The Long War 01 - The Black Guard Read Online Free
Author: A.J. Smith
interrupt what he imagined was a moment of deep thought. When he judged the time right, Randall approached slowly. ‘Master…’
Sir Leon half smiled at the young man. ‘Randall, you’re, what, seventeen years?’
‘Yes, master, I’ve been with you for three years.’
The smile became broader. ‘You’ve been a good squire, lad. Never complained, always done what you were told.’
‘Master… if you knew he was going to react like that, why did you provoke him?’ Randall knew it was an impertinent question, but in the circumstances he cared little for propriety.
The laugh that preceded Sir Leon’s answer was good-natured. ‘I’m an old man, Randall. I know I can sometimes hide it, but I always feel it.’ He took another long drink. ‘I have wanted to be that rude to a Purple cleric since I first met one. It takes the pragmatism of advancing years to make a man truly free. It’s just a shame I didn’t have the balls to do it when I was younger and could have killed him.’
‘But he’s going to kill you , my lord!’ Randall stated.
Sir Leon did not stop smiling. ‘That is very likely. Yes, that is very likely indeed. I’d certainly recommend betting on him if the opportunity presents itself.’ He laughed at his own joke and drained his goblet of wine.
He shouted to the tavern keeper. ‘Just bring the whole bottle, that way I won’t need to talk to you every time I want a drink.’
The man complied and a bottle of red wine was placed in front of the knight. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and poured himself a large measure. Randall knew that warning his master about drinking before a fight would be pointless and, in any case, it would not change the outcome. Sir Leon looked like a tired old man. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, the ill-fitting steel armour chafing his bulky frame.
‘Don’t panic, young Randall, even a burnt-out old drunk has a trick or two.’
He unbuckled his sword belt and panted, clearly more comfortable without it constricting his stomach. He held it out to his squire, who grasped the sword carefully and wrapped the leather belt around the scabbard. Randall still had a great affection for his master and began thinking about oiling the blade and adjusting his armour before Sir Leon had to fight the Purple cleric. ‘Master, maybe you should remove your armour and let me add some side plates before your duel…’
Sir Leon laughed. ‘In your estimation, how good am I with that thing?’ He pointed to his sword.
‘The last time I saw you use it, you were dangerous, master.’
‘Well, as good as I may one day have been, that clerical bastard is a trained killer with youth and speed on his side.’ He took another drink. ‘I may get a lucky blow and win, or I may be able to rely on strength; either way, the state of my armour will make little difference. All it’ll do is slow me down…’ he chuckled to himself, ‘and I’m slow enough already.’
* * *
The next twenty minutes or so passed in silence, with Sir Leon drinking and Randall not finding any words to say. The tavern began to empty as those who had spent the night removed themselves. Street cleaners and the city watch were abroad and Randall wondered about the legalities of fighting a duel in a back street. He guessed that, since both men were nobles of a sort, it was unlikely that the watch would intervene.
Unpleasant thoughts ran through Randall’s mind. He wondered what he would do if faced with his master’s dead body; would he have to take him to be buried, or would the city have arrangements for such things? He wondered, too, about his master’s sword and armour; whether the Purple cleric would take them as a prize or whether they’d be left in the street to be stolen.
He also worried for himself. His home was a village in the Darkwald, many leagues from the capital, and Randall would not even know how to begin finding his way back there. He had travelled with Sir Leon to several of
Sir Leon half smiled at the young man. ‘Randall, you’re, what, seventeen years?’
‘Yes, master, I’ve been with you for three years.’
The smile became broader. ‘You’ve been a good squire, lad. Never complained, always done what you were told.’
‘Master… if you knew he was going to react like that, why did you provoke him?’ Randall knew it was an impertinent question, but in the circumstances he cared little for propriety.
The laugh that preceded Sir Leon’s answer was good-natured. ‘I’m an old man, Randall. I know I can sometimes hide it, but I always feel it.’ He took another long drink. ‘I have wanted to be that rude to a Purple cleric since I first met one. It takes the pragmatism of advancing years to make a man truly free. It’s just a shame I didn’t have the balls to do it when I was younger and could have killed him.’
‘But he’s going to kill you , my lord!’ Randall stated.
Sir Leon did not stop smiling. ‘That is very likely. Yes, that is very likely indeed. I’d certainly recommend betting on him if the opportunity presents itself.’ He laughed at his own joke and drained his goblet of wine.
He shouted to the tavern keeper. ‘Just bring the whole bottle, that way I won’t need to talk to you every time I want a drink.’
The man complied and a bottle of red wine was placed in front of the knight. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and poured himself a large measure. Randall knew that warning his master about drinking before a fight would be pointless and, in any case, it would not change the outcome. Sir Leon looked like a tired old man. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, the ill-fitting steel armour chafing his bulky frame.
‘Don’t panic, young Randall, even a burnt-out old drunk has a trick or two.’
He unbuckled his sword belt and panted, clearly more comfortable without it constricting his stomach. He held it out to his squire, who grasped the sword carefully and wrapped the leather belt around the scabbard. Randall still had a great affection for his master and began thinking about oiling the blade and adjusting his armour before Sir Leon had to fight the Purple cleric. ‘Master, maybe you should remove your armour and let me add some side plates before your duel…’
Sir Leon laughed. ‘In your estimation, how good am I with that thing?’ He pointed to his sword.
‘The last time I saw you use it, you were dangerous, master.’
‘Well, as good as I may one day have been, that clerical bastard is a trained killer with youth and speed on his side.’ He took another drink. ‘I may get a lucky blow and win, or I may be able to rely on strength; either way, the state of my armour will make little difference. All it’ll do is slow me down…’ he chuckled to himself, ‘and I’m slow enough already.’
* * *
The next twenty minutes or so passed in silence, with Sir Leon drinking and Randall not finding any words to say. The tavern began to empty as those who had spent the night removed themselves. Street cleaners and the city watch were abroad and Randall wondered about the legalities of fighting a duel in a back street. He guessed that, since both men were nobles of a sort, it was unlikely that the watch would intervene.
Unpleasant thoughts ran through Randall’s mind. He wondered what he would do if faced with his master’s dead body; would he have to take him to be buried, or would the city have arrangements for such things? He wondered, too, about his master’s sword and armour; whether the Purple cleric would take them as a prize or whether they’d be left in the street to be stolen.
He also worried for himself. His home was a village in the Darkwald, many leagues from the capital, and Randall would not even know how to begin finding his way back there. He had travelled with Sir Leon to several of
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