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Knight’s Secrets

Idris

I dris’s hand throbbed with worrying intensity as he hiked east from his abandoned camp. At least the movement warmed his muscles, banishing the cold-induced aches and pains. In spite of the circumstances, the night was serene: his path through the trees was lit by the moon, the fallen leaves of mid-autumn were soft with decay underfoot, and the serene call of an owl echoed over the hills.

He broke from the forest on a slight rise, the small pines and birches giving way to tall grasses mounded under the weight of frost. A herd of sheep were huddled at the base of the hill, the gamey scent of muddy fleece and manure filling his nostrils. Their white watchdog huffed warningly as Idris emerged and headed in their direction.

A boy was out with them, and Idris offered a friendly wave to dispel whatever fear his unexpected appearance might induce. At six-foot-two, with a breastplate and greatsword, Idris was well aware of his intimidating effect.

“Good evening,” he called out cheerfully.

The angle of the boy’s shoulders softened slightly at the pleasantry, but his voice quavered when he returned with a questioning, “Good eve?”

“Apologies for disturbing your sheep,” Idris said. “If only they could tell the difference between a wolf and a ranger.”

The boy’s shoulders lowered another inch, and he let out a little huff of acknowledgement at Idris’s joke.

Idris halted five paces away, hoping the respectable distance would also set the boy at ease. The sheep had formed a tight crowd in the corner of the pasture, a few bleating nervously. At the boy’s back, a gate led to a dirt road that ran parallel to the fence; southward, a cluster of shops and small homes marked the edge of town.

“I’ve just arrived from the north, and I’ve had a bit of a mishap,” Idris said, lifting his bandaged hand. The dog, who’d come to sit beside the boy, let out a soft growl. “Is there an apothecary in your fine town of…?”

The boy patted the fluffy white head of his canine, eyeing Idris’s hand. “Waldron-on-Wend.”

“…in your fine town of Waldron-on-Wend?” Idris finished.

“A ranger, say?” the boy asked. “Where’s your bow?”

“It broke,” Idris replied stiffly.

“Your armor is fancy for a ranger.”

The boy was astute.

Idris’s black metal breastplate had once belonged to his brother, Grinnick, who’d had the edges tooled with a delicate flower motif. Paired with the silver vambraces on his wrists and his indigo cloak, Idris appeared far more heroic than he truly was. The disparity between his inner flaws and his gallant exterior was a constant reminder of why he lived the life he did, one of danger and repentance.

“Are you a Mirror Knight?” the boy asked.

Idris frowned. He’d forgotten the Fate Mirrors were making their tour across Fenrir this month; he didn’t know the exact schedule, but the boy’s question implied that the Mirrors would arrive in this town soon enough.

All the more reason for Idris to get his hand healed swiftly and make himself scarce again.

Idris took a tentative step closer. “The truth is that I am a knight, but not the sort you think.” He tugged at the cloak around his neck, revealing his Oath tattoo as proof.

The boy’s eyes went wide with wonder. “What sort of knight, then?”

“The secret kind.” The magic of Idris’s Oath tasted bitter in the back of his throat—a warning not to divulge more.

To bear an Oath tattoo wasn’t unique. Lord Haron of Fenrir Territory—who stewarded the western bulge of the continental kingdom of Marona—employed legions of Oath-bound knights. But not all Orders were known to the public, and not all knights could speak of their duty. Idris’s Order of the Valiant was one such secret.

“I was wounded in an altercation,” Idris went on, “and unfortunately the gash has become infected. It’s important that I get medicine for it.” Idris rested his uninjured palm on Halgren’s hilt—not intimidatingly, just to draw the boy’s attention, which had turned rather excited. “Tell me, can you help a noble knight on his quest?”

The boy was ensnared, now; he nodded enthusiastically. “There’s no apothecary here, but Hattie at the Pretty Possum could help you.”

Idris nodded gratefully. “Can you take me there?”

The boy grinned and turned toward the gate, leading Idris through. The dog watched Idris with wariness, protective not just of the sheep but the boy. Idris admired such principle and duty; they were qualities he, too, aspired to. He reached into his pocket and offered the dog a small scrap of jerky as a peace offering. When the beast nosed Idris’s wounded hand, she raised her lip in a snarl, scenting the monster, before she delicately took the meat.

Remember that scent , Idris thought, glancing over his shoulder at the dark slash of the forest. There are threats greater than I in those woods .