Knight of the Faith

"Is he ready?"

The tall, lanky warrior nodded in response, then executed a salute: three fingers over the heart, then down. "He is the finest I have seen in some time, Father Knight."

The man he spoke to was beginning to curl with age and the sloth that comes with policy-making. His eyes twinkled, though, and a bushy eyebrow arched as the elder man snorted lightly. "Better than you, Darraka?"

"I was an impetuous fool, and I should have been dead twice before I made ninety-eight," the thin man said with a sudden vehemence, a fleck of spittle flying harmlessly in front of the dark Maiunwood desk. He looked seriously at the man behind it. "Basat is fiercely loyal. He raises—" Darraka stopped short as a chuckle echoed throughout the chamber, and the seated figure sat back in his chair, a smile spread wide on his face.

Darraka looked at his superior, sitting behind the great desk of the Father Knight. Yes, the twinkle was there in eyes framed with sagging circles, and the skin around his flat nose wrinkled with mirth. The two men looked at each other, but it took a moment for the warrior to realize the source of the man’s humor. He shook his head. "Too much the politician, Barsensi."

"And you still the fool, old friend," the man grinned, and Darraka saw that the Father Knight had lost another tooth since he’d last spoken with him. "Ah, Lady’s light," Barsensi flicked his hand dismissively, "I trust your judgement, Huntmaster. I have heard much of young orphan’s progress. He will make a fine Knight, I think. Of course, you came to see me for the first time this sevenday to do more than accuse me of being too politic."

"Am, yes." Darraka shifted his stance to a more comfortable one. The man was lanky, but lithe as a dancer, and never looked uncomfortable, even when he was. He ran a hand quickly over his close-trimmed beard, scratching at it. "Times being what they are, Father Knight, in light of the recent increase in matters foul, I’d like to implore you—-"

Barsensi scoffed, a sound almost like a laugh. "Oh, spit it out plainly, man. Am I so unreachable that you have to speak to me in that airy speech Brother Feany teaches in etiquette?" He spoke more sternly. "Has it been so long since we faced Gench back-to back?"

Darraka smiled ruefully, drawing in a deep breath. "It has been a long time, Bar. Fifteen years, and we weren’t young then." He studied the man for a moment, then smiled before returning to his serious demeanor. "I want to follow him," he said simply.

"Yes," Father Barsensi nodded calmly, tapping his fingers together and leaning back to study the high stone ceiling. It seemed to Darraka that the Father Knight must have known his intentions from the moment Darraka knocked on the plain door to his study –-perhaps sooner. Barsensi continued: "Times being as dangerous as they are, you mean?"

"Yes, Father, exactly. We’ve sent out five Knights in the last week. It’s time we watched some of them."

The Father Knight smiled gently. He knew of the young Knight in question, and also knew of Darraka’s fondness for him. Basat was fatherless, but Darraka reported on his progress through training with a fatherly pride. "Fine, Huntmaster," he replied. "You may go."

"Thank you, Father Knight. Darraka nodded curtly. "Thank you." He snapped a salute, and spun about.

Barsensi spoke as he reached the door. "Huntmaster?"

"Yes, Father?" He turned back.

"Have you ever thought of leaving us?"

Darraka looked out the high window behind the Father Knight for a moment, then laughed weakly. "Lady knows, we are all weak sometimes, Father. But what would an old Knight do for the Lady? Raise apples?"

"Well don’t think of it." Barsensi interjected. "What you do is important. That is, it may become even more so. Things are escalating now, and I fear we may not be able to train aspirants quickly enough."

"Father?" Darraka’s cold eyes were uncomprehending.

"Ah," he shook his head sadly. "We’ve never had cause to send out five Knights in a week –-never that many Dirgen at once! The people are afraid, and so fewer become aspirants." His eyes looked down at the stack of papers before him. "There is even talk of treachery among the ninety-nine."

"How so?" Darraka’s head shot up in surprise.

"Rumors, that is all. Keep your eyes open, old friend. You trust Basat?" Barsensi knew the answer before it was given.

"With my life."

"That is one we are sure of, then. Two." He smiled. "This will pass. As the Lady says, ‘the forest is cleansed by the fire; though the ash is thick, the forest grows back stronger.’"

Darraka blinked. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "That is it exactly, Father Knight."

Barsensi waved and nodded. "Come back soon then, Huntmaster, and with all your fingers this time, hm?" He smiled.

Darraka snapped him another three-fingered salute; it was all the fingers he had.

* * *

Less than an hour later, the Huntmaster raised three fingers to the Knights on guard as his horse trotted through the raised portcullis of Battin Keep. The day was brisk, the horse was fresh, but Darraka felt uneasy as he urged his powerful mount into a gallop. I have trained hundreds of Knights, he thought, but I quail when Basat is sent out. Lady forgive me --have I done the right thing? Growing apples, indeed.

He spurred the white Fey horse on faster, speaking aloud the poem he taught when he warned every aspirant about the un-dead creatures known as Luaka:

"A quickness of step,

A Knight frozen still,

A brightness of eye,

A promise unfulfilled. . ."

Help me reach him before he finds it, Lady, and let the thing be faithful to its promise, he prayed silently.

* * *

The Knight’s scabbard catches on the arm of the chair as he begins to sit. No one else sees it, but his left hip jerks forward as the rest of his body continues its descent into the chair. I stifle a chuckle with one hand as the Knight recovers, still maintaining his conversation with Bade Quisle about the creature. Luckily, no one notices my rudeness, and a good thing, too. Father would slap my ears off if he knew I was disrespectful to the Knight, even for an instant.

"Some –-water, Sir Knight?" Constable Frai asks uncertainly, but whether that is because he has been Constable for less than a day, or from worry about how to treat a Knight, I cannot say. Funny, I always thought that shining the shoes of greatness would come naturally to Kassop Frai.

The Knight nods, and I am sent into widow Gyrops’ kitchen to fetch a pitcher. I nearly drop the pitcher in my haste to return. The Lady’s Knights are well known in town, for Battin Keep is less than five leagues away. Still, their appearance is rare, and we have never actually needed a Knight to hunt for us before.

There are seven people in the room when I return, and I am sure the number will grow. Widow Gyrop is there, of course, looking like a horse has kicked her, and she wants to kick back. Tough lady, husband dead and all. Mulkin and Refie Janesse are there as well, their faces all sorrow, but they have lost family to the creature too.

Bade smiles and acts as if he’s known the Knight since he earned his sword (which can’t be too long ago, judging from the way his armor hangs off him). Bade goes on and on about how terrifying the experience has been for the town. Constable Frai continues to fawn over the Knight also. Sickening for grown men to fawn over a child like this, but I suppose that’s the way of things around courts and such.

The Knight carries himself well enough, I suppose, on thinking twice about him. Knights are famous for their control and their stern nature. I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever pinched a girl in a bar. Lady, Lady, I think. Probably got rules against going into places like I live in. The sword at his waist has a plain enough hilt; not much more special-looking that those worn by lots of the customers in our bar. If the tales are true, then not only is that sword magicked; he also knows how to use it, too. Even if he does get the scabbard all caught up in chairs. I limit myself to a smile as I serve water to the Knight in a wooden cup from a shelf. He smiles back.

"Who saw it?" The Knight asks, turning back to Bade and Frai with a sudden impatience.

"Deckan did," I offer.

Frai glares at me, letting me know that I am only a serving wench(which I already knew), before adding "He’ll be here soon, Sir—" he hesitates.

"Basat," The Knight offers in response. "Good. Anyone else?"

"I don’t think so," Frai says.

Bade cuts in "But we’ve all heard the tales many times, Sir Basat."

"Then we shall begin now," The Knight ignores Bade pointedly, stands, and unbuckles his sword belt before sitting again. His sword hisses free and he places it across his lap. Bowing his head, his voice rings out in the silence of the room: "Guide us, O Lady, in bringing dark deeds to light and in bringing evil to justice."

The rest of us bow our heads a few words in to the prayer. If his eyes were open, I do not doubt that the Knight would be shocked at our unfamiliarity with what must be a simple prayer at the Keep. Even so close to the Keep, some of us are still heathens. Most of us, it would seem. I feel like I should have my Spring Fair dress on, for such an occasion. If he stays long enough, he might still see it...

The Knight Basat concludes, looking at us expectantly. "Who is the first petitioner?" He asks. The others are impressed with his austerity, and his vocabulary. I think he is a boy trying to be a man, even if he did smile at me.

Widow Gyrop steps forward then, and speaks quietly. She seems to know how to act in this situation, and would, as the constable’s wife. She kneels briefly. "I am Osire Gyrop, and my husband the Constable was killed by the Dirgen." There is an undercurrent of anger in her voice.

"Did you see the un-dead?" the Knight asks gravely.

"I did not, Sir Knight. My husband—-" she quavers a bit, "—-returned home after he saw the thing, walking through town," She measures her words like steps in the night, as if afraid to offend the man with the wrong interpretation of what she saw. "He was greatly upset by it. He said it smiled at him –-like a wolf smiles at a hen, he said. He was not himself. He shook terribly. And he died." She speaks clearly, and I can’t help but wonder what hidden sorrow lies behind such calm words. "Fell down, gasping for breath, and he died right in that very chair, Sir Knight."

"We are upset by your loss, Lady Gyrop," the Knight says evenly, though I saw his eyes twitch a bit when the widow said that her man died in the chair he now sat in. Well, at least he’s human, I think.

A knock comes at the door then, and Mulkin turns the latch to let in Jorgis and Plenk. Jorgis wipes his nose, thinking himself civil to be cleaning it, but he still wears his tattered black hat. Plenk’s round jowls hang slack in awe as he sees the Knight and his sword. If he had anything to say, he would stammer it; but he isn’t smart enough to speak a word.

Bade "humfs" at them, and Frai takes in his breath, but says nothing. I glare at the two because they shikked me last night on their last round of ales. Plenk’s eyes grow wide as he sees me, and Jorgis’ grow narrow. They’d have been good thieves if they had a brain between them.

Frai found his voice. "This hearing is to discuss the creature, so unless you two have seen it—-" he motioned to the door behind them.

Jorgis remembers his hat, yanking it from his thin hair. "Oh, I do, Good Constable! That is, we do." He looks at the Knight then, bowing, and Plenk tries to follow his lead. "Jorgis Apato and Plenk Dubeeni, Sir Knight, at your service."

"You saw the creature." The Knight speaks idly.

"No. But —-aha!" Jorgis snaps his fingers excitedly. "I have evidence—-"

"—-Direct evidence-—" Plenk leans in.

"—-Direct evidence of the creature’s passing. You see—-"

"I am a farmer." Plenk interrupts simply.

Jorgis’ mask of pleasantness breaks for a second, but he carries on smoothly. "He is a farmer, good Sir Knight, and at his farm—-"

"I got crows," Plenk says earnestly. I muffle a giggle, but everyone else in the room looks like they’d just as soon hang the two as listen to any more. Jorgis looks about, trying to think fast as Plenk mistakes the room’s cold mood for a disbelief. "I do" he insists. "I got lotsa crows about."

The Knight sees me at his shoulder finally, and smiles, too. The room relaxes.

"Yes—-" Jorgis tries to keep smiling.

Plenk is encouraged. "Got ‘em bad, too. Big, black--"

"Yes, Plenky please!" Jorgis snaps, and I laugh out loud. They all look embarrassed and the Knight shifts uncomfortably, but I can’t help it.

"There is a end to this tale?" Frai asks airily.

"Ohoho yes, good Constable." Jorgis says. Plenk nods. "The was-dead but now isn’t-dead thing was at Plenk’s farm, yesterday, it was."

The Knight’s face darkens.

"Oh, Sir Knight, you should have seen it!" Plenk says. "They were everywhere!"

Everyone gapes at this, and I think I’m the only one who notices the look of fear that crosses the Knight’s face.

"How many of them?" Bade blurts out, crossing his massive arms.

"Oh, hundreds!" Jorgis says.

"Yeh!" Plenk nods vigorously, "Big, black ones, all over! They’re always all—-"

"Crows?" Frai screams.

"Kassop, they flew up right in front of us! I seen it!" Jorgis says, but Constable Frai is red with rage at the use of his first name.

"Heyo, did you even see the thing?" Bade asks.

"No," Jorgis says. The room sighs together. "But, we got evidence, Bade, your Knightness!" He nods at both. "The crows, don’t ya see?"

"Big, black ones, and lots." Plenk offers proudly.

"See, I been telling Plenky here for two years to get a scarecrow, ‘cause them crows’ll eat seeds just like they’ll eat corn, and Plenk never has any corn come up."

The room nods. Plenk’s crop was always the worst.

"You don’t have a scarecrow, Plenky?" The widow Gyrop says incredulously.

"Don’t need one," Plenk says. "I run through the fields and scare ‘em myself."

I can’t contain myself any longer. "Oh, for the sake of the Lady’s Justice and before this Knight is named Father Knight ‘cause he’s been sitting here so long, will you get to the point?"

Everyone stares at me for the outburst, but Frai looks relieved, and the corner of the Knight’s mouth curls up slightly. I hear murmurs of "no wonder the idiot needs twice as much seed in the spring," and "A damn scarecrow, believe that?"

Jorgis and Plenk are frozen in disbelief, and Plenk looks almost hurt. To his credit, Jorgis pulls himself together quickly. He almost whispers "The crows were scared, Sir Knight."

The Knight leans forward. "Scared, you say?"

"Oh –-yes. Scared. We were eating some of Plenky’s pig we killed, and there was a big flappin’, and there went the crows in the air. They never do that, Sir Knight. Never."

"And that is all you saw? Crows flying?" The Knight asks bluntly.

"Yes, as if they had been scared bad."

"That’s enough, then," Bade says, and he rousts the two out of the widow’s house, amid great protest. Frai placates the Knight, who looks disturbed.

He looks at Mulkin and Refie Janesse, quiet in the corner, and asks "you two, then, are the ones who have lost the daughter?"

They nod, and Refie bows, but Mulkin forgets and the Knight doesn’t seem to notice. "Yes, Sir Knight, we have." Refie looks panicked to hear it said out loud.

"When?"

"The night before last. She was asleep, and when we awoke in the morning, the door was open and she gone." Mulkin gets silent, and Refie just starts crying.

The Knight looks about the room for anything more, but no one says anything. There is one of those awkward moments when someone is crying, and the Knight’s lips press together in anger. He stands quickly and looks at the two.

"Your only daughter?"

"Yes," Mulkin says, and he holds Refie tight.

"If I am to save her," the Knight says brusquely, "then I must leave at once."

And he storms out of the room.

Then a bunch of things happen: the widow Gyrop’s shoulders sag, Refie cries louder, the Constable says "He didn’t even wait for Deckan!" and I can’t help but think Now I’ll never find out if he’s allowed to come in a tavern. Stupid boy.

* * *

"In a time before measure, men lived and men died. Some died with cause, and justly, battling against their foes, or hunting. But many men died poorly and without meaning, and those men were in the Keeper’s thoughts. . .

What is it like to die by accident? A rock falls from the side of a ravine and crushes you. Or an arrow grazes your arm, and you contract the rot. Your family is left on their own, your name unmade, promises unkept.

The Keeper thought on these matters even before we thought to mark time with years and days. Even as we began to count the time we spent alive, he sought out ways to prolong that time. Alchemy, the blending of elements, herbs, powders, phials, poultices, and enchantments -—he studied them all with ardor, seeking to know how to give men another chance at making a life after their first attempt had failed.

But the cost was high. Just as a kernel of corn is necessary to grow an ear, so the seed of life is necessary to rekindle it, or to prolong it. The Keeper found that he could lengthen life, but life was the cost. So that a score of people could live again, one must die.

This is not so great a cost, is it? To save twenty by losing only one? Who among us has not thought of the good that might come if only we could trade our lives for another? Wouldn’t we give our lives, then for twenty such renewals? The Keeper found many willing to sacrifice themselves for his early

work. . . and their sacrifices allowed him to perfect his technique. Of course, he would endanger no one until he was certain of his methods, and so he himself was the testing ground for all his theories. As a result, he lived for hundreds of years before the mastery of his skills enabled him to share the gift of life.

But there was great opposition. Many believed that the very idea of passing beyond death was anathema. A church sprang up condemning the Keeper’s methods. They called it the church of the Lady —-‘The church of life.’ But it is a church of death, for that is what they will upon everyone. No second chance. No reprieve. Only death forever.

They call us ‘Dirgen,’ which means ‘dirty’ in the old tongue. And those of us who have been gifted by the Keeper with special missions or abilities they call ‘Luaka’-—‘worm-ridden.’ They called us that before we began calling ourselves ‘the Reborn,’ and since they gave us such names, men began to

fear us. . ."

--From If He Spoke, by the Reborn Ponenkin

* * *

The Moyta road was still slippery with the wet of the spring. Deep mud made the going slow even for horses, and the ruts of wagon wheels were like ravines to those who traveled by foot. Basat stormed along the side of the road, his legs churning. His mind boiled with anger, a slow-burning intensity that fed his muscles. Despite his armor, and for the sake of the girl, hoping against hope that she was still alive, he kept on.

I was trained by Huntmaster Darraka, he reminded himself, trying to settle his nerves. Trained by the finest, a Knight legendary for his exploits sending Dirgen back to dust. Darraka made certain that all his pupils knew the perils that lay before them-- every peril, every circumstance. "They won’t die prettily," he’d explained to them early in their training. "Don’t expect that they will, despite the fact that your enchanted swords are the only things that can harm them. They want to stay, to serve their evil purpose, whatever that may be. I rarely ask."

Will I ask? Basat wondered as his feet chewed up the distance between himself and the Dirgen he’d followed into the wilderness. "Pah," he snorted aloud. I will destroy it, then I will ask. He smiled grimly at the thought, wiping sweat off his brow. The Knight’s hard walk in full armor was enough to more than warm him --he was hot. But neither the heat of his body nor the heat of his anger could fully ward the chill of fear he felt thinking about this, his first hunt.

What had the Huntmaster said about fear?

Basat remembered training in the great courtyard in Battin Keep, Darraka walking among them, coaching them as they drilled with wooden swords.

"Be fearless," he had instructed, slapping Amargole on the arm so he’d raise it into better defensive position. "There is no room for error. No mistakes are you allowed against evil, aspirants!" He’d called them "aspirants," not "boys," or "Brothers-to-be," like the other Knights and teachers did. "One mistake and you’re off to serve the Lady in the next world, though you’ll be better prepared than most."

Darraka was a stern taskmaster, easily disappointed, but as Basat grew, he began to recognize the signs of appreciation his mentor could show, subdued though they were. Late in the boys’ training, a fluttering of the eyelids meant a week of depression for warriors trying desperately to build their reputation in the man’s eyes. A long intake of breath or the subtlest nod as the master watched meant a day’s worth of congratulations from the others.

And the young Basat had flourished under his tutelage. Basat was a loner, quiet, serious, and reticent by nature, but he was also determined, and that caught and held the surreptitious attention of Huntmaster Darraka, who tested him beyond the other boys. Often, When the others were excused for their midday meal, Basat was kept after, if only for a few minutes, so that the Huntmaster could work him a bit more, chiding to toughen him, pushing to strengthen him. Though Darraka taught the art of killing, of "judicious exorcism," as the Lady’s church called it, he often questioned Basat on his other studies during these trumped-up scoldings. Basat was miserable at first, believing that his teacher thought him especially problematic. But as the Huntmaster softened his questions, he came to look forward to the few minutes of extra work.

Brother Darraka had even taken up arms against Basat, as part of his instruction. As Basat’s prowess grew, and Darraka saw that the wooden posts were no longer sufficient, he would take up one of the sharp wooden swords and test Basat’s mettle, pushing him far beyond the teachings of the other boys. He’d even ask questions as they dueled.

"Who is the Lady?" Clack, their swords met.

"The sun, all that is bright and fair in this world and the next." Clack, clack.

"Who are you?"

"I am Brother-to-be Basat, Knight of the Lady and servant to Her will." Clack.

"Why do you serve Her?" Clack. Slap.

The backhanded cuff caught Basat by surprise physically, but his answer still came ready to his lips. "That our world may be clean; that our hearts may be pure, and that our souls may be ready."

And so it went, the litanies continuing until they became a part of every sword thrust, every parry, and every step.

Under his instruction, the quiet, skinny loner Basat grew to be not only the finest swordsman among his class, but also the most disciplined and knowledgeable of the aspirants as well. His appointment as the ninety-ninth Knight was the first appointment to Knighthood among his peers. It was a distinction to be the first in his class to be sent to do the Lady’s work, and Basat treated it with the magnitude such an honor deserved. But he never forgot that his appointment meant that one of the other Knights had fallen, and that left a number open for a new ninety-ninth Knight…

Knight Basat. Barely seventeen summers old and now the ninety-ninth Knight. The full weight of honor and responsibility rested upon him, and he grew angry again at the beast he pursued. The teachings of the famed Huntmaster rang in his ears once more, and Basat lost all fear as he marched along the muddy road, his nervousness replaced with the certainty only a blistering anger can provide.

The thing had the child. He knew this in his heart, and he hated it. The townsmen were afraid to pursue the creature they believed had taken her two days before. Their prayers were answered when Basat arrived, even if they were apprehensive around him. They knew that one of the Lady’s Knights, justice in his scabbard, would stop at nothing to kill the Dirgen.

And they were correct. "Damn its filthy masters," Basat spat into the mud, his muscled arms swinging freely, propelling him forward. Feeding on a young innocent girl --and for what? To satisfy its hunger as it prowled the countryside for some dark purpose. Perhaps it needed more to prolong its own life, or perhaps a score of Dirgen were awakened somewhere. He thought of Darraka again. I rarely ask.

Basat shook his head. Better not to think on the Dirgen’s twisted purposes --better to remember the crimes it had committed. What would it be like, he wondered, to lose a daughter? Basat was a young man, and had no children, but he had known no father or mother. That had caused him enough grief. How much more so the mature sorrow of an adult for his child?

No father but Darraka, he corrected himself. It was a thought he cherished, though they had never spoken of it. And did he really lack a mother? He smiled inwardly. Darraka said, "the Lady is your caretaker." What better mother than the blessings of the Lady? And yet, the young Knight thought somberly, Lady forgive my ingratitude, but how much finer a father who loves me, and the arms of a mother to hold me? These thoughts were no strangers to his mind, but he hoped the Lady would forgive such sins. He had committed them many times in his mind.

This is no time for confession, he shook his head angrily. He was the lone hope for bringing the Lady’s Justice upon the Dirgen’s head. The beast had stolen a young girl, plucking her from her bed at night; it had even killed a man with a look.

Truthfully, the story of the girl’s disappearance had unnerved Basat. The townspeople had spluttered for him to hear the rest of their woes, but he knew enough truth; he didn’t need to hear any more. And the words of Darraka rang in his ears as he hurried along. "Dispense your justice quickly," the great man had said. "For time breeds fear, and fear kills. Every hour you delay, fear will poison the countryside."

The trail had been easy to follow, even for one lacking Basat’s training —-two bare footprints in the mud of the spring. The thing was quick, however, and Basat wished he’d had one of the white fey horses he would earn after his first year with the ninety-nine. Riding one of these great beasts, he would have caught the creature in a day and been done with it.

The Knights who were his teachers, however, had warned him that hunts like the one he was one now sometimes ran over

Months --even with the help of the fey horses. Those were special chases, Basat knew; he was gaining on his prey. The Moyta road was easy going for him, and he would overtake it soon. But there was one observation that haunted him through the days-long struggle.

The Dirgen’s footprints were the depth of one creature only, unarmored. Basat had seen no remains to confirm it, but since there were no other footprints beside the tracks of the beast, his worst fear was confirmed. The girl was dead, a seven-year-old casualty of the evil brought to life.

The family’s loss was complete.

He couldn’t help but think of his own family, again, as he ran, breathlessly, after the Dirgen. His family had given him up freely as a babe, leaving him wrapped in a burlap blanket on the servant’s door to Battin keep. They left me as a farmer takes a sack of potatoes to market, he thought sourly —-only they didn’t stay long enough to bother with payment for their "goods." The family he fought for now had lost their daughter, they were worried sick, and they didn’t know her fate. How could he return to tell them, as he knew he must? He wondered how his own family would greet news of his death, wherever they were.

Now the Dirgen’s tracks became fresher, enough so that he looked around every tree with care, around every corner half-expecting to see the shambling thing. His training took over and his senses sharpened, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of the thing he tracked.

He smelled death.

And with that smell, fear returned. Basat’s heart pounded in his breast; his mind ran away with questions: Was it armed? What did it really look like? Why was it traveling towards Ifmau? Was it a Dirgen or a Luaka?

Luaka. The brisk air filled his lungs, and he slowed his pace as he pondered the possibility.

Stop, he thought. Fear kills. Remember. He forced his jangled nerves to steadiness and eased his pace to listen for movement ahead. He heard nothing.

And suddenly, as he stepped through the shadow of a pine, following the road as it curved left, someone was there, leaning casually against the trunk of a birch tree still bare from winter.

"Hello, Knight." The speaker was a thin man, dressed in a coarse tunic and pantaloons, barefoot, but carrying a thin sword. He unfolded his arms and looked at him. His skin was grey.

Basat stumbled back –-it looked so much like a man!-- and drew his sword awkwardly. He knew his immediate peril as he faced the pallid creature before him. He backed away from it, edging off the road slightly into the vegetation where the ground was less muddy.

The thing circled him now, slowly, cackling low so that it sounded like a feral growl. The creature kept its glassy eyes on Basat, and now and then they caught the sunlight and glinted evilly.

Basat sized up his opponent carefully —-and, as another old saying went, "careful is another word for afraid." It was thin, but wiry. The Knight noted thick grey sinews that moved under a thin layer of dirt-encrusted clothing. It was dressed as a farmer might be, in coarse and poorly made cloth. No armor, but a cloak and gauntlets, as if the thing was meant for travel --and for fighting. The gauntlets protected its hands as it swung the rapier it carried. Basat wondered: Perhaps it was just raised that way. Raised from the dead that way.

Thin lips curled back over black gums as the thing spoke, a smooth dry hiss. "He finds me, and he is surprised? I am ‘the hunt,’ yes?"

Basat said nothing, but feinted in, as if to attack. It backed away smoothly. Basat recognized the speed with which it had seen and reacted to his movement. The un-dead was much faster than it should have been. So fast, Basat thought, that it might have riposted. Strangely, It hadn’t.

"He is young. Does he have family?" The grey man chuckled low again, searching Basat’s eyes for a reaction. Basat blinked involuntarily at the odd question, but remained silent.

"I have family," it said.

Basat snorted. "You are an abomination," he said cautiously, edging sideways as he spoke, shuffling through the moss to keep a secure footing. "You are a slave of the Keeper of Souls, bent on evil. You have no family."

"I do, Basat."

Basat stumbled as his foot caught the root of a tree, but the thing didn’t advance. Instead, it continued. "You are an orphan, Basat. I have Him, and our Master." Its eyes lowered as the whispered, "you have nothing, Basat no-name."

"I have the light of-—" the Knight began imperiously, never lowering his guard. He stopped speaking when he realized that the creature had said "Basat." He considered the implications as they circled each other.

"—-Her, yes, Her light." It sneered, waving its rapier. Its eyes flicked over his frame carefully. "But what has your Darraka taught you? ‘The ninety-nine answer to none, and are responsible to none. She is your caretaker, your sponsor, not your mother." It didn’t paraphrase Darraka’s words. It spoke them verbatim, though the Lady sounded harsh when the Dirgen spoke of her.

A growl began deep in Basat’s throat. But he listened warily, watching for a weakness.

"You may disagree with my Master’s methods, but there are two sides to every war. We are outraged by the crimes your Knights commit against us." It backed away, around a tree, reappearing on the other side of it. It chopped a branch off with a flick of its wrist, but its eyes stayed on Basat’s.

"Two sides?" Basat roared, halting his advance. He waved his sword in emphasis. "You tear a family asunder, you terrify the good people of the province, you kill a man, and yet you spout such diabolism?" He leveled his glare full on the un-dead thing before him. "Pray for the Lady’s mercy, Dirgen, for your head will roll in the dirt this day, and your flesh will fail you for the second time."

Basat whirled in to attack, but the Dirgen was quicker, spinning away and finishing its retreat well out of reach. It spoke evenly, almost warmly.

"Their side, Sir Knight, one side. The girl had run away, and is now returned. People are terrified of shadows, nevermind a solid flesh-and-blood reincarnate as I am. But whatever the truth for them, you are the truth’s interpreter." It paused, looking at him sadly. "But I see that is like asking the dog to guard the cat. You are still homeless, fatherless. That hollowness makes you cling to the ‘Lady’s Truth,’ your one-sided teachings, and so you carry out the ‘Lady’s Justice,’ however misguided it may be."

Somehow, pieces of what the Creature said rang true. Its timbre was even and unemotional, as if only relating simple facts. But the whole idea was unacceptable to him. Hadn’t he just spent the last ten years of his life training to serve the Lady?

"And what of the constable?" Basat demanded. "You killed him with a look!"

"He killed himself, Knight. Fear kills, as you know."

Basat’s eyes went wide with the chilling realization that Huntmaster Darraka had said those very words, perhaps a thousand times in his training.

"Lies!" Basat screamed, closing the gap between them with a rush. The sound of his broadsword on bone never came as the thing backed away quickly, raising the thin sword it wielded, deflecting his stroke easily. The Knight’s sword flashed again in a sideward arc, and the Grey man parried this time with surprising ferocity.

The two pressed in close, blade to blade. But with a twist of the wrist, the thing slashed Basat’s forearm. Basat placed his foot against the knee of his opponent and kicked away. The creature’s knee buckled as it went down, and Basat whirled away, clutching his arm.

It stood up, seemingly unharmed. It was true what his teachers said -—the dead know no pain. Its knee was cruelly twisted, but its face was as smooth and impassive as a mirror.

It spoke. "My words are not lies; you are new, you are young. There is truth here, if you will see it. Oh, they make up lies about us. Would it be a lie if I said you want to believe them?" The creature paused for a beat, then continued earnestly. "Don’t feel out-of-sorts, Sir Basat of the ninety-nine. Every Knight wants to believe them." Its cold eyes looked upon him with disdain. It shuffled backward and Basat saw a slight limp, but that was all.

Basat sweated profusely. He prayed silently that the Luaka would stop, would simply stop talking and rush to engage him; that the words would cease. But Basat had not the strength to stop listening. He felt the drip of perspiration from his forehead on his hand, felt the leather grip of his sword become slick with perspiration. He dared not blink, for fear of losing an instant against a foe that moved as fluidly as the creature.

Too quickly, he thought. And too clever. Basat remembered the rhyme the Huntmaster had drilled into them, and his flesh went cold with the realization of what he now faced. Luaka. It must be. It will have other gifts, too, he reminded himself.

Basat spoke resolutely: "I will not listen to you. You are a minion of the Keeper and of Gench, his servant. You are evil." He said the words, but they felt more hollow than he thought they would.

"To my like, your war on us is the evil, Sir Basat. But there is no good, no evil, only shades of grey. There are ninety-nine reasons to fight us, but no more. Think, young Knight. They tell you I am evil, yes, unthinking, mindless evil. I live differently than you, Sir Basat, but I live." It grew more poised as it spoke, seeming to gain in eloquence. "Do you know why I am here? Who I am? I terrify your people because they don’t understand. They all run from me. The village told you I took children, but they were only guessing, yes?"

Basat realized in horror that it was a guess—no one had actually seen the Luaka take the girl. The very sight –-or rumor-- of the creature had struck terror into the populace he’d met along the way. Basat felt his heart pounding beats of panic as he realized that he had no proof that anyone was harmed as the Luaka crossed fields and skirted towns. The girl’s disappearance could have been the imagination of protective parents. He imagined that family now, huddled around a fire in their modest home, laughing that they could have been so worried. "I was picking night lilies for you, mama, and I got lost," the girl would say, and they’d hug her and laugh again. All this while a Knight searched in vain. The Luaka could very well be telling the truth -—who could know? Could it be true that it had no ill intentions? Basat held his ground, watching his foe relax as it sensed he would not attack.

A tree behind the pale-skinned Luaka provided a place for it to lean back as it spoke: "I am —-was-- a farmer. I lived just a few towns over, in Ifmau, you’ve heard of it?"

Basat had; it was a farming community renowned for its green apple orchards. The Knight lowered his sword briefly, being far enough away for safety, and cautiously watched the Luaka as he, too, found something to lean on -—the rotted trunk of a fallen tree. Perched there, he listened.

"I died on the way to market in Clane. Bandits." He shook his head ruefully. "And He—-" it paused sorrowfully, "He is not without compassion, my master. He is allowing me to see my family. Oh, I won’t approach them, I’m in no condition to see them again -—but I want to see them, you understand? I have a son, Basat, and I just want to see him one more time." It paused, sticking the sword into the ground, hard. The movement made Basat jump. And then the thing held its face in its hands.

Lies, Basat thought. Lies they will tell, they’d warned him. But if no harm had come to anyone, then what would a lie here conceal? Basat was at fault. He had been blinded, believing that terror was a spell that the Luaka had cast on the constable, and that a lack of footprints meant the young girl’s death. Instead, both incidents acquitted the Luaka, now that he realized his own narrow-mindedness. Basat marveled that the thing had come from the dead to see its family. Was a family’s bond that strong? I wouldn’t know; I’ve never had one. And was it so hard to believe that a man dead and risen again would want to see his son one last time?

The young Knight sighed forcefully. He knew what Darraka would do. He would immediately leap over and chop the thing’s head off, truth or no truth, and return with another tale of great triumph. But, Basat wondered, how many of the Lady’s finest had ever taken the time to hear such a story and weighed its truthfulness? He pressed his hand against his arm to slow the bleeding. It wasn’t a deep cut anyway —-it had seemed a defensive move, not an offensive one.

"Please, Sir Knight. I am a farmer. My name is Agouchiuk. I no longer have a life to give for my family, but I want to see them. I told them I would return to them, and I shall." It looked up at him, then off into the distance, towards Ifmau. Its cheekbones stood out prominently in profile. To Basat, it looked noble, despite its deathly pallor. It turned back to him. "Will you let me see my son once more?"

Agouchiuk. It chilled Basat to think the man before him had a name -—that it was anything but a soulless, cruel thing. He pitied him. Basat paused to consider all they had told him in his training, and his commitment to the Lady. Everything was so clear as he studied, as he worked and listened; but now it seemed a harsh philosophy to kill, a narrow policy to categorize Agouchiuk as simply "evil."

"I cannot let you go, Agouchiuk." Basat shook his head. "I cannot."

"Ah, no." his lips curled in an ugly smile, "Of course. They told me you would not, and that I would have to fight. That’s why I have this." The sword was again in its hand, ready, and Basat stood quickly.

They clashed with ferocity, Agouchiuk’s blade a shimmering blur, and Basat’s flashing defensively. The Luaka was quicker, but Basat’s training was true, and the Luaka was unable to force him back. Basat held his ground, but he was unable to gain the upper hand. He was pressed right, left, center, more than a farmer should be able to press a trained warrior, and Basat was surprised at Agouchiuk’s proficiency. But then, the Luaka fought with Gench’s power. Or was his strength like the strength of a man bent on saving his family from the fire —-a surge of supernatural power from some secret source within?

At last, there was an opening as the undead warrior pressed a little farther left than it should have, and Basat stepped inside his three-quarter parry, bashing the hilt of his sword against the skull of the creature. There was the crack of bone, a sickening sound, but the creature slowed not a bit as it retreated, slashing at Basat’s abdomen. His breastplate caught much of it, but the rapier bit into his side before it slid off. He staggered back, clutching the wound.

"You see?" The thing’s head had a thin line of black fluid seeping from it slowly, but it seemed not to notice. "They give me strength to see my family," it pointed west, towards the farm it sought, "I will see them, Basat, but will you see yours?"

The wound was not too serious, but the words of his foe sliced through him. Did it know of Basat’s mother and father? He shook off the words and refocused on his opponent.

A woman appeared where the creature had been, but Basat didn’t falter. He recognized the woman for what she was -—an illusion the creature had created. Luaka had that power also.

"You will not fool me with your tricks." He steeled himself against the image. "I must stop you, can’t you understand? I only know what I know. . . and that is that the Keeper of Souls and Gench put evil forces to work in our fair land. . ." Basat’s face grew grimmer as he concentrated on the form, but it stood unwavering. "You may fool some with your shapeshifting, but I am one of the Lady’s men. Surely your master Gench taught you that. I will not falter for a trick, Dirgen." His resolution strengthened slightly as he spoke.

"Listen to yourself. No trick. This is your mother." The voice was kind and gentle. Basat stood warily. "I show you this not to fool you, Knight Basat, but because you never knew her, and because perhaps you will see her and think on what it means to have a family, for me to see them again." The woman stood tall. She had long brown hair and a face flush with working out-of-doors. He recognized his nose, his eyes, his lips in her.

"Enough!" Basat shouted angrily. Soggy leaves were at his feet; he quickly sidestepped the unsure footing. "You could not know her!" He fought back his panic.

The thing shimmered back to its original gruesome form. The pale skin turned grey, the image shrunk, and the long hair fell away to its sparse, short hair. Basat felt a strange sense of remorse.

"You show me apparitions, worm-food. The Keeper hides truths as easily as he claims souls."

"That is another of the Lady’s ‘truths,’ then, is it? No, good Knight. That is the face of your real mother." It looked at him intensely, but its sword’s point was down, and its free hand balled into a fist.

Suddenly, Basat’s knees buckled with the impact of a wall that slammed into him. Agouchiuk stood well out of reach, but his clenched fist shimmered with power. The young Knight moaned as he struggled to regain his feet, to no avail. It felt like a vise gripped his torso and legs.

"Nnno--!" He gritted his teeth, fighting the unseen force that held him fast. But the figure of the woman conjured itself in his mind. She had high, noble cheekbones, as he did; her long brown hair concealed her face partly, but her love for life was evident in her smile. "No." He said, less convincingly.

"Basat," Agouchiuk pleaded, "Let me continue. Damned blind Knights, must you be so stubborn?" He kneeled next to the frozen Basat, a cold hand on his shoulder. "Think carefully."

Basat grunted, the muscles of his neck bulging as he fought. He felt pressure as the force resisted him, as if he was encased in rock, and it constricted the more he struggled.

"People make up tales of evil; you’ve seen that. The Lady’s men do it too, sometimes. Falsehoods to confirm what they choose to believe. In the end, men believe what they want to."

Sweat rolled down Basat’s forehead. He heard his ribs creak. The wound on his side seeped badly, and he tasted blood in his mouth. "No."

"You mustn’t struggle. It won’t let go, not until you do. Just let me see my family, and you can see yours too. You don’t have to be alone."

Tears welled up in the Knight’s eyes.

"Is there anything more important than family? Than knowing your mother and father? We can show them to you; you can see them."

Basat gasped in pain. His chest sagged as he ceased struggling, helpless under the spell’s force. In his mind, a woman with long brown hair smiled at him benignly.

Agouchiuk looked at his pale bare feet. "I must kill, you, then," he said, raising his sword.

Basat began to whisper: "Yes, show me my father and —-" but it went unheard as a scream went up from the trees nearby.

"NO!"

The sound of horse’s hooves thundered closer, and Basat feared he would be trampled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a rider leap from a white horse.

"You!" Agouchiuk shouted, turning, but then the rider was upon him and they tumbled out of view.

Basat fell backwards as he was suddenly free, and the struggling ceased to his right. He tilted his head sideways, struggling to rise, and saw Darraka lifting his sword away from the creature, its neck severed almost through.

Darraka stared at the creature as he rose, his eyes wide. He seemed not to notice Basat as he stared at the creature. "It was only supposed to be a test. It would have killed you, truly," he breathed.

"Yes," Basat stood next to him, looking at the un-dead and breathing hard. "It is as you said, Huntmaster. My first test, and it would have killed me."

Darraka looked at him quizzically, but stayed silent.

Shame darkened Basat’s countenance as he clenched his fists angrily. "I have failed," he said, wiping his brow with the sleeve beneath his mailed glove.

"No. You defied it, though it would have killed you. I watched from the trees."

Basat shook his head sadly. Darraka didn’t hear, he thought. "You watched?" he added suddenly.

"Yes."

"The girl? Did you see her?" He said quickly.

Darraka nodded solemnly, his angular features crisp in the afternoon light. He shook his sword, and the gore fell away from it as if leaping away with a life of its own. "Gone to give life to a score of Dirgen. Her body was just outside the village."

"It was lying." Basat said, shocked, then added hastily, "Of course."

"Yes."

Basat moved to gather his own fallen sword. He inspected his arm, then walked over to the Fey horse Darraka had leapt from, who grazed contentedly, the veteran of a hundred such battles. He stroked its face, and the horse tossed its head back. "It said ‘you,’ Brother."

Darraka breathed deeply. "Yes, it did." He paused. "I have seen many of them, in my time. They must know me, by now," He said. "They speak convincingly, do they not?"

The younger Knight stared hard at the ground beneath him. "Yes," he said, ashamed.

"I know you did not believe him, Basat." Darraka said, laying his hand upon Basat’s shoulder. You would not have been the first, if you had."

Basat was quiet. He faced the Huntmaster, searching for truth in his eyes. "You," he breathed.

Darraka’s eyes showed a hint of surprise, but he recovered with a deep breath. "Yes, the more fool I."

Silence hung over them like a cloud. Basat narrowed his eyes, standing more straight and backing away from the horse. His hand gripped his sword tightly.

His mentor shook his head furiously, but his hand strayed to the sword at his belt too. "No, Basat, don’t even think it. You heard the Luaka. They are persuasive, and I was taken in, too, in my weakness. They said they would test you, a test only –-I could ensure your safety-- and they demanded only a small peasant as sacrifice. . ." He choked the last words out, his face contorting in sudden guilt.

Struggling with his own emotions, Basat studied the elder Knight, wondering: How many times has a number ninety-nine heard the confession of number four? How oft have we faltered in our vows? And how many children and how many Knights have died on such promises?

Darraka knelt before him, now, making it worse. "I was right, in a way, don’t you see?" He sounded almost frantic, "You are the finest of us all, untempted, untainted. We are only men, Basat, but you are the finest of us all." He bowed his head, murmuring "Lady forgive me, I meant to help us, and they said the Luaka wouldn’t hurt you."

Basat felt awkward, as if only he could absolve Darraka, as if the Lady had entrusted him to carry out her justice, passing judgement on a senior Knight. He considered the sword at his side briefly, and then wiped it with the back of his arm, sheathing it neatly.

"No, Brother Darraka," he said smoothly, but if the words sounded facile, they came to him unnaturally at first. "You told me once that you rarely ask what vile purpose the foul Dirgen are about. But a Knight must ask betimes, or he is no more than an executioner." He felt a flush wash over his face, but Darraka knelt beneath him, breathing in gasps and looking at the mud. "Rise, Brother, and take comfort. You have an answer, now."

Basat lifted Darraka from his knees and embraced him. It was strange to do so, to embrace a man who you revered as a father and who sought solace.

The lines of worry relaxed as Darraka regained his composure. He straightened and looked at Basat proudly. "The Fey will not carry us both."

"Then we walk together, Brother."

"I will tell the Father Knight of your faith."

Basat shuddered, but forced a smile. "I will not tell him of yours." They shared a sardonic laugh.

They both knelt to pray then, before returning to Battin Keep. As the senior Knight, Darraka led the prayer, asking the Lady for his own absolution, grace for young girl’s soul, and peace for the family who’d lost her. He added the fight prayer of the ninety-nine:

The young Knight heard little of it. He prayed for his own forgiveness, silently and in shame. He asked the Lady to ignore the words he had whispered to the Luaka as the Huntmaster had burst from the trees, words which went unheard in Darraka’s charge, but which haunted him still: "Yes," he had said. "Lady help me, yes, show me my father and mother."

Tony Markey began his writing career growing up in Fairbanks, Alaska. In the sixth grade he wrote and acted in his Thanksgiving play, "Turkey On Trial." It was a well-written piece, including such great dialogue as "Shaddup!" and "You Shaddup!"—and who could forget the timeless classic "everybody Shaddup who says Shaddup!" It was a tough Thanksgiving. His writing improved greatly, evidenced with a "D-" on his first book report, a "D-"in Basic Composition, and an "F" in Introduction to Literature. He continued writing however (why?!), and his greatest poetic successes came in college when wooing his bride of five years, JeNell. He likes to think she’d have given him an "A." He continues his writing of fiction and poetry, feeling at times like the "Turkey On Trial." He resides in Washington State.

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