The Wandering Knight Read Free

head crowned with a shock of fiery red hair. "He's got more men than I thought. We're not fighting our way in, even at night."
    "Was that your plan?" said Gerald. "Just to cut your way in and free my father?" 
    Mazael shrugged. "More or less."
    "I should have continued to Knightport," said Gerald, "and gotten Lord Randerly's aid in lieu of this foolishness."
    "Foolishness?" said Mazael, annoyed. "Had you gone to Knightport, Reccard or one of the other bandit chiefs would have grabbed you off the streets."
    "Lord Randerly would have aided me," insisted Gerald. "It is his duty as a vassal of the House of Roland. His oaths bind him."
    "Oaths?" said Mazael. "Oaths are words and nothing more. Are you that big of a fool, boy? Do you think you can march into Knightport and command Lord Randerly to act? Or perhaps you'll stride down there and bid the bandits to release your father in the name of his own authority? Yes, that should work." Mazael remembered his older brother Mitor, arrogant and pompous, using his status as the heir to Castle Cravenlock as a club. 
    "A better plan, certainly," said Gerald, "than marching down there and getting ourselves killed. Or are you such a braggart, sir, than you can take twenty men on your own?"
    "Gods," said Mazael, "but you have a smart mouth. I ought to loosen your teeth and teach you some respect."
    A hint of fear went over Gerald's face, and Mazael felt a stab of guilt. The boy was lost and alone, yet he had kept his wits about him. Mazael's brother Mitor or his sister Rachel would have fallen apart in the face of such danger. 
    "No need for us to fight each other," said Gerald, voice wary, "when there are so many foes below." 
    "Well spoken," said Mazael. He thought for a moment. "Come. Perhaps an opportunity will present itself." 
    He led the way back down the hill, weaving his way around the pine trees. 
    "What sort of opportunity?" said Gerald. "Perhaps we can negotiate with the bandits for a ransom."
    Mazael snorted. "Aye, then they'll kill me and take you captive. No. Hasn't anyone taught you to fight? You don't surrender at the first setback. A good commander always seizes a favorable opportunity."
    "When have you led men in battle?" said Gerald.
    "Oh, here and there," said Mazael. "Fighting for some petty lord or another. Commanding men in battle isn't so different than fighting. In swordplay, you set your footing and your stance, in battle you array men on the terrain...and then one man is dead and the other still lives."  
    "Have you ever led an entire army?" said Gerald, curiosity on his young face.
    "Ha! No, never," said Mazael. "What sort of fool would want that kind of responsibility? No, a good fight, a warm meal, and an eager woman...that is all I want."
    "But a lord defends and protects his people," said Gerald. "There is more to life than fighting and food and...and women." 
    "You're eleven," said Mazael. "How the devil would you know? There...down!"
    He shoved Gerald, and the boy went sprawling. Mazael glimpsed a cloaked figure standing behind a tree, a short bow in hand. Mazael dodged, and an arrow thrummed past his head. The archer fumbled for his belt, and Mazael sprinted forward, sword in hand.
    "Wait," said the archer, a gaunt man with a close-cropped gray beard. "Wait!"
    Mazael drew back his sword for the kill.
    "If you strike, I'll shout and bring Waller's men down on your head!" said the archer.
    That was enough to make Mazael hesitate.
    "You're one of Reccard's men, aren't you?" he said.
    "Aye," said the archer, "but not by choice. Name's Alfric, and I'm a potter. That bastard Reccard bought the lien on my shop. Said if I shot you, he'd forgive my debt." Alfric swallowed. "You’re going to kill me? Well, for the gods' sake, get on with..."
    "Shut up," said Mazael. Gerald walked to his side. "Why is Reccard trying to so hard to kill me? I was leaving Knightport."
    Alfric shrugged. "You know too much about him. He's afraid you'll turn him over to old Lord