Loyal and Free Chapter 8

Garret stood hunched over the large leather parchment on which he had sketched a map of The Dunes when he had been a young lord of that land. Flynt had sent word that Cuthbert and his companions had fled the capital, but that had been over a week ago, and the old knight began to fret for their safer return to his care. His straining eyes searched the designs before him as though their dark ink could give him the answers, could tell him whether his son was truely safe.

"My lord," Harkin said gently as he lay a pale, gnarled hand on the shoulder of Garret's silver armour, "you have nothing to fear. They shall find us."

"How can you be so sure, old friend?"

"Because, my lord," the albino replied, "the young man that I met in the tavern was the spitting image of his father, the brave young knight that showed me that the world still had something to fight for even though my wife and daughter were dead. He will return, for that same strength and courage is within him."

Garret closed his wrinkled eyes, sighing. "I ran, Harkin. I should have stayed with my king and fought, but instead I took his wife and ran."

"Aye, but in doing so you ensured that the true royal line continued. You gave the small people like myself hope, hope for a brighter future, hope for peace. And that, my lord, took the greatest courage."

"How so? I seem to recall that running was much, much easier than standing beside my king as he died."

"You have risked your life since that day to protect his children. Their every breath could have killed you, but you never turned them in. You've guarded them, alone, all of these years. My lord, you can not truly believe that your actions since Marbank have not demonstrated courage."

The old knight turned to his friend and smiled sadly. "Thank you, Harkin."

The flaps to the tent burst open as a young knight with golden hair strode into the room, his red-plumed helmet resting in the nook of his arm beside his silver breatplate engraved with a gliding swan as he bowed to Lord Garret of The Dunes. "My lord, Prince Cuthbert and Princess Charmia have been spotted. The enemy is not far behind. I have ordered my archers to covered them but I wish to give them your orders, my lord."

"Thank you, Sir Gerhard," the old knight said before the younger man in silver armour retreated from the tent.

Harkin handed Garret the silver sword that he had sharpedned for the knight, his face revealing nothing. It was a sword that Garret had not used in many years, a sword that he had vowed never to use unless it was to protect King Daryle's heir.

The dead king had given the gleaming weapon to his closest friend after his own sword had shattered whilst they fought, side by side, against the enemies from Thorbeck. "Swear to it," the then Prince Daryle had begged Garret, "swear that, no matter what happens, you will stay with me."

"Forever and always, Your Highness," young Garret had replied before they charged against the enemy, side by side.

But now, now there was no charming Daryle to watch Garret's back and the silver armour on the old knight's back was much heavier than he remembered, the mail links chaffing his skin worse that it had all those years ago. As he mounted his spritely warhorse, the old man realised that he would not see the end of this war.

He  took a lance that a groom offered him and pulled down his heavy viser over his fading eyes. His breathing echoed in his ears as he nudged the horse forward and his small band of cavalry followed closely behind him toward the enemy.

Cuthbert and his weary companions willed their mounts to keep galloping away from King Burne's men that were close on their tails as arrows hailed down around them. One arrow found its mark and protruded from Carter's roan mare's hindequarters, propelling her further forward. Charmia squeezed Carter tighter, her fear surrounding her.

Garret's men galloped past the weary group, towards the charging scouts that rained arrows onto the cold winter ground, but it was not long before Dudley's men retreated back the way that they had come, Garret's band cheering and trotting back to their encampment cheerfully.

Charmia and Carter slid from their mount moments before the mare collapsed, her body caked with foam and sweat, her haunches drenched in blood. She whinnied pitifully and Charmia turned away, but Carter sat and cradelled the mare's sweet head in his lap as all around them knights and soldiers alike celebrated the safe return of their prince and their small victory over Dudley's scouts. Apep stood behind the yound knight, his curved sword ready in his hand. Neither spoke. Carter inclined his head, murmuring soft sounds to his fallen steed as the dark man from Basmara quickly ended the mare's suffering.

The princess watched her brother march away with Garret before crouching beside Carter. She gently ran her hand over the mare's still neck, her hand coming away with sweat sticking to her fingertips.

"She had been my father's wedding gift to my mother. Such a beautiful horse."

"Carter," Charmia whispered to her mourning friend.

He turned his sad face to his princess and stood, bowing, before taking the path towards his father's command pavillion.

"My lady," Apep said, clenching his fist over his heart and bowing slightly, Wthere are many more dangers ahead and many more shall die, of that there is no doubt. You must take rest, for your people shall need a strong leader to make it through these troubled times."

"Thank you, but my brother is the leader, Apep."

"Where I come from, my lady, the men may lead the armies, but it is the women that make the peace in the hearts of their people. A war may be won by the spilling of blood, but there are no people under the sun that will follow bloodhsed forever." He bowed once more and led his own black mare, her foreleg bleeding, away toward the horse-lines.

Alfreda appeared beside her mistress, her dark hand holding firmly onto that of young Arabella, the young girl's father and brother having followed Cuthbert.

"Princess Charmia, Your Highness," a smooth voice said behind them, the young knight to which the mellifluous sound belonged bowing low, his silver helmet with a red plume resting in the crook of his arm beside the swan engraved on his breastplate. "I am Sir Gerhard Fitzgerald, at your service, your Highness. Lord Garret ordered that I show you to your pavillion so that you may rest."

Charmia, having never met the young Sir Gerhard before, was mesmerized by his charming face. Teeth made of pearls glistened out at her, all except his left canine, for that had been replaced by a sharp tooth made of solid gold. It was, to say the least, an uncooth display of wealth, yet their was something in his persona that made the strange trinket seem perfectly normal to the entranced princess. His nose was perfect, albeit leaning slightly to the right after having been broken so many times, and his grey eyes shone like molten silver or a glistening moon on the sea. They sparkled like the stars in the night sky, adventure and mischief lurking behind his deep, black pupils. His black hair was long enough to just cover the tops of his ears and his crooked lips were surrounded by a small, trimmed crop of hair that added to his allure and the sense of mystery that surrounded him.

The young princess smiled, unarmed by his pure charms, and accepted his proffered arm as they head to her pavillion on the eastern edge of the camp.

A large cream pavillion stood silently before them, the large flag of Charmia's parents fluttering in the wind at the top of a pole. The silver horse galloped defiantly through the blue fields. Nothing was certain any more for Charmia. She and Cuthbert had finally made the first step toward their thrones and now anything could happen. But the mere sight of her father's banner filled her with confidence. Finally, she would go home.

Sir Geoffry bowed as he pulled the enternace flaps back for the princess and her companions. Young Arabella squeeled with excitement as she looked at the furs and gold and dresses that littered the room.

Charmia turned to the silver knight, his crooked smile full of charm. "Thank you, sir," she said.

"The honour, princess, is all mine. If you want for anything, Your Highness, please, send for me immediately. Your wish is my command." With that, he bowed, a coy smile dancing on his lips as he replaced the crimson-plumed helmet over his black hair, keeping the viser open as he walked through the lines of tents and soldiers.

He stopped as he passed the command tent, Cuthbert and Garret surrounded by knights as they leant over the maps and reports. The knight smiled, his golden tooth glistening in the early evening sunlight. His steps took him to the southern edge of the camp, where the tents grew more dense and poorer. Soldiers sat around their campfires, cooking whatever meat they had found, rabbit and hare being the most common, with the occassional smell of roasting hedgehog and duck reaching the knight's wonky nose. He did not stop to speak with any one, and none questioned him, for a knight had no duty to explain his actions to common soldiers. As he reached the treeline his steps quickened and he pulled the heavy helmet from his head. He kept his grey eyes open, his ears listening continuously for any form of danger.

Corpses lay strewn over the mossy ground three mile saway from the camp edge. They had been stripped of their wealth, dried blood watering the forest floor. He stopped beside the motionless body of one that had fallen, a knight with golden hair, now stripped of his silver armour that had had a swan engraved on the breastplate.The imposter smiled at the betrayed gaze of his conquest before continuing toward a small campfire.

No one questioned him as he walked amongst men playing dice. Some watched two survivors from their small skirmish battling with each other, their left hands chained to each other, armed only with a short dagger. Both were bloody and growing weary as their captors laughed and gambled and drank deeply from their bottles of rum.

"Sir," came a voice behind him, muffled by the scarlet scarf that they wore to cover their face. "Three are left in the tent."

The imposter inclined his head and continued on his way into the small, hastily erected tent. A large pole stood in the middle, three broken men sitting on the floor, their arms tied behind their backs and attached to the pole. Their faces were covered with homespun bags and they had been stripped of their dignity down to their shirtsleeves.

One turned his head toward the false knight. "Hello? Is someone there?"

"Hello?" Another spoke, his voice quivering. "Hello? Please, there must be a mistake."

"Who are you?" The third voice was stronger than the first and so the imposter stood over his body.

A young boy handed the false knight a golden chalice enlaid with rubies, filled with thick red wine that they had captured.

"Hello?"

"Save your breath, mate," the armoured man said, kicking the speaker with his steel-capped leather boot.

But the man continued, his voice weakened by the pain of having been kicked in his already broken ribs. "Who are you?"

"Tell me, gentlemen," the false knight asked, pacing around the pole slowly, "Are you ready to die for your false king?"

"The only false king is the imposter Burne. Long live King Cuthbert," said the one with the cracked ribs.

The false knight knelt beside him, pulling the bag from the man's head. He was young, not yet old enough to grow a beard, yet his green eyes held spirit, and their captor liked men with spirit.

"You are either very brave, boy," he said, "or incredibly stupid."

"I am neither, sir," the boy spat, his jaw clenched. "I fight for what is right."

"Leave the lad alone, please," one of the other captors said.

The imposter stood, a smile playing on his lips. "As you wish. I'm sure that Lord Arakash will be much kinder to you." The young boy's face paled and the man in armour laughed as he  strode from the room, throwing his golden chalice to the ground as he went.

The hooded figure settled into step behind the imposter, their stride matching as one. The stranger's deep blue eyes, almost as black as the midnight sky, darted quickly left and right, their gloved hand holding firmly onto the leather hilt of the sword at their hip.

"See to it," the imposter said to the stranger, "that Lord Arakash gets to play with his toys. I would hate for my price to dwindle if he was bereft of his amusement."

The hooded figure stopped and inclined their head, saying nothing as they watched the man dressed in a dead man's armour stride back toward the encampment of Cuthbert as the golden sun began to set on the horizon.

But the scarlet stranger was not the only one to watch him make his way back into the young stallion's den.

Lord Arakash sat clad in his black armour above his black warhorse, the animal snorting and fidgiting in expectation. The dark cavalry behind him sat with equal expectations, their mouths salivating at the thought of the blood that would follow. A small squadron of archers stood in the shadows, their bows and arrows ready for their orders. The false knight saw the Black Knight watching from the shadows and each man inclined his head slightly.

The imposter made his way quickly back toward Charmia's pavillion, knowing full well that soon events would be set into motion that he could not turn back from.

A flaming arrow landed on an empty tent a short distance away from the princess's tent and the camp was in uproar. The imposter smiled, running forward to find Charmia, shouting false orders to the panicking soldiers.

"Your Highness," he shouted, bursting into her pavillion. She stood, her short auburn hair uncovered as she stood, frightened, in a fresh blue gown. "Your Highness, please, quickly, I must take you to safety."

"What's happening?"

"The Black Knight, Your Highness. Please, I must follow Lord Garret's orders, Your Highness, and keep you safe," he said, taking her by the hand.

"My brother," she said as Alfreda lifted a sobbing Arabella into her arms, "I have to find my brother."

"My lady, please," Alfreda said, fear evident in her voice.

"I can't leave Cuthbert."

"His Highness will be fine, Princess. Please, before it's too late."

And so she followed him, for the handsome, charming knight had given her no reason not to trust him. He led them into the surrounding woods, away from the burning camp.

Charmia paused when they reached the trees, her pale blue eyes filling with tears as she watched her father's flag flame above the carnage. Alfreda screamed  as a figure whose face was hidden by a scarlet face unsheathed their sword, armed men close behind them. The imposter knight pushed Charmia to the floor and knicked the screaming maid senseless. The scarlet stranger grabbed the frightened princess, holding a small square fo crimson cloth over the girl's mouth.

The silver stallion galloped aflame as Charmia sunk unconscious into her captor's arms.