The Wandering Knight Read Online Free PDF Page A

their dark rituals.”
    “No, it’s the barbarians,” said the other mercenary. “They eat babies, my grandfather told me so when I was a lad.”
    “I don’t care if it’s the Old Demon and a troop of barbarians sacrificing people to the god of serpents,” said Mazael. “I want my ale, my bed, and my food.”
    “Very well, milord,” said the first mercenary. “Make no trouble, and we’ll make no trouble for you.”
    Mazael nodded. He rode through the gate, Gerald and Wesson behind him.
    “Do you think it’s true?” said Gerald. “Peasants have been disappearing?”
    Mazael shrugged. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Most likely Mitor has ordered virgins kidnapped for his bed.”
    The two knights dismounted, and Wesson received the task of stabling the mounts and carrying the armor and weapons into their room. Mazael did not remember his own years as a squire with any fondness. He pushed open the inn’s door and stepped inside.
    The common room was crowded with mercenaries and landless knights. Many looked drunk, and specks of fresh blood marked the floor. A bartender and a half-dozen serving girls hurried back and forth to the kitchen. Mazael marked some of the prettier ones.
    A man playing a harp stood atop a stage against the far wall. The jongleur wore simple clothes for one of his craft, plain boots and trousers and a tunic. Gray shot through his black hair and beard, and a hooked nose rested above his smiling lips. Mazael frowned, thought he recognized the man for a moment, then brushed away the odd feeling.
    The bartender came over. “What’ll it be, my lords?”
    “A room, and food for three,” said Mazael.
    The bartender licked his lips. He squirmed beneath Mazael’s gaze, something people often did. “First room at the top of the stairs. As for food, I’ve got a few joints of beef left, and some fresh bread...”
    “That will be fine,” said Mazael. He left some copper coins on the bar and went to find Gerald. Wesson lurched through the door, bearing an armful of armor. Mazael directed him to their room, and the boy clambered up the steps, huffing.
    Gerald had claimed a table near the jongleur’s stage, and Mazael joined him. 
    “Look at this place,” said Gerald. “It’s packed full of mercenaries and ruffians of every stripe, and they are all making for Castle Cravenlock. It seems the rumors of your brother hiring men are true after all.”
    “I wonder why,” said Mazael. “Castle Cravenlock can only raise four thousand knights and armsmen. Swordgrim can raise eight thousand, and Lord Richard can call ten thousand more. If Mitor thinks to use this rabble to stand against the likes of Lord Richard, well, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”
    “Perhaps he’s hired them for use against the wood elves,” suggested Gerald with a laugh.
    Mazael snorted. “What, the Elderborn? Hardly. They wouldn’t venture out unless Mitor devoted himself to burning down the Great Southern Forest. Besides, the Elderborn would cut through this lot,” he gestured, taking in the mercenaries, “faster than even the Dragonslayer.”
    “I was joking,” said Gerald. “Elderborn are a children’s fable, like faeries and Demonsouled...you’re not joking?”
    “No,” said Mazael. Wesson descended the stairs and sat at the table, panting.
    The jongleur ran his fingers over his harp and began another song.

    “Heart of darkness, soul of sin,
    a murderer’s bloody grin.
    So came the boy to his fate,
    dark son of a demon great.”

    The crowd’s boisterous enthusiasm dampened. “The Song of the Demon Child” was not often sung in busy inns.
    “I say, I detest that song,” said Gerald.
    Mazael looked up at the jongleur. “Why is that?” The jongleur's gray eyes gleamed keen and intent, his fingers dancing over the harp in accompaniment to his deep, rich voice.
    “Father Marion would always recite a few verses when he saw me, citing the fate of wicked children,” said Gerald.

    “The child