The Knight of Unfortunate Circumstance

It took a few seconds to realize I was utterly and completely lost. The seconds after that were devoted to cursing every saint, deity, and my own mother for good measure. The forest had seemed a splendid escape route when Sir Oswald's men were bearing down on me with distinctly un-chivalrous intentions involving my entrails and the nearest tree branch. Now, as darkness settled like a shroud, it seemed considerably less inspired.

"Seven hells," I muttered, adjusting the ill-fitting breastplate that chafed my shoulders raw. The armor had belonged to Sir Roderick the Valorous before dysentery made him considerably less valorous and considerably more dead in a ditch outside Grimsby. His squire had been happy to trade it for my collection of falsified royal seals—a transaction we'd both likely regret for different reasons.

My name is Watt Chandler, son of a tallow chandler, grandson of a tallow chandler, and rightful heir to a prosperous tallow chandling business I'd abandoned for a life of significantly less tallow and significantly more fraudulent knighthood. Six months of successfully impersonating nobility had come to an abrupt end when Sir Oswald recognized his cousin's signet ring on my finger—a cousin who was supposedly leading a crusade, not decomposing in an unmarked grave after attempting to cheat me at dice.

A distant howl sliced through my reminiscence. Wolves. Marvelous.

"Think, Watt, think," I urged myself, sloshing through ankle-deep mud that had once been a path. My options were limited: continue blindly forward, die of exposure; turn back toward Sir Oswald's men, die of dismemberment; stand still, die of wolf consumption. The life of adventure was proving remarkably consistent in its outcomes.

A flicker of light through the trees sent my heart galloping. Firelight meant people, and people meant shelter, possibly food, and at the very least, a marginally more comfortable place to meet my demise than this godforsaken mud puddle.

I squelched toward salvation, rehearsing my story. "Good evening, good folk! Sir Percival de Montmorency, Knight of the Sacred Chalice, humbly requests shelter for the night." The title changed frequently depending on which actual knight was least likely to be in the vicinity.

As I approached, the light resolved into a small, dilapidated inn squatting at a crossroads like a diseased toad. A weathered sign depicting what might have been a hanged man (or possibly a peculiarly shaped turnip) creaked in the wind. Perfect. The sort of establishment where questions were discouraged and mornings often revealed one fewer guest than had retired the previous evening.

I straightened my posture, affected my most aristocratic expression, and strode through the door with all the confidence of a man who wasn't wearing mismatched, blood-stained armor and carrying a sword he had no idea how to use.

The common room fell silent. A dozen pairs of eyes—each belonging to someone who looked as though they murdered strangers for considerably less than the worth of my stolen boots—assessed me with predatory interest.

"Hail, fellow travelers!" I announced with a magnanimous wave that sent my borrowed gauntlet flying into a bowl of stew. An enormous bearded man whose face resembled an avalanche of scar tissue glared as gravy splattered his tunic.

The innkeeper, a stooped woman with more warts than teeth, cackled. "Well, well. A knight in our humble establishment. To what do we owe such honor, milord?" Her voice carried enough mockery to fill a court jester's annual quota.

"Sir Percival de Montmorency," I bowed, narrowly avoiding impaling myself on my own sword. "Knight of the, er, Sacred Turnip." I'd spotted the sign again through the window and made an unfortunate adjustment.

"Sacred Turnip?" A voice like grinding millstones came from the darkness of a corner table. "Funny. I've never heard of that order."

I squinted toward the speaker, a massive man in black armor so scarred and dented it resembled a heavily abused cooking pot. The dim light caught the emblem on his breastplate—a grinning skull wreathed in flames. The insignia of the Blackthorn Knights, the kingdom's most feared mercenaries, known for collecting their weight in silver and their enemies' heads with equal enthusiasm.

"A minor order," I explained, sweat beading despite the room's chill. "Very exclusive. Based in... Normandy."

"Normandy," he repeated flatly.

"The distant part," I clarified helpfully.

The room's tension stretched tight as a hangman's rope. I considered my exits: door (blocked by three men who appeared to shave with rusted daggers), windows (too small for a child, let alone a man in stolen armor), and rapid retreat into unconsciousness (increasingly appealing).

The Blackthorn Knight's face remained impassive before cracking into a grin that displayed several strategic gaps in his dentition. "I like you, Sacred Turnip. You've got balls, even if you've got shit for brains." He kicked out a chair. "Sit. Drink. Tell us what brings such distinguished nobility to this pisshole before someone gets impatient and guts you for your boots."

This seemed a reasonable suggestion. I sat.

"Ale for Sir Percival!" the knight bellowed, and the innkeeper shuffled off, muttering what sounded suspiciously like a curse involving my unborn children and an inventive application of hot coals.

"Sir Morwyn of the Blackthorns," my new companion introduced himself, extending a hand that could have crushed my skull like an overripe plum.

"Charmed," I managed, trying not to wince as he pulverized my fingers.

"Now," Morwyn leaned forward, "the truth, before I separate your head from your shoulders as a favor to whoever's chasing you."

The ale arrived, and I drained half the tankard for courage. "The truth is considerably less impressive than Sacred Turniphood."

"Usually is."

So I told him—about being a chandler's son with an aversion to tallow and a talent for deception, about relieving the dysentery-stricken knight of his worldly burdens, about the increasingly elaborate cons that had sustained me until Sir Oswald's unfortunate recognition of his dead cousin's ring.

By the end, Morwyn was howling with laughter, pounding the table hard enough to make the ale jump. "Gods' teeth! You managed to preside over Baron Hargrave's daughter's wedding? The man who once had a minstrel flayed for missing a note?"

"In my defense, I perform an excellent ceremony. The bride wept with joy. Or possibly due to her father's taste in husbands—hard to tell with that family."

Morwyn wiped his eyes. "And now Oswald wants your skin for a banner."

"Preferably while I'm still attached to it, which I consider unnecessarily vindictive."

The mercenary studied me with unexpected thoughtfulness. "You know, the Blackthorns could use someone with your... creative approach to honesty."

I blinked. "You're offering me employment? As what, precisely? I've demonstrated no skills beyond lying and running away poorly."

"Exactly the qualifications for a herald. Our last one got himself killed trying to negotiate with the Mountain Clans. Apparently, they found his terms insulting."

"What happened to him?"

"Hard to say which parts went where. They returned him in several baskets." Morwyn shrugged as though discussing a mild inconvenience rather than dismemberment. "The point is, we need someone who can talk their way out of trouble. Someone who can make our services sound heroic rather than mercenary."

"You want me to lie for you."

"Professionally, with better armor and a reduced chance of immediate disembowelment. Unless you'd prefer taking your chances with Oswald?"

As if summoned by his name, the door burst open. Six men in Oswald's colors stood silhouetted against the night, rain dripping from their cloaks.

"There he is!" The foremost guard pointed at me. "The fraudster who despoiled Lady Elspeth's virtue!"

I choked on my ale. "I most certainly did not! Lady Elspeth's virtue remains intact, primarily because she guards it with a dagger she keeps in her garter!"

"Despoiled or not," the guard continued, drawing his sword, "Sir Oswald wants your head."

Morwyn rose slowly, unfolding to his full, considerable height. The other Blackthorns—five grim-faced men I hadn't noticed lurking in various shadows—stood with him.

"This man," Morwyn said with deliberate calm, "is now herald to the Blackthorn Company."

The guard faltered. "He's a criminal and a fraud."

"Yes," Morwyn agreed pleasantly. "That's why he'll make an excellent herald. Now, you can leave him be and enjoy your evening, or you can leave pieces of yourselves scattered across this fine establishment."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the sound of several swords being subtly resheathed.

"Sir Oswald will hear of this," the guard muttered, backing toward the door.

"Be sure to tell him we're available for hire if he needs real knights," Morwyn called after them.

As the door slammed shut, I realized I'd been holding my breath. "That was unexpectedly civilized."

"Night's young," Morwyn shrugged, returning to his seat. "Now, as my herald, your first duty is to compose a suitably terrifying introduction for our meeting with Lord Blackwood tomorrow. He's seeking assistance with a small rebellion."

"Rebellion suppression, you mean?"

Morwyn's grin turned wolfish. "Depends who pays better. That's the joy of mercenary work—flexible morals."

"And if I refuse this honor?"

"I'll personally ensure Sir Oswald receives all your remaining body parts in alphabetical order." He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my ill-fitting breastplate. "Welcome to the Blackthorns, Sir Turnip."

As I looked around at my new companions—each bearing scars that told stories of violence I couldn't imagine—I realized my life expectancy had possibly improved, though my chances of keeping all my limbs had significantly decreased.

"To new beginnings," I raised my tankard, resigned to my fate.

"To profitable bloodshed," Morwyn corrected, smashing his drink against mine.

Outside, thunder cracked like divine laughter at the cosmic joke of my continued survival. It seemed I had traded being lost in a forest for being found by the kingdom's most notorious killers-for-hire.

Some men are born great, others achieve greatness, and then there are those of us who stumble backward into the cesspit of history, flailing desperately to keep our heads above the muck. As the Blackthorns roared with laughter at some tale of gruesome victory, I consoled myself with one comforting thought: at least I wouldn't die alone in the woods.

Though judging by Morwyn's next story involving a tax collector, three chickens, and a trebuchet, that might not be the blessing it seemed.