Chapter 22

Day Eight – Morning

When the transport passed the northeastern gate, the tired guardsmen of Northwatch hastily straightened and saluted. It was still too early for the next shift to relieve them. Their orders were that the Margrave’s soldiers were leaving on the yester. But they were one day late, as some of the prisoners had fled into the city. None escaped their fate. It took a day to return the beaten and bruised men to the courthouse so that they could stand trial for their crimes.

It wasn’t the first time for some of the sixteen men and three women, but one thing was different. The custom to exhibit sentenced criminals, no matter the severity of their misdeed, fell short. Nobody had flocked towards the courthouse next to the guildhall. No nasty things got thrown. No mockery nor insult, no spit and no evil eyes. The same folk that had followed the transport before it was ambushed were gone. The same folk who usually would have followed it until it left. Nobody came. Not a single soul paused their busywork to even look at them.

Rumors had it that a man from Westwatch, an infidel who had bested the most hardened scum, had killed good guardsmen. Even innocent bystanders with the help of his savage horde. And that he had survived and gotten away. Sagir heard the whispers and felt the scared glimpses. And he damned well knew what the guardsmen were thinking when they got him and his inmates he was chained to. Fear. Fear of returning him and fear of being around him. Never had Sagir been treated so well in his life, no matter the iron around his neck and limbs.

“Guildsman,” said a perfect baritone on a strong, blue roan steed. As a show of force, the knight wore the full attire of the chivalric estate he belonged to. A set of white armor in typical Lower Albinian fashion. Many flutings ran down the polished steel. Arms and legs had maille incorporated directly into the bright blue doublet beneath, it’s color shining through the few gaps left. The rondels at his armpits bore the coat of arms of his family. A meandering blue river on yellow ground with a sword at the center. The left pauldron and rondel were larger than the right one, under which a lance rest was attached.

“Yes, Sir Beotold?” answered a downtrodden man on a rose gray horse. Genhard looked miserable in his mismatched armor next to the soldiers and officers. He held onto the reins with both hands, unlike the proficient cavalrymen around him. With his blonde hair flowing in the wind, right into his sideburns, the fresh wound on his cheek still not healed.

Sagir tried to not stare too much. His eyes twitched back and forth between the knights and the patrician. The peppersack only wore his ornamented dagger, while the knight’s armors and weapons were decorated and etched in red and gold in magic letters all over it. The captain even more so than his lieutenant. Now that Sagir saw them in daylight, they were even more imposing than when he was rotting in the dungeon. His swollen left eye made it hard to see. When they were on the wrong side, or at the wrong angle behind the wooden bars he and the other inmates were kept behind. But Sagir’s eyes were keen, even like this. Nene and Ceyhan had taught him well. And even though the thought saddened him, he would not trample on their memory.

“For the length of this journey, you’ll bear the rank of cornet,” said Beotold, sallet and heater shield hanging at the side of his saddle. “You assume no authority over my men except when I hand it to you. Understood?” His eyes were focused ahead, not honoring the patrician with even a look.

Genhard sighed, stifled. “My Captain,” he said. “I believe I would be of the rank of lieutenant.”

The other knight, riding far at the front of the transport, fell back with a violent yank of the reins on his black bay steed. His armor was of an older style, less embellished than that of his superior, but just as enchanted. A thick gambeson over thick white steel, with plenty of maille falling over his hips. Surcoats had fallen out of fashion with many noblemen. But Romund still held onto the colors of his family with much pride. “Cornet Genhard?” asked the drum-like bass monotone. The lieutenant didn’t wait for an answer and smacked the patrician over the head with his gauntlet. Romund’s left pauldron was also larger, so much that he didn’t need a second rondel over his armpit. “Speak up like a proper man, or not at all.”

“A proper officer of our Margrave would not fail at a simple task like yours, cornet,” said Beotold. The blue eyes, like steel, did not waver. The captain’s chaperon sat perfectly on his combed blonde thatch, and his face was shaven clean. “Thus, you will be treated as a squire on this task – until you prove your worth as a line magician.”

“Sir,” replied Genhard. He held his head and adjusted the red-gray felt hat that accentuated his sideburns. “I have repelled the attack and no criminal–” continued the patrician. His disgruntled tone was interrupted by another slap, harder than the one before. The gaze he felt made him swallow his words.

“And all but you were killed by a single peasant and his savages.” For the first time, Beotold looked back and his perfect teeth flashed between his words. Smiling like nothing Genhard nor Sagir had ever seen before. Emphasizing each and every single word. “Who escaped,” added the knight. “And ruined my perfect plan.”

“I am deeply sorry. His Honour, Sir Arnfred, has entrusted me with the escort,” said Genhard and bowed his head in hopes to sound as humble as possible, and get less slapped. “Unlike my older brother, I am not trained in matters of war, but as a guild enchanter. I am merely following my contractual duty to serve at the mines until my time is up.”

Turning away, back front, Beotold slowed down to fall back with his steed. “I am sure your brother is a proper man of war,” said the cavalier baritone. “And wouldn’t have failed.”

“I–” The patrician’s hand slipped towards the wound in his face as his body slouched down.

“Lieutenant Romund,” interrupted Beotold, and gained his second’s attention without delay. “Pick five men for reconnaissance, the other ten stay with us.” His bright white teeth flashed even more, self-satisfied. “Cornet Genhard,” ordered the knight next and didn’t wait to gain any attention. “You’ll lead them. They are experienced men of our Margrave’s personal regiment – my lance. This peasant is still out there and I want him alive.”

“At your command, my Captain,” replied Genhard. “May I ask what this restraint is about? I’ve never heard of this man before, but got briefed on the wildest stories. You called him a mere peasant, but–” He gulped, sweat building on his upper lip and neck. “He and that Yesilian monster were–”

Romund had raised his fist and tightened the reins, picking out five men by tapping them from behind. His superior, Sir Beotold, also raised a fist and waved backwards with two fingers. “Ride up, guildsman.”

The prisoners in the wooden cages, surrounded by soldiers, were no bother to the knight. Sagir leaned forward and looked into the treeline, positioning his ear alone as close as he could towards the officers. He still had no idea why he was here, what he had to do with Zaber that got him into this trouble. There was no way to explain himself or make himself heard. Nor could he bust open the chains that linked him to the men left and right of him and the wooden structure itself. So, the more he knew…

Genhard followed the order, his posture still slouched. Next to Beotold, he looked more than miserable and less than respectable. And he was still not worth a proper look from the nobleman in charge of the transport.

“This man, Zaber, has served the High King on many campaigns,” said Beotold and lost his smile. His eyes squinted for a moment, as if he saw something along the road. “Under the Honourable General Airich of Belge. The brightest military mind of his generation, a true child of the Dragon. What do you know about him, Cornet?”

“I know he has won the King many victories,” said Genhard and his horse snorted into his words. The knight next to the patrician turned his head slightly to look down on the horse’s disobedience. “Excuse Bertrich, he–”

“That’s the name of your horse?” asked Beotold.

“Y–, yes?”

Beotold exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “Continue.”

“Uh–, yes.” The patrician shook his head. “When I was little, years before I went to the Margrave’s University, the Dragon’s regiment was on leave in Teblen. I believe it was before he was a general. He was said to recruit, and my father considered sending him my older brother.”

“Right,” said Beotold and nodded. “He was known to recruit young and many foul allegations arose around that. But they were used as marauders and many were taken by surprise by these rabid children. Among them, this Zaber was… some sort of–” the captain halted his speech, and tightened the grip around the reins. “Some sort of historical footnote. He served as the General’s orderly. Errands, cleaning, and such.”

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“A peasant boy? That’s odd,” noted Genhard, pulling out an embroidered kerchief to dab his wounds and wipe off the sweat. When he opened his mouth to continue his thought, no words were allowed to leave.

“The General was the son of an earl on top of his reputation. I squired for a cousin of my father, and a man like Airich would be expected to have multiple squires even. Or one who would be in charge of peasant attendants.” The initial respect in Beotold’s voice faded away the longer he spoke. “Eccentricities like that and the breaches of etiquette he committed on the regular can only be done by a man of his strength. The King himself fancied him a friend.” Beotold paused once more.

So far, they’d traveled through Hoam, a large village that bordered Teblen. Filled with fishermen, petty artisans and cattle herders who supplied the city with milk and the fields with manure. The captain had ordered everyone to present themselves dignified without so much as looking at them. But now they were entering the forests and the knight’s eyes began to shift around. “All of this has caused nothing but trouble. Problems that neither the Baronet and his magistrates, nor the Margrave have been able to solve yet.”

Another round of silence fell between the two. Sagir saw the patrician twitch, seeking for words and the courage to say them. The knight in charge of their transport though did not budge. His strong-boned, square face stayed pensive, even when he turned around to look at Genhard. Invitingly…

“S–, So–” stuttered the enchanter.

“General Airich’s greatest achievement–” Beotold spoke too.

“The second Trinity War,” interrupted Genhard eagerly, his tenor skipping a pitch. “When he pushed back Mur ad-Din and relieved the siege on Kouvántion.”

These were facts most children in Albion, Krasnia, Galázion and Yesilia knew, but the specific terms were not well-known. What Genhard did, though, wasn’t impressing his captain. Beotold’s brows narrowed and the simultaneous smile made it look hurtful. The soldiers around the transport were nervous too, hearing what they heard.

“If you ever disrespect me like this again,” chanted Beotold in his perfect dramatic baritone. His tinned hand rested on the hilt of his lavishly ornamented sword, gripping its pommel. “I’ll burn you alive.”

The patrician gulped for everyone to hear. “My–” he tried to say, but his vocal cords squeezed together in his throat. “My deepest apologies.”

“Anyway.” Beotold moved his neck left and right, cracking it for everyone to hear. Emphasizing his every movement. How his hand left his sword, and how he looked back up front and didn’t pay any attention to the merchant son anymore. “Mur ad-Din was a renowned enchanter and warrior,” he said. “Maybe the best in the world, making cōnstrūctiō beyond what any thought to be possible. He elevated Yesilian siege tactics, causing animātiō with unthinkable destructive power that no wall could withstand.”

The gears in Sagir’s head suddenly clicked and his eyes widened. His memories of their homeland were few, most of them being about his family and their home. But Nene had told him, as did Ceyhan, whose family had housed Kayseri Ağrı Paşa on campaign, a direct report to Mūr ad-Din Ağa. Hearing the beyazı talk about this was strange. Zaber had always been close to the Yesilians of Teblen, ever since he settled into the old temple. He and Ceyhan became close friends right after they met. Was this really just about…?

“This is where these savages and this Zaber come together,” continued Beotold. “Airich of Belge captured Mur ad-Din, and challenged him to single combat over his freedom. Nobody present on that day could ever believe that the King was truly the most powerful. His Majesty was furious when word reached him–” The knight formed a fist in front of his cuirass. It and his voice trembled in excitement. “He ordered the Yesilian’s death, making the General break his word. But they traded secrets and only one more was present.”

With his head lowered, Genhard’s breath faltered. “He has his sword–” muttered the patrician. “If I had slipped, I might’ve…”

“He needs them to teach him their animal tongue,” said Beotold and looked at a couple of horses between the trees. Before he could point at them and order a soldier to check on the saddled animals, Romund had already moved. “The General’s Will is riddled with holes. Disappeared belongings; cryptic instructions and orders; many foul words about his peers – even about the High King. Nobody can ever know about this. That is why we need that peasant alive, and make sure that he isn’t using the Kunb–” the Captain slipped over his own tongue. “Konborra…”

“Qunbura mi?” whispered Sagir to himself. “Qunbara mı?”

“Airich of Belge was a hero and his treason will be buried with him,” said Beotold, covering up his ineptitude at Yesilian. “Offence against the Crown, keeping dangerous secrets and teaching a commoner.”

Sagir’s fellow inmates murmured all around him. They were just as captivated by their captor’s words as himself. Each of them knew what the Genhard’s expression meant when that pislik beyazı said commoner. And how hopeless their situation was, knowing that this secret had to be buried. A “Psht,” reached for Sagir and pulled at his sullied and torn tunic. As there was more to listen to, the foreigner among them swatted the hand away. He whispered a sharp, “Quiet,” glimpsed around, annoyed, and shook his head.

“The Margrave can’t entrust this important task to a mere line magician – less, a guild enchanter.” Beotold and Romund exchanged hand signs and glances that signaled all-clear. “You’ll do your duty to the Kingdom by refining Arcanium, but these roads are riddled with bandits. Word has it that the Archduke of Elbmarch’s subjects have trouble controlling their serfs,” he said as Sir Romund closed in on them again and the knights nodded at each other. “With us in charge, you do not need to worry about your life, no matter how proficient this peasant son is at the Arts. Guards and you have shown to be lacking at dealing with him, so do as you are told and we will go easy on you, guildsman.”

“Now go, cornet,” barked the lieutenant in his gripping bass. “Our men are experienced at recon; stay put and follow their lead.” Romund slapped Genhard on the back before doing the same to his rose gray horse’s ass, sending him off.

A, “Psht,” poked once again at Sagir, which he jerked away from. “Psht! Blackhead.”

“What?” snapped the slave at the beyazı behind him. A young man without teeth, pockmarks and a piece of nostril missing. “Don’t call me that,” whispered Sagir angrily.

“You really friends with the fella?” asked the toothless man.

“Who? I mean–” Sagir noticed how all eyes in the cage were resting on him.

“The metal man,” said another inmate with muddy hair and ripped apart trousers.

“What? Yes,” nodded Sagir, but kept his face low. “Yes, I am.”

The voice of a woman whispered to him from behind. “Will he come again?”

“Is there another chance?” asked the toothless man, snorting involuntarily. “Or are we dead?”

Falling silent for a moment, as the soldiers took notice of the commotion, Sagir snarled. “Seriously,” he murmured, baffled by their sudden interest in him. “Yes–, yes, he will. By the Stars, he owes this to my brother. As long as he lives, he will come for me.”

A soldier rode up to them, drew his sword and rattled the cage after a hodgepodge of ‘aahs’ and ‘oohs’ and gasps and moans. “Shut up!” he yelled, shaking his mailled fist at them.

“Thank you, blackhead,” whispered one of them, but Sagir didn’t know where from. His head was still lowered and his thoughts circled around the transport, remembering each detail.

He lost himself in silent prayer, his eyes closed, and focused on his shackled hands and feet. Pushing carefully against the wooden bars, Sagir looked at the transport’s floor. “We cannot only rely on him,” he said. “We need to look out, and prepare.”