It took seven days of hard riding for Britomart to arrive at Rivensfeldt, the last major city before the Kolaegh Pass. Or, to be more precise, it took two days of hard riding and five days of riding at a reasonable pace after Britomart realized that her horse Arthur would not thank her for riding full tilt for nearly a fortnight. She needed to slow down if she wanted Arthur to be any good in a rescue attempt when they arrived at the Shadowed Wood.
The result was that Britomart arrived at Rivensfeldt bursting with impatience and looking even more disreputable than her horse, who was glowing with health under a coating of dust.
Even from a distance, the city looked packed with life after the small towns and villages that Britomart had been passing through. Rivensfedlt lay nestled in the fork where the Kell river branched into the Oster and the Galden as it slowed in its rush down from the northern mountains. Huge bridges led into the city over the branching rivers, supported by arches whose pillars disappeared deep beneath the water. From there, the Oster flowed east into the neighboring kingdom of Osterland, while the Galden wound its way down to Galbrica’s royal city, Boemapolis. The rivers were the arteries through which goods traveled through Galbrica and beyond, carrying wheat and barley from the center of the realm, lumber and furs from the North, and a broad array of useful (and not-so-useful) products from the artisans in the few large cities that Galbrica possessed. Galbrica was primarily a land of towns, villages, and countryside. Britomart had known that from her father’s maps, but the reality of it struck her forcefully as she spent day after day riding through wide plains and alongside neatly tilled fields.
Britomart had taken the most direct route towards the Koleagh Pass rather than the most frequented, which followed the Galden River. Looking at her father’s maps, the decision had seemed simple. The Galden road would add at least a day to the journey, and Britomart was far more likely to meet travelers on it who would recognize her, even in disguise. There was a distinct chance that her father might send men after her to try to bring her home. Allowing her to become a knight was one thing; allowing her to venture alone into the Shadowed Wood was another.
Britomart was rather proud of her disguise. She had blackened her armor with bootblack to hide its perfect sheen, and she wore the bedraggled tabard of a down-on-his-luck hedge knight hocking his services to petty lords. Her gender was almost impossible to make out under the armor. She had burst into peals of laughter the first time an armorer had shown her a design for a breastplate with, well, breasts. The armorer seemed to think that a busty breastplate was a prerequisite for a female knight. Britomart had thanked him and told him that a standard breastplate would be fine. Binding her chest was not precisely comfortable, but it was infinitely better than wearing a custom-designed breastplate that reminded every single opponent of what her anatomy looked like underneath it.
Apart from her braid, Britomart was confident that she could pass for a beardless youth. Her features had always been more handsome than beautiful. The journey North was too long and hot to wear a helm the whole time, so she had pinned her braid tightly under one of the dashing leather hats that some of the younger knights had taken to wearing in order to make themselves look interesting despite the general dearth of quests. She had requisitioned the hat from Sir Danquil, who had been knighted only a few weeks before her and had spent much of his training on the losing end of sparring matches with her. Danquil had the misfortune to have the same clothing size as Britomart, which meant that she had requisitioned items from him on more than one occasion when sneaking out of the palace in disguise to explore the city without some glowering noblewoman as her chaperone. One look at the glint in Britomart’s eyes when she came to claim the hat had told Danquil that resistance was futile.
The sight of Rivensfedlt on the horizon felt like a drink of cool spring water after hours of traveling with a dry waterskin. Britomart longed for a room and a bath. She had soon discovered that the problem with choosing the rural route was that even the largest villages were too small for anything resembling an inn. She had slept in cramped spare rooms when they were available, in barns when they were not. She was itchy all over from sleeping in hay. There were, she thought, very few things worse than being itchy while wearing armor. It was very hard to scratch.
Britomart slowed Arthur to a walk as she neared the city gates, settling into the line of carts and travelers that were making their way through the gates and into the market square. She watched warily as a city guard nodded each traveler through, sometimes exchanging a few words, sometimes merely waving a hand after a cursory look. Her excitement and impatience turned to nervousness as she came under the guard’s scrutiny. Certainly word would not yet have reached the city of an armor-clad princess on a highly unauthorized quest. Britomart did her best to look inconspicuous and kept her hat low. The guard was a stocky, middle-aged man with a bored expression that did not alter for a travel-worn hedge knight on a dusty horse. He hardly spared Britomart a glance as waved her through.
When he was questioned about her later, all the guard could remember was a vague impression of a swashbuckler’s hat and grimy black armor.
Britomart dismounted as the market square opened before her, packed with stalls and people. It rang with the shouts of merchants advertising their wares, vying for attention over the ever-present chatter of the city’s inhabitants, the crunching of cart wheels on dirt, and the occasional squeals from the pigs that wandered loose through the city. Side streets branched off from the square at haphazard angles, some so narrow that they looked like canyons between the three-story wooden buildings on either side. The signs on the shops proclaimed their wares: a vial and chalice marked an apothecary's shop; a pair of pink hose marked a clothier’s; a fine throwing ax marked an armorer’s. Britomart had to fight down the urge to pay the last of those shops a visit. She already had a perfectly serviceable throwing ax strapped to her saddlebags along with her spear, not to mention her sword and dagger. She looked like an armory all by herself. Weapons were a very important part of questing as far as Britomart was concerned.
It took Britomart a moment to realize that the crowd was moving. More and more people were breaking off from the eddy of shoppers in the market square and making their way towards the broadest of the streets that led deeper into the city. Now that she listened for it, she could hear the retreating peal of a town crier’s bell. Curiosity won out over the desire for a bath. Britomart made her way down through the square, leading Arthur beside her, and soon found herself being carried along by the human current.
The crowd abruptly slowed and spread out as the street opened onto another square. It was smaller than the market square but packed just as densely with people. Britomart could just make out a wooden platform at the center of the square. She wondered for a moment if a troupe of traveling players was about to perform. Then she got close enough to see the structure erected on the platform, and her stomach turned. It wasn’t a stage. It was a scaffold.
She knew where she was now: the city’s Justice Square. Every major city in Galbrica had one. Her father had once explained to her that the people needed to see the crown’s justice carried out because that was how they knew that the king was protecting the peace of the realm. But there was nothing peaceful about what took place in a Justice Square. A first-time offender might get off with only branding, but executions were not uncommon.
Britomart had only been to an execution once. She had not been supposed to be there, of course. Princesses were considered far too delicate for such things, even princesses who could hold their own with a sword. A group of squires had gone to watch the hanging of a notorious highwayman, and Britomart had snuck out with them wearing one of Danquil’s drabbest tunics. She’d had nightmares about the execution for longer than she cared to admit. The highwayman’s neck had not broken when he dropped from the scaffold. She wished for his sake that it had.
Britomart turned to leave the square, but there was no room to turn Arthur in the press of people. They were hemmed in by the crowd on every side. Whatever was about to happen, she was going to have to watch it, whether she wanted to or not.
A trumpet blast called for the attention of the crowd as the magistrate climbed the stairs to the scaffold. He was a large man dressed in the black velvet robes of his office, and he strode onto the scaffold with the solemn grandeur of a priest of the Allfather about to address his followers.
The hubbub of the crowd settled down into a low murmur as the magistrate began to speak, his voice loud and rumbling.
“Today,” he proclaimed, “you shall witness the punishment of the worst kind of malefactor, a repeat malefactor, one whose depravity the gentle correction of the law could not soften–”
The crowd booed.
“–who is young in body but old in misdeeds–”
Another boo.
“–who, in his greed, has preyed upon his fellow citizens and torn from them their hard-won earnings through his wiles and skullduggery.”
Shouts of “hang him!” and “death to him!” rang out from the crowd. Britomart shivered, fighting down the sensation of being trapped in the maw of an angry beast. She had heard of bloodlust on the battlefield. She had not expected to find it in a Galbrican town square.
The magistrate held up a hand for silence, and the crowd settled. “You are right, good citizens of Rivensfedlt. Such a creature is the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile, the leech that preys upon the prosperity and uprightness of our city, which–I don’t hesitate to say–is one of the finest cities in Galbrica. He deserves to be hung: to be hung by the neck until dead!”
The crowd cheered.
He’s like a commander, Britomart thought, only, it’s the emotions of the crowd he’s commanding. It occurred to Britomart for the first time that emotions were a very dangerous thing.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The magistrate waited for the crowd to settle down, then raised a golden-ringed finger as if delivering a key point. “And yet, Galbrica is a merciful land, and our laws are merciful laws. The laws punish us kindly to bring righteousness to this land. The king’s justice is a gentle justice that kills only when it must. And so it is with such gentle justice, such merciful justice, that we show our young offender the error of his ways. He shall not, my good citizens, be hung. The law will take only what it must, only a hand – just a single hand to prevent further crimes of this sort, to give our seasoned wrongdoer one last chance to change his ways before the time comes for the noose.”
There were some sounds of disappointment from the crowd. Britomart let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. There wouldn’t be an execution after all. The thief would only lose a hand, the typical punishment for a second offense. If he did it again, he wouldn’t be so lucky. The third offense would be a hanging crime.
Lucky? Britomart’s surge of relief vanished as she thought of the treatises on battlefield medicine that she had borrowed from her father’s library. Diagrams and phrases came back to her. Amputation, blood loss, blood poisoning, gangrene. Cutting off a criminal’s hand might as well be a death sentence if they didn’t give him proper medical aid afterwards. She wondered if they would. She wondered why she had never thought to ask, all those years that she had known the law. Her father’s law. She wondered what the thief had stolen that was about to cost him so dearly.
“My good citizens,” the magistrate began again, “I congratulate you on performing your civic duty by bearing witness to the king’s justice and its sacred protection of Galbrica. Together, we keep our city–and our realm–safe and strong.”
Another cheer came from the crowd, and the magistrate made his exit to the ground beside the scaffold, where he stood flanked by city guards. The executioner took his place on the platform, bearing with him a stained tree stump that he set down with a resounding thud. He unhooked his ax from his belt, and the light glinted on its nicked blade. Britomart did not want to think about what had nicked it. Two city guards mounted the scaffold, each holding one arm of a ferociously struggling child.
A child.
Britomart tried to get away from the word, but she couldn’t. The boy could not have been more than ten years old, hardly old enough to be a page at her father’s court. This might be the law, but it wasn’t justice.
Before she knew what she was doing, Britomart had swung into Arthur’s saddle and was forcing her way through the crowd astride him, calling desperately for a halt. The guards holding the boy turned to look at her, but they did not release their captive.
“Can’t,” one of them called. “It’s the law. Stop your interfering or it will be the law for you too.”
The boy seized the opportunity to kick the guard in the shins. That earned the boy a blow to the head that left him hanging limply, held upright only by the guards’ grip on his arms.
“I demand that you stop,” Birtomart called, continuing to force her way through the crowd astride Arthur. “I am Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis of Galbrica, true daughter of his majesty King Gundred and princess of this realm, and I will not have this boy hurt.”
“Aye, and I’m Princess Willa,” called a man’s voice from the crowd. A jeering laugh went up around him, and more shouts came.
“I’m Queen Elsbeth!” came another.
“I’m Duchess Vironia!”
Britomart felt her cheeks burn. “I speak the truth!” She drew her hat off as she urged Arthur forward, but her hair was pinned up too thoroughly to cascade down the way Queen Boemia’s did in the stories. She looked no more like a princess than she had before. She was just a hedge knight on a dusty horse, and the jeers were growing. She could feel the crowd turning against her. But she was close now. She unsheathed her sword, and the remainder of the people between her and the edge of the scaffold shrunk back. Jeering from a distance was one thing. Jeering while in range of a sword was quite another.
“I command you again,” she called to the guards, “in the name of myself and my father, to halt this punishment and release the boy.”
The guards looked to the magistrate. Uneasiness ran through Britomart at the cold smile playing on the magistrate's lips. He gave a mocking nod. “Do as he says.”
The guards hesitated in confusion.
“You heard me,” the magistrate said more loudly. “Do as he says. Release the boy.”
A restless stirring ran through the crowd. The guards let the boy go, and he slid to the ground with a thump. Britomart guided Arthur forward and swung down onto the scaffold, warily approaching the guards with the boy crumpled at their feet. The guards might not be trying to stop her, but they were not going to help her either. She would have to sheathe her sword and bend down in front of them to pick the boy up, leaving her neck and back exposed to their swords. She did not like that one bit. Instead, wincing internally on the boy’s behalf, she grabbed his outflung leg with one hand and dragged him towards her, keeping her sword ready in her right hand. She would need both hands to seat the boy on Arthur, but at least she would only need to sheath her sword for a moment, and she would be further away from the guards when she did so.
The boy reached her feet. She glanced down at him, getting a good look at his face for the first time. It was grubby and freckled. Britomart stared in surprise as his mischievous hazel eyes opened, then winked. “Quick,” he mouthed.
In one smooth movement, Britomart sheathed her sword and bent to pick up the boy. The instant that she began to lift him, her worst fears were confirmed. The magistrate’s command rang out from behind her, cutting through the crowd’s muttering like a whip: “Seize the pretender!”
And suddenly the boy was springing up, hardly needing Britomart’s help as she heaved him into the saddle and wheeled around, drawing her sword to meet the oncoming guards. She had just enough time to realize that she had probably given her horse to a thief, and then the first guard was on her. She brought her sword up under her assailant’s guard, thrusting towards his ribcage. Her blade cut through his tabard and into his leather armor before she abruptly wrenched her sword back, only grazing the skin that she had been about to pierce. She realized in horror what she had been about to do. These were Galbricans she was fighting. They were her people to protect, not to kill.
That moment of hesitation nearly cost Britomart her life. She felt a searing pain along her left arm as the second guard’s sword found its mark. She retaliated with a blow to the guard’s neck using the flat of her sword, leaving him gasping for air but not, she was glad to see, dying. The first guard pressed in again as his companion staggered back. Britomart feigned to the guard’s left and then came up hard on his right as he swung, slamming her pommel into his sword arm so hard that he dropped his sword as his arm went instantly numb. She turned to face the second guard again, but he was lingering warily just out of reach of her sword. He knew just as well as she did that she could have killed him with the blow that winded him. He also knew just as well as she did that more guards were rushing onto the scaffold behind him. Britomart’s time was up.
Britomart whirled towards where Arthur had been standing behind her–where she was praying he would still be standing if the boy hadn’t ridden him off into the crowd. The horse was two paces away. The boy had not stolen him. Instead, the rascal seemed to have found the throwing ax strapped to Arthur’s saddle and was now gleefully slashing it at anyone who came too close. It was not the most polished combat technique, but it had certainly kept anyone from attacking Britomart from behind.
“Stop swinging,” Britomart yelled to the boy, “I’m getting on!” The boy paused mid-warcry, ax upraised but blessedly still. Britomart launched herself into the saddle behind him and spurred Arthur through the quickly clearing gap in the dwindling crowd, leaving the scaffold and its guards behind.
“That was fun,” said the boy. “I like your ax.”
“I do too, but will you please hold it somewhere where it won’t slash both of us? And stop squirming. You’ll fall off the horse, and I’m not rescuing you again.” She fastened one arm firmly around him, dropping the reins to guide Arthur with her knees as she kept her sword held fast in her other hand.
“Never been on a horse,” said the boy. “That’s for farmers and velvets.”
“Farmers and…? Nevermind. You won’t be on one for long if you don’t hold still and lean down.”
“Why would I lean down?”
Britomart winced as something whizzed past her ear and thudded into the wall of a nearby building. “Arrows, that’s why.” She leaned forward in the saddle, flattening herself as much as she could over the boy while still holding her sword. She could feel her heart beating out of her chest as she urged Arthur faster, guiding him around the few remaining people in the street who had not had the time or the sense to get out of the way at the sound of shouting and pounding hooves.
They tore out of the street and into the market square. It was full of fleeing people seeking shelter behind stalls. The costermonger’s cart had been overturned in the chaos, and apples rolled everywhere, bright red against the churned up dirt. A few grubby hands darted out to grab the fruit, taking advantage of the general distraction. At the other end of the market square, a line of guards stood, swords drawn, in the gap between the baker's stall and the vintner’s. Together, guards and stalls blocked the way to the road that led through the city gates. Britomart grimaced. The magistrate must have sent a messenger as soon as the fighting started.
The boy said a few choice words that not even the stableboys had dared to use in front of Britomart.
Britomart hesitated for only a moment. She could hear the pounding feet of the guards closing in behind her. There was nothing else for it. They would have to jump one of the stalls.
“Hold on tight,” she said, securing her hold on the boy. And then they were racing towards the baker’s stall, racing and then flying as Arthur jumped, bearing them over it. The boy let out a whoop, and the world seemed to stop for a moment in the sheer rush of exhilaration. The baker, cowering behind his stall, looked up in shock at the horse’s underbelly as Arthur cleared him.
Then Arthur’s hooves hit the ground, and they were running for the gates, the guards shaking off their surprise and scrambling after. Britomart thanked the gods that these guards, at least, seemed to have no bowmen in their numbers.
Before her, two guards were struggling to close the city gates, but the massive oaken doors had been designed to be sturdy, not manageable. They had swollen with the moisture of the rivers, and their bottom edges creaked along the dirt as the guards heaved at them. With a last burst of speed, Britomart was there. The guards jumped out of the way as Arthur charged through the gap between the closing doors. The fit was so tight that Britomart felt one of the saddlebags tear as its buckle caught the door and was wrenched free. She winced, then fought down the absurd urge to laugh. They had made it through.
Arthur’s stride lengthened to a gallop as they raced past gawking travelers and turned onto the road that led towards the Oster Bridge. Britomart's ears were filled with the sound of hooves ringing on stone as they reached the bridge and galloped across it. The road stretched out before them on the other side, a rough brown ribbon disappearing into the distance. Somewhere in that distance lay the Koleagh Pass and, beyond it, the Shadowed Wood.
Before her lay adventure.
Behind her lay…well, a bit of a mess.
She wondered, not for the last time, what on earth she had been thinking. She wondered what sort of passenger she had acquired.