The man knelt before the dais, head bowed and hands clasped, sweat trailing down his neck into the padding beneath his chainmail. The room was washed in gold, burning from sconces onto the goblets and plates. The king, crowned and armed in gilded steel, rose from his throne. The hall hushed under his upturned hand.
“I promise on my faith,” the man said, quiet words echoing in the hall, his heart echoing in his ears. “I will be faithful to my liege, never cause him harm and defend his rule in good faith and without deceit.”
“Arise, Sir Knight,” the king commanded. “You have walked a hard path to come here, take a seat among your brothers.”
The hall cheered as the knight rose. The king clapped his shoulder, his smile wide, and lowered his voice.
“You’re a good man, and a good fighter. I know you’ll serve me well.”
“I will, my Lord,” the knight replied, heat and pride coiling tight in his chest.
And the knight strove to live up to his word, his oath a heavy cloak across his shoulders. Whether he was sent to win a tournament, or sent to lose it, the king stood above and watched his efforts. When a neighbouring lord gathered his forces, the knight led his brothers to siege and took the fortress. And when the queen was accused of murder and the king asked the knight to fight for her, the knight listened and won and turned his eyes from the rising blush in the queen’s cheeks, the warm smile offered as he took her hand to his lips. And when a beast ravaged the southern border, the knight was among those chosen to accompany the king on his quest to find a weapon powerful enough to destroy it. There was a rumour passed from tavern to troubadour of a blessed sword nestled in a ruined castle at the heart of tainted land. They set out as a band of twenty but lost six before they’d reached the fabled woods to bandits and infection.
“We will have no hope without this weapon,” the king cautioned them over the pyre. “I will feel every loss at the border and on this path, but the Goddess guides us on the righteous road. It will be a poor leader who stops at the first loss.”
But there were other losses too; at the river ride that brought them to the forests and in the quiet night where beasts lurked, to hunger and the hunt when their rations ran low. They hit the fog bank nearly a month into the journey and the knight found himself alone, haunted by the pale whispers of the forest. He pushed on, sword readied, certain that his brothers would find their way clear. The fog thickened with every step, until he couldn’t see his hand held out before him and moisture dripped from his hair into his armour, cold drawing across his skin like fingers. Then the whispers – eerie, quiet things – grew. Not louder, but closer, pressed right into his ears.
“A king! He follows a king. We have seen many kings in these woods,” the laughing voices cooed, soft as a sword from its scabbard. “They are the worst of the living.”
“He is a good man,” the knight replied, unable to help himself. “A good king. He cares for his people.”
“What people?” the voices pressed. “Those burnt on the road here? Those left at your borders, dying and dying and dying again.”
“We seek the fabled sword of these woods,” the knight answered, loosening his grip on his sword. He had no intent to use it, not if it could be avoided. “My king will wield it for his people.”
“He will wield it for himself,” the voices warned, wavered.
“He will wield it for the Goddess!”
Chattering laughter broke out around him. The knight twisted, tripped, and found his king splayed on the ground. He still breathed, and the knight sheathed his blade and drew the king’s arm over his shoulder, teeth gritted as he took the weight of the man and the crown.
“Would you swear it?” The voices asked, the mist thickening until all the knight could see was swirling white. “On your life? On your Goddess? Would you swear it on your King?”
“I would,” the knight answered, strong and sure.
The mist parted and a dilapidated castle appeared, the remnants of its glory clinging to overgrown walls. The knight brought them to the main hall and set the king among the benches. Dinnerware was scattered across the tables, the food as fresh as if it had only been an hour since the feasters had abandoned them. At the head table, laid out before a king’s throne, sat the sword they sought. It was a thing of gilt and glory, more design than steel. The knight lit what remained of the sconces, golden light struggling against ashy wax, and waited.
The king roused slowly, fire-bright eyes taking in the hall with scattered, skittish glances. When they found the sword he was revived and leapt to take it in hand.
“We should leave at first light,” the knight said, picking among their rations.
“No,” the king said, and ran his hand slowly down the edge of the sword. He followed the walls, to great paintings and unmarred tapestries. He lifted a plate, his eyes taking on its gold. “No, we must search this castle. I would know what happened here.”
“Our people are waiting at the border— “
“They have waited already,” the king interrupted. “They can wait longer. The Goddess has meant for us to be here, I can feel it, that is why we have trekked all this way.”
“We came here to defeat the beast.”
“If that were so pressing, the sword would have been in the south,” the king snapped. Fury darkened his features, brows drawn to a point. He had never looked more kingly, nor more human. “Perhaps there will be other treasures we can bring to our people.”
“Your Majesty— “
“Silence!” the king commanded, the sword slashing between them. The knight staggered back, the tip to his chin. “We wait. That is my will, and that is my command.”
The knight clenched his jaw, his oath curling like a viper across his chest. He dropped to a knee, head bowed before the king.
“I understand,” he said, the words fighting against his spirit and the Goddess heavy on his shoulders.
They stayed days, then weeks, the king trolling through the ruins. The knight attended his every need, as he had promised he would. But as he looked up to the man before him, he couldn’t recognise the king he had pledged himself to. His eyes were too bright, too focused on the world before him to see the kingdom at his back. And the king he had loved enough to turn away from love and glory would never have stood for leaving his people to die.
The oath slid off his shoulders like night from the dawn, another settling against his throat. Whatever the whispers might’ve said, they had known it wasn’t the king they returned to the knight. The knight moved quicker than he knew he could, drawing his sword and thrusting forward in a second’s worth of time. The king, perhaps too blinded to expect it, gave beneath the knight’s blade and sunk to the ashen floor, the gilded sword falling quietly to the dirt.
The knight retrieved it warily. It was better balanced than it looked, thrumming with a quiet kind of power, and he set it beside his usual sword and made to leave the forests. No trouble disturbed him on his way.
Comments