23. Mighty Failing
Mighty Failing
Faren
Everything was so tidy within the Order of the Mighty. The tenets they lived by were clear and simple, shining bright as the sun. For so long, that was all Faren had known. A great certainty that illuminated his purpose, his path, giving his life meaning.
But out in the wilds of Fenrir, the sky wasn’t always so clear and blue.
As Faren and Mariana rode into Brine-on-Wend, rainclouds shrouded the land in gossamer light.
Ash fluttered on the wind, rising from a row of destroyed cottages on the northern edge of town.
Thatched roofs were charred black. The ends of great wooden beams stuck out from caved ceilings like broken bones.
Window glass littered the ground. Faren thought of Yar-on-Gray, and bile rose in his throat.
At first, the citizens of Brine did not notice Faren and Mariana’s arrival.
They were gathered round a rather large statue of a goat in the town square, all shouting over one another.
Words like monster and fire and doomed reached Faren’s ears, along with pained cries and keening.
A small man with wild gray hair and an impressive mustache waved his fist, calling folks to order, but the crowd was as panicked as a flock of sheep that’d just survived a wolf attack.
The energy changed when a woman wearing a homespun dress spotted Faren. “Oh,” she cried, dropping to her knees on the cobblestones. “Oh, thank the Fates! A Mighty Knight has come!”
Taking note, the mob moved like a wave, swelling around Sunny, pressing in tight.
Folks grabbed Faren’s calves, clamored to shake his hand, asked—in overlapping voices—if he was here on behalf of Lord Haron to help.
Their trust in his golden armor shamed him; the pride he’d once held for his status now felt hollow, the respect unearned.
Had he not been traveling with Mariana, he might never have known these citizens’ plight—just as he had not learned of Yar’s need until it was too late.
Someone raked a hand down his thigh, making him bristle.
Faren’s touch magic dulled itself against the onslaught of grabbing, grateful hands.
He swiveled in his saddle, seeking Mariana; she had maneuvered Simon to the fringes of the square, and now sat stiffly in her saddle, wincing with each jostle as citizens shoved past her to get a better look at the Mighty Knight.
“Settle! Settle!” The small man—dressed in a well-made and brightly colored waistcoat—elbowed his way through the crowd toward Faren. “I am your mayor! Let me through!”
When finally, he reached Sunny, Brine’s mayor peered up at Faren; the crowd still surged, making him sway like a tiny boat upon a river. He reached up, and Faren had to lean considerably far out of his saddle to meet the handshake.
“Percival Penning,” the man introduced himself. “Mayor of Brine-on-Wend. Your presence is most welcome on this dark day, Mighty Knight of Fenrir.”
“Faren. Please.”
Percival’s mustache shifted in what Faren assumed was a smile underneath. “Well, Faren. Let us convene somewhere a little less raucous.”
It took time to extricate themselves from the jostling crowd.
By the time Percival, Faren, and Mariana had escaped into Brine’s town hall—their horses whisked away by someone affiliated with the town’s inn—Faren’s nerves were buzzing.
The wreckage he’d seen, and the sudden onslaught of desperate, frightened townsfolk had left him ragged.
Mariana looked no better. Her arms were folded across her breastplate and her frown had turned into a rather menacing scowl.
He knew that, on the surface—to Percival, no doubt—Mariana appeared irritated and unfriendly.
And perhaps she was, generally speaking.
But after closely observing her for the past two weeks, Faren also saw the tension in her shoulders, the tenderness in her eyes, the troubled furrow in her brow.
Her countenance was icy, as it’d been with Orna and Pete, but Faren recognized the emotion flowing underneath.
She was concerned. Angry. Heartbroken.
So was he.
How often do you even step foot outside the castle grounds? Mariana had taunted him on their way to Yar. Finally, he was beginning to understand her vitriol toward him; he was beginning to feel it toward himself.
“What happened?” Faren asked.
Percival sunk into the chair atop the stage, his short legs kicking nervously. In the dimness of the empty hall, his face sagged. “You must know, don’t you? Must I speak it?”
Faren swallowed. He could feel Mariana’s presence beside him, rigid. “Any casualties?” Faren asked delicately.
“No, thank the Fates.”
Faren loosed an exhale. Nodded, relieved.
But Percival’s expression quaked. “Horrendous, it was,” he said. “In all my years…” He made a small, disturbed sound. Shook his head.
Faren knew Percival’s terror intimately, could feel the memory of the Morta in Yar pressing at the edges of his vision.
But Faren would not afford himself weakness—not now.
It did not matter that seeing innocent folks in pain and peril—so far removed from the splendor of his Order in Fenrir City—made him feel more like a mighty failure than a leader.
It was his duty to put on a brave face. To demonstrate fearlessness and control.
To give the people of this town someone to believe in—and do his best to follow through.
Faren rolled his shoulders back, the leather straps of his armor squeaking. “Did it…” He trailed off, feeling the sting of his Oath magic in the back of his throat, warning him not to divulge too much. He licked his lips, fumbling with his words, unable to ask what he needed to do his job.
“After we lit fires, it fled,” Percival answered. “Westward.”
“How long ago?”
“In the wee hours of the morning.”
The Morta that had attacked Orna and Pete’s cottage had done the same: coming in the darkest part of morning only to flee toward the Western Wood once they’d lit their home on fire.
Percival’s attention traced curiously over Mariana’s armor, and he stroked his ample mustache. “This is not the first time a knight with a black breastplate has come to town,” he said, “in the aftermath of an attack.”
Faren stiffened, shocked by this revelation. “Did the knight give a name?”
“Idris Togren,” Mariana said.
Percival’s eyes widened—then cut to Faren, questioning.
Mariana took a step forward, hand resting on the hilt of her weapon, demanding the mayor’s attention. “Have you seen others like Idris? Like me?”
“Not that I recall,” Percival said.
“Good,” Mariana said. “If you do, they are not welcome. Tell them nothing. Do you understand?”
“I—” Percival gripped the arms of his chair. “Should we not warn neighboring towns? Report to the Lord that there’s an…an…abomination on the loose?”
“A rabid animal.” Mariana’s words were thick. “It was no more than a rabid—”
“No,” Percival interrupted. “No. It most certainly was not—”
Mariana stepped onto the stage, looming over Percival.
He leaned back in his chair, mustache trembling.
“What you saw,” Mariana said slowly, savagely, “puts you in grave danger. You cannot speak of it. You cannot spread word. You cannot trust any newcomers—especially those asking after it.” She leaned closer.
“If someone asks, you tell them it was a rabid animal. Do. You. Understand?”
Percival peered past Mariana at Faren, flummoxed and searching.
Faren climbed onto the stage and—with the back of his hand—pressed on Mariana’s shoulder, urging her to give the mayor space.
Her attention snapped down to the contact, then back up at his face; his touch seemed to pull her out of the snarling, frantic instinct she’d slipped into.
She stepped back, and Percival’s grip on the arms of his chair slackened.
“She’s right,” Faren said, and both Mariana and Percival seemed surprised that Faren was siding with the intimidating, black-clad knight.
“Rumors and conjecture will only spark fear and spread misinformation.” Faren stood tall, using his imposing height and the regal effect of his armor to bolster his sense of command over the situation—to put Percival at ease.
“I must insist on your discretion. Trust that the Order of the Mighty is here now and has the situation well in hand.”
Percival’s eyes darted between Faren and Mariana, his mustache shifting as he weighed Faren’s words.
“Do you trust in the Order of the Mighty?” Faren prompted the mayor, hating himself for the blind loyalty he was demanding—hating to have been put in this position by his Lord.
Mariana had borne a similar task for years, and it made Faren’s skin crawl to think that he had once disparaged her for it.
“Will you afford us discretion, so we may do our honorable duty?”
The mayor bobbed his head, his fuzz of gray hair shaking with the movement.
“Of course,” he said, coming to his feet.
“Of course. I’m honored and comforted to have you here and am committed to doing what must be done for my citizens.
” Percival slinked past Mariana, gesturing for Faren to walk with him back down the length of the hall.
“I will bid the town keep quiet about what they’ve seen.
However, as mayor, will you not entrust me with the knowledge? May I not ask what is afoot?”
Faren clenched his jaw so tight, his molars ached. “Apologies, Mayor Penning,” he said, patting the man’s shoulder, “I’m afraid you may not.”