TALLOS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John was the first to have joined Wilkin in his travels, the first, at least, of this current group. It was hard to imagine this was the first band of vagrants Wilkin had attracted in what must have been untold years tinkering among lands far and wide. Wilkin did not have to say he had made such journeys, for they were written upon his face. His myriad lines and wrinkles were as visible as the markings on a map of the paths he’d taken, mostly north and south, but spanning the breadth of the continent. An honest face it was, but a face that knew sadness and defeat. How many times had he watched tragedy befall his companions, spared only for being a helpless old man whose skills were more valuable left intact than the entirety of his belongings if stolen? And was he a coward or simply not a fool for allowing such things to happen without throwing himself onto the swords of their attackers, joining his fellow travelers in some desperate rebellion? Or perhaps he’d tried to do as such, just as many times, and was instead impaled by his own impotence, pushed to the side and laughed at by his would-be killers. Time stood still, allowing Tallos to ponder these things whenever he so much as glanced at the man.

“What do you mean war drums?” asked John. This man was less of a puzzle, though not by much. He was not corpulent, but was further so from being chiseled from stone. His finger-length wavy hair and face without a hint of stubble made him seem more like a squire than a tinker’s apprentice, and his countenance spoke of his low birth and humility. Yet while most impoverished folk carried with them a hungry, desperate look, warning that they may lash out at any moment to steal whatever opportunity fate put within their grasp, John looked more similar to Wilkin with respect to his incorruptible honor. It seemed to come from a different source, however. Perhaps it was only their extreme difference in stature, John being half again the weight of the average man, Wilkin merely half, but John did not share the feebleness of his mentor—not in appearance. “If there was an army in that tiny village it would be spilling out the sides, and we’d surely see it.”

Kelgun shook his head, but only faintly as if to keep his eyes locked on the potential danger that lay ahead, should it reach out and grab him otherwise. “That is worse than an army. Those are the drums of a conscription party.”

All had come to a stop save Wilkin. It was not in his nature to halt at the sound of danger, and he continued forward with his two donkeys, one laden with him and the tools of his trade, the other with even more tools and supplies.

“Some knight who is afraid of war,” snickered Dusan, who immediately looked as though he regretted having mustered the courage to taunt Kelgun for the first time in earshot.

But Kelgun ignored the boy. “I go no farther. Lily, this way. We head back north.”

“She won’t,” cried Dusan. He looked toward his sister, but she avoided his gaze. She turned her horse to follow Kelgun.

“Ho thur!”

It was the voice of a man not within their party, and it came from some distance. A quick glance around showed Tallos that they had been flanked by mounted men, emerging from the thick forests. Four halberd-wielding men-at-arms wearing tabards painted with what looked to be an upward facing lightning bolt approached them, a pair from each side. They were sturdy men riding upon horses equally muscled. Though somewhat smaller than Kelgun’s destrier, their coursers had the statuesque look of youth and power, the striations of their shoulders and legs awash in the gleam of well-groomed dark bay coats. Tallos recalled a book from his youth stating such a breed could gallop at incredible speed for a mile if need be—something he now regretted having hoped to one day see. Their canter carried their riders within easy speaking range of Tallos’s party without delay.

“Headed somewhere, young knight?” It was the smallest and seemingly most cocksure of the four mounted men, and his labeling of Kelgun was clear to be no honest compliment. Tallos had no real knowledge of armies and warfare, only what he’d heard from tales of the conquests of valiant knights in great battles, but it was obvious these were paid soldiers, not conscripts. They were probably paid twice and again whatever was handed to surviving conscripts upon victory, and likely had ten times the effectiveness in combat. Though one must never underestimate the value of arrow fodder. The phrase of unknown origin was stuck in Tallos’s mind, repeating itself.

For once Kelgun had no answer. His expression had gone stern, and he eyed the riders untrustingly.

“Surely you heard the drums and knew their meaning? A man atop a battle-scarred destrier must know a call to arms, no? And be eager to join the battle for the good of the kingdom and the realm?”

“What makes you so sure your side fights for the good of the realm?” asked Kelgun, but his question was met with only a grin.

The remaining halberdiers came to a halt. Wilkin was out of earshot by now, still headed toward the city at his methodical pace. He will not be throwing himself upon these halberds, it seems.

“Wherever did you find such an ugly squire?” asked one of the other men.

“The Mountain’s tits,” cried another. “I believe that boy has tits in kind!” The four men-at-arms erupted in laughter.

“Let her alone!” It was not her noble knight who had come to her defense, but her weakling brother. The men paused a moment in consideration of his request and renewed their laughter.

“Come, all of you,” said their leader. “King Veront of Rivervale has need of your services, meager though they may be.”

For a man that has seen battle, thought Tallos, he does not appear to have a proper respect for those whose bodies will shield him from his enemies’ arrows. His dry humor served as little comfort as they were escorted toward the sound of the drums.