The Mage's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Read Free Book Online

they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.
    He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.
    Before Mhalek and his horde.
    “Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your business.”
    Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”
    “Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep in the hills, do you?”
    “I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know how.” 
    “Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”
    “Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.
    The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”
    He wasn’t wrong about that.
    Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke.” 
    Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse. 
    “What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.
    “Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.
    The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.
    “I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I…”
    “Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”
    “Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.
    He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.
    A ripple of surprise went through the men.
    “You’re…” said the first man. He lifted his spear. “What is your name?”
    “My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”
    The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia. 
    But he had not expected the town to grow so large. 
    “Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight. 
    “Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.
    The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.
    “You think he made the friar disappear?” said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the Gray Knight! They…”
    “The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man, “and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”
    “So be it,” said Ridmark.
    A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.
    And he could rest at last…
    Ridmark shook off the notion and waited. 
    A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms. 
    “You will accompany us,” he said.
    Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him. 

    ###

    Calliande opened her eyes. 
    She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her