Chương 51: Proper Manners

Joel fought the temptation to pick up the [Greatsword Proficiency] and [Spellbook Proficiency]. He reviewed the notes that he'd taken during Alis' lessons, which was a small hurdle itself when rocking on horseback. His messy scribbles were hard enough to read as he was still getting used to using Siv's spare quill. He turned to another page, mumbling as he read over his handwritten notes. The spellbook lessons were particularly frustrating.

He'd found it difficult to wrap his mind around what Alis was explaining at times. During the lessons, Alis had mentioned how they were lucky that it was only a single page and that they'd seen what magic Wirbald had cast with it. With those factors combined, they had enough to start building a cipher key. It felt like learning mathematics while learning a new language, and Joel often had to ask Alis to slow down what she called 'the basics'. In his completely uninformed opinion, it seemed like basic symbology.

Spellbook users, such as wizards, create their own code of symbols to represent certain concepts. The more advanced and skilled the writer is, their cipher for the spell would become more succinct, but also more conceptually complex. If Joel had this all correct, this meant that deciphering a wizard's notation didn't necessitate being able to cast the spell. Basically, this was the first step in a very long set of metaphorical staircases. At least, that's what he got out of his notes.

He tenderly massaged his left forearm, aching from sword swings. The training with Al was slightly better, but Joel suspected that was because he already had many weapon proficiencies. At least it was still light out enough to be able to read, though he knew he'd likely get a little motion sick. The forest path had tapered out into rolling plains, the sun dipping in the distance. Patches of trees dotted the grasslands, stretching tall shadows onto the expansive meadows.

It would be significantly harder to get ambushed by amateur bandits out here. Another reason for the fact that they were making good time, as Al liked to remind them all.

"We should probably reach Dagalt by tonight," Al said over his broad shoulder.

"Hopefully before it gets too dark."

"They probably won't have an inn, right?" Alis asked, hopeful for someone to say otherwise. Unfortunately, Al only agreed.

"We'll probably have to intrude on someone's hospitality."

"There may be a chapel that would take in tired travellers," Siv said, adjusting his leather eyepatch.

"Ugh, I do not want to stay at a chapel," Alis groaned.

"We wind up donating more to them than it would cost for a soft bed at an inn."

"I'll take anything if it keeps us out of the rain," Joel said, glancing at the darkening clouds in the distance. That was most definitely a storm rolling in. He didn't know if it was the [Survival Proficiency] that he'd gotten a long time ago, but he was beginning to be able to gauge the weather's mood a tad better. They still had a few hours before it'd reach them. Still, he used the encroaching storm as an excuse to stop reviewing his notes and rolled them away into his bag.

He turned to enjoy the sun kissed scenery as the sky dimmed. Their travel since meeting Umbert, Beesberg, and the rest of the motley hunters had been peaceful, which confirmed that they'd been telling the truth. It was too quiet. As far as Joel could tell, they hadn't run into any wildlife in some time. He hadn't caught sight of a rabbit or even a bird. The mosquitoes and flies stayed around to relentlessly pester them, but nothing else.

Joel wondered how the villagers at Dagalt were faring if there was such a drought of wild game to hunt. It had to be affecting them as well. Furthermore, he thought of the knights that Umbert had mentioned, said to be bannerless, heavily armed, and heading toward Dagalt. Knights who they all hoped weren't robber knights. Syr Ysobelle's entourage flashed before his mind. Their protective plate armor and charging warhorses. Each one, even Lannwald, was clearly a trained and experienced fighter.

If the knights ahead were anything similar, and causing trouble, that wouldn't bode well for them. They'd be vastly different from Umbert's band of first-time brigands, and there were allegedly dozens of them. He tightly gripped his ivory-hilted cutlass, making certain the Seahorn sword was still tucked in his saddle. Sure, he was far stronger than that time on the road with Boreth and Perri, but he doubted he was take-on-several-knights strong yet. He really hoped they weren't robber knights.

"So what're we going to do if the knights are causing trouble in the village?" Joel said to the others.

"Are we going to fight them?"

"That hinges on the degree of trouble they're causing," Al answered.

"But they are a bunch of knights, right?" Al caught his concern.

"Everyone here knows how to count. If it's something we can't handle, we'll report it back at the guild and to any local patrols on the way. If we're lucky, they harmlessly passed through to the Oldenroad anyway."

"Let's pick up the pace a bit," Siv said, glancing at the clouds behind him.

"I'd like to avoid getting soaked." He urged his horse forward and they all followed after him. It became surprisingly dark as the grassy plains transformed into farm land. Billowing clouds swept over the night sky. Thankfully, the rain hadn't reached them and the village was finally visible over the horizon — an unassuming settlement that sat next to a wide woodland. The dirt road cut through the already harvested fields as the distant speck of light that was the village torches grew.

As they approached, it became clear that it wasn't only the village torchlight ahead. An encampment of armored men was stationed in one of the farmed fields. Horses were tied to fence posts and tents were planted around campfires. The camp hugged close to the cluster of buildings that was Dagalt village. There were less men than Joel expected from Umbert's words. The knights probably numbered a little over a dozen, though they were bannerless as no evident sigils were displayed.

Even the knight's shields, usually marked with their fancy heraldry, had been painted into muted colors of gray and brown. Mud-mucked squires worked cooking pots over the flames and tended to the horses. Al led them toward one of the nearby tents, where a knight and a local appeared to be sharing drinks. The knight was an older man, nearing his fifth decade, who had the younger man mesmerized by his tale. Eyeing their approach, the older knight settled down, scratching his stubbled chin. Love this story?

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"Good even, syr," Al said, nodding politely to the sitting knight.

"Four blessings to you all," the knight grunted suspiciously. It didn't feel like he meant it at all. He passed over the wineskin to the younger man, who glanced at them nervously.

"Do you mind if I ask what you and all these men are doing here?"

"And who is asking?"

"Apologies. I am Alarion. We're Freewalkers from Haefen." Those words made both of the strangers perk up in their seats, making the young man spill wine onto his shirt.

"Ah, well," the older man coughed.

"Since the captain's not here, you'll want to speak to the lieutenant in that case." He thumbed toward the encampment before pointing to the village.

"Or I suppose you could talk to this hamlet's elder." The knight turned to the villager, taking back the wineskin.

"What's their name again?"

"Wassel," said the young man.

"Yeah, him. Go bother him." The old knight took a swig of his wineskin, giving them all a nasty glare. Joel wrinkled his nose at him. They'd been riding fairly hard and exhaustion made his patience thin. Al thanked the two men, turned to the others, and got off his horse.

"Well, at least we know they're getting along with some of the villagers." He took out an apple from his sack, biting a piece off and feeding it to his horse. The rest of them followed his example, dismounting from their own steeds. Leading them a few paces away from the camp, Al huddled them closer.

"It never hurts to be a little more thorough. So why don't we meet this lieutenant and elder before we decide to bed here or move on."

"It's a little late to intrude," Siv mentioned, glancing at the sky.

"Then we hurry," Al replied.

"We could split up," Joel suggested, thinking of how well Alis got along with Gorum.

"Why doesn't Alis go to speak with the elder?" He looked at the emerald pommel of Al's greatsword, poking out from the saddle.

"And Al can go speak with this lieutenant? You used to be a knight so he might be more receptive. Comradery and all that?" Al shrugged, taking his greatsword off the saddle.

"It can't hurt to try."

"I'll go with Alis," Siv said.

"Folks tend to respond better to siblings anyway. So, Joel, you'll cover Al." He grabbed the reins of his sister's horse as he looked to the booming sky again.

"Storm's coming in, so let's hurry." Joel followed Al, who tossed a nearby squire two coppers to mind their horses, into the knight's camp. Some of the men glowered at them, firelight making their faces look unnecessarily ominous. Trying his best smile only garnered more angry murmurs so Joel decided to keep his eyes firmly on Al's back instead. Rain began to drizzle down as they cut through the gleaned field to a larger pavilion tent.

The light that peeked through the tent flap told them it was occupied, but their path was blocked by a pug-faced squire. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen and was so slight that one might wonder if he was a scarecrow. He scowled at them, not saying a word.

"We wish to speak to the lieutenant," Al said calmly as raindrops plinked against his armor. He flashed his winning smile, teeth somehow sparkling. The squire was unmoved, still quiet and scowling. This guy didn't seem to realize that Al was the armored one. This hostility was becoming unbearably annoying.

"Are you going to say something or are you going to get the hell out of our way?" Joel shouted despite himself.

"I'd rather not stay in this piss forever!" The squire now decided to glare at him. What the flying fuck was this guy's problem?

"The boy's a mute. I don't know who you are, but if you need to talk, come in," yelled a voice from inside, muffled by the rain's pitter patter. Joel felt his face going red, but he was still too annoyed at this kid's attitude.

"He's not fucking deaf," he mumbled under his breath.

"Breathe a bit." Al nudged him.

"Whatever's going on, at least the village is alright. So breathe." He waited a moment before going into the tent, letting the rain wash over them. Joel did as he asked, inhaling deep, before nodding to Al that he was alright.

"Should we leave our weapons out here, good syr?" Al called out.

"Hah. Proper manners. I like that, but I don't give a jot about your weapons," the voice shouted.

"Just come in and get out of the rain." Al looked at Joel, shrugged, and went into the tent. As Joel followed through the tent flaps, a familiar rancid smell greeted them, making him long for the fresh smell of the outside rain. At the center of the pavilion's interior, a large dead wolf hung by its neck as a stout man kneeled to skin the carcass. The tanned man didn't turn to face him, his slightly balding hair similar to the wolf's coarse and black fur.

His shirt's sleeves were rolled up, but to little effect, as they were as equally grimy as his arms, which were caked in bile and blood. Otherwise, the room was as expected from someone who was a knight. Though most things had been shoved to the side to make space for the skinning, a knightly suit of armor was tucked in the corner and a set of polearms, ranging from halberds to tridents, sat at the side of the room. An oily rag hung from an unsheathed longsword, waiting to be polished.

Like those in the camp, there was no distinguishing insignia present. The knight flicked some fatty film from his hand into a small bucket. Taking a towel from a nearby chair, he wiped his hands while getting to his feet. Facing them, the man was portly and his jowls sagged, but was not obese by any means. He had a severe face that appeared like it was tired of looking that way.

"Syr Gathin," he said.

"Lieutenant and acting commander of this camp." Using water from a jug, he washed his hands.

"You will have to excuse my appearance." He splashed his face, vigorously wiping any flecks of blood off his face, before spitting into the bucket. He gave a heavy sigh of relief as he poured himself a drink.

"Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to and what can I do for you?"

"I am Alarion, and this is my companion, Joel." Gathin sipped from his cup, eyes darting between the two of them.

"You're adventurers." He wasn't asking that.

"I am a Freewalker, yes," Al replied.

"I'm a porter," Joel piped up, staring at the half-skinned wolf before turning to Gathin.

"That's a big one."

"It is. Nearly took a chunk out of one of the men before we shot it down. Crossbow bolts ruined the pelt, but it's better than having someone cry about losing a hand." Gathin washed off his knife and sheathed the blade at his hip. He glanced at Al's greatsword, which was casually held, before nodding at the pommel.

"Pretty emerald. You've done your tour?" Al stiffened.

"Yes, I finished it many seasons ago."

"So you were a knight. Where's all your other gems? The sapphire and ruby?"

"Garnet," Al corrected. Now that the man had mentioned it, Joel couldn't recall seeing the other ones. Gathin waved him off.

"Bah, I could never wrap my head around all those ceremonies. Rocks, flowers, might as well be a loam elf. None of that nonsense in Rhostan." He looked Al up and down.

"So where are the other stones anyway? You Lorentines love showing off your pretty trinkets."

"They're somewhere."

"Hah!" Gathin winked at Al.

"Lost them to dice? I've heard that's common. Imagine more so for someone who renounced his knighthood." If the statement was offensive, Al didn't show it. The knight nodded at Al's greatsword.

"Fight anywhere fun?"

"No, nowhere fun."

"Pfft, how boring. You do look like a cushy highborn." Gathin grinned at him, tapping his fingers against his goblet.

"Did you fight anywhere at all?"

"I was at Aga." Joel noticed Gathin's smile briefly faltering. More importantly, he caught how the man's eyes hardened with a very familiar emotion. Unbridled rage.