Arc 6: Chapter 3: Armory

    “Your lady is very fortunate I am a resourceful woman,” Faisa Dance said testily. “And a patient one.”

    Her irritation rolled off my shoulders. “You have our sincerest thanks, Duchess.”

    The aged noblewoman clucked her tongue. “If I’d known my generous offer of information that day would encourage the both of you to press on my aid at will, I might have abstained! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to conjure a false identity on such short notice? Not only that, but to prepare all the necessary accessories?”

    She paced around the room, her layered skirts rustling like the regal plumage of a wrathful bird. We stood in one of the many interior spaces of the Coloss complex, which could be near as intricate and winding as the Fulgurkeep in some ways.

    This one was used as a private armory. The walls were hung with lanterns and hooks displaying various implements of war, along with the items needed to tend them. There were swords, maces, axes, a variety of polearm, exquisitely carved bows, and a score of other cruel implements. Beneath them stood tables and shelves with an array of items, from little hammers to work out dents in a breast plate to whetstones for sharpening. There were kits for sewing, tools for patching leather, oils, spare straps, cloths, and much more.

    That dim, small room acted in many ways as both a workshop and an altar. It contained everything a knight might need to prepare for war, and for the theater of war.

    “This space will be at your disposal,” the Duchess told me. “It is private, untrafficked, and I will have a trustworthy guard keep watch on it surreptitiously. You will need such privacy over the next three days, to keep up this farce.”

    It wasn’t particularly comfortable, with only a stool to sit on and a cold stone floor spread with hay against the damp, but it would serve. I nodded my thanks. The Lady Dance glided to stand behind an object in the low-lit room’s center. Hidden beneath a dark cloth, I could not see what lay within.

    “And here is the centerpiece of my efforts. I do hope you like it.”

    She gestured with a gloved hand. Taking her cue, I stepped forward and pulled the cover off. Behind me, Emma drew in a sharp breath. Despite everything else, my heart quickened.

    The armor was beautiful, in a grim fashion. Set on a stand so I could guess at what it would look like on my own frame, the narrow eye slits in the black helm stared back at me from an even height. A greathelm of the kind traditionally used in tourneys across much of the land, it would have been little more than a cylindrical bucket if not for the artfully cut frame and ornate emblem fixed to the mask.

    “A trident?” I asked, studying the image affixed to the helm’s front. Worked from copper or a metal treated to show the same hue, it formed angry slashes of red against the dark steel.

    “It’s not what you think,” Faisa told me. “The Inquisition adopted the barbed auremark for their own uses, but it is one of many variations on the symbol. In centuries past, it was worn by crusader knights as a mark of penance, but this mark is even older than that. Folklore has it that devils would carry just such an implement when they walked the land, using them to claim the souls of those guilty of terrible crimes before dragging them down to Hell for justice.”

    “Devils, is it?” I studied the ominous helmet. Wrought of heat-blackened iron and perforated with breathing holes, it only had two narrow slits for eyes. The copper trident stood between the eye slits, its wings curving under them to sweep back along the temples, jutting out into points very much like thin horns. The central line of the emblem descended down over nose and chin, into what almost resembled a spiked goatee.

    Faisa had either picked well used armor or had it made to look weathered. There were myriad scars along the metalwork, from thin scrapes to little dents and other imperfections. Much like the armor I normally wore, it gave the impression of countless fierce altercations.

    But my ancient elven chain and second-hand steel this was not. The cuirass sported a more current design, with closely fit plates and subtle curves so it would fit comfortably over my frame and articulate just as well. It almost resembled a human torso, artfully shaped to suggest musculature. The pauldrons were hefty and full, each made of three layered pieces to protect my shoulders and upper arms, framed in paler metal much like the helmet. The left shoulder had a long, curling spike of decorative steel almost like a metal antler, the right a smaller one in a different shape.

    The set included an array of plates to encase my arms, hands, legs, and feet in solid, tightly fit layers of protection. It also came with chainmail to be worn underneath, lighter and thinner than my hauberk but still very well made.

    Not a single inch of my body would be soft.

    “Lots of superfluous pieces,” Faisa noted as she touched one of the sharp horns on the helm. “But this is tournament armor. It requires a bit of panache. There are other items in this room to decorate it as you see fit.”

    “It’s beautiful,” I told her honestly.

    “It looks rather villainous,” Emma noted with more reserve. “Couldn’t you have prepared something a bit less conspicuous?”

    She wasn’t wrong. The scarred, dark steel and sharp decorative did make the set look like something the classical Black Knight in a chivalrous romance might wear. I’d been too enamored with it to realize at first.

    “He’s hardly going to be the most ostentatious vision down on that sand,” Faisa told my squire. “Besides, consider it this way. If he starts winning fight after fight and finds himself set against great names as a dingy vagabond, people will question it. This way, it will be obvious he has some wealthy patron or great name, and people will accept it more readily. The mighty are known to be eccentric. They will question and be curious, but they will be more prone to anticipating the reveal of his identity, rather than seeking to unmask it out of outrage.”

    “A Dance would know theater,” I stated dryly.

    “Posh,” Faisa admonished me. “But yes.”

    Emma pressed her lips together into an uncertain line, looking unconvinced. “It’s just very showy, is all. I thought the point was to not draw attention.”

    “I can’t win without drawing attention,” I said. “The Lady Dance has a point. Besides.”

    I glanced at her and pointed to the black and copper mask. “It’s my color.”

    Emma gave my lame attempt at humor a withering look. “Better hope no one else makes that connection. So when will you be fighting?”

    “Soon enough,” I assured her. “This first day is mostly group battles to help winnow the tournament’s participants down. As an unknown contender, I’ll have to manage through at least one or two of those. Tomorrow is where you get more of the traditional jousts, with the final day being dedicated to the real matches, the ones that will create a champion.”

    If I had my way, we would never need to worry about that final day. I intended to cut an artery in House Vyke’s meddling well before then.

    “That reminds me.” I turned to Faisa. “I need a mount. The Empress hasn’t gotten back to me on that.”

    The Duchess just smiled. “It is being taken care of. You will have your valiant steed when it is needed, Ser Headsman, you have my word on it.”

    I had little patience for vagaries, but even less for trying to get a straight answer out of a Dance. Besides, my first match would be a foot skirmish anyway.

    “I shall leave you to prepare,” Faisa said brusquely as she moved to the door. “People are used to me being eccentric and flighty, but if I’m gone too long there will be questions. Also...”

    She turned and squinted at me. “I’ve heard some tell that a certain red cloaked apparition has been seen wandering the arena. You are not making an effort to stay out of the public eye.”

    “No.” I gave her a pointed look. “I’m not.”

    She looked perplexed, but shrugged it off and left. I turned to stare at the armor and the array of weapons. Everything I needed to carry this mad plan out.

    Was this really the best I could come up with? A disguise and a prayer that I might stop the villains in fair combat? It wouldn’t be that simple.

    And it would not save Catrin. Barely a moment had passed where I hadn’t dwelt on how she might be suffering. The knowledge ate at my guts like a devouring ague. Two nights had passed since Yith took her into captivity. What torments did she have to endure while waiting on me to conduct my schemes? I could have cleaved Hyperia Vyke down that first night and been done.

    I felt a tight grip on my arm, and turned to see Emma’s fierce amber eyes.

    “You are distracted,” she stated. “You need to focus, or none of this is going to work.”

    “Those are my lines,” I told her with a smile I didn’t really feel.

    “You can play the teacher another time,” she promised. “For now, you need to survive today. We will help Catrin, but we need to do it smart. There’s still a plan, remember? You’re not alone in this.”

    I had told no one about Yith’s blackmail except for Emma. She was the only one who both understood the dhampir’s true nature and my relationship with her. I doubted anyone else would consider her worth risking the Accorded Realms on.

    Part of me wasn’t certain she was, and I hated that side of me. The one who would choose duty over love, my vows over friends. And yet, that man was in me.

    “I need to get this on.” Turning to the stand, I began to lift one of the pauldrons off. Again, Emma put a hand on my arm, stopping me.

    When I gave her a questioning look, she shook her head. “All these long months, I have not gotten the chance to truly squire for you. Let me do it now.”

    Her face seemed calm, even determined. Some emotion I could not readily name built up in my chest. Gratitude? Pride? Some mix of the two, certainly.

    Emma had me sit on the room’s lone stool. She did not hurry about her work, but she did work with a focused surety. She didn’t allow me to help much during the process, either.

    In my memory, the wizard’s soft voice echoed the words of the song he would hum at the end of the tale.

    And here ends the song of Ban Sain, love’s fool and dragon’s bane.

    Who won a frozen heart and Death’s disdain.

    Rosanna had loved that story. I had too, though I would never admit it to either of them. Not least of all because Rosanna seemed that frozen heart to me back then.

    A knock came at the door. I waited while Emma checked, and she peeked back into the room a moment later.

    “It’s time,” she said. “Your block is being called.”

    Unable to properly nod with the greathelm on, I gestured. “I’ll be out soon. Just want to do a last check of my gear.”

    Emma vanished, off to other tasks I’d given her. Through the walls, I could feel an odd hum. Distant drums, and several thousand spectators eager to see chivalrous blood.

    I took the helm off, staring at the emblem worked into its mask. “A devil, huh?”

    Was I that? Would that be how the realms remembered me? Could I accept that?

    The demon appeared very suddenly. Without warning, the room’s temperature seemed to drop. The air took on a slimy quality, like grave worms wriggled over my skin. My breath came out as a visible mist. A melodious voice whispered from the shadows.

    Playing war, Alder Knight?

    While your lady love wallows in

    darkness?

    Yith’s sinister laugh filled the room. I could hear scuttling insects, and caught sight of a large crimson beetle on a nearby table.

    “I have not forgotten,” I told the demon.

    Why play out this farce?

    There is only one way.

    Kill the witch.

    Kill her brother.

    Kill them all!

    War is inevitable.

    “...Maybe,” I admitted. Then, turning my back on that foul presence, I moved to the door. “But I can at least make sure we’ll win before it starts.”

    Pausing, I turned to glare at the beetle. A carmine beetle, red as blood with a pattern on the shell very much like a face. “If you’ve hurt her...”

    She scurries about the shadow world.

    I know her whereabouts always, thanks to my larva.

    But she is unharmed by my hand.

    Another thought, almost as unsettling as that, made me ask my next question. “Are you going to tell your mistress about my disguise?”

    Only if she asks.

    I must answer all her questions truthfully.

    But only if she asks.

    Which meant I would need to keep Hyperia from being suspicious. If she commanded her demon to inform on me, then he would and the game would be up.

    The game would be up if I killed her, too. I let none of my doubt show on my face. “If you want Hyperia Vyke dead so badly, then why don’t you help me? Tell me what she’s planning while her brother plays at tourney.”

    The darkness seemed to shiver. Anger? Amusement? Doubt? The sense of the demon in the room made my blood cold and confused my senses. Between the dull ache in the scars Shyora had given me and the way the aureflame crackled with righteous fury, it took concentration to focus on the creature more minutely.

    “You can’t, can you?” I tried to find Yith’s true presence, but it felt faint. Most likely, he wasn’t actually here. Just talking to me through a fragment of his spirit.

    I can bring no direct harm to Hyperia Vyke.

    Or her allies.

    Or her kin.

    I cannot share her secrets.

    “But you have enough give in your leash to act independently,” I mused. “Enough to make this bargain with me.” Narrowing my eyes, I continued the thought. “Which means she’s bad at this. Reynard would never have allowed you to betray him so brazenly.”

    My master was mighty.

    Few mortals have ever known my kind so well.

    And if my enemy wasn’t fully competent, much of the rest made more sense. The reckless intrigue, the attacks, Yith’s presence in the city... an amateur sleuth could have eventually traced it all back to the source. I had, and I’m a blunt instrument.

    Something stank. Everything I knew about Hasur Vyke, the true mastermind behind the twins, told me he wasn’t the kind of man to act so clumsily. Was this a case of less capable children mishandling his plans? Or was there more?

    No time. The drums outside sounded louder.

    Two days, Alder Knight.

    I slipped the helmet back on as Yith’s presence retreated from the room. My scars continued to sting. I lifted a hand to feel at the part of the helm covering my left eye, tracing the marks beneath.

    I’d faced a more clever demon than Yith Golonac once, and survived it. He might know my scheme with the tournament from his spying, but he did not know my other plan.