DERN KEPT HIS OWN NAG and set the brigands’ horses free in the fields of the first farmstead he passed. He’d retaken the knight’s coin and possessions, but found nothing else of value in the brigands’ camp. He and Dog skirted around Woodbridge and moved steadily south, spending their first night away from the brigands huddled together beneath a sprawling oak alongside the road. The next day brought rain and it warmed noticeably, though Dern’s cloak was worthless when it came to keeping him dry. They took a room at an inn in Shreave that night, and Dern paid an herb-woman to make a poultice for his hurt leg, which had begun to ooze a yellow substance into his breeches. After that, the towns became more frequent and larger. Dern bought himself a new cloak in Dunsburgh since the autumn storms seemed intent on persisting.

Poria was the first proper walled city they reached and the first with a gate watch. Dern told the guards he was a farm lad visiting the city to buy supplies and they let him and Dog pass without further questioning. The other cities were much the same, although sometimes Dern had to bribe the guards if they were intent on inspecting his pack and saddlebags. Dern knew how to pass through a city unnoticed as a thief. Posing as a farmer’s son was much the same, and few paid him or Dog any attention. His leg remained sore and stiff, and the saddle irritated the inner side of the wound, but he’d not caught fever and the wound seemed to be healing without mortification. He made a habit of keeping it well wrapped and getting a new poultice whenever they passed through a city.

When they passed through the city gates into King’s Hill, some twenty or more days after killing the brigands, Dern realized he had posed as a farmer for the last time. He’d spent his whole life being poor and unnoticed—it was an easy thing for him—but now he was going to meet with the King and everything would be different. Garamund had told him what to do: how to gain a conference with the King, how to present himself, what to say when the King awarded him. Garamund said there were great men in King’s Hill, the very men who kept the realm in order. He said Dern would be well received and well rewarded. True, there would be the pompous officials and soldiers that had become so commonplace, just like in any other city, but here he’d find men who had the mettle to become knights.

Dern bought new breeches, boots, and a tunic in the style worn in King’s Hill, and then paid for a room at a modest inn that was still more expensive than any other he had stayed at so far. He paid extra for a tub and hot water to be brought to his room and had the first proper bath of his life. When he was done, he coaxed Dog into the tub and gave him a bath too. Dog growled and showed his teeth the entire time, but didn’t try to jump out. Between the two of them they near turned the water to mud.

Dern hardly slept that night and when morning came, he could not break his fast, as good as the food smelled. He paid the innkeeper for an extra night in the room and boarding for his horse, then set off on foot with Dog at his side and the sword and shield still wrapped in blankets. He meant to claim to be a delivery boy for an armorer if anyone asked, but the streets were bustling with people, even in the rain, and no one paid him any mind.

He had never been in King’s Hill before, but it seemed much like any of the other large cities in the realm. If anything, it was older and more rundown. As he and Dog ascended their way towards the center of the city, though, the buildings became more opulent. Instead of the gray stones typical of buildings in other cities, the palaces here were made of cream-colored marble, which seemed to glow warmly even beneath the gray rain clouds.

The castle itself stood atop the hill in the center of the city. It was said that on a clear day one could see for thirty miles in any direction from the castle towers. It was colossal; when they finally reached the outer walls Dern had to crane his head back as far as it would go to see the pennons flying atop the towers.

Early as it was, a crowd of people already stood before the gates of the outer walls, all waiting to petition the King or one of his chancellors. Dern took his place in line and waited. No one tried crowding too close to him with Dog at his side. The line moved slowly and Dern found himself wishing he had eaten something before leaving the inn, but there was nothing for it. More people arrived to wait behind him and it was midday before he finally reached the front and stepped into the gatehouse.

“State your business,” a thin man in a liveried blue doublet said in a bored voice. He didn’t even bother looking up from the podium he sat behind.

“I’m here to see the King.”

“On what business?”

“To inform him that his Knight of the Golden Order is slain.”

The official looked up at Dern then laughed. “Next.”

“Sir,” Dern implored him. “I have proof. I have the knight’s sword and shield.” Dern placed his sodden bundles onto the podium to unwrap them, but the official pushed them away.

“Boy, there are no Knight’s of the Golden Order and the King has no time for games.”

“The master armorer then. He would recognize the device.”

The official waved his hand for Dern to be gone and turned his attention to the next person in line.

“The dog!” Dern yelled more loudly than he intended. Dog barked in response and growled at the official. “Please, let me speak with your kennel master,” Dern pleaded, holding Dog back. “He will recognize this dog. It belongs to him now.”

The official curled his lips back in distaste at Dog, but waved for one of the courtiers behind him to come forward. “Take him to see Master Stiles, then see him out.”

The courtier nodded and motioned for Dern to follow him outside. Like the official, he also wore a blue doublet, and had a rapier at his hip. Dern and Dog followed him past the guards into the courtyard to a complex of stone buildings with low-pitched roofs separate from the main keep. The kennels were behind the horse stables and shared a common wall. Each had a fenced-in practice yard, but none were practicing on this rainy day. The courtier led the way through a side door into the kennels and Dern followed without giving it a second thought.

A young kennel-hand stood directly inside holding two short-haired hunting dogs on leashes; they snarled when they saw Dog and one of them—a black-haired mastiff nearly as large as Dog—ripped itself free of the boy’s grip to lunge forward. Dog gnashed him across the snout and again in the back of the head before the slightly smaller animal yelped and went to the ground in submission. The other hunting dog was barking wildly and dragging the kennel-hand towards them. The dogs in their pens bayed and snarled. Dog growled and stepped towards the kennel-hand and the other dog, but Dern regained his wits by then.

“Dog! To me!”

Dog growled, but did as he was told and returned to sit beside Dern just as Master Stiles stormed out from between a row of pens.

“What’s the meaning of—”  The kennel master stopped short when he saw Dog. “Braen,” he told the boy, “Put the dogs in their cages.”

The kennel-hand snatched up the leash of the injured dog and dragged his two charges away. The din slowly quieted as the dogs in their cages quit barking. Master Stiles, an unassuming man of modest build with short black hair and a mustache, looked from Dog, to Dern, to the courtier. The courtier had pressed himself back up against the wall.

“Where did you get this dog?” Master Stiles asked Dern.

“You know him, sir?”

“Too well. He’s killed a half dozen of my hounds. Where’s his master?”

“Dead,” Dern told him. “Slain by brigands on the road.”

“Good riddance.”

Dern didn’t know what to make of that. How can someone dislike a Knight of the Golden Order? He set the shield and sword down onto the ground and began unwrapping them.

“Sir… well, I brought back the knight’s sword and shield…”

“Tarmyn Keyes was no knight,” Master Stiles interrupted him. “One of the King’s emissaries, yes, but no man could be further from a knight. A whoremonger, a butcher, I would say.”

“Keyes?” Dern asked, confused. “But the sigil on his shield says he’s of House Lynford. He was a Knight of the Golden Order.” Dern flipped the last fold of the blanket away to reveal the shield, then the sword. The kennel master stared down at them, eyes wide.

“You found these on Lord Keyes?”

“He was dead when I found him,” Dern explained. “I never knew his name. All I know is that he bore these weapons and Dog was protecting him.”

“It had to be him, then. The mongrel would stand by no one else’s side.” Master Stiles put a hand to his head and looked around almost absent-mindedly, then strode to the wall and grabbed a long staff with a looped cord lanyard jutting from the end. Dog snarled at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Get back, boy, or he’s like to bite you. Once I get this around his neck we can get him in the pen.”

“No,” Dern said, jumping front of him. “Why would you put him in a pen?”

“So we can go speak to the King. I can’t have the mongrel prowling about the other dogs while we’re gone.”

The King.

“I’ll do it,” Dern said. “Where do you want him?”

The kennel master walked to a large cage separate from the others and opened the door, then stepped aside.

“C’mon, Dog,” Dern called. Dog bared his teeth and laid down in response. “To me!” Dern shouted. Dog slunk forward with his tail between his legs and stopped at Dern’s feet. “What’s wrong with you? Go on, get in there.”  Dog whimpered and Dern had to push him forward into the cage. He didn’t know what the problem was. Dog had never whimpered before, except when his master had died. “Stay,” he told him, closing the door to the cage and latching it. “I’ll be back.”

Master Stiles looked surprised that Dog had obeyed him, but said nothing and grabbed up the shield and sword. He stormed off into the rainy courtyard so fast that Dern and the courtier had to run to keep up. Dern wanted to ask him about the knight—or emissary, as he was—but got no opportunity. They entered though a side passage into the main keep and were ushered by pike wielding guards down a corridor and through a huge set of double doors into a room—the throne room, Dern realized with a shock. King Udolf himself sat on the throne atop a dais, robed in blue velvet, a jewel-encrusted crown upon his head. A highborn lord was petitioning him, and various other courtiers, officials, and guardsman were spread out amongst the room.

Dern couldn’t absorb the sights quick enough: the highborn lord kneeling as he petitioned the King; the four guards to either side of the King, standing tall in full-plate armor; the serving women standing at attention along the wall with trays of fruits, cheeses, and ewers of wine; the gray haired man sitting at a chair beside the dais scribbling madly in a huge tome. It all seemed like too much and suddenly Master Stiles was leading him to the dais. Dern had enough sense to bow when Master Stiles did, but he had to force himself to calm his breathing and focus on the words the kennel master was saying.

“You are sure Lord Keyes is dead?” the King asked when Master Stiles was done, directly addressing Dern.

Dern’s mouth felt horribly dry. He had to wet his lips with his tongue before he could speak. “Yes, Your Majesty. I buried him myself.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Brigands, Your Majesty. They shot him full of arrows.”

“Would that they had brought me his head. I would have awarded them handsomely.”

“Your Majesty?” Master Stiles asked, confused.

“He’s committed high treason, fled when I summoned him to answer for his crimes.”

Master Stiles nodded his head. “What shall I do with Lord Keyes’ dog, your majesty?”

“Kill it.”

“No!” Dern shouted before he realized what he was doing. He slapped his hand over his mouth instinctively and dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I meant, I was hoping—”

“You’ll be hoping for a new tongue,” the King rebuked him. “Master Stiles, you may return to the kennels. Courtier, take this peasant boy to the master of coin and reward him five silver crowns for his service, then see that he is escorted out. Take the weapons to the master armorer.”

Dern’s courtier nodded and motioned for him to follow. Master Stiles was already gone from the throne room. Dern staggered out as if he was drunk. He followed the courtier down a short hallway to collect Dern’s reward, but he hardly noticed the coins that were thrust into his hands. Dog. Why? “What did he ever do to the King?”

The courtier mistook his question to mean Lord Keyes. “He fucked his daughter, is what he did,” he said with a smirk. “The gods know why he stole off with these old things, though. Not like they’d conceal his identity when he was riding around with that mutt. He was mad, methinks. Maybe he thought to pretend at being a knight of old to absolve all the horrors he’d done.”

They were walking down another hallway. Dern couldn’t believe any of it. Garamund had said the King would be a great man. He’d said that he might even reward Dern for his service and make him a squire. The King wanted to reward the brigands! Garamund, you’re a fool, just like Bralen and Kyler said. I’m a fool.

He’d come all this way for nothing. The King never asked or cared whether the brigands were dead. Didn’t care that they’d killed the farmer and countless others. Didn’t ask why Dern limped. The reward he gave Dern was less than Dern spent for his room and bath the night before. And Dog….

They were outside in the rain, Dern realized, and the kennels were only fifty paces away. Dern bolted without a second thought; he was a quarter of the way to the kennels before the courtier realized he was gone and shouted for him to stop. Dern heard the yells of guards in the courtyard around him, but ignored them. Maybe there’s still time.

He heard yelping. There was someone in the practice yard in front of the kennels, he saw: Master Giles, and the kennel-boy holding down a big black dog with a pole lanyard. Master Giles was raising a poleax above his head. No!

Dern cried out, leapt over the fence as the axe swung downward.

A loud yelp cut violently short.

Dern’s injured leg gave out from under him and he smashed onto the muddy ground. Guards piled over the fence into the yard behind him and pinned him down. He struggled to break free, but there were too many, they were too strong. One of them punched him in the stomach. Another raised a dagger to strike.

Master Stiles’ voice rang out. “Stop! Unhand him.”

The guards reluctantly let him go.

Dern got to his knees, tears in his eyes. “No,” he cried. He crawled towards the slain animal. Its head was gone and there was blood everywhere, turning the rain puddles in the mud red. It took him a moment to realize that the animal’s hair was too short, the body too small to be Dog.

“It’s the hound your dog bit,” Master Giles said. “He was having convulsions from the wound. Your dog is still inside.”

“My dog?”

Master Stiles nodded and stepped towards the bay doors of the kennel house.

The courtier moved forward, his rapier drawn. “The King said you were to—”

“I know what the King said,” Master Giles snapped, not stopping. He unlatched the door to a cage and Dog came running to Dern. “He said to kill Lord Keyes’ dog. This dog belongs to the boy.”

Dern stood and wiped the rain and tears from his face. “Sir, thank you. I don’t….”

“Take your dog and be gone.”

Dern nodded. They were all staring at him, weapons still drawn. “Dog, with me,” he said, and climbed through the fence to stride away.

THE END