The Perilous Keep: Exile, #2

By Melion Traverse

An undead necromancer. A curse written in blood.

 

Sier Bryn hoped her return would provide the chance to rebuild her life, but her new knighthood quickly earns the animosity of her fellow warriors. After learning of a family curse that claims the lives of innocents, Bryn journeys to the Perilous Keep to confront her undead, curse-casting ancestor. But in those ancestral halls, Bryn must pay a terrible price. Can she regain what she lost at the Perilous Keep and prove her worth to the person who doubts it the most: herself?

 

Authors 4 Authors Content Rating

This title has been rated 17+, appropriate for older teens and adults, and contains:

• graphic violence
• moderate language
• brief implied sex
• child murder

For more information on our rating system, please, visit the Authors 4 Authors Publishing website.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors 4 Authors Publishing Cooperative
• Release date: Jun 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781644771549

Book preview

Part I

1

Midsummer was a season of festivals, and the little hamlet of Hare Creek celebrated theirs with a joyous chaos to rival any town. Laughter, shouting, and music thrummed in the air, drifting as though carried on the warm breeze. Children darted about, waving arms and hollering, bare feet slapping the earth. The sweet aroma of sugared bread and the tang of animals twisted together with the subtle wisping scent of fresh-picked berries.

Sier Bryn gave Candor, her warhorse, a pat on the neck and smiled as they approached the festivities. The sensory cacophony reminded Bryn of long-ago festivals in a world before she wore armor and carried a sword, when she had been a barefooted child frolicking like a half-wild foal through color-strewn streets with her younger brother. But that world belonged to memory. The little girl wrestling her brother for the last piece of sweetbread had grown up to become a knight, and the little boy had not grown up at all.

Along the roadside, a cluster of children gathered to watch as Bryn rode past. Once, on a day turned golden with the haze of memory, she had watched a knight ride into town on a festival day, and she had stood rigid, gripping her brother’s shirt to keep him from dashing in front of the warhorse. The jangle of tack and the clatter of armor had rung out above the noise of the celebration, and she had stared after the knight even when the mounted warrior became just an indistinct form jutting above the pressing crowd.

That’ll be you one day, won’t it? Bertram, her brother, had said, having twisted his shirt out of her grasp. His smile showed a gap where two of his baby teeth had fallen out and had yet to be replaced.

Bryn had only nodded. That would be her one day after she had served with their Uncle Roland as his squire, but to the girl with dirt grimed under her toenails, riding into town armed and armored seemed like a wondrous and far-off dream.

Now that day had come.

Bryn glanced at the knight riding beside her and noticed Sir Eckard was studiously not looking at the children. She shook her head and sighed before giving a slight nod to the group gathered in the tall summer grass just outside the town’s edge. A few of them pressed together, smiling and jabbering in whispers, suddenly shy now that they’d been noticed.

A little girl with scabbed knees and a briar bush tangle of hair, however, started to walk beside Candor. Lady knight?

The girl was so small that she just came up to the animal’s elbow, but she had her head tilted back to look straight at Bryn—directly in the face, with a nerve young Bryn could never have mustered. She wondered what young Bryn would have done had the knight years ago taken any notice of her. Probably stare at her feet and dig her toes in the dirt. Perhaps because of the nerve, or perhaps because Bryn saw in that hopeful face the memory of a girl now all grown, she reined Candor to a halt.

Yes?

More whispering from the pack of children, and the little girl flushed, turning her attention to Candor. Is that a real warhorse? Does he have a name?

His name’s Candor, and yes, he’s a real warhorse. Bryn patted the horse on his neck. He’s the best warhorse I’ve ever met, but better not tell him I said that, because he’s already too full of himself.

The girl giggled. "But he’s right here—he can hear you."

Only if he’s listening to me. Bryn gave the horse another pat. She then nodded to the girl and tapped Candor with her heels, setting him back to a walk.

The high-pitched voices faded to excited squeaks as the children darted off across the fields—a knight had spoken to them.

Eckard nodded in the direction of the children. You’ll get tired of that soon enough.

Perhaps. Bryn shrugged. But seeing that I’m not tired of it yet, it hardly hurts anything. Weren’t you ever a child?

Possibly, although I doubt it.

She had intended the question as a jest, but from the tone of his voice and the stern set of his jaw, it was clear Eckard hadn’t seen the humor. She realized that she couldn’t picture the old knight as having been a young boy standing in awe of armored warriors and fiery warhorses. As the son of a knight, this would have been his world from birth. He’d have found it a place of hard training and tedious responsibility before he could ever have had the chance to find it fanciful.

"Well, some of us haven’t yet had our memories rattled by too many strikes to the head, and we do remember." She offered him a grin.

He rolled his eyes and mumbled something about mouthy puppies. Bryn didn’t mind. For the first time, she was riding into a town in her homeland as a knight. She had ridden into towns before, but that had been with the awareness that she was a squire, a daughter of a farmer. Few would know the difference when they looked upon the young woman in armor atop a warhorse with a sword at her hip, but she knew.

And she knew farmers died at the hands of knights as readily as paladins died at the hands of squires.

Catching the curious glances of merrymakers, a sharp jab of loss pierced Bryn’s memories. She should be entering her town. She should be eagerly looking down the road to a farm house settled among the low hills. She should feel the anticipation of tossing Candor’s reins to her brother, of sweeping her younger sister into her arms, of embracing her mother and father. It should be an accomplishment she shared with them all since they had raised her and then turned her loose to gallop after her ambition.

It should be coming home.

But it wasn’t.

Knock it off, she thought sharply. Will you ruin your own happiness just out of stupid spite?

Bryn’s hand drifted to the pouch on her belt where a carved figurine of an enfield lay tucked safely away—a gift from her betrothed, Erland. Bryn remembered the moment just a few short weeks before when he had placed the intricate carving in her hand. The hopeful half smile of a self-conscious young man trying to explain in one gesture feelings neither of them were ready to speak. It was Erland who had buckled Bryn’s sword on her after she was knighted, and Erland who had given her a ring to wear just three days ago. Although Bryn’s gauntlet covered the ring, she still felt the lightness of its presence pulsing with subtle magic as a reminder that Erland lived and would one day return.

What should riding into some strange town matter when she had seen his face lit with pride as he wrapped the sword belt around her waist and cinched the buckle? She had lost much, and she had gained much. It served little purpose to set the matter upon scales and weigh out her life while she lived it.

Few people in town paid much mind to Bryn and Eckard; children pointed but kept their distance, and the merchants nodded their regards, but nothing more. Likely,knights and soldiers were not uncommon along this road, and people bore their passing as more of a minor inconvenience as they shuffled out of the path of warhorses. Bryn and Eckard rode straight through the town. Judging by the presence of so many people, it would serve no purpose to try to find a tavern that wouldn’t be a raucous disaster of ale and fighting, and finding stables to let the horses have a rest and some oats would prove even more difficult.

At a fork in the road, Bryn and Eckard turned westward. A castle perched on a hilltop that rose high and craggy above a stretch of woodland and a long patch of fields. With the rugged stone walls, it seemed to have been formed from the hills themselves. She asked Eckard if he knew whose castle that might be, but he admitted he didn’t, although he guessed by the size and the location it would likely be a lesser baron, somebody who would have authority over the little towns in the area. To herself, Bryn wondered if the lord of the castle oversaw the town they had passed through a league before, and what such a region might produce to have supported the rise of a town. To have put in the effort and resources to build such a structure told Bryn that whoever sat as lord of the castle expected enemies. Who, she wondered, were those enemies?

She and Eckard had not traveled far before the distant thrum of hooves caught her ear. She turned to see a small contingent of riders loping across the grassy fields, skirting where rich brown earth marked the planting of crops. A blue banner fluttered behind one of the horsemen.

Now what? Eckard muttered and reined in his horse.

Putting spurs to the horses would serve little purpose since Bryn could tell from the smooth pace of the riders that their mounts were hunting horses, bred with stamina for the chase. Besides which, she and Eckard had no proper reason to bolt off down the road like thieves ousted from a farmhouse. She took a deep breath and waited.

The riders slowed to a trot once they drew close enough that the standard on the fluttering banner was visible: a gold dog against a blue field as deep as the afternoon sky. The riders’ helmets hung from their saddles, ready at hand should there be need of violence. Their bare faces showed signs of lives tempered in the heat of battle: scars and weathering deepened the men’s expressions into perpetual scowls of ferocity. Still, the helmets remained on the saddles, and hands didn’t stray toward sword hilts as the men drew their mounts to a halt. With some relief, Bryn noted that although the riders numbered half a dozen warriors, the group didn’t maneuver around to circle her and Eckard. That, at least, was a good sign. Or maybe the better numbers loaned the men confidence.

Riding at a slower pace, a small group tailed the warriors. Hooded birds of prey perched upon the wrists of several riders who stopped a stone’s throw away from the others. A couple of lean, long-legged hounds stood steady beside the horses. This lingering group was comprised of young men, little more than boys, and Bryn guessed that they were squires to the knights who now sat on fine, well-bred horses before her and Eckard.

What confused Bryn was that the boys wore the clothes of young nobles out for a day of sport, while the knights rode in their armor.

Avgorath’s greetings, travelers, said the man who stopped his horse a couple paces before his companions’. His tone was pleasant, but his eyes were those of a wolf encountering a wildcat as he studied Eckard from armor to shield. He gave a nod before continuing, What brings a knight out wandering through the lands of Sir Merek?

Eckard met the knight’s expression with a thin smile. We’re traveling on a matter of our own business. Surely, Sir Merek can’t find fault with the lawful use of the free roads.

Peace, sir knight. We didn’t intend to startle you. The man laughed, a surprisingly light and jovial sound considering his intense appraisal of Eckard. You’re free to use the roads as you see fit. It’s just that we don’t have many errant riders out this way, and it raises one’s curiosity.

Well, no harm’s been done, said Eckard, but we must be getting on our way.

One of the younger riders, a youth in a deep russet tunic trimmed in golden thread, had moved his horse closer to the group, leaving his companions behind. A smoky-colored hawk sat upon his fist, holding to a leather glove woven in golden thread to complement the tunic. The young man’s face was the expression of arrogant curiosity, and the fact he was looking at Bryn as he approached caused her shoulder muscles to tighten.

Your squire shouldn’t bear a charge upon her shield, sir knight, the fancy young man said. Authority weighed on each word, as though chastising a knight were as common as tallying accounts.

Bryn bristled but bit back a few words that she knew wouldn’t improve the situation.

My squire shouldn’t, but seeing as my companion is a knight, she is most certainly entitled to a charge upon her shield, just as you are entitled to hold your tongue about things which are none of your business. Gone was any trace of a smile as Eckard addressed the young man.

You are really a knight, then? The youth turned his full attention to Bryn, eyes narrowing.

I am, yes. She summoned as best she could the tone Uncle Roland used against erring soldiers. She turned her head away from the young man, addressing the knight who had first hailed them. As my friend has said, we have our own business and should like to be on our way.

But the young man still had not finished, guiding his horse around to the side. "You mean that you think you’re a knight, he persisted, and his eyes glittered with something wild. Bryn didn’t like where this was going one bit. I would bet my hawk that you’re worthless with that sword and couldn’t best one of these real knights." He gestured to the assembled riders, and the lead man frowned, fingers tightening around the reins.

Yes, well, as much as I have always wanted a nice hunting hawk, Bryn said, staring the young man straight in the face, I have no place to keep one at the present while I’m traveling.

Eckard coughed, but the others remained tense.

The young man, however, looked as though he’d been slapped, his face reddening and the hand supporting the hawk beginning to tremble. "You will fight one of them, he snarled. One of you, show that bitch what it means to be a real knight—I order it!" He jabbed his finger toward the lead man and then at Bryn.

I don’t think you get to say anything to me about mouthy pups ever again, Bryn said in a low voice to Eckard as she watched the young man alternate between pointing emphatically at her and berating the knights around him as cowards. Not since her younger sister had been a toddler could she remember witnessing such a petulant fit. Her sister, of course, had not had the advantage of an armed retinue at her disposal.

I think we should leave now. Disgust broke through Eckard’s attempt at a passive expression.

Bryn certainly wasn’t going to argue, and she turned Candor’s head. The other riders remained oddly silent, letting the river of verbal outrage roil over them. Who in the name of Hell is that boy? Bryn decided he had to be somebody, not simply the son of a landed knight, in order to hurl such invectives against a group of knights without any rebuke. She also decided that was a question best pondered from the distance of several miles away. Tapping Candor with her heels, she and Eckard moved to be on their way.

"Coward! Whore!" The young man’s voice caught and cracked on the word, and it would have been risible, except Bryn had seen the danger in those eyes. She would not look back; she would keep Candor pointed down the road and walk onward.

Still, the taunt galled her. Part of her mind pleaded for her to turn around and make the young man swallow the words with her gauntleted fist. But what would that achieve? Hands shaking, she resisted.

One of the knights in the retinue urged his horse next to hers. Every muscle from her hands to her back went taut as he let his horse’s pace match that of Candor. She spared the man a glance from the corner of her eye but didn’t let her horse break his stride. The man seemed almost apologetic, mouth grim but eyes tired. She thought he was the youngest of the group of knights, but he carried the years of experience with confidence in his shoulders.

Forgive me, the knight said, his voice low but conversational, but it might be wise to just accept the challenge and give the young jarl his fight.

Jarl? That young man barely past the age of being a snot-nosed child was a jarl?

I thought Sir Merek governed these lands.

That’s correct, lady knight. But Sir Merek married the only child of Jarl Callistus, and so Merek’s son has inherited the title and the authority of his mother’s ancestors. The knight’s mouth twitched, and Bryn wondered how loyally this man bore his fealty to the new jarl.

She took a deep breath. And if I decide that I’m not going to fight for his amusement? Then what?

I suppose I should point out that you are outnumbered. The words were a threat, but his expression softened.

What was going on? Bryn looked over at Eckard, who seemed as confused as she was. We don’t have time for this foolishness, Eckard said to the knight. Your young jarl has no authority to order free knights to duel for his pleasure. Would you set upon us just to humor a boyish whim?

Bryn guessed the answer to that would be yes.

The knight shrugged. We are his bondmen, and his word commands our lives. He holds our families and our honor.

So that was the sum of it. Bryn’s backward glance caught the gloating, triumphant grin of the jarl.

I am Sier Bryn, she said. Whom might I have the honor of addressing?

He inclined his head slightly. Sir Wulfstrum.

And I assume that it is you, Sir Wulfstrum, that I’m to fight?

He nodded. The group of knights fanned out around them, giving little avenue for escape without sending her and Eckard straight into the reach of one of their swords. Beyond the loose ring of knights, the youths watched with laughter and bright anticipation. Their hawks caught the excitement of their masters and fidgeted on gloved hands.

It’s really too hot a day for this nonsense, Bryn thought as she grabbed her helmet. Very well. On foot or on horse?

Shall we start from the horse and go on foot if combat demands? The knight had his helmet in his hands, ready to place over his head.

Bryn agreed with a wordless nod. Suddenly, the understanding that she was about to fight with edged blades against a battle-hardened knight flooded through her body in a cold wave. He could kill her. By accident or by design, he could leave her dead on the road. And for what, so a boy could have some sport? A boy who would hazard lives that weren’t even his own. Heat replaced the racking cold, surging through each limb.

Jarling, she called, what’s the name of the hawk I’m about to win, and is it any good at hunting hares?

The young man flushed scarlet and didn’t respond. She didn’t need him to.

Be careful, Bryn, Eckard said.

"I am terribly sorry about this, she answered. If anything happens, will you let Uncle Roland know I’m not doing this because of what some brat called me?"

Not that it’s any consolation, but I don’t think they intend to let either of us out of this alive. Not if that whelp has any say in this. Eckard inclined his head to where the other knight was turning his horse around, preparing to make his attack. Which’ll spare me explaining anything to Roland.

Bryn knew the truth in her friend’s words. If Sir Wulfstrum killed her, they would have to kill Eckard, and although she knew her friend’s prowess as a warrior, he was one man against several.

Avgorath, be with us, she prayed, looking quickly up to the brilliant sky draped in clouds. Beyond that sky, would she find her family? Would she find Aulus? Through her gauntlet, she touched where Erland’s ring encircled her finger. Where was he? What was he doing? When his ring fell away, broken with her own life, what would he do? She hoped he would press forward with his life, that he would remember her in quiet moments, but that he would live. Would she get to watch over him?

The strap of her helmet rubbed against her skin as Bryn tightened it securely. Visor down, her breath echoed in a ragged rattling inside the metal. Gone were the sky and the clouds; gone was her friend beside her. All that existed through the slits was one warrior atop a horse. One warrior and a drawn sword.

If this is my last moment, let me make it count, Avgorath. My life is yours, O Lord.

She put her heels into Candor, and the horse plunged forward. Sir Wulfstrum sent his horse into a lunging attack and came hurtling toward her. They met in a crash of steel and horseflesh as their blades rang. The surprise of seeing the fine hunting horse keen for battle almost caught Bryn off guard. She swung Candor around to make a return charge, but Sir Wulfstrum’s horse was lighter and more agile. He hurtled toward Bryn before Candor could regain his position. Sir Wulfstrum slammed his mount into Candor’s shoulder, catching the larger horse with a brutal hit that nearly tossed him and Bryn to the ground.

Desperate, Bryn reached for anything she could hold and grasped onto the other horse’s reins. If Sir Wulfstrum could attack her horse, then it was only fair she could go for his. Grabbing the reins, she hauled violently, jerking the horse’s head. The animal swung around, fighting against the pressure on his mouth.

An impact smashed into Bryn’s shoulder, jolting through her nerves. She thrust her sword across her body, and the point struck metal. Forget fighting the horse! Bryn grabbed for the rider now beside her and used all of her weight to pull him from the saddle. The two knights hit the ground. The air shuddered in Bryn’s lungs, but she pressed the attack. Heaving herself on top of Sir Wulfstrum, she sank her weight against him and started smashing at his helm with the pommel of her sword. Again and again. The world rang with metallic strikes. Her breath rasping and loud in her helmet, sweat streamed into her eyes so that everything was a blur of stinging salt.

Enough! A voice broke through the din of violence. Peace, lady knight! He’s had enough.

No. He’s had enough when I’m good and ready to say he’s had enough. They would ambush us and see us dead on this godforsaken road. Her pommel bashed again into his helmet where the metal was already buckling under the rain of blows. The man no longer moved, his head lolling to the side.

Bryn, enough! Eckard commanded. A clatter of armor and then hands grabbed her from behind, pulling Bryn off her prey. Must I keep doing this?

Must he? Bryn’s stomach heaved as the rage melted from her body. Her hand ached from the countless strikes, but worse was the hot feeling in her guts. She struggled loose from Eckard’s grasp and ripped off her helmet just in time to fall to her hands and knees, retching onto the dirt road.

I—I didn’t do that to Aulus, she whispered. Sitting back on her heels, her whole body shook so badly that her armor rattled.

I know. Eckard put a hand on her shoulder. I know. But pull yourself together. Pick up your sword and get back on your feet, because I need you right now.

She looked up to see everybody staring, but worst of all was the jarling with eyes that could have burned the stars from the night sky.

Aren’t you going to kill him, whore knight? the jarl asked in a tone of interested curiosity, as though he were asking how a person might use a waterwheel or tell the time by the sun.

Bryn shook her head. No. I will not kill somebody for sport. She paused to wipe the sourness from around her mouth, but she stared up at the jarl, refusing to give him the satisfaction of turning her face away from his malignant glare. It’s bad enough I have done what I did, and for that I will always be sorry. But greater still the shame of a leader who makes his men hazard their lives for his pleasure.

Nobody moved as she crouched beside Sir Wulfstrum and worked the buckle to remove his helmet. Blood trickled from his mouth, nose, and ears. Emptiness marked his features—the face of a man whose soul fought between the body and the heavens.

Would Avgorath aid her in this? She didn’t know, but she must try. Bryn clutched the medallion that hung around her neck. Aulus’ medallion, the holy symbol of a paladin of Avgorath.

Please, Avgorath, she whispered. Save him. Let others witness your power and your mercy. She pulled off her gauntlet and rested her hand against the clammy forehead of the prone knight. Her arm warmed from down in the marrow of her bones. Warmth turned to light and spilled from her fingers, soaking into the man. Bryn shuddered as her energy drained with it. Still she held her hand, pouring her concentration into returning the man from the edge of the eternal world. Coppery blood welled in her mouth, and Bryn turned away, coughing.

Sir Wulfstrum stirred and groaned. He opened his eyes; both awe and fear reflected in his look as he grabbed Bryn by the hand.

You’re a paladin! he said. Avgorath forgive me, I would have done something terrible.

No worse than what I would have done, she replied. And I’m obviously not much of a paladin, am I?

A storm of murmuring rose from the onlookers, even from among the young men clustered around the jarl.

Only the jarl remained silent. Very slowly, as though wanting Bryn to savor each quiet movement, he reached his free hand toward the hawk that fluttered on his fist. Before she realized what he was doing, he seized the hawk by the neck and squeezed. The bird gave a pathetic shriek, and its wings thrashed wildly. The talons tore into the glove, but still the young man held, his grip tightening until bones crunched. With a look that bubbled up from Hell’s fiery abyss, the jarl let go of the hawk’s jesses and dropped the feathered corpse to the ground.

The jarl gave the sweetest, most endearing smile, his voice gentle as though he had summoned the spirit of another person into the body of a boy who had just killed a prized bird: There’s your hawk, Sier Bryn the Whore. You may name it whatever you like.

As though calling to hounds, the youth whistled, and the knights turned toward him. However, the group of warriors hesitated, looking first to Sir Wulfstrum and then to Bryn.

Are you all right, paladin? Sir Wulfstrum asked after hauling himself to his feet.

Bryn still knelt, her muscles unsure about cooperating. Eckard came to stand over her, hand resting on his sword.

Yes, I’m fine. She motioned to where the jarl drifted away, cocooned among his friends. Are you going to mount up and follow him? She noted with a grim satisfaction that even though the other youths spoke in excited tones and jested with their friend, their shifting glances at one another betrayed anxiety. If they hadn’t before, they now knew the true measure of the young jarl.

No, said Sir Wulfstrum quietly. He watched me nearly take my soul into perdition for his sake and didn’t even flinch. Other roads await me, although I fear this day has ultimately cost me my life for the choice which I am making.

Forgive me. Slowly, Bryn got to her feet, allowing Eckard to steady her arm.

What is there to forgive? We would have killed you both, had the jarl ordered it. Sir Wulfstrum rubbed his neck. Go in peace, Sier Bryn. Remember me in your prayers to Avgorath.

Sir Wulfstrum pulled himself onto his horse. While his companions continued after the jarl, he gave his spurs to the horse’s sides and loped down the road in a clatter of tack and armor.

Shaking his head, Eckard reached down to the hawk but quickly drew back his hand. Poor thing’s still alive.

Bryn noted he was right as she stood over the bird. The milky membrane of its third eyelid slid open and closed and open again, revealing a fierce gaze. The little chest moved in pulses of breath. Eckard drew the dagger from his belt.

Bryn caught his arm. Please, wait. She would laugh at herself later, but in the tenacity of the hawk’s struggle, she saw the spirit of a warrior. That bird fought to live.

Although he still held the dagger at the ready, Eckard stayed his hand. Would Avgorath let her save a bird? Bryn thought of the long service held in winter’s depths on the night when darkness reached its zenith, standing in prayer and singing within the chapel of the commandery. All across the continent, in the hours before the sun rose to break out of the cold gloom, Avgorath’s faithful kept the same vigil. In chapels, in cathedrals, in rugged little country churches, countless followers raised their voices in the Hymn of Creation, recounting for innumerable generations how the deity crafted the world and sent animals forth to praise their creator. Surely, Bryn thought, a god who found goodness in such a hymn would spare mercy for a creature cruelly injured.

She settled her hand on the hawk’s chest, just lightly enough that the feathers tickled her palm. The warmth prickled under her skin, and the light flickered as it shone from her hand. The hawk twisted beneath her fingers and raised its head, fierce eyes intensely set on her. Trembling, Bryn lifted her hand and the light receded as the warmth retreated back into her bones. She brushed a trickle of blood from her nose, but it meant nothing compared to the delight at seeing the bird gather its talons beneath itself and give its wings a testing stretch.

Softly now, my beauty, Bryn murmured. Let me remove your jesses, and then you can fly free for the rest of your days.

Trained to the touch of human hands, the hawk didn’t fling itself at Bryn’s face as she undid the leather thongs on its legs. But once free, the bird launched upward, sweeping into the sky where the long stretches of clouds drifted above the world. Bryn sat back on her heels, looking to where the bird dissolved into a speck wheeling before the sun. Then, aware they had wasted too much time lingering in the hateful young jarl’s land, she turned back to Eckard.

Her friend’s lips twitched into a half smile.

What? Bryn took Candor’s reins and quickly checked the horse over to ensure he hadn’t been injured in the fight. He seemed fine, nudging his head against her, and she felt a twinge of regret at how she had treated Sir Wulfstrum’s horse. But had she not, the animal would most certainly have hurt either her or Candor.

Nothing, said Eckard though he studied her for a long moment.

Bryn raised an eyebrow. She tapped her heels into Candor and set him into a trot. She didn’t understand what Eckard found amusing, but she knew it would be safer for them all to put the jarl’s land far behind them. Three days since her return to her home world, and Bryn felt the burrowing fear that she’d already made a new enemy.

2

You’ll be getting a lot of that sort of behavior, Eckard commented as they ate supper. They had ridden in silence for a long time; the rise and fall of the hills had swallowed the castle behind them miles ago. Cool dampness clung to the air, scenting the approaching rain. That little beast likely won’t be the only one to challenge your title or your skill. Plenty of knights will demand you prove your title with your sword.

Bryn only nodded because she knew the truth of Eckard’s statement. She had fought Sir Wulfstrum not because a boy had taunted her but because a half dozen knights stood ready to kill her and Eckard should the young jarl have spoken the word. When it came down to it, as she knew it one day must, would she kill to defend her title? Whether or not a random knight accepted her title didn’t change that she had been awarded the rank. But if she didn’t demand the respect of the rank, then the title only made her a wolf without teeth.

Eckard? Would you take it as an insult if I don’t accept a challenge to my rank? I mean, you knighted me, and if I don’t fight somebody who challenges me about it, would you think I don’t respect my own honor?

Eckard, already finished eating and whittling on a stick,  paused with his knife curling away a sliver of bark. Me? I’m more insulted that you think you have to ask me that. Let me put it like this: if you fought some knight because he refused to accept your title, would you be able to explain yourself to Erland? That’s a better question to answer.

It was also, Bryn thought, an easier answer.

Good. She brushed crumbs off her hands. Because I have no desire to fight over a title, and I wasn’t sure if that made me prudent or a coward.

To a fool, they look the same. Another piece of bark curled away from the stick. And I think I can say that a life spent answering to fools is a life that’s poorly spent. Now, how about we get some sleep? I want an early start tomorrow.

Rain arrived the following morning, and though it cleared the haze of summer dust from the air, it also made Bryn groan at the thought of getting her armor properly dry. The water turned the roads to an unending, sloppy, squelching stretch of mud that threatened to pull Bryn’s boots from her feet when she walked beside Candor.

It’s not quite like the skalds’ stories, is it? Bryn asked after she had swung down off Candor and into a particularly deep patch of mud.

No, but most of it’s not like the stories. Eckard smiled humorlessly. A few years back, I commanded a group of fighters at the Battle of the Mist, and I recall being worried that we’d somehow charge in the wrong direction and attack our own men. Or they’d attack us. Not exactly one of the fears the skalds sing about in feasting halls, is it?

You were at the Battle of the Mist? As soon as the question broke free, Bryn regretted speaking. That had been her first battle, and she’d been at Uncle Roland’s side as his squire. At the moment, she didn’t feel like admitting she’d been useless and terrified the whole time, particularly after getting wounded by an arrow that put her down in the mud for much of it. Uncle Roland had told her she’d served capably and fear is a part of battle, but she wasn’t sure what he’d seen that involved her being capable.

Eckard nodded. I know Roland was there commanding some consecrated knights. Were you his squire then?

Er, yes. Not much of a squire, though.

Well, most of us spend years being ‘not much of a squire.’

Bryn was thankful he didn’t press beyond that comment. She was coming to appreciate there were things he understood better than anybody she’d met besides Uncle Roland. Others, even other fighters, would test her responses, wanting to know her experience. They’d share theirs, of course, and take it personally when Bryn kept her peace. Some things she just didn’t want to talk about, to put out for scrutiny by people who had lived in different skins and thought they knew her life because they knew theirs. Eckard, at least, understood that some things aren’t meant to be set out for the judgment of anybody but the one who lived with the memories and the ghosts.

She wondered, not for the first time, what ghosts haunted her friend. Certainly, those ghosts had dwelled in his memories long before the death of her family. Bryn didn’t think anybody who found their way into the skalds’ tales rode the path without phantom hands reaching