Song of Talwin: Prelude

The thunder of hooves echoed through the forest, the only thing that drowned out the heavy breathing of the horses as they ran for their lives and the lives of their riders.

“Where did they come from?” One of the men, tall and regal, who rode firmly in the middle of the pack, asked.

“I don’t know, sire,” another said as an arrow plunged beside him.

More and more of the dreaded projectiles fell among the fleeing gaggle until one found its mark, stabbing into the back of one of the outlying riders. The man tumbled from his horse and hid the hard-packed earth with a sickening thud.

His companions had no time to pay him any mind as they rode hard.

An arrow plunged into one of the horses, sending it head over heels with her rider sprawling, likely dead.

The outer riders looked at one another. With a nod, they reached an agreement. “Ride on, sire!”

With that, the speaker wheeled his horse around as did his companions.

The remaining man wasn’t used to taking orders, but these men were sworn to protect him with their lives. He’d never figured they would have to, of course, but that was their vow. Now, it was clear what they intended.

He rode on, hoping against hope he could reach safety. That hope was nearly dashed when an arrow punched through his expensive clothing and stuck out of his right shoulder.

** ** **

The rider’s horse collapsed after hours, his pursuers not gaining any ground but not losing any either. This is it, he feared. He knew the raiders behind him had no intention of killing him, of course, but would likely ransom him instead. Yet that ransom would break the kingdom, and weaken it for generations to come.

That assumed he didn’t bleed out before they captured him, of course.

From up ahead, he heard something: The creak of a waterwheel. There was a mill or something nearby. If only his strength would hold out long enough to get there. Maybe he’d be able to hide. Maybe the Quintians had orders not to be seen except by him and his bodyguards.

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t hold out much longer.

The mill stood just a bit beyond the trees, its wheel spinning slowly as the water pushed it on its unending task.

Staggering, the man reached the door.

Inside, two people—a man and a young boy—went about their daily tasks; tasks the man knew little about and cared even less about at this precise moment.

The man inside looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. “King Jastus! Your Majesty!” he cried.

“You recognize me?” the man said, surprised and gasping for breath. Most people know the name of their monarch, but this far from the capital, few would know his face.

He nodded. “I served under you nine years ago, sire.”

The rider nodded. “Good. I need your help,” he said weakly, then collapsed onto the floor.

“Talwin!” the man cried, “Get the king some water.”

With that, the miller put his arm under him and helped him up. “What happened, Your Majesty?"

"Quintians. They ambushed us. My guard tried to slow them down, though they’re most likely dead by now. If that’s true, the dogs likely followed me,” he answered as the other man helped him inside, depositing him on some bags of grain.

The miller simply nodded, then started digging in one of the corners where a plethora of odds and ends sat piled up until he soon found what he was looking for.

It was a spear. Nothing fancy, though spears didn’t have to be. One of mankind’s oldest weapons—perhaps the oldest purpose-built weapon—it was a brutally elegant weapon, one that served both knight and commoner alike.

If the miller served in the earlier war with Quint, then he likely knew how to use it. Had he kept his skills up? It didn’t matter. King or not, his fate rested in the other man’s hands as he was in no shape to take up his own blade

Hooves sounded outside.

The boy approached with a bucket and a ladle, holding it up to his lips. Jastus drank deeply.

“Talwin, lad,” the miller said, “you’d best hide until this is all over. You hear me?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, da.”

With that, he scampered up the stairs of the mill.

The miller stood in the open doorway. It was clear that he understood something of war, using the door’s narrow passage to funnel the raiders in toward him.

The king smiled, hoping that grin would not be his last.

The first raider rushed in, seemingly oblivious to the armed man before him. The miller rewarded him for his lack of vigilance with a thrust to his lightly protected chest, then quickly withdrew it, readying for the next opponent.

Seeing his companion dead, the next raider was far more cautious. It did him little good as the miller feinted with the spear, causing the raider to try and parry with his sword, only for him to be out of position when the real thrust came piercing his throat.

The next two angled in to get through the doorway together. Armed with bucklers as well as their wicked curved swords, they were ready for the miller.

Or so they thought.

The miller thrust with the spear, which the raider on the left easily blocked. Whether the miller intended that to happen or not, the king didn’t know. What he did know, however, was that the miller was familiar with the spear, spinning it and slamming the butt of the weapon against the other man.

He danced with the two raiders for what seemed like an eternity before finding an opening and jabbing the point into one of the raiders.

Now one-on-one, the miller—I have to stop thinking of him as such. That’s a warrior if ever I saw one, the king thought—battled the remaining raider, circling one another, fencing for position until that raider also fell to a spear thrust.

Unfortunately, now his back was to the door.

Sounds of more footsteps filtered into the mill as the miller turned, but he wasn’t quick enough as one of the curved swords slashed down, digging into his right shoulder.

Another raider jabbed with his own spear, piercing the miller’s stomach, sending him collapsing onto his knees.

“Get the king,” the swordsman said to his companion.

As the spearman nodded, a blade burst forth from his throat. Another pieced through the chest of the swordsman.

Both men collapsed, dead, as two knights burst through the door.

“The king,” the miller groaned, looking at him briefly before crumpling to the floor.

From upstairs, the boy thundered down, screaming for his father as the two knights made their way toward the king.

“Your Majesty!” they cried as they approached their lord.

The boy dropped to his knees, sobbing as he looked at the bleeding form of his father.

“I’m fine,” King Jastus protested. Nodding toward the miller, he continued, “Get a healer, though. I want everything done for this man we can.”

One of the knights nodded, then spun and sprinted out the door.

The other approached King Jastus and helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you somewhere comfortable, sire."

The king shook his head. “No. I have to see about this man.”

“We will, sire,” the knight said. “We will.”

However, as king, he could do as he wished, so he hobbled toward the downed miller.

Looking down, he asked, “Your name, sir?”

“Valenian, sire,” he said, his voice betraying the weakness he must have felt.

“I cannot thank you enough,” Jastus said. “You have done me a great service. We have a healer coming.”

The other man shook his head. “I doubt it would do much good, sire. I can tell my time is short. Might I ask a favor?”

“I owe you a great debt. Ask it and if it’s my power, I’ll grant it.”

The miller—Valenian—nodded weakly. “See that my boy is taken care of? We lost his mother to fever last year. There’s no one to care for him and…”

Jastus nodded, then looked to the knight helping him. “Your sword.”

The knight’s confusion was obvious to any who cared to look, yet he complied with his lord’s demand and handed the sword over.

The king held the sword out, his arm shaky, and tapped the miller on his shoulder. He then tapped the other, working his way as best he could around the sobbing boy. “I dub thee Sir Valenian.”

Another confused face, this one looking at him from the floor.

Jastus smiled. “You’re a knight. That means your son is of the knightly class as well, and plenty old enough to be squired. It’ll see to it. This, I swear.”

Smiling, Valenian simply said, “Thank you,” then spasmed as life left his body, the only things remaining of him were his empty shell and a crying son.

** ** **

The last of the dirt was thrown on the grave. Jastus pledged to himself that the man would get a proper tomb, one befitting a man of his courage. Beside him stood Duke Chalden, his closest friend and advisor.

And the man whose forces arrived to finish saving him.

“Where will the boy go?” the duke asked.

“I promised his father that he’d be squired, that he’d have the opportunity to be a knight. I’ll need to find someone to take on that task. Either way, he’s a ward of the Crown now.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

Jastus shook his head and smiled ruefully. Gesturing to his wounded shoulder, he replied, “You might have noticed I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

The duke returned the grin, his sheepish. “I’d be honored to have him at my court, Sire.”

Jastus thought about it for a moment. Just because the boy, Talwin, was now elevated to the knightly class, he’d still have a rough go of things. A bit of status from having squired with Chalden couldn’t hurt him, plus Chalden would see to it he learned everything a knight needed, not just how to lop off heads with a sword.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” he finally responded.

** ** **

Talwin walked away with this strange man, Duke Chalden, the king told him, but even at his young age, he knew he was walking away from so much more. Yes, the poverty and privation that were common enough even in the kingdom of Bardisia, but also every person he’d ever known.

“Do you understand what’s happening?” the duke finally asked as they made their way to a group of soldiers, two horses sitting riderless among them.

Talwin nodded as he said, “I think so, Your Grace.”

“What is your understanding of the situation?” the older man asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that seemed as if he genuinely wanted to know the truth.

Looking around at the trees he’d likely never see again, he answered, “I’m to train to become a knight so I can serve the king.”

“A good answer,” the duke said. “That’s indeed what your situation is, but there’s more to it. You were born common. Those you will be learning beside were raised to be squires and, in most cases, noblemen. They served as pages before being squires, learning the etiquette of a court. You’ll have disadvantages. Do you understand that?”

The boy nodded thoughtfully. “I do, but can I ask a question?”

“You may.”

“Is there any way for me to overcome those disadvantages?”

The duke looked at the boy in mild surprise. He clearly didn’t expect such a question from a boy only with only ten years in this world, yet it was a sensible enough question to ask, under the circumstances.

“Yes,” he finally replied, “but it will take a lot of hard work.”

“I can work hard,” the boy said, a hint of defiance in his voice, but not crossing the line into disrespect. “My da taught me how to work hard and I guess I need to work just as hard learning as I did in the mill.”

Now having reached the soldiers, the duke helped Talwin onto a brown horse. He knew a little of how to ride, though he was no horseman. Mounting his own horse, a beautiful white mare, the duke smiled. “Your father has given you much to live up to. He died valiantly and protected the king, something many a knight hopes to do. Hard work is definitely one way to live up to that legacy.”