Chapter 1372: A true knight(1)

They kept a brisker pace upon the trod road. Since they had departed from the village, the skies had held their breath, granting them clear weather. Unless a traveler wandered off the main path toward water-sources where the earth turned to soup, the ground beneath their boots remained solid, packed dirt, a blessing that made moving down the way infinitely easier for both horse and man.

What Mariol had said about the road proved true. The royal highway leading toward what was once the proud seat of power for the princes of Oizen was far safer than any track Vilon and Owen had trodden in here.

Along the way, the thick forest began to thin, though the dead men did not. Some were nailed directly to the thick trunks of ancient oaks as was the way of the Yarzats, while others simply swung from high branches, perhaps to save on precious iron nails. They came in all varieties: fat, withered, young, and old; some as bald as river stones, others with long, matted locks.

They even passed a dead woman swaying in the cold breeze, though the Hounds had allowed her to keep her sword strapped to her hip. perhaps a signpost to ensure travelers understood she had been cut down as an outlaw, not slaughtered by common bandits.

Had he not seen it , he would have have cut her down.So it worked.

Still, there were far fewer corpses dangling here than there had been on the approaches to the village. Mariol’s war-band had clearly done thorough work along this stretch. The highway could almost pass for a safe road.

Almost, Vilon thought, as a massive black swarm of crows scattered into the air at their approach, cackling angrily before settling right back down to their grisly feast the moment the horses passed.

It was a glorious era to be a crow, Vilon supposed. Wherever the birds flew in these dark days, they were sure to find plenty of nourishment for their own long journeys.

"Ser?" Owen asked, leaning back against the leather of the saddle. It was his turn to ride Chestnut while the knight walked alongside. The lad kept casting uncomfortable glances at the swaying corpses, his mouth set in a tight, uneasy line. It was hard to believe the boy had marched through a bloody war.

"Yes, lad?" Vilon replied softly.

"May I ask you something?" Owen turned an uncertain gaze down toward his master, looking very much like a confused boy preparing to ask his father a question about the stick between his thigh.

Vilon offered a smirk. "What, have hair suddendly sprouted from your stone?Yes it is normal do not worry.’

Owen’s face flushed a brilliant, violent crimson. "No! I mean—yes! No! That isn’t what I wanted to ask at all, ser!"

"Then speak up," Vilon said, chuckling, his mood considerably lighter now that the gallows-trees were growing scarce. He knew the dead men had been murderers and thieves, but seeing so much rot hanging above the road still weighed heavy on his chest.

Still he knew they were the sort of company made much better after death.

"It’s about that man at the tavern," Owen murmured, his voice dropping as if the wind might carry his words back to the village. Vilon didn’t need to ask which man he meant. "What was it he hid beneath his cloak? You looked entirely shaken when he showed you. I was standing behind your shoulder, so I couldn’t see."

"You don’t need to know, lad. And you’re far better off for it."

Somewhere high above them in the grey sky, a solitary crow let out a long, piercing screech.

Owen quieted for a beat, watching Chestnut’s ears twitch before trying again. "Then... what about what he said? About the road leading to the creek?"

"The man was a raving lunatic," Vilon grunted, adjusting the heavy sword-belt at his hip. "He spouted nonsense from the moment he opened his sour mouth. I can’t think of a single holy reason why peeping at bathing farm-girls should be the noble path a knight ought to tread."

"As you say, ser," Owen replied, rubbing his neck. "Though... what if it is?"

Vilon went silent, his heavy boots thumping rhythmically against the dirt. The question hung in the cold air, and despite his best efforts to banish them, the blind hag’s words came roaring back from the dark of his memory to haunt him.

A cold, greasy feeling crawled through his gut. She spoke of my death.

If the road he was walking was destined to carry him straight into his own doom, what kind of fool would eagerly hurry his steps along it? A wise man might accept that death comes for everyone in the end, death is certain and inevitably, but only a complete idiot goes out of his way to greet it at the crossroads.

So then... if taking the path toward that creek was the spark that set the prophecy in motion, didn’t common sense dictate he ought to swerve as far away from it as his horse could carry him?

"Ser..." Owen asked quietly, leaning over the pommel. "Are you thinking about the story you told at the inn?"

Vilon snapped his head up, glaring at his squire as if the boy had suddenly unraveled the dark arts and read his very mind. He had half a mind to snap at the lad and command silence.

But... what good would that do? Vilon admitted to himself. Perhaps I need a second set of ears.

"I was," the knight confessed, letting out a heavy, weary breath. "I don’t know why, but the old woman’s words keep chasing each other round and round in my head. I keep telling myself she was just a crazy, blind beggar in the woods... yet I can’t help feeling I’d be the true lunatic to ignore her."

Chestnut flicked his tail sharply to swat away a stubborn horsefly.

Owen frowned, deep in thought. "The village priest back home used to say that the five gods send signs and visions to guide chosen men back to the righteous path... what if she was an agent of the Bringer of Mercy?"

"You mean an angel sent by the Weaver?" Vilon asked dryly. The Weaver of Fate was traditionally depicted wearing a heavy veil across her face, blind to the sight of mortal men, yet seeing the glowing threads of their destinies clearly enough.

"Do you have any idea how many blind beggars wander the roads of this kingdom, lad?" Vilon scoffed, though the tight feeling in his chest betrayed his gruff tone. "If every blind hag were a divine messenger, the high heavens would be overflowing with angels. There wouldn’t be room enough for the gods themselves."

He said the words aloud to convince himself, but the grim reality gnawed at him all the same. A blind hag foretells his destiny beneath a great tree, and a single-legged lunatic in a village tavern points out the exact road to reach it.

Was that truly just a coincidence? To meet two complete strangers leagues apart, only to have their mad words mesh together like the teeth of an iron trap?

Suddenly, the cold air felt suffocatingly heavy on Vilon’s chest. He tightened his grip his cloak, his eyes darting toward the quiet treeline. For the first time in his life, the road didn’t feel empty, he felt watched, weighed, and judged. He misliked that feeling.

Then, as if the five gods were actively leaning down from the heavens to mock him, the faint, unmistakable sound of splashing water rose through the quiet air.

"Ser..." Owen whispered, reining Chestnut to a sudden halt.

"Yes, lad?" Vilon muttered, stopping dead in his tracks.

"There is... probably a creek just over that ridge."

Most weary travelers on a dusty highway would have relished the sound of fresh, running water so close at hand. Owen’s tense tone held no such joy. He looked down at his master as if the babbling brook were a pit of writhing vipers.

"I have ears, lad. I can hear it."

"So... what are we going to do?" the boy asked nervously, his hands tightening on the leather reins. "What if... what if there really are women bathing down there?"

Indeed, Vilon thought, his jaw clenching. What in the five hells do we do?

Common sense screamed at him to keep his head down, kick the horse, and stick to the high road. He ought to ignore the blind hag, ignore the single-legged lunatic, and ride as far away from prophecies and creeks as the day was long. That would end with his death after all.

Yet a heavy, stubborn instinct settled into his gut, a dark, nagging pull that warned him something would go terribly, fundamentally wrong if he turned his back now.

He swallowed hard, his throat feeling as dry as the road dust beneath his boots.Thinking about it....feeling their canteen would do good. And even Chestnut had to drink.

"Owen?"

"Yes, ser?" the boy asked, leaning over the horse, his eyes wide, now that the moment of truth was here he was waiting.

"Have you ever seen a nude woman before?"

Owen didn’t even have to waste a second thinking about it. He shook his head frantically, his face instantly flushing pink. "No, ser."

Vilon adjusted his heavy sword-belt, stared down the winding, overgrown path toward the trees, and let out a long, quiet sigh.

"Well... neither have I.And perhaps there is a chance we will see one."

Owen started muttering something in prayer. Whetever in favour of that first time or not, only Owen and the gods knew.

Perhaps he was not that true or good of a knight.Still even good knight had to drink and wash themselves...