After exiting the west gate, I get the feeling we are being watched. Not just looked at, as from the myriad travelers, town folk, and guards in the vicinity. I glance around surreptitiously and spot a young lad, maybe fifteen, boring a hole with his eyes into someone in the party. He is sitting on a log near the gate clutching a lumpy sack and an empty scabbard. I play with angles enough to determine that he is watching Rakatha with a look of anxious desperation I can only guess at.
Some bastard maybe, possibly just a lookout for a loan shark with Rakatha’s ticket. He doesn’t look like a street urchin though. His blonde hair is relatively clean and neat, cut in a bowl, revealing doe-like brown eyes and rosy cheeks. The clothes he wears are simple, practical, brown, and recently washed. His boots are in good shape and he doesn’t look hungry. I don’t know what to make of him. Or why he looks so antsy.
When the group is almost past the tree line that slices down along the west perimeter of Nodkis, I hear the thump of running feet can be heard behind me, coming closer.
“Rakatha! Wait!” a voice shouts, warbling with puberty’s melody.
After Rakatha, Vong, and I stop and turn, Ralith and Twitch follow suit. That young boy is running up toward us waving one hand as though he were difficult to see.
Out of breath, he comes to a stop in front of the broad, bull-like warrior and rests his hands on his knees trying to recover.
“Who are you?” Rakatha juts his jaw out and crosses his arms high on his chest.
I can’t read Rakatha’s face.
The blonde-haired boy tries to comply as he hyperventilates, “Rak…Ra…I…Pi…please…”
Vong is intrigued and finds an easy opening to invite himself into Rakatha’s business. “Hey there, did you run all the way from town? What’s this?” he picks up the empty scabbard and turns it over in his hands.
The boy tries to reach for it weakly—clearly something meaningful to him—but Vong is oblivious.
“Is Rakatha your father?” Vong asks.
Good, at least I wasn’t the only one thinking it.
But the boy shakes his head. He swallows hard and regains control of his breath, standing up straight to address Rakatha. “I am Apul, but everyone calls me Pil, and I wish to be your squire, Rakatha.”
This is not what I was expecting at all. First, squires are something knights in Plor have, not ex-pit fighters in Elysium. Second, the duties of a squire—and I’m no expert—are to maintain and carry a knight’s weapons and armor, care for his mount, and carry his flag into battle. Rakatha does have a lot of weapons to carry, but I doubt he can even ride a horse and I am highly dubious that he has a house crest to bear.
The warrior, standing tall and proud in front of the mouse of a boy, points a thick finger at him, which makes him start, “What does that mean? Squire?”
Pil looks around sheepishly as though the rest of us might explain for him. Not even Vong steps in. Then he stands straight up, chest out, and speaks with a rote conviction, “A squire is the Knight’s attendant. His duty is to the Knight and all the trappings thereof. He bears a Knight’s shield and sword away from battle and his standard into it. A squire cannot falter in his duties lest it dishonor his noble champion. The squire must learn the Knightly Ways and train under his benefactor’s tutelage before he may be dubbed a Knight himself in the fullness of time and duty!”
I surmise that he heard that somewhere and committed it to memory.
Rakatha looks confused, “You carry my sword?”
Pil nods emphatically.
Reaching back, Rakatha unsheathes his hand-and-a-half sword—a mean-looking bit of metal with a well-worn leather grip—and holds it out to Pil.
The boy wraps both hands around the handle, his eyes positively overflowing with awe. He looks as though all his dreams have finally come true. Rakatha releases his grip on the sword and the weapon thunks to the ground, along with its bearer.
Rakatha picks up his sword but not the boy, “Just as I thought. You can’t carry this. It’s too heavy.”
I am fairly certain Rakatha does not understand the situation at all.
Pil climbs to his knees and his expression is now crestfallen and tortured. Clearly he had imagined this going another way. Vong helps him up the rest of the way and I can see that the kid is shaking.
Oblivious to the crushed dreams of the youth before him, Rakatha sheathes his sword again. Then he reaches out for the scabbard Vong is still holding.
Pil reaches pitifully for the scabbard as it is handed off, his small ration of conviction used up. He watches mutely as Rakatha inspects it and tests its soundness.
Pulling a short longsword or a long shortsword from among his spare weapons, Rakatha tries it in the scabbard. It slides in with a pleasant click when the guard comes to rest on the stiff leather. With a self-satisfied nod, Rakatha holds the blade and scabbard out to the tremulous boy who takes it without understanding.
“This sword you can carry. These too,” Rakatha unslings his pack and bedroll from his shoulders and dumps them at Pil’s feet.
The look of pure defeat on Pil’s face turns to pure elation. He practically dives for the pack and hugs Rakatha’s equipment to his chest fervently, as though it were some holy relic. His eyes are sparkling like two pools of clear spring water.
“Thank you, sir. I will serve you without question!”
I am fairly certain Pil does not understand the situation at all.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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