3 — Knights and Blood

The tourney grounds hummed. The ground shook by feet stomping rhythmically to the chants of encouragement. There was music in the air and it smelled of roast chicken and horse manure. Steel on steel rang along with cheer. Splinters flew as lances exploded by impact. Old blood still soaked the ground from previous matches. 

Two knights prepared for the charge. One in glimmering steel bore the insignia of House Silverton on his white surcoat. 

The other bore none. His armor was noticeably more worn. It was old bulky armor, with straps that could snap at any moment. 

A hedge knight versus a noble. 

Hardly a fair matchup.

Their squires rushed to them with fresh lances, and just as quickly ran off the grounds. 

They got into place on each side of the list, their horses whinnying impatiently.

With heavy metal sabatons, they kicked the sides of their mounts and screamed at them to ride hard. Hooves kicked up dirt as they galloped toward each other without a second thought. Lances slowly fell down into place. Then the clash. 

The Silverton lance exploded. A piece of the lance stuck into the hedge knight’s hip. 

The hedge knight screamed, his body slumped ever so slightly, but remained on his horse ”Another!” He shouted at his squire as he reached the end of the list. He groaned, but not the complaining kind. More out of annoyance than fear. 

Again, they charged at each other. 

“Come on!” The Silverton knight exclaimed, amused. 

The lance snap was so loud it silenced the crowd. Both riders reached the end of the lists, but something had shifted. 

Everyone watched from the benches in anticipation. Eyes squinted, some leaned forward, but no one said a word. 

The hedge knight turned. 

Thick dark blood oozed out of his helm where the lance had struck. The metal bent into his skull. 

“Did I get him, Rodrick?” His words slurred, with a shaky half smile under his helm. 

His squire faltered, eyes wide. His hands hovered helplessly, as if he wanted to do something, but he had no thought of what he could possibly do. 

Cassian winced from atop the tavern roof where he perched. The next step would take a great deal of charismatic display, not exactly his strongest trait so Ricard would pull the reins for this one. 

He watched as the hedge knight fell off his horse. A cheer blared as the Silverton knight raised his hand to welcome it.

Without a regard for the violence, workers rushed in to clean the scene. The bloodied knight was dragged off the grounds as the Master of the Lists walked out to announce the next match.

Cassian caught sight of his brother taking his seat right next to the lord’s pavilion. If he didn’t already know, Ricard might as well have been another commoner. The way he moved was not noble at all. It was mannerless, rugged, that of a man who worked the fields. Cassian could tell he rolled on the ground before arriving here, dried mud stained his hands and clothes. 

He admired his brother. Internally he wished he could be the same as him one day.

Cassian watched as Ricard cheered and laughed with the stranger beside him. He could tell by reading their lips, he was making bets for the next game. It was all too natural. It was unsettling even for Cassian.

Above him sat Lord Ingram. In his regal attire, the sunlight reflected silver off his adornments. The lord was a glimmering beacon among a sea of dirt. Beside him, Lady Priscilla stood, leaning over the railing with her arms flailing as she screamed at the knights.

“Make him bleed, Sir Argon! Let your lance send this bleeding dog to the heavens!” 

Cassian noticed a redness warm up on Lord Ingram’s face. The lord kept his head low, jaw tight, and his fingers clutched unnervingly at the wooden armrest. 

Ricard took notice of it as well. The body language was all too obvious.

The plan was set. 

Ricard got to his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Ride hard, Sir Argon! Show him what Silverton punishment looks like!” 

Lady Priscilla regarded Ricard instantly. 

As the knights clashed, both Ricard’s and Lady Priscilla’s cheers consumed the grounds alike, louder than everyone. 

“Got some lungs don’t you, stranger?” Cassian read the Lady’s lips. 

Ricard shrugged, a flirtatious smirk on his face. He kept stoking her fire. Lady Priscilla screamed, Ricard screamed louder. Lady Priscilla clapped, Ricard stomped his feet on the benches. Always one step above. Always a little bit louder. 

As they were at it, she took more and more notice of him. And Cassian knew, that is what he wanted. 

She ended up taking Lord Ingram’s seat, practically next to Ricard. 

Then for a split second. Ricard winked to Cassian. So fast and sudden no one could have caught it. 

Cassian chuckled, watching the performance. 

Something shifted.

Lord Ingram got to his feet. The redness on his face was even more obvious. Without a word, he stormed off the pavilion. A pair of expressionless guards followed in practiced unison. 

The window.

Cassian faltered. 

Ricard had slipped away.

And by the obliviousness of the people around him, they hadn’t noticed him leave either. Like he was never there, a memory that one didn’t know if it had happened or not. 

Cassian scrambled down from the tavern roof, in an attempt to catch up with Ricard. He scaled down the outer wall, grabbing hold of wood that protruded. He landed light—almost completely silent—only a small scratch of the pebble under his shoe grinding on the cobblestone as evidence. 

He made his way into the crowd, squeezing through bodies. He moved like water. When he made it to the lists, he took a left. In the direction Lord Ingram had taken his leave. That is the direction he assumed Ricard had gone. 

Cassian found himself in a large courtyard, dotted with tents of knights, blacksmiths and cooks—anyone who took part in the tourney in any way. It was a bit quieter here. Some sat outside, polishing their shields, sharpening blades or just having a meal. But they all cast Cassian a sour gaze. 

Then he heard it. 

Nobility. Unmistakeable, ignorant nobility. 

Lord Ingram had found himself a wooden stump to rest his legs, and a wench had found his knee as the place to rest hers. They cackled and grabbed at each other with booze in their cups. Other knights had joined them, and cackled just as much—even more obnoxiously. As if seeking his approval by laughing as loudly as they could. It was pathetic. 

Behind them guards stood tall—unmoving—and looked the opposite way. 

Except for one. 

This one was different. His helm was not a bucket helm, but instead a regal pig-faced bascinet, adorned white antlers. He was not just a guardsman. He was closer to Lord Ingram than the others, with sharper eyes than the others. His presence dominated the air around him and his lord.

Cassian placed himself next to a horse, lightly patting it down the side—blending in. One of his eyes was sharp on the Lord. He snorted to himself at Lord Ingram’s disgraceful indulgence, watching him squirm wriggly fingers up the wench’s skirt. 

One of the guards leaned in over Lord Ingram’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Ingram’s face darkened. Then a cold sternness came over him. He put down his ale and pushed the wench off of him. 

“Let us get it over with then,” he said as he got to his feet, “this woman will be the death of me.” 

Lord Ingram took his leave, with the three guardsmen in tow. The regal antlers at his side, and the other two followed close behind. 

However, he did not return the way he came from the lists, instead he went further into the knights’ courtyard. 

Cassian stalked them from a safe distance, never losing sight of them. His eyes were glued to the white antlers. The smell of perfume and booze confirmed he was sniffing out the right prey.

He swiped up a crate of picked tomatoes, as the farmer turned his gaze away—not losing momentum. 

Lord Ingram and his men approached a large tent at the end of the path. An ale tent, serving as a tavern, where the knights and tourneymen could bask in ale and food after a day of competition. Though it was a few hours after noon, so it stood dark and empty. 

‘What do you want there?’ Cassian asked in his mind. 

He watched through the swinging curtains as they entered. Mostly darkness except for a small, dim light. Candlelight, Cassian presumed. 

He set down the crate of tomatoes as he prowled to the entrance, his ear hovering close to listen. At first it was completely silent, just the quiet rustling of plate armor stirring. Then.

Two swift slices, like a fillet knife on flesh. 

At the sound of wet gurgles, Cassian jumped in. For a small moment, he caught in the corner of his eye two of the guards fell, clasping at their throats. Though he did not have time to look, he turned to tie the curtains shut. 

The antler’s blade was held at Lord Ingram’s throat, dripping with warm blood. His other hand grabbed a handful of the lord’s grey hair. 

Lord Ingram’s breath grew uncontrolled, his hands high in surrender. 

“Cassian,” The antler called. No. Ricard. He could tell from his voice, Ricard was no longer disguising it. “Tie him up.”

Cassian picked up a roll of rope and began at Lord Ingram’s hands behind his back, then the legs—tying the knot hard and painful at the joints like Raziel had taught. 

“Take that cloth and make sure our lord doesn’t say anything stupid.” Ricard’s sharp silver eyes dug into Ingram’s wet.

Cassian had never seen his brother like this before. Ricard was like a wolf that smelled prey, his eyes were so wide with adrenaline Cassian worried his brother might make a hasty decision. 

Without another thought, he grabbed the cloth from Ricard’s hip and stuffed the lord’s mouth. A single tear trickled down the old man’s cheek as he whimpered.

Ricard leaned closer, his face inches from the lord’s. “You have some explaining to do,” he growled. Then tossed the old man over his shoulder. “There is a barrel of tallow behind the bar there. And strike this with your dagger.” He tossed a flintstone to Cassian. “Burn it down, Cas.”

He nodded to his brother’s command. While Ricard maneuvered under the backside curtains of the tent. Cassian vaulted over the bar. He pried open the barrel lid. The fatty odor of rendered mutton fat filled his nose like a wave. His small arms shook as he pushed the barrel over, soaking the area. He struck the flintstone against his dagger. Sparks caught on a grease-soaked rag beside the barrel, and the fire spread hungrily across the spilled tallow.  

Cassian met with his brother a ways down from the tent, the flames growing as he left. The distant shouts and chaos grew with it. 

Ricard waited atop a carriage—reins in hand—already changed his clothes to that of a beastmaster. 

“Get in,” he ordered.

Cassian jumped in, his black eyes met with Ingram’s wet. Both of them faltered for a moment, their bodies moved as the horses pulled hard. Then Cassian’s expression grew colder. He stopped to regard the lord, and took his seat without a word. 

Ingram’s eyes never drifted. They were glued to the young boy. A quiet horror darkened his face.

Cassian felt his gaze and tried to ignore it, but for a moment he paid him a swift eye. He frowned as he looked at the pathetic man. 

A sharp pain shot into Cassian’s skull as red washed over him.

The bruised boy in front of him begged. His voice never reached Cassian’s ears, but he knew what the beaten boy was saying. The boy was scared, tired, pleading for mercy. 

Cassian looked down at hands that had aged far more than his own, the same ones he had seen before. He felt his fist rise, the with a cracking blow, the boy met his end. 

Then he was back in the carriage.

His eyes wandered down to Ingram’s hands. 

“It’s you.”

Ingram’s eyes questioned him.

”You killed that boy. He begged you to stop, but you did it. Again and again,” Cassian said softly, his fist tight.

He watched Ingram’s eyes widen. The old man’s muffled whimper made Cassian’s blood boil. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cassian added, loosening his fingers. He crossed his arms and leaned back on the carriage wall. “Father will get all the answers he needs from you.”

The rustling of the carriage calmed. They traversed over dirt instead of cobblestone now. Outside, the chatter of people had turned to the stillness of the countryside, a distant echo of crashing waves. 

The wood of the carriage groaned as they came to a stop. 

Cassian opened the door to see plains of green grass and a great cliffside to his right, leading down to the sea. He hopped down to see Ricard standing a ways further. 

Ricard whistled a long tone, ending it with a higher pitch, almost painful to the ears. 

The air turned heavy, dark. Something had dominated it.

A shadow flashed over them as the wind screamed in the distance. Like the very air itself was breaking. Out above the water, a winged silhouette dove down from the clouds. 

Cassian watched as the black shape swelled. His heart began beating up to his throat as he could do nothing but watch it. 

Then with a thunderous crash of air, Cassian felt his body being crushed by the wind as it flew over him, shaking his eardrums. 

It circled around, the full shape of the giant crow clear as black on white. Its great talons lowered, and with a crash it pierced into the dirt below him like it was wet mud. Its eyes locked onto Ricard, wide and unnervingly still. 

Corvain.

The size of a warhorse. His sleek feathers were black as night, the edges of his feathers glinted with dark navy. The beak was straight and sharp as a spear. In his eyes there was a frightening focus. Unwavering discipline. 

Ricard smiled as he walked up to the giant bird. He patted its wing, stroking down the feathers that were as big as halberds. 

“You didn’t waste a second, like always,” Ricard said, “How was the view from up there?”

Lord Ingram sprawled and kicked in the carriage, screaming from under the gag. 

“Don’t be such a baby, my lord. It is just an oversized bird. Nothing to worry about,” Ricard spoke to the lord as if he was a child. He pulled Ingram out of the carriage, letting the lord crash into the grass below before he picked him back up and patted him off. “There we go. Now you better hold tight. Could get ugly if you fall while we make our way to Greykeep.”

Cassian tried to hold back a chuckle. He watched as his brother tied Lord Ingram to Corvain’s saddle. 

The slow realization came over the old man. He squirmed and screamed as Ricard patted his shoulder after the final knot. 

Ricard then walked over to his brother, he placed his hand on his neck. “You did good, Cas. You had my back. You followed my commands without hesitation, and more importantly, you executed them perfectly. Father will be pleased.”

A small smile invaded Cassian’s face against his will. He nodded. 

“Now do me a favor,” Ricard said as he let him go and began mounting Corvain. He tossed Cassian a vial of grey liquid and a needle poking out of it, “give him that will you? It will stop his squirming.”

“Night sap?” 

Ricard nodded without looking, his eyes occupied by tightening the leg straps around his thighs. 

Without further questions, Cassian walked over to the terrified lord. Without a glint of emotion in his eyes, he poked the vial into Ingram’s neck. “Shut up, will you?”

Lord Ingram attempted to fight it, but the concentration of manipulated herbs filled his bloodstream. His legs began failing. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the weight of his eyelids consumed him. His body went limp, hanging by his belt that was attached to Corvain’s saddle. 

Ricard—ready to fly—he waved a hand at Cassian. “Hop on then. We are going home.”