Beyond the Spire of Navarene Read online

  Elmer’s chin returned to his outstretched paws, the fur on his neck drooping and Margot leaned back and squinted, appraising her brother.

  Galahalt continued, “I’ll use the money to buy a horse that won’t stumble on flat earth or lag behind.”

  Margot frowned, “Stutters was a good horse.”

  “I agree,” he took a sip. “But not good for me. At least for right now. The Market Days are arriving soon so I’ll see a horsemaster about a horse that will better suit my errand boy lifestyle.”

  “Very well,” she agreed. “But I get to name it. You know the rule.”

  “I do indeed,” Galahalt nodded and tugged on the gambeson’s collar. “This coming harvest looks spectacular, sister. I cannot lie. And I must say, well done.” The morning clouds moved on leaving the sky bereft of covering, and the unhindered sunlight set the crop ablaze in silver. Margot laughed under her breath, recalling the long months spent underground. Heartbeats of silence passed comfortably as Galahalt stood, walked to the banister, and leaned out, craning his neck. “Doesn’t look like rain on the horizon.”

  “Excellent,” Margot closed her eyes.

  Galahalt turned and crossed his arms with his back resting on the wooden slats, “Wouldn’t want the rain to drown the little fellows now.”

  “Ah, yes. That would be a problem,” Margot said.

  Elmer grunted a snore and a smile played on the young knight’s lips, ignoring the urge to ruffle the dog’s furry head. “Did you take all the shoots from last year and tend them all winter? In the cellars?”

  “Yes,” she replied, eyes remaining shut. Galahalt whistled and turned back towards the fields, his eyes formed slits against the brilliance reflected by thousands of silver petals swaying in the breeze.

  With a yawn that broke at a whistle, Elmer stood and stretched, his rear held aloft. An odd musk awakened his curiosity and the pointy-eared dog hustled off into the spidery hedgerow which was the boundary between their fields and a wing of Fenrirfang Forest. Galahalt swung his leg over the banister, straddling it, as he watched Elmer disappear under the shade of the encroaching tree boughs. His sister was hovering somewhere between sleep and wake, not pinning a banner in either camp. A velikant owl sounded off somewhere over the treeline, and Margot’s eyes shot open.

  “Just an owl,” Galahalt laughed. “A scrawny one by the sound of it.”

  “Where’s Elmer?” She sat upright, head on a swivel.

  “Yonder,” he said, waving a hand at the trundling object beyond the sea of gilly.

  The young mutt tracked a scent with his snout to the ground, fully invested in discovering its origins. He wound a curved line, tracing a course as his thin beaver tail slapped at the air, back and forth, while the aroma guided him.

  A rush of relief swept over Margot as she watched the simple activity. She loved that mutt but the forest was a constant source of worry. A copse springing from Fenrirfang created a divide between fields, a neighboring farmer cultivated vegetables there. That was where she first caught sight of the little rascal wriggling free of the undergrowth. She often wondered how Elmer’s littermates had fared and would often catch herself gazing over the treelines, half expecting a knife eared mutt with a familiar smile to tumble out.

  “You have something…” Galahalt traced a line on his forehead.

  “I’ve got what?” she rubbed three fingers over her eyebrows in confusion, then regarded the residue. “Oh.” A few loose strands that escaped the hair tie began to swirl around her chin, “I’ll be heading back out into the fields soon enough.”

  Galahalt looked into his cup then tossed his head back and drained the remainder. “You doubled the lines out there.”

  “Much doesn’t get past you.”

  “What for?” he leaned down.

  “Uncle is gambling again,” she mumbled and turned her head, twirling a lock of hair.

  Galahalt rubbed his chin. “I was under the impression that activity had come to an end.”

  “Consider it handled,” she stated, sensing her brother’s rising anger. “I already spoke to him about it.” She finally looked his way, “And this harvest should be more than enough to get us free and clear of our debts.”

  “I am more concerned with getting you free and clear,” Galahalt said. “Your birthday is coming up.”

  Margot was well aware, “Yes, yes, this yield will be more than enough to grant my freedom.” A lump was developing in her throat. “Feels like ages since last we spoke and it’s nice to have a conversation with someone that answers back with words that I can understand. Elmer is great company and all, but there’s a bit of a language barrier.”

  “Must have felt like an eternity in those cellars, eh?” he got up and stretched, rotating his torso.

  “That winter was abnormally long.”

  “I can only imagine,” he pulled an arm across his chest and held it. “Living in the depths like some sort of fiend, tinkering in the darkness. It’s a wonder you didn’t develop night eyes like a laif.”

  “Night eyes would have come in handy for sure…and speaking of ‘fiends,’ what sorts of fiends has the church been assigning you to track down? Any exciting stories worth telling your sister who has been anchored to this homestead, toiling away in the fields for her entire life?”

  He arched his back and released a yawn, “Let me think.” As he turned his back to his sister, she considered his clean gambeson.

  “New arming jacket?” she asked.

  “Nope, same as I’ve had since the day I was belted,” he said.

  Elmer appeared and plodded up the stairs, bouncing up the last on his way to the soft spot next to Margot’s chair. He circled for a spell then flopped on the floor; a sigh escaped as he settled. The woman reached down to give the dog a hefty pat on his side, the force echoed by the bouncy floorboards underneath.

  “It pains me to admit,” he confessed, turning to face her with palm a to his breast. “I can’t recall anything spectacular in the last year or more.” He paused, “Can’t recall anything worth speaking of.”

  “Well, what sort of errands are they sending you on? Come on,” she asked and raised her eyebrows. “There has to be a tale worth dishing.”

  “Eh, mostly just messages from one cloth to another. I am no more than a delivery boy in a metal suit as far as the church is concerned. Although traveling south over the past winter was pleasant enough; folks there hardly see a pinch of snow at all.”

  “Their growing season must be never ending,” Margot looked over her fields and scratched an eyebrow.

  “One afternoon I did pass a meadow on the way to Touringuard’s Cathedral that held a small ocean of golden shadesgill. It was brilliant. I even signaled the point man to halt for a moment, much to his irritation. Sir Palman is a one direction only sort. And I hopped off Stutters and picked one for you and pressed it in paper.” He shrugged, “I misplaced it though.”

  Margot smirked, “I’d rather you bring me a lumpy rock than some fool’s gill.”

  “That’s easy enough to arrange,” Galahalt chuckled. “I’ll be sure to keep my eyes peeled along the crags for the perfect lump.”

  “A hunk of stone can serve a purpose.”

  “Most assuredly,” he bowed.

  Such a weird fellow. She regarded him, knowing full well that his mind was elsewhere. Possibly making a list of the places to scavenge for a stone and at the same time, making a list of all the uses for it. She was spot on with her assumption at the moment, but a sight that he had not noticed before interrupted his train of thought.

  “For your friend in the city?” he asked and pointed at a worn gray pail resting against a column. On its side was a roughly worked spout with a yellowing cork stuffed into the meager opening.

  She sat up and looked down, “Oh yes. It is. I’ll be filling it once the sun drops a bit more; the flowers will be easier to milk.”

  “The friend is an artist, I recall?”

  She nodded, “Yes, Pietr uses the juice for his trade.”

  “One of these days I will accompany you when you go to meet this artist friend of yours.”

  “He’s not that sort of friend,” she shifted in her seat. “But you are more than welcome to come along sometime. If the church lets you off its leash, of course.”

  The young knight stepped forward, kneeling to give Elmer a good scratch on his head, “Maybe we could pop by some other time? When it’s convenient for us both.”

  “I’ll try to pencil you in.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Bisecting the courtyard was a granite stone path that led to the basilica’s census office, which shared a space with the coffer counters. On both sides of the walkway, young pages and squires sparred with blunted steel blades, training for a future within the church’s Holy Knights. Only those who proved their worth would earn a belt, the honor was not a guarantee, and the clanging resounded from every wall.

  Nathan worked his way along the pathway, careful not to trip on the uneven surface, and absentmindedly pressed a finger into his ear to muffle the sharp sounds. He successfully dampened the piercing high frequencies, but the tempest raging between his temples was a different matter altogether. A page with a slight build, wielding a too heavy blade, stumbled into Nathan’s path, nearly crashing into his hip socket. Nathan was a capable squire, and with one hand on the lad’s shoulder, he slowed the momentum.

  “There is no shame in using both hands,” the elder squire held the blade, determining its quality by peering down the length. “Not too badly balanced for a training stick. Stay on your toes and wait for a mistake, then make him pay.” Looking across the pitch at the lad’s partner caused Nathan to correct himself, “Her, I mean. Make her pay.” The burly girl grinned and saluted Nathan with her practice sword, forgiving the error.

  “Remember, use both hands ‘til you grow into it,” he gave the page a slap on the back as he scampered back to the sparring circle.

  Placing a hand on his neck, Nathan grazed the symbol that announced his status as a Warrior. It reminded the squire of his birth and gave him a brief moment of reassurance before his feet carried onward. Being born a Warrior did not bestow privilege nor ensure employment or status as a knight; that was entirely up to the individual. It did, however, bolster strength and reflexes, which gave the blessed recipient enhanced combat instincts which always exceeded those of the unmarked.

  The two major employers within the kingdom were the crown and the church. Royal knights were mostly comprised of warriors born into families that held distinction: holding lands, titles, or banners. Those with lesser means, but who were still above the swamps, sought service within the embrace of the church. The church never turned a potential warrior away. That is as long as the child had obtained a wealthy sponsor willing to foot the bill. Errantry was, of course, always an option, but those who sought training outside of the established institutions were taking a risk.

  Many a horror tale floated around concerning aspiring youths being taken advantage of by a clever “mentor” of an unseemly disposition. For those aspiring to gain renown and fame, the Royal Knights were the pinnacle; elite in every way, they were legends among the common folk. Always placing in the top ranks in tourneys. Songs were composed of their prowess in battle, and sung for generations. The annals were filled with accounts of incredible feats and heroic sacrifices that echoed beyond the halls of the ancestors.

  Nathan dreamt of serving under the king’s banner as Sir Nathan the…something scary and powerful. Maybe Sir Nathan the Tall Bastard? Big Bastard? No, that doesn’t make sense. My parents were married. I’ll think of something later.

  It was rare, but historically the church personally sponsored squires who displayed tremendous skill, those who out performed even the finest of the breed. It was hard to believe, but the church would refuse coin and invest internally, on the promising knight’s training. The last knight to achieve this honorable distinction was Sir Godfrey, the Hinter Knight, who died honorably several centuries earlier. The knight’s name was invoked whenever a young squire was on the cusp of quitting and about to throw it all away. The deeds of the Hinter Knight created a spark within the youth that kindled into an inferno of inspiration. Worked for me everytime.

  Sir Godfrey’s legendary claymore, Vanguard, was among the church’s reliquaries. It was positioned in the foyer outside the armoury, as an inspiration. Growing up in the church, Nathan often found himself with his hands pressed to the glass coffin that contained the fabled blade. Comparing the massive red leather pommel with his own tiny hands, he was utterly disbelieving that a human could competently wield a weapon of that magnitude.

  The church forcefully insisted that its knights make use of a long sword accompanied with a shield. Be it buckler or kite shield, it made no difference, but this was a crucial detail which must be adhered to. Most squires did not voice qualms over the arrangement, knowing that training with secondary weapons like spears and maces was always an option later on. Bearing a sword at all times was not only fashionable, but also gave class distinction. Nathan, however, found the use of a shield cumbersome and unnatural. When he voiced these complaints to his mentor, Sir Clemence, the veteran knight urged him to continue the training regardless.

  “Strap the shield to your saddle,” Sir Clemence said. “And once a melee is met, draw your claymore. The church will not be the wiser.” She had reassured Nathan one evening as they rode toward the forest for a training exercise, but the particulars were foggy in his memory. Ah “Nathan.” Soon to be “Sir Nathan.”

  He entered service within the confines of the basilica at the age of nine, studied as a page for six years, then afterwards graduated into squirehood. Throughout the years, Nathan was unparalleled in the sparring circles and tiltyard, which caused the young pages to idolize him, but his peers regarded him as a prick. When he was a page, he had been insufferable in defeat, and exceedingly more insufferable in victory. After meeting Sir Clemence and receiving the wise older knight’s tutelage, he had been inexorably changed and shed the scales of arrogance, revealing a fair and humble exterior.

  Nervously accepting one stair at a time, he made his way toward the doorway leading into the basilica. Nathan’s nerves hummed behind his molars as he released the latch and entered. A pair of sentinels wearing azure tunics greeted the youth. Their armour was brilliant and well maintained without a speck of rust to upset the eye.

  “State your business, squire,” the man’s helm was open, the visor locked upright, revealing a disinterested, unshaven face.

  Nathan placed a hand on his chest and cleared his throat, “Business with Schroederstall.”

  “Right.” Gesturing with his pole axe, he pointed in the direction of the census offices. “Move along.” The other sentinel, whose visor remained down, spoke not a word until Nathan was six paces away, then uttered a muffled phrase that caused his companion to burst into laughter.

  Jackasses. Not of the caliber for a knight’s belt. Nathan scowled, his face stern, the anger surged, but he continued to walk. His wrath fueled him to mistakenly pound much harder than intended on Schroederstall’s door. He listened hard for a response, but after a few moments, decided to strike again, albeit with less zeal this time. As he struck again, a familiar voice shouted from within simultaneously. The timing was awkward, and Nathan was unsure whether he heard “Enter” or “Hold on.” With a tentative grip of the latch, he opened the door slowly. The door opened silently on greased hinges, and the squire’s eyes fell on Schroederstall, who stood behind a large desk across the room.

  The young man glanced back at the door, “Wish it closed?”

  “Certainly, yes,” Schroederstall responded as he gestured with a pudgy finger at the woman seated next to him. “You, of course, know your mentor, Sir Clemence,” he rotated to his left and pointed again, “And I believe you have met Sir Philip?” The seated man gave an almost invisible nod.

  “Hello Nathan,” Clemence smiled warmly at her charge.

  “Good day, Sir Clemence,” the squire bowed, standing next to three chairs, which were heavily fortified with cushions.

  “By all means, please sit.” Schroederstall indicated the vacant seats, and continued on as Nathan selected the one in the center. “You are aware of why you are here, correct?”

  Placing two hands on the sides of the seat, he straightened his posture. “This is to be my final council before I receive my belt and take the oaths of knighthood.”

  “And swear fealty to the church and all things therein,” Schroederstall droned, waving a hand. “Would you like to begin, Sir Clemence?”

  Coughing into her fist, the middle-aged knight spoke, “Nathan, you have served me well these past three years, and you know me as a woman of few words, so don’t get too comfortable on that pillow.”

  Schroederstall frowned, rummaging a stack of parchments as the knight continued. “During your service, the church has not been involved with conflicts concerning man or laif, which is a blessing, but you have experienced many encounters with the evils that lay within the forest realms. Those evils presented perils unique to the particular locale, and during each encounter you proved yourself to be courageous and capable, displaying a level of poise rarely seen in squires sharing your age and experience.” Standing with a smile, she locked eyes with her squire, “You kept my horses happy and your quarters clean…enough,” Clemence turned to the seated Schroederstall, “I have no complaints.”

  Schroederstall struggled a bit, looking up at Clemence, “No complaints?” he asked, shuffling a few sheets of vellum. “There are no areas where the boy could stand to seek some improvement?” His eyes dropped down to the squire. “Surely you could indulge us with a few examples of where you feel lacking? Be honest. We won’t judge you.”

  Nathan squinted, trying to come up with an adequate response, but his mentor spoke up, “In regards to service under the Church of the Culmination? No. He meets all requirements.”