Chapter Text
“Sir Tarhos, there is a situation in the town square…”
The imposing knight turned his head slowly downwards. A shimmering reflection of orange flamelight danced across the steel of his blood-splattered helmet, soon to reflect the tired eyes of his soft-spoken assassin, Durkos Maleček, peering up at him. Tarhos took heed of his words, but spoke no reply, much less did he even spare a nod of his head. Rather, the knight lifted his knee to take his first step onward, and with it Durkos was already turning on his heels to lead him to the destination he had foretold.
The two figures trudged their way through bouts of suffocating, gray smoke that wafted through the village as thick as the clouds in the night sky. All around them buildings roared with flames, some even crumbled to broken rafters and black ash as their bones succumbed to their fiery fates. There was some screaming - some shouts every now and then - but for the most part all the townspeople were left to die on the ground, or captured elsewhere in droves several hours ago. With that in mind, Tarhos and Durkos would come to find Alejandro Santiago posing proudly with a captive at his feet. Further beyond him, Sander Rault was keeping watch over a group of captured villagers, glancing over his shoulder to get a glimpse of his knight approaching.
The captive in question appeared to simply be an older boy, or perhaps one still fresh into his adult years, down on his knees. Slim, youthfully attractive, with black hair. He wore a common man’s clothes, black stockings under a large white shirt, a belt at his waist and worn boots. He delivered the impression of being well looked after, perhaps in the belonging of a wealthy family, though he had the lean musculature of a working man. Rope secured his hands behind his back, his head hanging in defeat. Alejandro stood beside him with a branding iron held against his throat, grinning wickedly as his master approached. What the armorer was so cocky about, Tarhos could only guess, though he would come to expect a rightful explanation for being disturbed.
“Believe it ‘r not,” Alejandro hissed with a heavy Spanish accent, “This one tried to get the jump on me.” An unkind hand reached forth to grab a fistful of black hair, harshly yanking the boy’s head up. The captive grit his teeth with a grunt of discomfort, scowling upwards with disdain. The armorer leaned down near the boy’s temple, causing the latter to attempt to angle away from him without much success. “Almost got me too, didn’t he? Hijo de puta…”
Alejandro glanced up at Tarhos with a malicious smirk. “Out at the stables. He thought a bucket of grain would do me in!” He laughed maniacally, revealing a row of hand-sharpened teeth. “Might we shred ‘im to bits right here in the Square, the four of us together?”
Tarhos did not respond, though he indeed considered this proposition. It brought him splendid pleasure to execute alongside his three closest companions, and yet now did not seem to be right for it. Not only was this village entirely plundered and left to burn to the ground by now, with no soul left alive nor uncaptured to behold such a display, but Tarhos had a suspicious feeling gnawing away within him. From what he could tell, the boy was dressed rather well and in clean clothing, how he managed to evade capture through the entirety of the campaign was curious indeed. Also, there came the matter of something Tarhos was in dire lack of…
The knight turned his gaze towards the alleged stable boy now, taking a few slow steps forward. The sound of his heavy armor against the cobblestone pavement was fearsome, a walking weapon closing in on a defenseless young man at his knees. Forced to look upwards in leu of the burning at his scalp, the captive squinted hard at Tarhos, fighting through the pain with a grimace. The greatsword propped against the knight’s pauldron was rotated to point down now, meeting the cut tip of its blade to the stone at the boy’s knees with a sharp clang. Tarhos rested both his hands on either side of the cross-guard, flexing his armored claws within his grip. No one breathed a word for a few moments, until…
“Kill me,” the boy said. His voice could barely make it past a whisper. “Get it over with.”
Still, Tarhos did not move, nor speak. For a long while he merely looked down at the captive, unflinching as if he were nothing more than an armored statue. The silence grew thick enough to eventually upset the fiery temper of the armorer, making him antsy enough to begin shifting his weight from foot to foot in anticipation. He’d give the boy his wish, if he could, but acting out of turn was forfeit of life before a man like Tarhos.
“Well?!” came a valiant bark from the boy after too long. His choked voice heightened with frustration was surprising enough to even cause a flinch in Alejandro who expected much more weakness on his captive’s part. He gave him a harsh yank of his hair again to deter from any more outbursts, though his attempt would be futile. “If I am to die by your hand this night, then spare me the droll of waiting.”
This response was once more met with an unwavering silence. And yet, soon there came a shift in Tarhos’ statuesque figure, and he raised his blade tip up from the ground with both hands and hovered it gingerly across the boy’s pulsating jugular.
“You ask me for death?” Tarhos asked. His resonant, deep voice was low in volume, but still enough to inflict its listeners with an eerie chill.
“I do…” the boy responded, though it was apparent his bravery was faltering.
“Why?”
The boy licked his lips before pursing them thinly together, averting his eyes to the side as they glistened with budding teardrops. He blinked, and looked the knight firmly back in the slits of his blood splattered helmet. “You’ve burnt my village. My lord is gone,” he scowled fiercely, a fire bursting to life in his eyes. “You’ve come here to plunder us, and to kill us, have you not? Begging for mercy… it’s pointless now.”
Silence. There came silence for many long, drawn out moments. Then, to the surprise of all who lay in wait, Tarhos withdrew his sword, and nudged it in the direction of Alejandro’s hand to order him release of his hold. With raised brows, even from under his eyepatch, the guard obeyed his command and took a step back, letting his captive’s head fall forward.
“What is your name?” Tarhos asked. His voice was cold, sinister. For what purpose he had to inquire this was difficult to determine by all who listened.
“…I am Milo,” came an uneasy reply, almost questioningly. “I am a stablehand to Lord Perrodus, if he still lives…”
Once more, another silence falls across the party. Soon enough, Tarhos darkly utters the words, “Take me to the stable.” Milo flinched, his eyes widening.
“I-I refuse,” he says desperately, panic rising in his voice. “The horses have done no wrong in this world, they deserve no painful executions. They are innocents.”
A deep rumble of a chuckle sounds from the knight’s chest, brief yet mocking. Clawed fingers flex in amusement before lowering one-by-one back to his grip on the cross-guard. “You will take me,” he assured the stablehand. “Stand.”
“Shall I accompany you, Sir Tarhos?” Alejandro interjected, clearly displeased with the choice of his superior. “The little cabrón is crafty.”
“Attend to Rault’s captives,” he growled, turning on his heel with a sound of metal sliding on stone. He began walking, a slow, menacing step, for he was enormous in stature and wherever he led brought death. At least, that is what Milo had heard, and yet he rose to his feet without the use of his tied hands. Over his shoulder, he spied Alejandro glaring at him with tangible hatred, and Durkos watching them leave with an eye out for any false move. As his blood ran cold through his body, Milo followed obediently after Tarhos, who not once looked back for him.
–---------
Towards the end of the village, most of the homes still stood intact, for the fires had not reached them yet, but no more people, food, or riches filled their walls with life. One of the last homes was that of Lord Perrodus, sizable and well tended to. The stable attached to its side was a homely building with cozy, indoor stalls. A very near and dear piece of livelihood to Milo, he felt an immense sense of dread standing next to Tarhos at its entrance. He felt as if he was allowing an agonizing and brutal end to his horses’ lives walk through the doors welcomed, and the guilt and rage that flourished in his heart blended with the coldness of his fear to leave a trembling boy in its wake.
Without uttering a word, Tarhos turned to Milo and swiped a single armored finger through one band of the rope, the metal claw slicing through it with minimal difficulty. Milo wriggled through the rest of the rope until his hands came free, rubbing his wrists with an uneasy glance at the knight’s emotionless helmet. He didn’t even have to say a word, nor even make one move of his body, for Milo to act sheepishly on his own and open the doors for their entry. They would come to enter a large room with four horses, two nearly identical black drafts - Percherons - for working the farm, and two palfreys, smaller and more slender riding horses belonging to the late Lord Perrodus and his lady. Tarhos approached one of the drafts.
The horse pinned his ears against his head, circling in his stall. It seemed that even the knight’s reputation had passed along to the animals, or perhaps it was the scent of gore and evil that disturbed it so. Milo scowled as he stood in defeat by the entrance doors, feeling the wrath of violence as the urge to protect his horses became nearly overwhelming. If he harmed that horse, there would be no question that Milo would—
“How did you attack my guard?” Tarhos muttered, turning slightly to glance sideways at the stablehand.
Milo averted his eyes, soon letting them fall upon a tipped over wooden bucket full of grain not far from where they stood. Knowing he’d pay the price for avoiding the question, or lying his way out of it, he pointed to the bucket.
“He entered the barn with a torch,” Milo explained in a soft voice, like a child in trouble with his father. “I tried dropping the bucket on his head from the rafters.”
Tarhos chuckled again. The short “heh heh,” that rumbled like distant thunder, but felt eerily slimy with malice. It gave Milo a chill, though he was surprised by the response all the same.
“You will have to do better than a bucket to kill him,” the knight said, turning back to the draft. Milo began to wonder at this time how he still remained alive.
“Prepare these horses for travel,” Tarhos said, turning back to the stablehand.
Milo did not answer, there was nothing more to be said as all became clear. The knight intended to steal these horses for himself and his three guards, to flee at haste from this location. Regardless, this would be a better fate for them than gruesome death by fire or blade, though, as Milo gathered saddles and bridles, he thought in anger of his beloved animals having to serve these devils.
The whole time of their tacking, Tarhos stood at the door and observed. Still as a statue, though Milo never once felt that stare leave him. He worked slowly, taking his time to tend to each horse’s grooming needs accordingly before fitting their blankets, saddles, and bridles. He attached a few packs to the rear of the saddle on each horse to fill with barley, oats, and various stored foodstuffs around the barn. As the fourth horse was being tacked, the stablehand nearly flinched at the sudden chilling voice of the knight inquiring, “Why surrender your life for these beasts?”
“Because I raised them from foals,” Milo said softly. “I taught them to carry riders, how to work the farmland… I tended to their needs even before they were born, in the bellies of their mothers.” After the fourth horse was saddled and bridled, Milo gave it a hearty pat on its neck. “They are like my family, my very own children.” He looked uneasily at Tarhos, wondering if those words would bear any sort of weight to him. It would appear for naught.
He approached with the dull metal clanking of his shifting armor, then took the reins of the two Percherons in a single hand. He began to lead them towards the barn doors, leaving Milo to assume he should gather the other two and follow. It was bold to trust that the agile stable boy would not quickly mount a horse and flee for his life, or perhaps it was bold of Milo to even think he’d get away so easily against someone like Tarhos… Instead, he followed silently in defeat, a horse on either side of him.
–---------
“Horses?” Sander exclaimed. A grin spread across his face, revealing a row of rotted teeth. Tarhos placed the reins to one of the Percherons in his hand.
“You and I shall take these,” Tarhos explained, before glancing at Alejandro and Durkos. “You will take the others.”
The others, being the two in Milo’s hands, were presented uneasily by a melancholy stablehand. He surrendered their reins to their new riders, and stood between them meekly as they were mounted. He looked down at the ground, a sliver of orange glow was all that remained of the fire, and the last of his village. Before he could process where to go next from here, the harsh voice of the knight jolted him back to reality.
“Boy,” he growled from atop his steed. “Ride with Rault.”
Milo returned his gaze with confusion. He did not know who ‘Rault’ was until Sander gulped a surprised “Huh?” from atop his own steed, clearly just as confused as Milo. That is when Alejandro objected with, “Sir Tarhos, are you mad?! You want to bring along the—“
“Silence!” This was the first time Milo had heard Tarhos raise his voice, and it was fearsome enough to make everyone flinch. Although each one of them clearly wanted to protest this decision, Milo resorted to obeying in silence and climbed atop the back of the large Percheron.
He didn’t quite know where to place his hands in his current state. This man sitting before him was just as large as the knight himself, far more pudgy, and yet wore no armor in defense. In fact, he neglected a shirt entirely, and seemed to prefer the bounding of ropes to keep his various garments in place. Milo awkwardly reached for a rope functioning as a belt to the Carnifex’s pants, greatly hoping to avoid touching his exposed, and rather unsightly skin. He was coated in dirt and blood, and other curious substances that made the boy avert his eyes.
Without another word, Tarhos’ horse was off at a trot, and the other three followed suit. As confused as Milo was as to where they were off to, the others didn’t seem to question the direction of their knight, or perhaps they already knew where it was he was leading. As they traversed briskly through the crumbled village, Milo let his eyes take in the last sights of all he had known, everything he had. Beyond the scattered remains of dead bodies, there was a small group of survivors being bound at the wrists by other armored soldiers, a small remaining company of the greater of Tarhos’ army that had moved out several hours ago after the bloodbath was won. It was too dark this night to make out the faces of the captives, and for that, Milo simply had to look away as distance was put between them.
At the edges of the village, the four broke into a gallop and headed into the night. As much as Milo sought for an explanation, he remained silent. For what reason was he brought along directly instead of bound with the other captives? What would be their fate? And what would be Milo’s fate? Where were they going? It was all very painful to dwell upon the anxieties of the unknown, and yet Milo felt more unease directed towards the battle axe that hung across Sander’s thigh, to which he suspected he may feel the wrath of if he asked too many questions.
Their ride extended through the outer borders of the land, heading southbound, past the furthest points Milo had ever traveled. It seemed hours were spent through countryside, primarily sticking to main roads, with some lights from cities barely visible in the distance here and there. As the sun came up, the ride continued. Some rest was given to the horses to drink from a river and graze, but not much time could be spared lest a neighboring company caught wind of their path and ambushed them. Milo didn’t ask questions, though his ears were on high alert of the guards mingling amongst themselves and Alejandro shot deadly glares in his direction.
Judging by the sun’s position, 5 o’clock came and went. The sky was beginning to dim, and the breezes grew chilly as the ride went on. Milo was noticing a weakness growing in him from lack of ample food and water, as he had not eaten anything in the last 24 hours, and was mentally and physically exhausted from the carnage of last night’s raid on his village. He slumped in the saddle, almost losing himself to leaning against the Carnifex’s back a few times if he had not caught himself. However, as thoughts of what his lord and lady would have prepared for dinner that night danced in his mind, Milo perked up in his seat upon the notice that their steeds were walking them into a quaint town.
The evening bustle had grown quiet as townspeople cleared the streets for them. One glimpse at the armor of the knight, with all its sharp points and torn edges, and all of Sardinia would know death approached. With the three guards at his side, it was nothing more than a confirmation of their darkest fears. People quickly dashed into their homes or into the nearest shop to hide, getting out of sight and hopefully out of mind as the caravan of steeds stepped through the town square.
Milo glanced at Sander in front of him. It was unclear if the guards even knew the name of this village, or what they were doing here; communication was slim to none, at least on Tarhos’ end. They all merely followed him like a pack of loyal dogs, no questions and full trust. Milo couldn’t help but be impressed by such loyalty, and it seemed to almost be rubbing off on to him. What was Tarhos so revered for, despite being a harbinger of destruction? He’d have to ponder these thoughts later, as it seemed they had arrived to their destination.
An inn and tavern loomed before them; about three floors tall and fairly compact in width. It was a rare sight to see a combination of the two businesses like this in cities of lesser size, though the rarity itself surely brought in many customers and excitement. To the left of its entrance was attached a modest stable for the guests’ horses, Milo took note, though the five of them dismounted at hitching posts and followed Tarhos through the front door.
It was dimly lit inside; there were no windows on this floor, and all that was provided for light were two large chandeliers dressed in twinkling candles. Milo peered out from behind Sander to catch a glimpse of a man at the counter, looking up at Tarhos with eyes the size of dinner plates. The whole of the tavern had grown silent as the patrons began to take notice of the party who just entered, and all the weapons they carried with them.
Tarhos dangled a small pouch of coins over the counter, held by two of his armored, clawed fingers at its drawstring. “Prepare for us everything you have left in your kitchens,” he said firmly. “And two rooms.”
The innkeeper at the counter trembled like a leaf as he stared up at the bloody helm of the knight, and the imposing sword that rested against his pauldron. With a forced inhale, he built up the courage to break eye contact and focus on the money pouch. He held out his hand sheepishly to reach for it, but Tarhos pulled it just out of his grasp.
“This is only part of your payment,” he growled. “In the morning, upon my leave, if I am satisfied with your service… I shall give you the rest.” He dropped the pouch with a heavy thud. Turning on his heel, Tarhos entered the main room of the tavern, followed by his guards, and a meek Milo who caught a glimpse of the innkeeper gawking at the money pouch, filled with enough shilling to already cover their stay entirely.
The tavern was occupied by long wooden tables and benches to promote a communal atmosphere. However, patrons clamored out of the way to allow for Tarhos to move past them, effectively clearing the tables in fright. Almost all the room would be left abandoned before the five of them even sat down, the stragglers who had been paralyzed by fear would sneak out the door in hopes of not being seen soon after. They were the only ones here now: Sander, Durkos, and Milo on one bench, Tarhos and Alejandro across from them. Their weapons were laid on the table at their side, clearly in sight, but within grasping range.
“I’m starving!” Sander exclaimed quite joyfully, patting his belly. “I hope they have mutton. Or beef. Oh, I could go for some pig as well!”
“It is not ‘pig’, it is ‘pork’,” Durkos corrected in a soft voice. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, though his brows were furrowed. “They will likely serve fish, we are about half a day’s walk from the coast.”
“We will have all the fish in the world when we get to the castle, I want something different!” Sander whimpered.
Castle? Half a day’s walk from the coast? As Milo intently watched the two men beside him, he felt his skin prick from the eerie weight of eyes, and glanced to see Alejandro giving him a rather nasty look from across the table. Milo turned away at once, though he understood why the jailer would be harboring such resentment. He was attacked by the stable boy with intentions to kill him, and his request to savagely murder him as recompense was sorely denied by his knight. The fact that the boy was even brought along with them in the first place was still left unexplained, and Milo was sure that didn’t exactly help this situation much either.
Thankfully, a young server boy soon arrived with five sizable mugs of ale, directing all the attention on to himself. “Your ale, sirs,” he said nervously, placing a mug before each person as he made his way down the table, ending with Milo.
“Pardon,” Milo said softly before the server could scamper off back to the safety of kitchens. Immediately, all eyes at the table were on the stableboy as a silence fell, and now he severely regretted speaking out of turn. Yet, as the server looked back at him, Milo mustered the courage to say, “Our horses.”
“E-Excuse me?” the server asked, confused.
“Ah,” Tarhos breathed in realization, and suddenly all eyes had shifted to him in surprise. “See to it that our horses are stabled.”
After a short pause, the server seemed to connect the dots that they rode into the village and left their horses hitched out front. He quickly nodded and assured them he would have the matter tended to, and anxiously hurried off. However, Alejandro was glaring at Milo again, who lifted his mug of ale to shield his reddened cheeks. Once again, Tarhos had acknowledged Milo in a manner Alejandro did not deem appropriate.
–---------
Not much longer passed until a feast was presented before them. Freshly baked bread, cheese, olives, pickles, eggs, bacon, a large pot of stew, roasted chicken, and various vegetables and fruits. Being a well-traveled location within the village, all the locals sold their goods here to make for an incredible variety. Milo had never seen so much food in one place before. He almost felt compelled to reach out and snatch something with haste before it vanished into thin air like a fading dream. However, before he could act impulsively, he noticed that no one was touching anything.
“Hmm,” Sander pondered aloud, breaking the silence. He stroked his chin in thought, then helped himself to a bite of the chicken. The company watched him smile and groan with pleasure of the delicious tasting roasted meat, soon reaching forward to sample a spoonful of the soup. Milo couldn’t help but feel irritated by the confusion of watching this display, but Durkos had turned to him before he could part his lips to argue.
“Sander tests the food first to ensure it is not poisoned,” he explained. “We must warrant the safety of Sir Tarhos at all times.”
Milo listened carefully to Durkos’ soft voice behind his mask, absorbing the information with his newfound insight. Of course it would make sense that people would wish demise upon Tarhos, poisoning him seemed likely… but, was it true Sander could stomach poison? He looked up again, watching the Carnifex take a bite out of some bread with cheese. After a few moments he sat back, hands on his belly, then triumphantly announced the food was delicious. With that, everyone began eagerly taking their fair shares.
Milo had grabbed himself a leg of chicken, a sliver of bacon, a portion of each vegetable, and a ladle full of soup poured into a bowl he fashioned out of some bread. This was a larger meal than he’d ever had when it wasn’t a special occasion, and there was still more food to be shared amongst everyone! Unable to gawk any further at such a bounty, he began tearing at the bacon for his first taste of the evening. Salty and well-cured. Pork was not common in the village he had come from, so this was certainly a special treat. He glanced up at the others who were lifting their first bites to their mouths as well, except for Tarhos.
The knight’s hands were on either side of his helmet, enormous steel claws, lifting it over his head. Milo stopped mid-chew, his eyes growing wide in the realization he had never seen this man’s face before. He was only known by the shape of his helmet, and the color of the dark brown hair that peeked out the bottom at his neck, not by anything more. A fantasy, nothing but speculation. He felt his breath hitching in his chest as the helmet freed a head of messy, straight hair.
It all fell over his face at first, collar-length and a shade of hickory brown that could have been contributed to by enemy blood, if not natural strands of deep red. It was all one length, shielding him like a messy curtain that he had to tilt his head to clear from his face. He had a strong nose with a curved bridge, and a long, square chin with dark stubble. He was undoubtedly Hungarian with such powerful bone structure, so different than the sleeker Italian and German faces Milo had grown up around, and even from each of the guards. From his angle, he could still not get a decent glimpse of Tarhos’ eyes behind more unkempt hair, though he forced himself to look away after too long to allow the knight to eat in peace…
The feast was dealt with in short order. Many mugs of ale had come and gone, and even a round of wine, a more expensive luxury. Sander was jovial and loud, bickering with Alejandro across the table, and although the cool and collected Durkos didn’t say much, it was clear that his ale put him in a more relaxed mood. Milo had succumbed to the same fate as he. Tarhos had eaten less than the others, an act of chivalry no doubt, but seemed content and satisfied to observe his guards enjoying themselves. He even wore the faintest of smiles. A few looks were given to him in passing by a curious Milo; and although his hair, parted down the middle, still fell over his face at most times, lightly colored eyes and thick brows could be seen sparsely.
Their rooms were prepared in the inn upstairs after dinner had concluded. Two of them, as ordered, across the hall from each other. Tarhos and Durkos took one, and the remaining three in the other. Milo was pushed in first, the door closing behind the two guards that escorted him. To his dismay, although not entirely unexpected, there were only two beds. Surely, as the captive, Milo would get the floor, but Sander took a seat directly in front of the door and crossed his arms, his battle axe leaning against the doorframe at his side.
“I’m so full,” he yawned, “But I’ll take first watch.”
“You’ll fall asleep, you oaf,” Alejandro jeered, his voice slurring. “I am taking the first watch.”
“Says you,” Sander refuted. “You’re too drunk! You’ll fall asleep first!”
“I’m not drunk enough to miss your throat with my blade!”
“Your knife is the size of a toothpick!”
Milo stood motionless in the room, watching the two tease each other. Obviously this outcome made sense to him; the guards take sleeping shifts to keep each other safe… Durkos and Tarhos must have been doing the same in the other room. Was Milo granted permission to sleep then? As tired as he was, he felt unease at the idea of letting his guard down around someone who detested him.
“You,” Alejandro said, pointing at Milo. “Get into bed and don’t get out.”
Milo did as he was instructed, sliding on to the mattress. The mattress itself was filled with wool and fitted with a sheet, atop a wooden frame elevated just slightly off the floor. The blanket was thin, but made from fur. It was fairly comfortable; this inn seemed to generate a fair amount of revenue from travelers to be able to have nice beds like this. Although he was still in his full clothes, dirty from several days of wear, Milo still managed to feel cozy as he curled up into a ball under the blanket. From what he could hear, Alejandro was doing the same after he had blown out the candle on the window sill, leaving Sander alone in the dark to keep watch. Milo did not even remember growing tired enough to fall asleep, though he awoke several hours into the night to the sounds of snoring, from both Alejandro and Sander. With a smirk, he fell back asleep.