The Wandering Knight Read Online Free PDF

met his dark father,
    before the church’s altar.
    ‘My dark child,’ said the demon.
    ‘Your glory has now begun.’”

    “I hope you didn’t let it bother you,” said Mazael. “Most priests couldn’t find their manhood with both hands.”
    Gerald frowned. “That’s hardly an appropriate example to set for Wesson.”
    Mazael shrugged. “If he wants to take a vow of chastity, let him become a monk.”

    “‘Your demon soul has power,
    curse the gods, curse Amater.
    Take that which is your dark right.
    Spurn heaven; claim your demon might!’”

    “Sing something else!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry.
    The jongleur stopped. “My apologies, good sirs!” he called out, smiling. “What shall I sing for you instead?  ‘The Song of the Serpents’, perhaps, or ‘The Fall of Tristafel’?”
    “What’s this, a funeral?” yelled a drunken voice. “Sing something good!  ‘The Virgin with Five Veils’!” The jongleur took a flourishing bow and began to sing. “ There was a girl with raven hair and the curves of a goddess... ”
    “What a morbid fellow,” said Gerald. “It’s a wonder he’s able to earn his bread. ‘The Song of the Demon Child’ and ‘The Fall of Tristafel’ indeed!  I’ve never heard ‘The Song of the Serpents’, though. Probably some dreadful story of demons, to judge from this fellow’s tastes.”
    “No,” said Mazael. “Snakes. It tells how the god of the serpent people rebelled against heaven, and in punishment the other gods took the arms and legs from the serpents and made them crawl through the dust.”
    Gerald shuddered. He hated snakes. “Gods be praised, the food is here.”
    A plump pretty barmaid in a tightly laced dress gave them their food. Gerald thanked the woman. Mazael sent her off with a silver coin and a pinch on the bottom, earning a frown from Gerald. The jongleur continued “The Virgin with Five Veils” and soon had the mercenaries roaring along to the song.  “The virgin girl danced and giggled, her body bounced and jiggled..." 
    Gerald admonished his squire against such revels. Mazael downed his ale and called for another.
    The jongleur finished his song to thunderous applause as a storm of copper coins rained upon the stage.
    “Another song!” called out a man.
    “Grant me a short rest first, my generous friends!” said the jongleur, sweeping up the coins. “For you all have mighty voices, and I fear I shall ruin mine if I dared compete!” The assembled ruffians laughed and went back to their drinking. Mazael took a drink of ale to wash down some beef, draining half the tankard in three big gulps.
    When he looked up, the jongleur stood over their table, a smile on his bearded face. “Pardon, my lords...but have we met before?”
    Mazael frowned. “No, I don’t think so.”
    “But...are you not Sir Mazael Cravenlock, my lord?  And is your companion not Sir Gerald Roland?” said the jongleur.
    Mazael’s teeth clenched. He had wanted to reach Castle Cravenlock unseen. “How do you know who I am?” A quick dagger thrust between the ribs could kill the jongleur... 
    The jongleur tapped a finger against his jaw. “It...was at an inn in Mastaria, I believe, during Sir Mandor Roland’s march against Castle Dominus. A village called Deep Creek, as I recall...”
    Mazael frowned. “I remember!  It was the night before the battle. That fool Sir Mandor—pardons, Gerald, but he was—spent the night celebrating at the inn. You were the jongleur he had brought from Deep Creek for his entertainment.”
    “I remember now,” said Gerald.
    The jongleur smiled and executed a florid bow. “Mattias Comorian, a simple musician, at your service.”
    “How did you come to be here?” said Mazael, indicating for Mattias to take a seat. “Mastaria is on the other side of the kingdom. I had thought most the villagers of Deep Creek slain in the battle.”
    “Most were,” said Mattias. “I suspected that ill fortune would soon