The Wandering Knight
Mazael Cravenlock was cheating at cards.
Of course, every other man at the table was cheating, too.
And, to be fair, they were planning to kidnap him.
He sat at a table of crude planks in a gloomy tavern, the only light coming from a sputtering hearth on the far wall. The town of Knightport, visited by merchants from across the realm, boasted many fine taverns and inn. This, alas, was not one of them. The air stank of mildew, and the only patrons were four villainous-looking men at the plank table.
And Mazael himself, of course.
"Deal," said the leader of the men. He was gaunt, with ragged gray hair, cold black eyes, and a black robe adorned with a gleaming badge of office. Men called him Reccard the Fist, and he presented a public face as one of the Lord of Knightport's customs collectors.
He also controlled several gangs of robbers that lurked in the hills outside Knightport, attacking wealthy merchants traveling to and from the town. Reccard read the ships’ manifests, noted the wares of caravans leaving the town…and sent his men to steal the choicer items.
"Very well," said Mazael, passing cards to the other men.
"So," said Reccard. "You are the youngest son of the late Lord Adalon Cravenlock, yes? Your brother Mitor is Lord of Castle Cravenlock?"
Mazael smirked. "Mitor the mushroom? Aye, he holds Castle Cravenlock in his flabby fingers, last I heard." He finished dealing out the cards and looked at his hand. A Queen of Swords, a Knight of Coins, and three nines.
Reccard grinned, and the other men leaned closer.
Mazael tried not to laugh.
"You must be very close to your brother," said Reccard. "Helping him bear the dreadful burden of lordship. I'm sure if you were taken hostage, your brother would pay dearly for your safety."
"I doubt that," said Mazael. "I haven't seen him in six years."
Reccard's smile froze. "You haven't?"
"No," said Mazael, sliding some silver coins towards the pile in the center of the table. "After Lord Richard the Dragonslayer prevailed, my father banished me from the Grim Marches. Gave me a horse, a sword, and told me never to return." He patted the worn pommel of his longsword. "Thought I would make trouble for Mitor. Which, I admit, I probably would."
Reccard's smile hardened into a scowl. "Then you are an impoverished vagabond?"
"That is an insult," said Mazael. "I fight for whoever will pay me. A good fight and a willing woman at the end of the day...that's all a man really needs, isn't it? But, true, I do not have much in the way of coin, and my brother certainly would not pay to get me back."
"I see," said Reccard.
"Which means," said Mazael, "if you and your friends were planning to kidnap me and ransom me back to Mitor, you should rethink the plan."
Reccard spat upon the moldering straw covering the floor. "If you knew this was a trap, why did you walk into it?"
"Because." Mazael grinned. "I like to fight."
Reccard looked at his henchmen, and the thugs laughed.
"We may not be able to ransom this young fool back to Lord Mitor," said Reccard, "but we'll able to get some coin for his sword and chain mail. Kill him. One more body floating in the harbor will draw no..."
Mazael moved faster.
He surged to his feet, gripped the table, and flung it on its side, sending coins and cards flying. Reccard's thugs scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords, but Mazael already had his blade out. The familiar battle rage thundered through him, and the nearest man stabbed at him. Mazael dodged, and his sword plunged between his attacker's ribs. The thug toppled as the other two men rushed Mazael. He parried a blow from a short sword, twisted, and caught his first attacker across the hip. The man stumbled back with a cry of pain.
"Kill him!" roared Reccard, backing away from the melee. "Damn you, kill him!"
The second thug stabbed, but the chain mail beneath Mazael's weathered leather jerkin turned aside the blow. Mazael grunted and
Mazael Cravenlock was cheating at cards.
Of course, every other man at the table was cheating, too.
And, to be fair, they were planning to kidnap him.
He sat at a table of crude planks in a gloomy tavern, the only light coming from a sputtering hearth on the far wall. The town of Knightport, visited by merchants from across the realm, boasted many fine taverns and inn. This, alas, was not one of them. The air stank of mildew, and the only patrons were four villainous-looking men at the plank table.
And Mazael himself, of course.
"Deal," said the leader of the men. He was gaunt, with ragged gray hair, cold black eyes, and a black robe adorned with a gleaming badge of office. Men called him Reccard the Fist, and he presented a public face as one of the Lord of Knightport's customs collectors.
He also controlled several gangs of robbers that lurked in the hills outside Knightport, attacking wealthy merchants traveling to and from the town. Reccard read the ships’ manifests, noted the wares of caravans leaving the town…and sent his men to steal the choicer items.
"Very well," said Mazael, passing cards to the other men.
"So," said Reccard. "You are the youngest son of the late Lord Adalon Cravenlock, yes? Your brother Mitor is Lord of Castle Cravenlock?"
Mazael smirked. "Mitor the mushroom? Aye, he holds Castle Cravenlock in his flabby fingers, last I heard." He finished dealing out the cards and looked at his hand. A Queen of Swords, a Knight of Coins, and three nines.
Reccard grinned, and the other men leaned closer.
Mazael tried not to laugh.
"You must be very close to your brother," said Reccard. "Helping him bear the dreadful burden of lordship. I'm sure if you were taken hostage, your brother would pay dearly for your safety."
"I doubt that," said Mazael. "I haven't seen him in six years."
Reccard's smile froze. "You haven't?"
"No," said Mazael, sliding some silver coins towards the pile in the center of the table. "After Lord Richard the Dragonslayer prevailed, my father banished me from the Grim Marches. Gave me a horse, a sword, and told me never to return." He patted the worn pommel of his longsword. "Thought I would make trouble for Mitor. Which, I admit, I probably would."
Reccard's smile hardened into a scowl. "Then you are an impoverished vagabond?"
"That is an insult," said Mazael. "I fight for whoever will pay me. A good fight and a willing woman at the end of the day...that's all a man really needs, isn't it? But, true, I do not have much in the way of coin, and my brother certainly would not pay to get me back."
"I see," said Reccard.
"Which means," said Mazael, "if you and your friends were planning to kidnap me and ransom me back to Mitor, you should rethink the plan."
Reccard spat upon the moldering straw covering the floor. "If you knew this was a trap, why did you walk into it?"
"Because." Mazael grinned. "I like to fight."
Reccard looked at his henchmen, and the thugs laughed.
"We may not be able to ransom this young fool back to Lord Mitor," said Reccard, "but we'll able to get some coin for his sword and chain mail. Kill him. One more body floating in the harbor will draw no..."
Mazael moved faster.
He surged to his feet, gripped the table, and flung it on its side, sending coins and cards flying. Reccard's thugs scrambled to their feet, drawing their swords, but Mazael already had his blade out. The familiar battle rage thundered through him, and the nearest man stabbed at him. Mazael dodged, and his sword plunged between his attacker's ribs. The thug toppled as the other two men rushed Mazael. He parried a blow from a short sword, twisted, and caught his first attacker across the hip. The man stumbled back with a cry of pain.
"Kill him!" roared Reccard, backing away from the melee. "Damn you, kill him!"
The second thug stabbed, but the chain mail beneath Mazael's weathered leather jerkin turned aside the blow. Mazael grunted and
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