping a hoof against the dirt trail. Her tail lashed at the swarm of flies that had taken up residence around Dinadan, their incessant buzzing like a chorus of condemnation. One particularly bold fly landed on his cheek, and he swatted it away with a curse, only to have another dive at his neck.
“I know, I know,” Dinadan muttered, glaring at the mule as if she were the source of his troubles. “You’d think I planned to smell like a midden heap. Maybe it’ll scare off bandits.”
He waved his hand ineffectively at the flies, only for them to regroup and return, undeterred. Without a cloak to drape over himself, their assault was unrelenting. His cloak—battered and threadbare though it had been—now lay in a refuse pile somewhere far behind him, sacrificed to mop up the aftermath of a misadventure with a chamber pot.
“I’d give half a crown for that wretched thing back right now,” he muttered, brushing a fly from his eyebrow. “At least it was good for swatting you lot.”
Bracken snorted, tossing her head as another fly settled near her ear. Her usual patience seemed to wear thin as she shook herself and took an obstinate step off the trail.
Dinadan tugged her reins gently, his attention caught by the faint gurgling of water up ahead. He craned his neck, spotting the glimmer of a stream snaking through the woods, its surface catching the moonlight in fractured ribbons.
“Well, that’s a blessing if ever I saw one,” he said, relief creeping into his tone. “Hold steady, girl.”
He dismounted with a groan, his boots squelching against the dirt as his armor clinked like an ill-tuned bell. As he landed, the flies surged around him in protest, forming a small, noisy cloud that was determined to follow him wherever he went.
“If I’m going to endure this miserable road,” he muttered, patting Bracken’s neck with an air of resolution, “I refuse to do it smelling like old stew and dragging half of Albion’s flies along for the ride.”
Bracken flicked her ears again, offering no sympathy as Dinadan began to guide her toward the stream. The mule, for all her loyalty, seemed to share his opinion about the smell he carried.
As they approached the water’s edge, the cool air from the stream offered a brief reprieve from the clinging stench. He glanced down at his gauntlets, the steel dull and smudged from grime. Every piece of him needed scrubbing, but that would mean the laborious task of removing his armor—a prospect he dreaded.
“Right,” he muttered, grimacing as he loosened the first strap. “Let’s see if I can do this without flinging myself into the stream headfirst.”
Removing his armor was always a chore, even with a squire’s help. Alone, it became a full-scale battle, requiring ingenuity, persistence, and a generous helping of curses. The flies hovering around him did little to improve the experience.
Dinadan began with the gauntlets, fumbling at the leather straps until they gave way. His fingers, stiff and clumsy after hours of riding, struggled to undo the knots, but eventually, they dropped to the ground with a dull clang. He flexed his hands, savoring their newfound freedom, though the air was cool enough to make him shiver.
Next came the pauldrons. He twisted awkwardly, reaching over his shoulder to unbuckle the straps securing them to his gambeson. The left one came free with only minor grumbling, but the right seemed determined to stay put. He tugged harder, nearly losing his balance as the stubborn strap finally gave way. The pauldron clattered to the ground, and Dinadan let out an exasperated sigh.
“You’re supposed to protect me in battle,” he muttered at the fallen piece, “not resist me at every turn.”
Now came the hard part: the chainmail shirt made of a thick layer of interlocking metal rings. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, already aching from the day’s journey. Dinadan tugged at the hem, pulling it loose from where it had bunched against the padding of his gambeson.
“I’ll regret this tomorrow,” he grumbled, bending forward slightly and gripping the neckline. He pulled it up over his head, leaning forward further to let gravity do the work. The mail caught on his shoulders, and he gave an awkward shimmy, jerking his shoulders side to side to free himself.
The effort was less than dignified. He bent nearly double, shaking his upper body like a dog shaking off water, the heavy links scraping against his skin and tangling briefly in his hair. With a grunt, he gave one last heave, and the chainmail slid free, crashing to the ground with a muffled thud.
Dinadan straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders with a wince. “By the stones,” he muttered, rubbing at the red marks left on his skin, “if I ever meet the man who invented chainmail, I’ll be sure to thank him before strangling him with it.”
He stepped back from the heap of metal, kicking it lightly to spread it out. The cool night air hit his damp gambeson, and he shivered again. The padding beneath the chainmail had absorbed the worst of the sweat and grime, and it needed to come off.
Dinadan fumbled with the ties at the gambeson’s neck, his fingers aching and unwilling to cooperate. “How do knights do this every day?” he muttered, biting the edge of a knot to loosen it. After some effort, the gambeson finally slipped free, revealing the simple linen tunic beneath, stained with the day’s exertions.
Dinadan stood for a moment, bare-chested save for the thin tunic. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his back. The night air nipped at his skin, but it was still better than being trapped under layers of sweat-soaked cloth and unforgiving steel.
At last, he bent to roll up the discarded pieces of armor and padding, laying them neatly near Bracken. “There,” he said, as much to himself as the mule. “Not quite freedom, but close enough.”
Bracken huffed, eyeing him as if unimpressed by the spectacle.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Dinadan muttered. “I’ll be back in this mess soon enough. Let me savor being a man instead of a walking pot of stew for five minutes.”
Removing his armor was only half the battle. Beneath the steel and padding, his body still carried the grime of the road, and the thought of putting his linens back on without a proper scrubbing turned his stomach.
Dinadan reached into one of Bracken’s saddlebags, pulling out a small bundle of rough cloth and a misshapen bar of soap. The cloth was coarse and frayed at the edges, its original purpose long forgotten. He had started using it as a towel on the road, though it felt more like sandpaper against his skin. The soap, an uneven lump made of tallow and ashes, carried a faintly acrid smell that reminded him of burned wood.
“Well, it’s not exactly a royal bath,” he muttered, setting the bundle on a nearby rock.
He loosened his belt and shimmied out of his breeches, the coarse fabric sticking uncomfortably to his legs. When he finally kicked them free, he stood bare in the cool night air, goosebumps prickling his skin. The flies, mercifully, had retreated, seemingly unwilling to follow him this far from his earlier state of filth.
The stream gurgled invitingly, its clear waters reflecting the pale moonlight in shimmering ribbons. He dipped his foot into the stream and nearly jumped back. “Might as well be bathing in snowmelt,” he muttered, shivering as he waded in a step further.
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The streambed was uneven, its pebbles smooth and slick underfoot. He waded in until the water reached his thighs, shivering as the cold seeped into his bones. “Lovely,” he said through chattering teeth. “A proper knight’s reward—freezing to death in a puddle.”
Taking a deep breath, he bent to splash water over his chest and shoulders, his breath hitching as the chill bit at his skin. With a grimace, he plunged the rough cloth into the water and reached for the soap. It took effort to work a lather, the bar crumbling slightly as he rubbed it against the cloth.
“Come on, you miserable lump,” he grumbled, scrubbing the coarse cloth against his arms. The soap left a faint film on his skin, but it was better than the stench that had clung to him for days. He scrubbed his chest and back with vigorous strokes, wincing as the rough cloth grazed the tender marks left by his chainmail.
Satisfied, he set to work on his hair, dunking his head beneath the water and emerging with a sharp gasp. He worked the soap into his scalp, his fingers catching in tangles formed from days on the road. The lather foamed slightly, though it took three rinses to feel clean.
“There,” he said, straightening as water dripped from his hair and beard. “Almost presentable. Almost.”
He crouched to rinse the cloth, then scrubbed at his legs and feet with quick, deliberate movements. The stream’s chill was unrelenting, and his muscles began to ache from the cold, but the thought of donning fresh clothes without the weight of grime spurred him on.
Satisfied, he splashed water over his face one last time and stood, letting the current pull away the last remnants of soap. The moonlight bathed the clearing in a faint glow, and for a moment, Dinadan almost felt at peace.
“Not bad for a patch of dirt and rocks,” he said to no one in particular. “A proper knight deserves at least this much.”
As he turned toward the bank, the bundle of cloth on the rock caught his eye. He trudged out of the water, shivering as the night air bit at his wet skin. He grabbed the rough cloth and dried himself quickly, wincing as it dragged over his arms and legs. The material scratched and scraped, but it was better than nothing.
Bracken snorted softly as he reached for his fresh linens from the saddlebag. “Oh, don’t start,” Dinadan muttered, pulling on a simple tunic and breeches. “You try riding in armor all day smelling like a swamp and see how you fare.”
Satisfied, he sat down on a flat rock, letting his bare feet rest in the stream. For the first time in days, he felt almost human again.
Then, a voice cut through the stillness.
“Knights in Albion must truly be desperate, bathing in streams like wandering vagrants.”
Dinadan froze, his hand halfway to his discarded chainmail. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the shadows at the edge of the clearing.
A figure appeared from the shadows, stepping into the clearing and the night air darkened even more around him. His cloak, black as a raven’s wing, swept the ground with each deliberate step. Moonlight etched his sharp, pale features in silver, but it was his eyes—cold and unrelenting—that gripped Dinadan, pinning him in place like a stag caught in the gaze of a wolf.
“Well,” Dinadan said, forcing a grin and pulling his tunic over his wet hair, “this is embarrassing. Had I known I’d have company, I’d have prepared something more dignified.”
Vortigern’s lips curled faintly, though it was no smile. “Dignity is a hollow thing for one who reeks of the land’s folly.”
Dinadan sighed, rubbing a hand through his damp hair. “Lovely to meet you, too. I assume you didn’t come here to offer bathing tips?”
“You jest,” Vortigern said, his voice low and measured, “as though this is a game.”
Dinadan tilted his head, brushing water from his brow with an air of mock carelessness. “A game? No. I think of it more as a performance. Though I admit, your entrance has rather stolen the show.”
Vortigern’s lip curled, his pale eyes narrowing. “I have heard tales of you, Dinadan. A knight who hides behind his tongue, who wears folly like a crown. Do you think your jests will shield you from what comes?”
Dinadan’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat, then returned, thinner this time. “Well, they’ve done the job so far,” he said. “Besides, I find that wit is harder to blunt than steel, and I’ve a talent for swinging words.”
Vortigern stepped closer, the chill of his presence cutting through the clearing. “And when words fail you? What then?”
Dinadan met his gaze, his own expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing, the tension between them tightening like a drawn bowstring. Then he smiled faintly, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.
“When words fail,” he said softly, “then they’ve reminded me that I’m human. That I can falter, stumble, even fall.”
Vortigern’s brow twitched, a flicker of disdain crossing his face.
“You see,” Dinadan continued, his voice gaining strength, “the world doesn’t need another perfect knight. Albion has no shortage of heroes with shining swords and spotless cloaks, men who stand unyielding until they break.”
He gestured to himself, his wet tunic clinging to his lean frame, his wet hair plastered to his face. “What it needs is someone to remind all those perfect knights that they bleed. That they can fail. That their glory is a brittle thing, no less fragile than the rest of us.”
Vortigern stared at him, his expression cold and unmoving. “And so you’ve chosen to play the fool.”
Dinadan gave a small, wry laugh. “Chosen? Hardly. The world made me a fool long before I learned to wear it like armor. Better to make them laugh than to let them see me fall.”
The shadows around Vortigern seemed to deepen, curling like smoke at his feet. His voice dropped, hard and sharp as a blade. “Do not mistake your folly for wisdom, knight. The land does not call jesters to the Henge. It seeks strength—unyielding and absolute. Not the weak, broken musings of a man who hides from the world behind his tongue.”
Dinadan’s shoulders stiffened, though his smile remained. “Strength, you say? A fascinating notion. Do you mean the kind that burns down villages and crushes the unarmed beneath a heel? Or the kind that demands kneeling from men too hungry to stand?”
Vortigern’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You mock what you cannot comprehend.”
“Perhaps I do,” Dinadan admitted, his tone light but his gaze sharp. “Or perhaps I’ve seen enough of men like you to know that your strength is a lie. A performance, not so different from mine. Except where I leave them laughing, you leave them bleeding.”
Vortigern stepped closer, his pale face inches from Dinadan’s. “You know nothing of power.”
Dinadan met his gaze, his voice dropping. “And you know nothing of humility.”
The warlord straightened, his expression hardening into something colder. “Humility is a fool’s virtue. It binds men to weakness, to doubt, and to failure. I have no need of it, just as Albion has no need of you.”
Before Dinadan could reply, Vortigern raised a hand, and the clearing erupted into motion. Shadows surged from the edges of the stream, rising like smoke made solid.
The first tendrils coiled around Dinadan’s legs, pulling him to the ground. He stumbled, gasping as the cold bit into his skin, seeping through his damp tunic like frost.
“Well, this seems excessive,” he managed, straining against the bonds. “Can’t we settle this with a riddle? Or a friendly wager?”
Vortigern ignored him, his voice a cold whisper. “You are the land’s mistake, knight. A jest when it needed resolve. I will see you silenced.”
The tendrils tightened, pinning Dinadan’s arms to his sides and dragging him to his knees. The shard beneath his tunic flared faintly, its warmth battling the icy grip of the shadows.
“Silenced?” Dinadan said, his voice strained but defiant. “Good luck with that. I’ve been talking since I walked. It’ll take more than shadows to stop me.”
The warlord’s sneer deepened. “Then speak your last, fool. The Henge will call, but it will find only silence.
With a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged higher, swallowing the last glimmer of light from the shard. Vortigern turned, his cloak billowing as he vanished into the mist, leaving Dinadan bound and gasping in the cold.
The clearing sank into a suffocating stillness, broken only by the mocking murmur of the stream. Its gentle gurgle felt like laughter at his expense, a cruel sound against the cold terror gripping Dinadan. He struggled against the shadowy tendrils, their icy grip biting into his flesh, unyielding as iron chains. Every movement sent a fresh chill coursing through his veins, his breath coming fast and shallow, the cold stealing even that small comfort.
His chest rose and fell in uneven jerks as he fought to pull air into his lungs. The weight of the silence pressed against his ears, amplifying the pounding of his heart.
“Well,” he tried to say, his lips barely parting. The word came out as a muffled gasp, choked off by the oppressive magic that seemed to fill the very air. His voice had been stolen, locked in place along with his body.
Desperation surged through him as he turned his gaze to Bracken. The mule stood a few paces away, frozen mid-step, her ears pinned back in terror. Her sides rose and fell in panicked bursts, but her wide, glassy eyes betrayed no recognition of her master.
“Bracken,” Dinadan willed himself to say, but the words remained trapped in his throat, clawing uselessly for freedom. His jaw twitched with effort, but no sound came out.
The tension in his body was unbearable, his muscles locked in a battle they could not win. His gaze darted to his armor, lying in a crumpled heap just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm. Moonlight gleamed off the battered steel, its faint glow almost mocking.
Brilliant, Dinadan thought bitterly, his silent words thick with frustration. A knight’s finest armor, utterly useless unless it’s on him. Or unless he can move.
Think, Dinadan. Come on. You’re clever, if nothing else. Find a way out.
But he found no clever plan. His mind, so often sharp with wit and ready with jest, felt as paralyzed as his body. A knot of fear tightened in his chest, squeezing what little hope he’d clung to.
He let his head fall back, the motion sluggish and heavy. Above him, the branches tangled into a chaotic net, the moonlight barely piercing the thicket. For a brief moment, the clearing blurred in his vision, his mind teetering on the edge of panic.
“The world doesn’t need another perfect knight,” he thought, the words a mantra, a lifeline against the fear. “But it does need a knight who knows how to survive.”