Daggers In the Knight
A Korst Story
By
Robert J. Morrison
4th Kraagmont, Year 1 NT
Cavalier's Way, Dragoff, Kingdom of Gelt, Balafrea
Sir Tremanere Barnafeld walked with his usual air of superiority as he passed down the dark night streets of the town of Dragoff. The small but steadily growing town was his to marshal, a position handed down by the King himself. The town of late had become more rowdy than was the norm in the civil island kingdom of Gelt. Riffraff, he assumed, were responsible for the worryingly high number of crimes that had, until his arrival, also been steadily growing. That had all changed six tendays ago with his arrival, he and his squire, Veranon, had put down the law for all to see with little leeway for misunderstanding. A theft would cost you a hand, a rapist would pay with his genitals, and a murderer would pay with his life. Harsh, he mused, but fair. Sometimes the dregs of society only understood one thing; any infringement would be the first and last infringement. To his credit, the numbers of crimes had been slowly but surely falling since his arrival.
His full plate armor gleamed in the light of the oil lamps he had placed at regular intervals down all streets in the budding town. The symbol of Kelladorn, a glowing white sun, was prominent of his breastplate, paired with the Golden Chalice of Gelt, the nation's unmistakable coat of arms. His full faced helm had been left at his quarters in the Temple of Light, the holy house of his beloved Kelladorn, he wanted all to see his face and remember it. His mustache was long and flowing, as was the current trend among the members of the Golden Guard of Gelt, the highest ranking level of knighthood in the country. His long hair was so blond that it almost seemed to glow in the soft street light, his eyes a crystal blue were vivid and unmistakably clear. Standing less than an inch over six feet in height, what the knight lacked in stature (as most of his contemporaries in the Golden Guard towered over six feet by more than a few inches) he made up for in girth. It was whispered in corners among the Guard that his grandmother had a 'union' with an ogre of unlikely virtue. His chest was as wide as that of two normal men and his arms were as thick as most of his colleague's thighs. It was said that Sir Barnafeld had once helped a merchant by hoisting the back end of a wagon full of iron ore while the driver had repaired a faulty rear wheel, a feat of strength unheard of among 'normal' humans. But it was not just strength of body that had elevated the man to his lofty position in the Guard, but his indomitable sense of honor and justice.
And to support that justice his right hand was never far from the hilt of his magnificent longsword, Integrity. The blade it was said was forged when the world of Korst was still young by Kelladorn himself, though few people believed the tale and it was assumed that the weapon had been dwarf forged back in ages passed. Nevertheless it was a sword with few equals. The blade itself glowed with a pale white light that grew brighter when evil grew near, and some said that the blade had a life and a mind of its' own. The hilt was wrapped in a red material of some description, dragon skin by all accounts, the pommel glimmered with a crimson light as a ruby the size of a hen's egg finished off the impressive weapon.
Unlike many of his brethren Sir Barnafeld shunned the use of a shield but in its' place he would wield a thick bladed dirk (many claimed it was not in truth a dirk but a short sword). The dirk lacked the magical benefits of Integrity but the knight was deadly in combat and few even among his brotherhood could challenge him in the tourneys that often gathered the knights of the Golden Guard together.
And it was due to his prowess that allowed him to walk the night streets of the town with little fear of attack or retribution (from allies of the men that had swung by the neck until dead at his command). It was not pride that made the knight so calm, just a sense that he was working first hand for the powerful god Kelladorn and all that happened to him upon death would be a trip to the hallowed halls of his immortal master.
"He comes," whispered a figure shrouded in black rags, "prepare your blades, this one will be no easy mark." The darkness of the alley hid both him and his three associates, while an opposing alley across the cobble stone road held another four such brigands. They were not the dangerously narrow alleys that were common in the larger cities of Balafrea, there was comfortably enough room for him and all three of his cohorts to charge at once from the mouth of the side street.
"Eight of our most deadly assassins, even this Barnafeld will be easy prey," another rag-clad murderer replied, his short sword drawn and blade concealed by blackening the weapon over a fire.
"Those, my friend, are some of the biggest fool's last words, now silence he nears."
Have a care my staunch ally danger awaits us, whispered a voice in the mind of Sir Barnafeld, the voice of the weapon known as Integrity. Its' rumors of sentience were far from exaggerated.
Again you earn my favor Integrity, Tremanere mentally replied, how many?
Four on each flank, hired killers. Their minds betray their evil and their intent. Integrity informed him after swiftly scanning the thoughts of the would-be ambushers.
Then let's be about them my ally!
"Thou art knaves of the highest caliber," the knight called as he drew both Integrity and his dirk in one fluid motion. The longsword was emanating a strong white light, a sure sign of the evil nature of the brigands. "Come forth and taste the stinging truth of justice!"
From the left, what appeared to be an empty dark alley, burst the first four assassins as the right flank likewise exploded with motion. Men clad from head to toe in leather armor that was padded on the outside with dark cloth, their dull blades as black as their hearts.
"Take him, for the Guild!" Called the villain at the rear of the band his dark sword raised high. Ever was it with evil, the knight thought, leaders commanding from the back always first to flee, scurvy knaves.
Those thoughts had barely left his mind when the first of the assassins struck out at the knight. It was just a testing blow, at least so it seemed to Barnafeld, as the attack was weak and left the hired killer dreadfully exposed. Maybe a feint, he thought, trying to drag me in close with an obviously pathetic attack, leaving me vulnerable on the left from one of his fellow killers. Erring on the side of caution the knight did not launch a counterattack to the blow, merely parrying the attack out wide with Integrity, keeping his dirk in close to defend against any other imminent attacks.
After the first failed attack (or feint, whichever it may have been) Sir Barnafeld saw the danger of his position in the centre of the brightly illuminated street. With a dazzling display of defensive skill the knight fended off the blows of three assassins as he steadily backed up to the wall of a nearby tavern, his back safe from the hungry blades of dishonorable murderers.
"Who hired you? I wish to know so as I can place his or her head on a pike next to yours." Barnafeld said with his iron hard voice, his speech never slowing even as he continued to defend and parry, still weighing up the skill of his opponents. Many warriors would wish to be done with combat as swiftly as possible to reserve their strength and stamina, Barnafeld had no such worries. He was arguably the strongest man in the region and he often ran more than twenty miles a day to keep himself in peak condition. It was not just the runs that had many of his fellow Guards amazed but the fact that he would usually take a route through the Wild Wood, a dark dank place filled with a multitude of even darker denizens.
"Who said we were hired?" Called the leader from the rear, "Maybe we just wanna see Barney's head on a pike, let the crows feast on your eyes for a change." At his brave words the leader's fellows grew bolder, a killer on the left of the knight lunged with a cruelly notched longsword, an attack aimed for the knight's midriff.
An attack easily foiled.
The knight twirled his wrist, his dirk's point circling and catching the lunge, throwing it out harmlessly wide and straight into the wooden wall of the tavern. The notched, serrated blade embedded itself firmly into the wall. The killer struggled to release the weapon, but too slowly. The knight's dirk slashed out taking the killer's right hand cleanly off. The man screamed in agony and horror and fell back clutching at his blood-pumping stump.
Even as the lunge was being attempted a fellow killer was hacking, clumsily Barnafeld noted, at his neck from the right. It was a short sword and appeared poorly made at best and even less well maintained, a strong outward parry from Integrity caught it mid-blade shattering the sword leaving the murderer holding nothing but a hilt and a single inch of jagged metal. Before he could even throw the useless weapon to the floor Integrity looped back in catching the killer in the throat ending his days with a blood-filled gurgle.
My trusted companion, Barnafeld thought to his longsword, let us show these knaves the power of justice. With but a simple will of his mind the knight unleashed one of Integrity's many surprises. A flash of bright blue electricity arced out of the weapon, catching two of the thugs cleanly in the chest. The pair were blown from their feet, their weapons flying free, even upon striking the cobble covered road the two were still violently convulsing as the electricity ran rampant through their bodies.
Barnafeld smiled, a smile of confidence, to the killers it seemed an evil smile. He knew as did they that the odds of his success were growing with each passing play of the battle. The starting odds of eight to one had been slashed down to four to one, odds that Barnafeld truly fancied.
"Get him! Get him!" Screamed the killer's leader, he knew that if things did not turn in his mens' favor soon he would be hunted through the streets of Dragoff fleeing from the deadly tip of Integrity. "He is but one man!"
"If he's just one man then why ain't you meetin' blades with him?" Spat the killer at the leader's side, his sword shaking visibly in his nervous grip. As he spoke he watched yet another of his companions slump lifelessly to the ground, a dirk protruding from his neck.
"For he, like all your ilk, is a base born coward," Sir Barnafeld answered as he twisted his dirk free of the corpse in time to parry yet another attack with the glistening blade of Integrity.
"Get him strike for the Guild!" The leader screamed his voice cracking with fear. He could already foresee the inevitable conclusion to this brief and bloody encounter. The two remaining killers fought with all their skill against the lone knight, but it was clear to all that their skill was no match for the knight. And with one final glance at the melee he sheathed his blade and fled into the darkness.
"Your master has flown," Barnafeld said with a crooked smile, "if you throw down your arms now, I guarantee you no more than eight years hard labor. Or you can continue this farce and those of you that survive will only do so long enough to adorn a spike by the town gates."
Apparently neither option appealed to the killers as they continued their attempts to slay the ranking leader of the knighthood in Dragoff.
"So be it." He hissed, his twin blades lashing out with amazing speed and accuracy. Integrity creased the flesh of the forearm of the killer on the right. With a scream the assassin's blade dropped to the cobbles, along with a considerable quantity of blood.
Alone and outmatched, the final killer threw down his longsword and turned tail and ran. His strong legs carried him swiftly down the empty street, but not swiftly enough to outrun the hurled dirk of Sir Tremanere Barnafeld, Knight of the Golden Guard of Gelt. The weapon twirled through the air catching the killer cleanly in the spine. He staggered twice, attempted to continue his flight but his legs would no longer answer his call. Before he could attempt a third step he slumped to the earth, the darkness growing darker with each passing second until he knew no more.
"Come," Barnafeld commanded as he grabbed the hair of the lone surviving assassin. Dragging the wounded man along the street the knight retrieved his dirk and wiped the blade clean on his prisoner's clothes before returning it to its' scabbard. "Justice awaits you brigand, but not before the interrogators do their grisly work."
Screams sounded from the killer as he was dragged kicking and screaming into the slowly growing dawn light.