Warrior Knight Read online

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Earn a little to keep you going. Entering the melee is a good start.”

  “I thought of that,” said Ludwig, “but others are likely to be far more experienced.”

  “Winning the melee isn’t about fighting ability, not entirely, at least. A lot of it's about strategy. Try to pick out the weaker opponents and let the veterans take care of each other.”

  “And if someone comes after me?”

  “Parry, parry, and then parry some more. It’s all about outlasting your opponent. Have you a shield?”

  “Not anymore. You took mine.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the knight. He paused for a moment, evidently thinking things through. “I tell you what, I’ll lend it back to you. If you do well, then you can keep it.”

  “Don’t I have to win to get coins?”

  “No, not at all. They award prizes to the top three competitors.”

  “How does that help you?”

  Sir Galrath smiled. “I’ll place a wager or two. Who knows, you might even make me a wealthy man.”

  “Not if you’re betting on ME.”

  The knight drained his cup, then stood. “Much as I’d like to continue this discussion, I said I’d check in on poor Sir Nathan. He took quite a hit this morning. Good luck in the melee, Ludwig. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  Ludwig raised his tankard. “Thank you.” He watched Sir Galrath leave, then turned his attention back to his own drink, staring into it as he tried to think things through. Could he survive long enough to win something in the melee? This morning he would have had no doubt, but his experiences in the lists had shaken his confidence. He shrugged off his fears, then lifted the tankard to his lips, pouring the rough ale down his throat.

  Millie appeared as soon as he set down his cup. He noticed the drink in her hand.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I’ve had my fill.”

  “This one’s free,” she said.

  “Free?”

  “Yes”—Millie nodded at a distant table—“courtesy of her.”

  Ludwig looked over to see the woman he had encountered earlier. Her dark hair reminded him of Charlaine, but while his love had long hair, this woman's was short and cut to fit beneath a helm. Charlaine had joined the Temple Knights of Saint Agnes and he now wondered if she, too, now wore her hair in a similar manner. His musing faltered as he remembered the serving girl waiting for an answer. He looked up at her.

  “You can leave it here.”

  Millie placed it on the table, retrieving the empty cups. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Off she went, back to the waiting patrons, leaving Ludwig alone with his thoughts once more. He cast his eyes around, wondering which of these patrons he might face in the melee. They were, for the most part, rather common. Sir Galrath had cut a fine figure as a knight, but these others were clearly cut from a different cloth. Indeed, their clothes revealed their more modest upbringings.

  A shadow loomed over him, and he looked up to see a giant of a man with a bushy brown beard standing to his side.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Ludwig,” boomed the voice of the newcomer.

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “My name is Sigwulf.”

  “Should that mean something to me?”

  In answer, the giant looked across the room to the dark-haired woman. She shrugged and then got to her feet and started making her way to the table.

  Sigwulf moved to the other side, taking what had been Sir Galrath’s seat. “I hear you were in the joust,” he said.

  “I was,” said Ludwig with a wince. “Did you see it?”

  “No, but I heard you lost.”

  “Well, that part, at least, is true.”

  Cyn appeared at the table, giving Ludwig’s memory a jog. “Ah, yes,” he said, “now I remember.” He turned to the giant. “You’re Siggy.”

  Sigwulf’s face reddened. “No one calls me that except her.”

  Now it was Ludwig’s turn to blush. “Sorry, I meant no offence.”

  “Cyn tells me you were pretty rude to her earlier.”

  “For which I apologized.”

  The big man grunted, leaving Ludwig wondering what it meant.

  “I see you met Siggy,” said Cyn, obviously enjoying his discomfort.

  “I did,” said Ludwig.

  “So, have you lost any more competitions yet?”

  “No, I’m still recovering from my first failure, though I do intend to enter the melee.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling her this, but he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps he was only lonely.

  “The melee?” said Sigwulf, with a chuckle. “You’re too scrawny to do that.”

  Cyn smacked him on the arm. “Don’t be rude, Siggy. He’s a knight.” She turned to Ludwig. “Isn’t that right, Sir Ludwig?”

  “Yes,” said Ludwig, “though my name is not well-known.”

  “Not well-known?” added the big man. “That’s an understatement. Tell me about yourself, Sir Ludwig. You came from Garmund, didn’t you? What’s that like?”

  Ludwig’s nerve began to falter. He felt intimidated but held his ground. “It’s on the way to Corassus.”

  “Is it, now? I’m quite well-informed in regards to the Petty Kingdoms. Where, precisely, is it?”

  “As I said, between here and Corassus.”

  Sigwulf leaned back, crossing his arms. “Sure it is.”

  Ludwig found his irritation mounting. He was not used to being treated like this. “What does it matter to you, anyway?”

  “I’m not a big fan of people who misrepresent themselves.”

  Sweat started to bead on Ludwig’s forehead, so he changed subjects. “Where are you from?”

  “Me?” said Sigwulf. “I hail from Abel… I mean Braymoor.”

  The slip grabbed Ludwig’s attention. Now it was his turn to sit back and cross his arms with a smug look. “Oh, yes? Braymoor, you say?”

  The tactic worked. The man visibly paled.

  “Look,” said Ludwig. “You keep to your story, and I’ll keep to mine, agreed?”

  Sigwulf nodded.

  “Well, now that you two are done,” said Cyn, “what brings you to the Hammer?”

  “Just this,” said Ludwig, lifting his tankard.

  “Who was that I saw you with earlier?”

  Ludwig felt the affront. He wanted to lie or tell her it was none of her business, but there was something to that penetrating look that told him he wouldn’t get away with it. “Sir Galrath,” he said at last.

  “Isn’t he the one who beat you?” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  “An interesting turn of events. Tell me, are you still determined to enter the melee?”

  Ludwig thought it over once more, but his eyes tracked to Sigwulf. The man was easily a head taller and significantly broader in the shoulders. “Not if he’s in it.”

  The giant barked out a laugh. “Me? Enter the melee? I think not!”

  Relief flooded over Ludwig. “In that case, I’m in. Why?”

  “I’m entering myself,” said Cyn. “Maybe we can work together?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It helps to have allies.”

  “But you’re a woman.” As soon as the words left his lips, he realized his mistake.

  “You don’t know Cyn,” offered Sigwulf.

  “I tell you what,” said Cyn. “Why don’t you come by our camp tomorrow morning and watch me practice? Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

  Sigwulf smiled. “Unless you have something better to do?”

  Ludwig shrugged. “I might as well. I’ve nothing else to pass the time."

  Cyn was obviously upset by the slight, but Siggy put his massive hand on hers. “Good, then we’ll see you tomorrow. Now, let’s drink!”

  5

  Mercenaries

  Spring 1095 SR

  * * *

&nbs
p; With his tent in shambles, Ludwig had no choice but to wake with the morning sun. Stumbling out of bed, he squinted up at the sky where the clouds that had plagued them for days had finally drifted off, revealing a pristine blue horizon.

  Still half-awake, he fumbled with his clothes and then pulled out his few remaining coins. For the first time in his life, Ludwig Altenburg had to consider the cost of a meal and what it would do to his remaining funds.

  To make matters worse, someone within the tent lines was cooking sausages, and the smell caused his stomach to grumble. He picked up his waterskin, determined to fill it at a stream. If he was lucky, he could grab some bread for a few pennies, and that should be sufficient to hold his hunger at bay.

  Ludwig’s wanderings took him some distance from the tournament, but he finally managed to find a babbling brook winding its way through a small copse of trees. He knelt down to fill the waterskin, then caught his reflection.

  Staring back at him was an unkempt ruffian he barely recognized. His hand automatically went to his face, feeling the stubble. When he was at home, he had shaved regularly, a mark of his civilized nature. Here, however, he felt no such compunction and, if truth be known, had thought it gave him a roguish countenance. Now, however, he came to the realization he looked more like an escaped galley slave than a debonair adventurer.

  He splashed some water onto his face, trying to wash the image from his memory, but it persisted. Was he losing his mind? If he kept going as he was, he would soon be a pauper, begging on the streets for scraps of food.

  His thoughts drifted back to the previous evening. He had drunk deeply, probably more so than he should have, and his head suddenly screamed for more. Instead, he dipped the waterskin into the stream and began filling it, turning his mind to thoughts of Charlaine. He wondered what her training would be like. Did Temple Knights undergo the same kind of weapons training Kurt had given him? He doubted it. The Temple Knights were said to be the most disciplined warriors on the Continent. She would not be wallowing in misery as he was.

  Suddenly he was struck by the thought that, in joining the order, she was displaying more nobility of character than he was despite her common birth. Ludwig stood, capping his waterskin. If Charlaine could prosper in her new life, then he must do no less. He started making his way back to camp, resolved to get his life in order.

  He passed a knight who was out in the field practicing runs with a lance. His squire had placed a simple wooden post with a square of wood atop it, and the horseman was galloping back and forth, attempting to hit it dead centre. It reminded him of his promise to visit the mercenaries, so he altered course, steering for the open fields off to the east where he spotted the distant smoke of campfires.

  * * *

  The mercenary camp was nothing like he expected. Instead of a ragtag bunch of wild men, he found a haphazard arrangement of tents guarded by alert sentinels. As soon as he drew near, they challenged him, but the mention of Cyn’s name allowed him passage. He wandered through the camp to an open area in its centre. This had been a farmer's field at some time in the past, for it was bordered by the remains of a wooden fence on which leaned Sigwulf, who was watching Cyn spar with an opponent, while other pairs practiced their techniques nearby.

  Ludwig moved closer, leaning on the fence like his new acquaintance, his gaze drifting to the fight beyond.

  “You’re up early,” said Sigwulf, keeping his eye on Cyn. The woman was using a mace and shield, but her jacket surprised him.

  “Shouldn’t she be wearing armour?”

  Sigwulf chuckled. “She is. It’s a brigandine—there are metal plates sewn into it. Not as good as plate, mind you, but better than nothing.”

  “She’s quick on her feet. Has she been at it long?”

  “Ever since she was little.”

  Now it was Ludwig’s time to laugh. “No, I meant today.”

  Sigwulf grinned. “Aye, she’s been at it since breakfast.”

  Ludwig’s stomach growled, causing the big man to look at him.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I haven’t had time,” said Ludwig. “I had to get this.” He held up the waterskin.

  “Well, we can’t have you fighting on an empty stomach.” Sigwulf turned, nodding in the direction of a nearby fire. “Get yourself over there and tell Dorkin I sent you. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Thank you,” said Ludwig. “I don’t mind if I do.” He began making his way over to the fire.

  “And eat well,” called out Sigwulf. “You’ll need your energy if you’re going to be fighting Cyn.”

  The smoke of the campfire drifted closer, bringing with it the smell of fresh bacon.

  “Are you Dorkin?” asked Ludwig.

  An old warrior looked up from where he crouched, tending the fire. “That’s me. Did Sig send you?”

  “He did.”

  The man fetched a wooden bowl and then used a knife to pick out some bacon strips from the pan and handed it to Ludwig. Next, he cut off some bread from a nearby loaf, dropping it into the grease.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ludwig.

  “Have you never had barn bread before?”

  “Can’t say I have. What is it?”

  “We take older loaves and cook up slices in bacon fat.”

  “How does it taste?”

  “Greasy, as you might expect,” said Dorkin, “but it’ll help fill you. Care to try some?”

  In answer, Ludwig held out his bowl. He watched the bread begin to sizzle, then the cook used his knife to deftly flip it over. All the while, the smell of bacon set Ludwig’s mouth to watering. He picked out a strip from the bowl, popping it into his mouth. Dorkin had cooked it lightly, making it somewhat chewy. The pig that sacrificed itself was likely old, the meat tough, but the taste was like mana from the Saints.

  He swallowed down the bacon, then watched as Dorkin fished out the barn bread, dropping it into his bowl.

  “Make sure you use your knife,” said the old man. “It gets fairly messy.”

  “Tell me, why is it called barn bread?”

  “They say it was invented by mercenaries who were low on food. All they had was three-day-old bread and some stringy rations of bacon.”

  “I’m not sure I see the connection,” said Ludwig.

  “They were holed up in a barn at the time, you see?”

  “Now I understand.” He withdrew his own knife, stabbing the bread and lifting it to his nose for a tentative sniff. “It smells like bacon.”

  Dorkin looked incensed. “What else would it smell like? Fish?”

  Ludwig took a bite, feeling the grease dribble onto his stubbled chin. It warmed him, and the taste was incredible, leading him to smile as he ate.

  “What did I tell you?” said Dorkin.

  “How old is the bread?”

  “Five days or so.”

  “You wouldn’t know it,” said Ludwig. He scarfed down the rest, then finished off his remaining strips of bacon. “I feel full,” he announced, “though admittedly a little thirsty.”

  “The bacon is salted. You’ll get used to it in time.”

  “Oh, I’m not joining the company. I’m just visiting it.”

  “Sure you are,” said Dorkin. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”

  Ludwig set down the bowl. “Thank you for the food. I suppose I must now go and earn it.” He wandered back over to the fence where Sigwulf and Cyn were chatting.

  The big man turned to their new visitor. “All set now?”

  “I am,” said Ludwig, ”thanks to that cook of yours.”

  Cyn laughed. “He’s not a cook, he’s a mercenary.”

  “He’s tending the fire. I naturally assumed…”

  “Everyone in this company fights,” said Sigwulf, “and we all take turns cooking. It just happens to be Dorkin’s turn today.”

  “Well,” said Cyn, “I can’t stand here and talk all day. I need to practice if I want to win the melee.” She donned her helmet, pick
ed up her mace and shield, then strode back into the field where her opponent waited.

  “You know,” said Ludwig, “I don’t believe I’ve ever watched a woman fight before.”

  “She’s not much different than a man when it comes to battle,” offered Sigwulf, “but she tends to be a little more nimble than most.”

  They watched her spar for a while as the sun grew higher, the day turning warmer. Ludwig could feel the sweat building under his arms.

  When Cyn took a break, Sigwulf turned to him. “Well? What did you think?”

  “Not bad,” said Ludwig, “but she gives away her moves.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re saying?”

  “If you watch her footwork, you can predict when she’s going to attack. She also lets her guard down when she strikes.”

  “She’s beaten all her opponents,” said Sigwulf.

  “No doubt, but she’s likely familiar with their weaknesses. Does she always practice with the same people?”

  “She does,”

  “There you have it, then. She needs fresh blood.”

  “Do you believe you can beat her?”

  “I can give it a try,” said Ludwig, "but I didn’t bring my gear.”

  Sigwulf moved aside, revealing a half-dozen swords leaning against the railing. “Pick one,” he said.

  “What’s this, now?”

  “These are blunted swords like they use in the melee. After all, the competitors aren’t trying to kill each other.”

  “A blunt weapon can still kill someone,” said Ludwig.

  “True, but it lessens the odds.”

  “Odds?" Ludwig said. "What a strange thing to say. I didn’t take you for someone with an education.”

  “What makes you guess I’m educated?”

  “Your turn of phrase. You come across as somewhat of a barbarian, but you speak as if you’ve been raised at court.”

  “Perhaps I should play the fool,” said Sigwulf.

  “It’s not a criticism, merely an observation.”

  “Are you going to fight Cyn or not?”

  “I am,” said Ludwig.