A Joust of Knights

CHAPTER TWENTY

Godfrey sat beside Akorth, Fulton, Ario, and Merek, hunched over a bar in the back alleys of Volusia, and nursing his woes over a series of drinks. He took another long sip of ale, foam dripping over the sides of the mug, and once again he admired this Empire beer. It was strong, dark brown, with a nutty flavor, and it was so smooth going down his throat. He had never tasted anything like it, and he was sure he never would again. It was reason enough to stay in Volusia.

He finished it, his fifth in a row, and motioned to the bartender for another. Two more appeared before him.

“Don’t you think you should slow down just a touch?” came a voice.

Godfrey looked over to see Ario staring disapprovingly, the only one of their group without a drink, Akorth, Fulton and Merek already deep into theirs.

“I don’t understand a man who does not drink,” Godfrey said, “especially in times like this.”

“And I don’t understand a man who does,” Ario countered, “especially you. You vowed not to drink again.”

Godfrey belched, feeling disappointed with himself, knowing Ario was right.

“I thought I would save Darius,” Godfrey said, despondent. “A lot of good that did.”

Godfrey saw in his mind’s eye Darius being swept away from the city, in that iron carriage, and once again, he beat himself up for it. He felt it was all his fault he did not reach him in time. Now, purposeless, he felt there was nothing to do but drown his sorrows.

“We did save him,” Merek said. “If not for our poison, he would have been gored by that other elephant and mauled in the arena.”

A dog barked and Godfrey looked down and saw Dray at his feet, and remembered he was there; Godfrey gave him more scraps of meat from the bar and a sip of his ale, and he felt good about himself for at least being able to take care of Darius’s dog.

“We saved him for a short while only,” Godfrey said, “only to be shipped off to an even crueler death.”

“He might make it,” Akorth said. “He’s a tough one.”

Godfrey looked down into his drink and he felt disgusted with himself. Saving Darius, as he had seen it, had been his chance to redeem himself. Losing him had put him into a deep depression, making him wonder what he had left to live for, what purpose he had in this life. He was supposed to help save Gwendolyn and the others; but now Gwendolyn was somewhere out there, lost in the Great Waste, probably dead, and all his people along with her. His infiltrating Volusia, as brave as it had seemed at the time, had turned out to be all for nothing.

Godfrey snapped out of it as he suddenly felt a strong hand clasp him on the shoulder and turned to see several Empire soldiers smiling back at him good-naturedly.

“Don’t mind our squeezing in beside you, friend,” one soldier said beside him.

At first, Godfrey was caught off guard by their familiarity—but then he remembered that he and the others were wearing the Empire armor that the Finian woman, Silis, had given them, and he realized the soldier thought they were one of them. It was a perfectly disguise, he had to admit, the armor fitting them all perfectly, and hard to distinguish races with the faceplates they wore, giving them room only to drink their drinks.

“Quite a bout today, wasn’t that?” one of the soldiers asked him. “Were you at the arena? Did you see the boy win?”

“All too well,” Godfrey grumbled, wanting them to disappear, in no mood to talk to anyone—especially these men.

“And what does that mean?” asked another soldier, an edge to his voice. “It was the greatest match of our time, the first time a Volusian won, would be shipped to represent us in the capital. You sound as if you take no pride in it.”

Godfrey could hear the aggression rising in the drunk man’s voice, and in the past he would have slinked away, avoided confrontation. But that was the old Godfrey. Not he was a man pushed too far, a man bitter at the world, with nothing left to lose.

“And why would I take pride in such a disgusting display of cruelty and barbarism?” Godfrey replied harshly, turning to the man.

The room fell silent, a heavy tension in the air, as the soldier squared off with him, and Godfrey felt all eyes on them. He gulped, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

“A soldier who doesn’t like the arena,” the soldier said, examining Godfrey with a growing curiosity. “That is no soldier at all. What division do you hail from anyway?” he asked, looking his armor up and down.

Again, Godfrey could have invented a lie, as he might have in the past, and diffused the situation; but something in himself would not allow him to. He was done hiding from people, done backing down. He felt something growing strong within him, the blood of his father, perhaps, the blood of a long line of kings coursing through his veins. The time had finally come, he felt, to stand up for himself, regardless of the consequences.

He felt Merek’s, Akorth’s and Fulton’s cautionary hands on his shoulder, willing him to back down, but he shrugged them off.

“I hail from no division,” Godfrey boomed back, standing straighter. “I am not of the Empire at all. I am man in disguise, whose goal is to save my friends from the arena, to sabotage your army, to sabotage this city and to destroy all of you.”

The room fell dead silent, as all the soldiers stared back at him, mouths agape, in shock.

The silence went on for so long, Godfrey thought it would never end, bracing himself for the dagger in his heart that would inevitably come.

But instead, to his shock, the soldier facing him suddenly boomed out with laughter. All around him, the other soldiers burst into laughter, too.

The soldier clasped Godfrey’s shoulder.

“That was a good one,” he said. “Very, very good. For a moment I thought you were telling the truth.”

Godfrey slowly removed his helmet, revealing his human face, his hair, slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and he smiled back at them all.

Slowly, the Empire faces around the room fell in shock.

“This is for Darius,” he said.

Godfrey squeezed tight the handle of his mug, stepped forward, swung it down and smashed the soldier over the head, sending him stumbling back and down to the ground.

Godfrey stood there, hardly believing what he had just done, looking back at all the hostile faces and knowing that in moments, he would be dead. But for this moment, at least, he was victorious, and no one, and nothing, would ever take that away from him.