“The lion’s fang,” Ricard’s lessons echoed, “because you must be a beast to kill a man. Any fool can cut down a peasant or naked pagan. But to slay a man in maille or gambeson or plate, you must pierce him.”
“Under the arm and to the heart, along the thigh, the throat, behind the knees, the elbows.” Jael thrust for each imagined part as she called them out, one by one, batting and slashing away phantom blades and fingers between each of her called strokes.
“Arms back and fangs to bare. Lead with your weapon. Your feet follow.”
“Feint from afar. Strike true up close,” she said, finishing her set. Then she began another: advancing, retreating, winding with both hands on her blade. Silent on the slick grass. Graceful. Dangerous.
“So it’s true,” boomed a western drawl. Applause followed, then a cough as the stranger clear his throat. “You truly are Leonhardt’s get!”
Jael froze mid-stroke, too embarrassed to look who had discovered her.
The stranger continued, “Ah, you’ll have to excuse an old knight his habits, lassie. Seeing such an impressive display made me forget my manners. Happens often if you grew up in the bog. But look at me, talking crude as swamp gas. I’m Rillion Pyke of the Temple Guard.”
Indeed, he wore the Guard’s crimson surcoat and white coat of arms, though Leonhardt thought he looked more like a bear dressed in maille. He stood huge and hairy, with a gut to match his height, and equally round jowls peppered with gray whiskers thicker than the tufts crowning his head.
Jael felt at once like she was staring at a long lost uncle. She sheathed her sword and descended the hill. “How long were you watching?”
“An hour before first light. I walk the perimeter each morning to make sure you ladies are safe. Saw your footprints in the mud and thought a thief or raper was about.”
First light? Leonhardt had not noticed dawn break over the eastern mounds.
“So the whole time, then?”
“Aye, lassie,” answered Rillion Pyke, “And I say, you remind me much of your old man. He was about your age when we picked him up at the Duke’s Tourney.”
“The Summer Tourney?” Jael asked.
“Aye, that’s what their calling it now. God, what times those were. What I won’t give to see Leonhardt fight Himmelriser again.”
The knight spoke on, but Leonhardt got caught on that last remark. She had known that her parents met at the tourney, but never did her father mention having fought in it. She told as much to Pyke, though he could hardly believe her.
“Never told you?” he started. “You’re telling me Ricard never told you about Himmelriser? What about our campaign in Babylon? The mad charge of Salt Spear and the Twin Fangs?” Jael shook her head while Rillion gaped, incredulous. “Then,” the old knight swallowed hard, “then surely he’s at least mentioned me?”
No, thought Leonhardt, but she felt suddenly sorry for her father’s old friend and his frowning jowls heavy with disappointment. She studied his sigil in hopes that she might remember him. It was an odd image, a queerly formed spear piercing the back of a brackdragon, yet despite its peculiarity, his coat of arms brought naught to mind.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jael said. She could think of nothing kinder.
“That’s alright, lassie, but a God damned shame. You ought to know about your own sire’s exploits.” Rillion glanced toward the north-east where Herbstfield lay beyond the rolling horizon, wincing as the rising sun shone bright in his dark eyes. “I’d tell you some myself, but I best be getting back before Saint Paul has risen.”
Maybe he was too ashamed, thought Leonhardt, but instead she blurted out, “Wait, let me go with you. I’m sure you’ve got some shorter stories to tell.”
At that, the old knight smiled.
Together, they made a round of the caravan, starting afar from the saint’s gargantuan wheelhouse as to poach more time for Sir Rillion Pyke’s story telling. He told her the legend of his lineage, of Usurper Wulfheart who ruled during the age of kings, of and his family patriarch, Luen Pyke. Luen had been Wulfheart’s champion—there were no knights then—and famed for the slaying of brackdragon Gronue. He did battle with the demon, so the story went, at White Tower stronghold, but found that its hide turned aside arrow and sword and even the legendary Saltspear. It was not long into the fight when he found his back pressed against White Tower’s salt-stone walls. Desperate, Luen pierced a block from the stronghold’s foundation and brought the weight down onto the monster’s head. At least, that was how Rillion told it as they walked a snail’s pace around the southern end of the caravan. Jael thought the tale sounded severely embellished, yet the old knight insisted.
“It’s all recorded in the annals, lassie. You’ll see for yourself when we get to Pareo. Just ask the scribes about Saint Maxim and the Watcher’s Eye.”
Pyke’s comment left a foul taste in Jael’s mouth. At once, she crumpled her face and spat, “The scribes? What, you don’t think I’ll make it in the Cross?”
“I didn’t say that, lassie,” Rillion replied, “but you should know that even if I and all the knights of Nuw Gard thought you were Camilla come again, it’s still the gentry and clergy you’ll need to convince.”
His words burned like ice-dagger winds. He was doubting her, Leonhardt felt sure of it. And why wouldn’t he? She doubted herself as it was, as Gavin had once, as had the members of Herbstfield’s assembly. She was about to question Rillion again, to be certain of her suspicions, when they came upon the saint’s carriage and the half-dozen men working to free it from the mud.
“There you are!” barked one of the men dressed in the coat and armour of the Temple Guard. A three-pointed crown showed proudly on his breast, and he possessed a haughty mien to match. Sir Holland King, captain of the Guard. Jael had
