Wulfgard: Knightfall: Wulfgard: The Prophecy of the Six, #1

Wulfgard: Knightfall

Wulfgard: The Prophecy of the Six, Volume 1

Maegan A. Stebbins

Published by Maegan A. Stebbins, 2025.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

WULFGARD: KNIGHTFALL

First edition. February 26, 2025.

Copyright © 2025 Maegan A. Stebbins.

Written by Maegan A. Stebbins.

THE PROPHECY OF THE SIX

- BOOK I -

KNIGHTFALL

Maegan A. Stebbins

Illustrated and with contributions by

Justin R. R. Stebbins

Set in the world of Wulfgard, created by

Justin R.R. Stebbins

& Maegan A. Stebbins

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are used fictionally, and any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Maegan & Justin Stebbins

Relaunch copyright © 2025 Maegan & Justin Stebbins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

No AI was used in the creation of any aspect of this work.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9727341-5-8

Edited by Maegan A. and Justin R.R. Stebbins

Cover design, illustrations, and contributions by Justin R. R. Stebbins

Visit online at:

www.wulfgard.net

www.maverickwerewolf.com

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE – A Night of Wolves

CHAPTER I – Lance Measuring

CHAPTER II – The Dragon’s Wrath

CHAPTER III – The Emperor’s Hand

CHAPTER IV – War in the North

CHAPTER V – Inter Canem et Lupum

CHAPTER VI – Decently Treated

CHAPTER VII – A Knife in the Dark

CHAPTER VIII – The Chill Touch

CHAPTER IX – On Leather Wings

CHAPTER X – A Handful of Dust

CHAPTER XI – Under the Skin

CHAPTER XII – Embracing Fate

CHAPTER XIII – Into the Nothing

CHAPTER XIV – Inner Demons

CHAPTER XV – Shadow of the Wolf

CHAPTER XVI – Barbarians at the Gates

CHAPTER XVII – Knightfall

CHAPTER XVIII – An Oath Fulfilled

EPILOGUE – Blood on the Horizon

Character List

Glossary

- PROLOGUE -

A Night of Wolves

Rage.

Never had he dreamed that a single creature could be capable of such fury – and now he watched two. The rage of the first he could understand, for it was a demon, a physical manifestation of purest Wrath summoned from the depths of hell. Otherworldly red fire formed its eyes, its skin a deep red, covered in black barbs and spines. The very air around it rippled with heat. It was terrifying.

But so was the knight who fought it. No mortal’s rage should’ve rivaled a demon of Wrath, but this man was a match. He wore little armor, dressed in the panoply of an old Achaean hoplite, his bare muscular arms glistening with sweat. His twin blades smoked with the creature’s black, unholy blood as he dodged and ducked under the monster’s talons.

The nightmarish sight came closer. As he lay there, unable to move, the two battling shapes inched toward him. Heat from the tremendous demon touched his skin. It towered overhead like a twisted colossus, flaming against the night sky…

The furious knight’s swords flashed across his vision and cut the demon’s throat. Boiling blood spilled out, falling onto his skin, searing his flesh like acid. The stink filled his nostrils—

And then he awoke. The knight and the demon were gone. At first, he thought he still dreamed, but the freezing cold air blowing over his bare skin left little doubt. Wet and shivering, he found himself conscious on a Northern beach. The waves washing over him felt warm, but he knew the ocean was frigid as well, especially on such a cold autumn night. It only felt warm because he’d been floating in the sea for hours, naked. It was a miracle he was alive.

No. He knew why he was alive, and it wasn’t a miracle. It was a curse.

The Wolf had saved him.

He tried pushing himself up, but his hands only sank into the wet sand. Every movement made his limbs ache. He forced his head up and his eyes open. Blue moonlight bathed the world. The moon was nearly full, just three nights away, by his count – and he always kept a good count.

The moon lent strength to the Wolf, but would it be strong enough to save him again? Or was it true that werewolves never died, save perhaps by the touch of a soft metal for jewelry rather than weapons, as the legends claimed? Legends were always so absurd… and yet he lived them every day.

But it was still night, and the moon was bright. Why had the Wolf released him?

A boot stomped in the sand before his face. Weary, he lifted his eyes to the tall, muscle-bound man towering over him. The stranger wore only a few bits of leather armor for clothing, his vest open, revealing terrible scars raking his bare chest. A hood shrouded his face, and a cloth mask covered his nose and mouth, so that only his eyes remained visible. They were so impossibly blue they almost seemed to glow.

Ah, the child of the Wolf has awoken, said the hooded figure. But he is not the one I seek.

The dying young man raised his head an inch more and replied, Who are you?

The figure didn’t answer his question, saying instead, I hear you wondering, where is the Wolf? I put him into submission, so that we could speak freely.

A chill even colder than the frozen Northrim wind ran down the dying man’s spine. How… how could you possibly…?

I sensed you here and thought you could use my help, just as I could use yours. So we came for you.

We?

The hooded figure looked around, directing the dying man to do the same. In the shadowed trees and grasses away from the shore moved shapes just out of sight: great silhouettes of Men, but… wrong. Corrupted, hunched, horrifying. They had the heads of beasts – of wolves.

We are your brothers and sisters, said the hooded figure. What is your name?

The young man still stared at the moving shadows as he answered, without thinking, Chris. Chrisanthos.

How did you come to be here, Chris?

The memories came flooding back. I was on a ship, sailing from an island. We crashed…

But what happened on the island, Chris? That’s the important part.

Chris closed his eyes, fighting not to relive that terrifying battle again, and failing. There was a demon. It manipulated us, me and the other mages, our… cult. But an Imperial knight slew it, saved us. He should’ve turned us over to the Inquisition, but he didn’t. He let us go. That’s why I’m here.

Why had he answered the man’s questions? No thought of resisting or withholding, even altering, the truth entered his mind. The hooded man said he’d forced the Wolf into submission. Did he somehow force him, the man, as well? Chris again attempted lifting himself but only made it to his elbows, still too weak to stand. But soon he looked up into the hypnotic eyes of the hooded figure again, as if drawn to them.

Keep talking, said the voice behind the mask, and then I will help you.

Why… Chris groaned, why did you come for me? What do you want with me?

The hooded figure gave a deep and throaty laugh. You’re mistaken, Chrisanthos. I didn’t come for you. I came for the one you saw.

Chris set his jaw. He still didn’t know this man’s intentions, but he would not betray his fellow mages. Fortunately, the hooded man didn’t ask about them. He lowered himself to one knee and put a hand on Chris’s shoulder, boring into his very soul with those cold blue eyes. His gaze filled Chris with fear – but he couldn’t look away.

Tell me, the hooded figure said, about the knight.

- CHAPTER I -

Lance Measuring

Sunlight glared oppressively on the tournament grounds, the brightly-colored tents and banners all but glowing against the rippling green grass. Each set of tents bore the colors of a different noble family, each banner a different coat of arms. Two sets of colors, those of Draconius and Kallistos, were particularly prominent.

The Draconius family was one of the oldest in the Achaean Empire, having helped conquer, settle, and build the Northwestern Kingdom and its capital city of Illikon. Since their move to the rugged north, the House of Draconius had lost some of their refined Old Achaean bearing and started using the truncated name of ‘Drake.’ A rampant red dragon on a white field decorated their flags, with golden borders trimming everything, even their red-and-white-striped tents.

No fewer colors decorated the pavilion of the House of Kallistos, whose sigil was a blue-and-green castle keep over a field of reverse green-and-blue, representing their keep to the north, called Gryphon’s Roost. The Kallistos family had watched over the Northwest for nearly as long as Draconius.

Given all the decoration, a quick glance told Valens Magnus which tent to pick. Thoughtfully, he ran a hand over his neatly-trimmed mustache, which he always kept in top condition – unlike his dark, curly hair, just long enough to get mussed up by the wind that stirred the scents of grass and horse, two very common smells in the Northwest. The unmistakable jet-black stallion of Sir Tom Drake waited nearby, untied and untended, despite already being prepared in his caparison of red, white, and gold. Fortunately, the animal was nearly as loyal as his master was careless.

Valens lifted the tent flap and entered. There, he found Sir Thomakos Drake the Demon Slayer, knight of Illikon, locked in an awkward struggle to get himself into his harness of red metal scales and plates. Thomakos, whom Valens called Tom, threw Valens a pleading look. He also nearly fell over while pulling on one large, armored boot. Valens smiled at him and resisted a laugh.

Good morning, Tom, he said. Ready for the tournament, I see.

I was born ready, Tom replied, so quickly Valens assumed it was a reflex. After a pause, Tom added, I’m used to putting on my battle armor, not all this.

That’s why the other knights have help.

"I don’t like help. I didn’t grow up with a bunch of people fussing over me all the time. They fussed about me instead."

Valens approached his friend, saying, "As if we still don’t. But you’re nobility now. You’re supposed to have help."

Sir Tom was a dashing knight, tall, with broad shoulders and well-toned muscles so Olympian he outdid most statues of Apollo. His face matched, chiseled and angular yet by no means weak, with high cheekbones, a tapered chin, and an aquiline Imperial nose that lent him an unmistakable look of nobility. But the truth behind his birth lay in his slim and alert eyes. Deep-set, ever shadowed and accentuated by his dark eyebrows resting so closely over his gaze, he had eyes of striking, bright green, tinged with golden-yellow around his pupils.

Still, for all his looks, no one was there volunteering to assist him. Valens began playing servant, feeling bad about Tom’s predicament. Most everyone had learned better than to wonder why Tom went so alone, but as his friend, Valens felt he had the right to nudge him about it.

Tom, he said, you know this would be a lot easier if you took another squire.

His words made Tom lock up. His eyes suddenly went distant. The innocent comment stole his every thought and sent it careening into his past. For a long moment, he said nothing – which wasn’t like him at all.

Finally, Tom pulled himself back to reality and replied gruffly, I can’t do that yet, Val. I know it’s been a while, but… it hasn’t been long enough.

Valens licked his lips, considering saying more – but now wasn’t the time. He waited, hoping Tom would dispel the moment.

As if prompted, Tom looked at him again and quirked a brow, his levity returning. You wanna help me get this armor on, or should I see if Ghost can do it?

Ghost was Tom’s horse, the black stallion Valens had passed on his way inside. Why Tom decided naming a black stallion ‘Ghost’ was a good idea, he’d explained many times, but Valens never quite understood. Something about how using ‘Shade’ as a pun on his coloration and the undead spirit didn’t sound good enough. Why Tom named his horse after a lost soul was another question entirely and one Valens never bothered asking.

Sorry, I’m here, Valens said quickly. He helped Tom pull on and straighten his heavy shirt of blood red scale armor. I’m surprised the royals haven’t sent someone to help you already.

Yeah, well, I’m sure they’re busy.

Suiting up Tom was an ordeal. Many armor suits consisted of a breastplate or laminar, or perhaps even chain or scale, with the poorest soldiers only able to afford a heart-plate. This, however, was tournament armor, designed for as much for ceremony as for protection – and not for battlefield combat.

Tom wore a long hauberk of bright red scales, meant to mimic the hide of a dragon, beneath a muscle breastplate. Segmented plates, not unlike what an Imperial Legionary might wear, formed the pauldrons on his shoulders and the manica armor down his arms. Every bit of steel was tinted bright red and highlighted in gold, with several pieces also bearing the Drake family’s rearing red dragons.

As they finally finished, Tom remarked, So, you here to watch me beat Sir Gnaeus?

"Here to watch, Valens replied. I’m not sure what I’ll be watching. You shouldn’t be so cocky, Tom; Gnaeus is a skilled knight."

"And you shouldn’t be so modest, at least where I’m concerned. He might be a knight, but I’m technically a knight and a prince, remember? Prince of Dragon’s Lair."

Of course I remember, Valens replied. Dragon’s Lair was the Drake family castle, to the south of Illikon, overlooking their many prosperous villages and farms. It was also a place Valens wondered why Tom didn’t spend more time. I’m surprised you don’t talk about that more or have everyone call you ‘Prince Tom.’

Tom gave a dismissive wave. Doesn’t have the same ring to it. Besides, I’d rather be a knight than a prince – I just like pulling out the title now and then.

Only Tom’s helm remained. Valens found it nearby, though he paused and admired the magnificent craftsmanship. It was shaped like the head of a dragon and colored blood red, same as his armor. A pair of ebony horns swept back atop the head, a golden crest ran down its center, and gold fins adorned the back of its cheeks. Its rows of monstrous teeth were painted white, thus displaying all three Draconius family colors. It certainly protected the wearer, but it was cumbersome and immobile, designed only for the joust and for show.

Jousting, Valens thought, was truly a strange and novel sport. It had only relatively recently gained popularity among the equites – the knights, the equestrian class of nobles. Blue-blooded patrician families of the Imperial heartland turned up their noses at it. Valens wasn’t sure he liked it either. Why couldn’t the Northwest have chariot races like the rest of the Empire? But at least jousting was better than the gladiator games…

Tom looked at the helm and scratched his head of short, dark hair, which was eternally a mess of angry, forward-pointing spikes. He muttered, I’m itching already.

I’d forgotten how heavy this thing is, Valens remarked. It’s a wonder your head doesn’t fall off.

I wonder that more about the other nobles, given how big their heads are. Tom shot him a glance. Not funny?

Valens smiled at the irony, not the joke. Maybe a little.

Well, there goes my backup career as court jester, Tom replied. He still stared at his helm like it was a real face, watching him. It was probably the reflection of his red-gold armor, but Tom’s eyes seemed particularly vibrant – they seemed to flare like fire. Valens knew that look, and it always set him ill at ease.

Here, Valens said, tossing Tom his arming cap, holding on to the helm for now. For Jove’s sake, don’t forget the padding.

Tom scratched his head one more time before grunting and tying on the cap, his expression sour. Valens mentally counted down to another complaint. It came right on time.

"I bet whatever idiot invented tourney helms never had to wear one."

Valens chuckled. I guess not. They were trying to make something ostentatious, not practical – same as jousting in general.

Depends on how you define ostentatious, Tom replied. He looked ridiculous and out of character with his hair flattened by the arming cap, Valens thought.

Well, I guess I’d still rather watch showy knights charging each other than half-naked men getting gutted in an arena, where everyone cheers at the sight of blood. I was actually just thinking about that. And the rest of the Empire calls the Illikon realm barbaric… Valens drifted off before finishing, "We all know they’re wrong, of course. But when they say that, they’re talking about knights like you."

Knights who are charming and handsome? retorted Tom with a grin. That’s what knights are supposed to be, Val. Gotta live up to the name.

Valens’s mustache quirked up in a smile. I meant adopted illegitimate ones who wear armor modeled after a monster.

Tom frowned, mocking deep offense. "Dragons aren’t monsters. They’re dragons."

Of course, said Valens, pointedly holding up the helm with its vicious teeth and horns.

When I think of ‘monsters,’ I think of those twisted beast-men. Tom removed a red-and-gold striped lance from a rack, his gaze distant again. He added in a mutter, And demons.

Valens shuddered, nightmarish images seeping into his mind – and he knew all too well Tom experienced the same. I don’t want to think about demons ever again, said Valens.

Me either, but you know what I mean. Heads up— Tom tossed him the lance, which Valens reflexively caught in his free hand. Be my squire for the day? Tom asked with another of his charming smiles.

He knew he’d already signed up for it, but Valens still sighed to make a point. Alright. I just hope I don’t end up dragging you to your sister at the healing house.

Who, Cristy? Tom laughed. She’d probably love the excitement. But Gnaeus is the one losing, remember?

Don’t hurt him, Tom. This isn’t a battle.

Tom shrugged. We’ll see.

"Tom…" Valens began, as if disciplining a teenager, which Tom was not, but Tom interrupted.

"He did insult my family, Val. Not just me – my father and sisters."

It was one offhand comment at a banquet. He’d had a lot to drink. Besides, I thought you and your father haven’t been getting along lately.

We haven’t. But they’re still my family, and he’s still the man who got me off the streets.

Valens sighed again as Tom left the tent. He resumed worrying about everything, especially about Tom – and only a solid minute later did he remember he still held Tom’s helm and lance.

Wait for your ‘squire!’ Valens called, darting outside.

He reached Tom just as he mounted his black stallion, vaulting up into the saddle with amazing dexterity. Tom’s stallion, Ghost, loyally accepted the weight. Valens had always marveled at the horse’s incredible strength and speed; he was truly a prize animal.

Cautiously, Valens said, Gnaeus is only repeating what he hears from Cassian Marks, you know.

Yeah, I know, Val, and you don’t have to tiptoe around me. I hear the things people say behind my back even louder than the things they say to my face. I can take it. But, Tom added with a furrow of his brow, "he shouldn’t have brought my father or my sisters into it."

Your father can stand up for himself.

Tom threw a hand out, gesturing across the castle green. "I don’t see him out here doing it—"

Valens interrupted calmly, I’ve seen you stick your neck out too much lately, Tom. You can’t fight for everyone.

Yeah, well, I’d like to…

"And, Valens added in a graver tone, you shouldn’t be letting your anger influence the fight. This tourney was planned months in advance. It’s supposed to be a grand event, not a personal vendetta."

Tom laughed. "Val, you fuss enough to make up for both my parents, especially with my mother at the Drake castle all the time. I’m not gonna hurt Gnaeus, trust me. He’s just a kid. And he’s just sucking up to Cassian, like everybody else – although he does need to learn when to keep his mouth shut."

Valens was about to speak, but Tom held up a finger.

Ah, ah, Tom cut in, I know. ‘Oh, Tom, the irony!’ But you can’t pull that on me. I don’t insult people’s families. I insult him to his face.

"I know, Tom, but I don’t want you to get hurt, either. Valens nodded toward the field. Anyway, we should get into position – everyone’s waiting."

Valens Magnus walked alongside Tom’s horse as they entered the lists. Nobles watched from tall, temporary stands erected for the tourney. The sundry nobility wore colorful tunics and robes bearing assorted house sigils, and many also glistened with jewelry. Altogether, it looked like enough wealth was on display to feed Illikon’s peasantry for years. Racks of lances and shields bearing rainbows of family colors awaited them on either side of the lists. Valens hated jousts and melees, but he’d never failed to attend any of Tom’s many tournaments.

Higher still than the stands, wooden towers rose on either side of the field. Trumpets rant out from them, announcing the knights’ arrival and drawing all attention to the field. Clad in his vibrant caparison, Ghost strode into view with as much haughtiness as Tom, who rode on the horse’s back with his head held high.

Valens’s sharp archer eyes tracked Tom’s gaze to one Lady Severina Kallistos. Maybe Tom was asking her for permission to joust with her little brother, and judging from the smiles on their faces, permission was granted with no hard feelings. The nobles who noticed the exchanged look seemed far less approving. If Valens wasn’t so used to receiving secondhand glares from higher society just for being friends with Tom, he would’ve winced and moved a little farther from Ghost.

Instead, Valens looked at what Tom should have: Tom’s opponent, Gnaeus Kallistos. While Tom’s armor took the form of a dragon, Gnaeus’s was modeled after the fortress on his family’s heraldry. His segmented pauldrons and great helm together looked like crenellated castle walls, turning his head and shoulders into a silver-clad fortress, and he wore a suit of chain besides. Gnaeus looked down at the young squire standing alongside his steed, speaking through his thick helm modeled after a keep’s round turret.

Tom nudged Valens, who silently passed the dragon helm in his hands up to his best friend.

Thanks, said Tom before donning it and concealing his face within the dragon’s-maw visor.

Valens stepped back to admire Tom in all his armor, the ebony horns of his dragon helm glimmering in the sunlight. Comparing him to Gnaeus, Valens suddenly felt that Sir Gnaeus was outdone. After all, what fortress could withstand the wrath of a dragon?

Nonetheless, Valens said as he fetched a round shield, You look ridiculous, Tom.

Judging by his tone, Tom grinned under his helm. Thanks. Too bad I don’t have some wings, huh?

Remember what I said about monsters? Valens said darkly as he passed a lance and shield up to Tom, reaching high and helping him strap the latter onto his arm. I wouldn’t trust any man with wings, metal or otherwise.

Tom gave a laugh. Don’t be so judgmental, Val.

They looked across the lists at Gnaeus’s small squire having difficulty handing his master his shield. Valens chuckled, while Tom snorted and shook his head.

Poor kid, Tom remarked, voice dripping with memories – bittersweet memories. It was hard to think of Tom’s squire, the boy Radek Pelagius… and what happened to him.

Valens dismissed the thoughts of young Radek. I’m sure he’s proud to be helping. Good luck, and don’t hurt anyone, alright?

Sure thing, dad, Tom replied. See you on the other side of the lists.

Valens rolled his eyes and wished for once that Tom would speak like a noble, but he quickly moved away from Tom and Ghost. At the stands’ peak, he noticed King Aetius IV and Queen Carlisa Illikoni observing from the royal box. The Queen met Tom’s gaze as he bowed his helmed head to her, and she raised a hand in acknowledgment. The exchange didn’t go unnoticed by the other nobles, many of whom shifted in discomfort. It was no secret that the Queen favored Sir Tom.

Alongside the royal family sat the stern-faced and pale-eyed Marshal Lucius Fletcher, who commanded Illikon’s standing military. In fact, Valens saw just about every Illikonian noble he could name somewhere in the stands, including all three of Tom Drake’s older sisters. Cristina and Cassandra Drake sat with their parents, Corianna and Earl Warren Drake. But Anne, Tom’s eldest sister, was seated with the Marks family… right beside her husband, Sir Cassian Marks, whose thick, dark brows remained furrowed as he watched the fight with keen interest.

Someone he didn’t spot in the crowd was Lieutenant Corben McShane of the Vigiles, the City Watch. Valens, Tom, and Corben had been best friends for many years now, nearly inseparable despite their vastly different stations, for Tom was a high noble, Valens a lesser noble, and Corben a commoner. Valens sighed, a pessimistic habit of his. So much for attending Tom’s jousts, he thought, like he’d talked to Corben about so many times before.

The trumpets sounded. Sir Gnaeus’s young squire soon joined Valens, away from the lists where the knights would duel. The boy offered a respectful bow. Valens smiled his contagious dimpled smile and gave a bow of his own, and then the joust began.

Tom and Gnaeus leaned low on their horses, shields close by their sides. Dirt clumps flew as the horses charged, their caparisons streaming colors. Valens clenched his teeth as the knights lowered their lances…

The lances shattered against each other in an ear-splitting snap. Splinters exploded across the field. The riders dropped the broken weapons while the horses kept running, stopping only when they reached the far ends of the tilt. Valens and the young squire rejoined Tom and Gnaeus respectively as the knights calmed their steeds, and runners retrieved the broken lance pieces.

Tom loosened his legs and leaned forward, giving Ghost a firm massage along his maned neck with his free hand and muttering coaxingly, Easy, Ghost…

Valens handed him a new lance. Do you really think it was a good idea bringing Ghost instead of your destrier? Aren’t they more suited for this kind of thing? Then you could’ve gotten a servant to suit him for you instead of doing everything yourself.

He’s doing fine, Tom said dismissively. "He’s just, ah… eager, that’s all."

Reminds me of someone.

Ghost snorted as if in retort, but Tom’s attention had returned to Gnaeus. He growled something under his breath. Echoing in the confines of his helm, it sounded like the rumbling of an angry beast.

You alright? Valens asked, wishing he could look into his friend’s eyes.

Yeah, it’s just hot in here.

That didn’t sound convincing. Valens frowned pointedly.

Tom glanced at him and said, You’d better move back.

Trumpets sounded, and Valens loped away. Again the horses charged. Their riders braced themselves, aiming their lances…

One struck true.

Tom’s lance splintered on Gnaeus’s shield, sending him from his horse. He landed hard. Dirt flew from the impact, and the crowd jeered. Gnaeus didn’t move, but his charger galloped on until his squire calmed it. All eyes turned to the downed knight.

Valens froze, afraid something had gone wrong. He couldn’t help the pinch in his gut that even such a new and civilized sport carried many risks – and he feared what punishment awaited Tom if he struck a foul blow.

Gnaeus finally stirred, hauling himself to his feet. Glad that no one heard his sigh of relief, Valens fetched a pair of sheathed swords awaiting nearby before meeting Tom at the lists. Tom carelessly tossed his targe aside before dismounting his horse. Valens eyed the shield as it landed, with half a mind to fetch that instead.

Tom didn’t fight like his peers. He wielded swords slightly shorter than what had become the average blade, like that carried by Gnaeus. Tom’s weapons were more in the spirit of the xiphos, older swords of the Imperium – and he didn’t wield just one. He fought like a gladiator, his style called Dimachaerus, or bearing two knives. And he insisted upon it, despite how many times he was called a madman and a barbarian.

So Valens presented Tom with his two prized blades, named Guts and Glory. Naturally, Tom had named them himself.

Time for the grand finale, Tom said with a smile, tugging the helm and arming cap off his head and running a quick hand over his short hair, which instantly spiked up and forward again as if possessed. Casually discarding the headwear, he drew his twin swords from the sheaths Valens held, adding, No Guts, no Glory. But let’s see if Gnaeus is up for it first. I’d hate to kick a man while he's down.

The answer came quickly. Sir Gnaeus took a new shield from his squire and slid his sword from its scabbard, pointing the tip at Tom. In response, Tom spun his blades in his hands. The crowd raised a ruckus. Valens couldn’t determine a ratio of applause or derision, but he felt the need to add a little applause, himself, since Tom always put on a show whether the audience liked it or not.

Tom soon fell into full focus, eyes trained on his opponent. Gnaeus still wore his great helm, more suited for field battle than Tom’s discarded, extravagant dragon head. As Tom neared, Gnaeus raised his shield. They circled, staring each other down like a pair of vying wolves. A game of patience and will began, each waiting for the other to strike the opening blow.

Tom’s patience lasted only seconds. He charged, both blades swinging. His attacks rained down upon Gnaeus’s sword and shield alike, one after another, relentless. Tom was agile even in his scale and laminar, moving comfortably in it, nearly as graceful as a dancer. But Gnaeus parried his strikes with impressive speed. He took every swing Tom delivered, though he staggered under the heavier blows dealt to his shield. It was all he could do to remain defensive under such an assault.

Eventually, Tom caught Gnaeus’s sword with both his own, blades grinding. He jerked Gnaeus’s weapon to one side, forcing an opening – but Gnaeus rammed his shield into Tom instead. In the second Tom stumbled backward, Gnaeus freed his sword and struck for Tom’s chest…

Tom parried the blow yet again and taunted, C’mon, Gnaeus, quit hiding behind that wall! No wonder your symbol’s a castle.

He pulled away when Gnaeus struck again. Gnaeus missed him entirely, and Tom lunged. His blades sang – one sword smashed Gnaeus’s right arm, the other sliced his leg. Gnaeus staggered, and Tom took the opening. He struck again, this time on Gnaeus’s armored neck, making his helm ring. The blow knocked him so off-balance that Tom barreled him right over like a charging bull, not even using his blades. Gnaeus collapsed in an unsightly, armored heap.

Triumphant, Tom stepped on the other knight’s sword. Stillness fell as the knights locked gazes.

Then trumpets blasted again. The crowd burst into an uproar. Still, Valens waited. He dared not interrupt the ritual of Tom casting his dual swords aside and removing his boot from Gnaeus’s blade, offering his right hand to the defeated knight. Though hesitated, Gnaeus eventually accepted the assistance, and Tom pulled him to his feet.

I apologize for what I said about your family, Sir Tom, said Gnaeus Kallistos, removing his helm, revealing his sharp-featured face with a neatly trimmed red beard. I had no right to insult your name, wine or no. Am I forgiven?

Tom offered a smile. You are. Just… don’t do it again, or things might really get personal.

I have no doubt, replied Gnaeus, but he still stood with his eyes downcast in shame.

What, is this your first joust? said Tom. "We’re supposed to hug in front of everyone to show we don’t hold any grudges. There aren’t any grudges, are there?"

None I’m aware of.

The knights embraced while the nobles descended from the stands. Once he moved away, Tom clapped Gnaeus on a crenellated shoulder pauldron so hard that Gnaeus stumbled.

You’re a truly confusing man, Sir Tom, said Gnaeus. Why do you show such respect for tournament traditions yet show none to your peers?

Tom shrugged. I can respect whoever started traditions of preventing petty grudges.

Yet you seem to hold plenty yourself.

I just return the favor. And when I do it, it’s not petty.

I see. But you hate most of the nobles in the city.

"Nah, not most… Probably only half. And ‘hate’ is such a strong word. Makes me sound like I think about them more than I actually do, which is not at all."

Tom smiled again. Valens, meanwhile, longed for the conversation to end before Gnaeus slipped up and put Tom on the defensive. Or the offensive, as it were, which would be far worse.

Gnaeus went on, I look forward to seeing tomorrow’s joust. If there’s anyone who has a grudge against you, it’s Sir Cassian. Maybe you should try placating him at the banquet this evening, in case he takes the duel too seriously.

Tom’s eyes flicked up for half a second in the briefest roll Valens had ever seen. "I’m not worried about it. He’s never liked me."

I assume the feeling is mutual.

"Well, I try to respect him for Anne’s sake. It’s not my fault he makes it so hard. I’ll never know why she married the bas—"

Valens elbowed him.

—uh, the man, Tom corrected halfheartedly. The… fine, upstanding knight.

Agreed, said Gnaeus, passing his helm to his young squire when the boy approached. I respect many of your deeds, Demon Slayer, even the more questionable ones. I feel it’s my duty to tell you that Cassian’s been spreading rumors about you.

That’s nothing new. What kind of rumors?

Well, other than your supposed lechery, his favorite claim of late is that you’ve performed some personal favors for the Queen.

Tom breathed a dry laugh. "Not that personal."

Personal favors, Gnaeus clarified, unamused, that involve breaking several important Imperial laws. The laws that hold the Empire itself together. He is accusing you of treason.

Now it was Valens’s turn to shoot Tom a look, but Tom returned it for only a second.

Valens asked, Treason for what, exactly?

"I have no doubt he’ll elaborate, should Sir Tom confront him about it. But he says Sir Tom assisted magi, helped them escape the Inquisition. My sister and I agree the idea is preposterous, considering Sir Tom slew that demon – may the gods cleanse it from our memories – and I doubt anyone else could’ve performed such a feat. But Sir Cassian stands by his claims, and many other nobles believe him. Now, Gnaeus motioned his squire toward the Kallistos tent, I must prepare for the banquet tonight. I trust I’ll see you there."

Unfortunately, Tom replied, but Gnaeus had already left.

Valens wasted no time. I saw that look in your eyes again, Tom, he said as they headed back to the Drake pavilion.

There you go again about eyes. You know, I tried that eye thing, and it never works.

You just need to practice reading people.

Tom scoffed. I’d rather read a book. At least they’re interesting.

Valens shook his head. He still found it unbelievable that Tom was such an avid reader, given his other interests. Growing up on the streets and not taking his literacy for granted had probably helped nurture Tom’s fascination with the written word, but whatever the reason, Tom had voraciously devoured books ever since learning how to read, and he'd even picked up several languages. Valens never would’ve had the patience, nor would he have imagined it of Tom.

How did Cassian find out about the mage cult ordeal? Valens thought aloud.

I don’t know, Tom replied, his voice low and worried, as they entered the tent again. I always figured someone would hear something eventually, but I don’t think he knows the truth. Nobody involved has a reason to spread the story around.

That we know of, Valens said.

"Now you’re just being paranoid. Hell, most of them are in the wind now. Elektra’s gone again, gods only know where Djedar ended up, and if they’re smart, the mages are so deep in hiding nobody’s ever gonna see them again – and I’m talking about the ones I did manage to save."

Valens watched Tom begin painstakingly removing his many armor layers. He thought aloud, Maybe you could have a girl squire, Tom. Severina proved the Northwest has enough Nordling blood to not completely oppose ‘lady knights’ like most of the Empire, and you like rebelling, anyway. I bet a girl wouldn’t be as feisty as a boy.

Tom threw him a seriously? sort of look, one with a furrowed brow and an unconvinced frown. "Like I said, Val – I can’t do that again yet. Besides, all kids are annoying."

Valens licked his lips. Was Radek?

He knew he’d made a mistake. The way Tom recoiled as if struck made Valens’s heart jump into his throat. When would Tom recover from what had happened?

At length, Tom answered, "You go get a squire if you want one so badly, buddy."

Valens ignored the jab. Tom certainly hadn’t thought before dropping such a remark. Valens’s own family still resented him for refusing to follow the path of knighthood, and Tom knew that. Their name meant ‘great,’ but the House of Magnus lived in the shadow of the other Illikonian families, and Valens hadn’t been an elevating son. His family thought little of him after the things he’d done – or, specifically, not done.

The exchanged killed the conversation, though Valens still helped Tom out of his armor. By the time they stripped him down to his clothes, Tom got distracted. He gazed into space, fiddling with his silver amulet that depicted his family’s heraldic dragon. Valens never saw Tom without it.

Thinking about your family? Valens asked.

Tom nodded absentmindedly, looking worried. But when he spoke, he changed the subject, You going to the banquet this time?

Valens shrugged. I suppose. Though I’m surprised the royals are still having this tournament with all the problems around Northrim.

Trying to keep everybody’s spirits up, I guess. But it’s not like the Nordlings are crazy enough to actually fight us, right? I’ve heard about a few skirmishes with rebels, but nothing major. It isn’t war. Open war hasn’t happened in – I don’t even know. Not in my lifetime. The Empire’s been enjoying peace for a long time.

"I certainly hope you’re right, especially this close to winter... Some people say the barbarians don’t even know how to war with Imperials, although I think that’s pretty presumptuous on our part. Anyway, you’re not looking forward to the feast, I take it?"

It’s just an excuse for nobles to stuff their faces and whisper rumors. I kind of hate them.

The banquets or the nobles?

Can’t have one without the other.

True. I’ll meet you there, then. He hesitated. And after that, I should leave. I have orders to reinforce Rimegard again.

Tom stared at him. What? Didn’t you just get back from there a few days ago?

Valens set his jaw before speaking; he knew this wouldn’t go over well. I was, and now they want me and my longbowmen back. Sounds more serious this time. Sorry about the late notice. I only got the orders a few hours ago, so I should leave as soon as I can. I probably won’t be gone long – I’m sure it’s just another false alarm.

Tom said nothing, but Valens read the concern on his friend’s face.

It took a while, but Tom answered, Yeah – sure. I’ll be there in a bit. At the banquet, I mean.

With that, Valens left, stepping back out into the warm sunshine and cool breeze of a beautiful day in Illikon.

Banquets were hardly Valens’s favorite place, either, but he dutifully went to the castle as the feast’s late hour drew near. When he arrived, he found Castle Illikon’s great hall bustling with activity.

Guards wearing long, deep blue capes lined with golden trim watched every entrance. They stood straight as arrows and silent as the grave despite the commotion surrounding them, clad in their laminar armor and steel breastplates depicting the golden gryphon of Illikon. The guests wore well-tailored tunics and robes, some with short one-shouldered capes, everything brightly colored and richly ornamented. A few guests even wore older style togas like those found to the south, in the Achaean Heartland.

Unfortunately, Valens hadn’t bothered changing from his bright blue padded armor, so he tried to pass off any glances with a smile and not think about how out of place he looked. He didn’t have time to change, and getting clothing as fine as those around him meant borrowing more money from Tom. Valens’s family was not exorbitantly wealthy, and they rarely shared their gold with him.

Two vast wooden tables stretched nearly the length of the hall. At the head of each, facing the chamber’s entrance, sat a pair of large thrones decorated top to bottom with gryphons and gryphon heads. Seated in these thrones were King Aetius and Queen Carlisa Illikoni, their tunics deep blue and accented with golden jewelry and luxurious capes of fur like what might be found on Nordling kings.

As Valens admired the room, contemplating where he was supposed to sit, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning, Valens faced a shaven-headed man wearing mail and leather covered by a deep blue gryphon tabard, standard wear of the Illikon Watch. The watchman, his features rugged but not unattractive, gave Valens a lopsided smile.

Corben! Valens said, a grin spreading his dark mustache. I’m surprised you’re here! Are you finally getting a taste for noble social life?

Lieutenant Corben McShane replied dryly in his lower-class accent, which stuck out in this crowd, I’m just here for the food.

I don’t blame you. But Tom and I missed you at the joust today…

Some of us have to work, Corben said, grabbing something from a nearby platter.

The joust was in the daytime, Corben.

Aye.

"You’re a night watchman…"

Well, then, some of us have to sleep.

Valens wasn’t surprised by Corben’s manners – or lack thereof. Corben was low-born and had some blood of Northrim, and he seemed to take pride in behaving as the nobles expected of his station. His commoner status and Nordling blood placed him squarely in the bottom class, and some denizens at the banquet openly glared, appalled at his presence.

That doesn’t explain why you’re here, though, said Valens. If you were crashing this party, they would have tossed you out by now.

Apparently the Queen remembers my ‘heroic actions’ during the mage cult thing. The cap’n said I was on guard duty at the feast tonight… by royal decree. He snorted, his deep green eyes scanning the room. Never seen tables that big. Can’t imagine how much delicious food’s gonna be on them later. Kinda disgustin’, really.

Most of the people are too, even if they’re fixed up nice, remarked Tom, who approached from the castle hall.

Despite the comment, Tom was dressed nicely, himself, in a bright red sleeveless tunic with golden trims and highlights like stylized flame. His silver dragon amulet rested on top in plain view, and he wore two gold rings, one bearing two dragons with a ruby between them on the index finger of his left hand; the other a golden band, decorated in intricate carvings, on the middle finger of his right.

Did you tear the sleeves off that thing? asked Valens. I thought it had some…

It did. Warren said it made me ‘less intimidating,’ which is hilarious, because I’m ‘intimidating’ in everything from my clothes to my nightwear.

Don’t tell me, that’s because you sleep naked, Corben said wearily.

"‘Course. That’s when I’m most intimidating. So anyway, yeah, I took the sleeves off. I hate sleeves."

Aye, but you still look like a silly nob in that long ol’ floppy get-up, Tom – it don’t suit you. Almost didn’t recognize you except for that hair.

Tom chuckled, pointlessly running a hand through his hair in question. Hey, if I could get away with it, I’d just wear my armor.

That’d be a scene. Walk in here wearin’ your muscle-armor, try to get in every single lady’s…

It’s not half as silly as your cone helmet.

At least it’s not shaped like a lizard with horns.

Valens cut in, Children, play nice. We’re at a banquet, not a tavern.

Tom laughed. "If we were in a tavern, we’d be talking much dirtier, trust me."

Grudgingly, Corben added to Tom, Sorry I missed the joust.

Ah, it’s fine, Tom replied with a wave. It’s not like there’s anything new to see with me winning all the time. But speaking of children… His eyes roamed a group of nobles with wine goblets in their hands, their tight group held together by gossip. I think I see Cassian Marks.

"Sir Cassian Marks, corrected Corben. You shoulda warned me about him, Tom. He brought two guards to throw me outta here before I showed ‘em my bit o’ paper from the Queen. That made ‘im blush. I don’t even know what exactly it says, but it must say somethin’ nice."

Tom smirked. Wish I could’ve seen it. Gnaeus said Cassian’s been spreading a bunch of cute little rumors about me.

About what? You an’ the princess? Or you an’ the lady pirate? Or you an’ the lady knight? Or…

Valens elbowed Corben so sharply his chainmail sleeve prodded Corben in the ribs. Wincing, Corben rubbed his side.

Tom, on the other hand, just looked amused. No, Cor, about you and your lady cat.

Corben snorted.

Actually, Valens cut in, it’s about the mage cult incident. And I think you should go talk to him about it, Tom. Clear things up.

That should be rich, Corben muttered. I ain’t pickin’ prettyboy’s pearly-white teeth off the floor when Tom knocks his face in.

I’ll knock them down his throat for convenience, Tom said.

"I ain’t pickin’ up yours either when he does the same to you."

Valens sighed, watching Cassian Marks take another deep gulp of wine. He frowned.

But Tom laughed. Guess I better get this over with before he’s as drunk as his family sigil.

Valens and Corben followed Tom, though Valens glanced over his shoulder to make sure Corben was still there, the way he kept hanging back – unlike Valens, who stayed on Tom’s heels.

Sir Cassian Marks always stood out in a crowd, wearing garish attire and jutting out his strong chin, which was covered by a dark, perfectly-trimmed goatee, topped in a neat mustache. His hair matched: black, medium-length, and swept away from his face without a strand misplaced. He was handsome, and he held himself with the air of a man who knew that all too well – much like Tom.

Seeing them, Cassian pointedly straightened his bright yellow tunic. Over his shoulder, he wore a sash decorated in his family’s heraldic blue fish. Numerous silver rings glinted on his fingers, their intricate facets catching the light.

Well, well, he said dramatically, "if it isn’t the ‘Demon Slayer.’ Come to gloat about your victory at the lists? I doubt anyone here takes an interest in hearing you brag about fighting like a savage."

Tom sniffed the air and sneered like he smelled something foul. Something’s fishy around here, and it’s not the finger-food. You need to work on your insults, Cassian. You sound like a bad parody at a two-copper playhouse.

"For the love of Apollo, Tom, try to keep this civil," Valens whispered in Tom’s ear.

Insults? said Marks. I did nothing of the sort.

And I wasn’t gloating, Tom retorted. "But I could, since you asked so nicely."

Marks scoffed, Go right ahead. You have little to gloat about besides being very lucky.

I did also slay a demon a while back, Tom said in a mock thoughtful tone, scratching the rough stubble on his jaw – an uncommon sight among such high nobility. Oh yeah, and I helped save the whole city from a cult of sorcerers.

Speaking of those magi, what of this strange new ring you’ve worn since then? And opposite your family one, as if it earned its place there? You must’ve gotten it from some witch-woman you bedded in return for sparing her from the Inquisition. Does it have some accursed power? Does it make you… a better partner?

"If it did, I’d give it to someone who needed it – like a fish."

Ah yes, we’re back to the fish again. Your razor wit is as sharp as ever, I see.

We’re matching wits, huh? Boy, you sure brought a cudgel to a knife-fight.

I’m afraid I don’t know much about knife-fights. Is that what they do in the smelly dockside taverns you frequent?

Yeah, I can tell you don’t know much about blades, the way you handle a sword.

Perhaps I could speak instead of how many important Imperial laws you’ve broken to gain favor with Illikon’s royal family. Looking to win the dragon a place alongside the gryphon? Marks reached into a pouch he wore around his waist and drew out a gryphon-stamped gold piece, flicking it into the air and catching it.

"You’re just full of low accusations today, said Tom. But hey, at least the Marks house isn’t ruling – then we’d all be trading cod pieces."

That roused a few chuckles from the nobles observing the argument, though several suppressed their amusement. Valens stifled his own laughter, for all the good it did.

Marks’s broad chin jutted still farther as he ground his teeth. He snapped, At least the sigil of my family is not a monster that slaughters and plunders the civilizations of men.

Tom grinned. Yeah, it sure isn’t. I see buckets full of your sigil in the fishmonger stalls. You should come down there sometime.

Olympos forbid. Your father rescued you from such filth, or so he thought. It’s sad to see you return to it so eagerly, cavorting around the docks with foul-mouthed sailors and whores. He glanced at Corben, then at Valens. "And you drag your friends down with you. Valens Magnus here may be a lesser son, and he may have spurned the path to knighthood, but at least he used to be a real noble."

Valens’s insides cramped. Once the words left Cassian’s mouth, a familiar spark ignited in Tom’s eyes. All his smirks, grins, and laughs disappeared. Instead, one corner of his lips pulled back over his white teeth.

Tom took a step forward – but Valens grabbed his shoulder. Easy, Tom. It’s just words.

Tom said nothing, jerking away. He still glared at Cassian, who looked immensely pleased with himself.

Cassian even went so far as to chuckle and add, If you need a chain, Captain Magnus, I’m sure there are spares in the castle dungeon.

"Throw whatever you want at me, Cassian, Tom snapped, but leave my friends out of it – or else all your childishness gets personal."

Marks’s voice raised higher. As if you could lecture me on childishness when your own juvenile behavior is threatening the welfare and reputation of Illikon itself!

Tom and Cassian now stood close to one another, eyes locked, hands tightened into fists at their sides. Valens’s own fingers twitched as he wondered if it was even possible to stop this now. Any second, Tom would throw the first punch.

Suddenly, a clear voice rang through the hall, bringing silence in its wake. "Enough!"

Queen Carlisa Illikoni – her head of long blond hair adorned with a crown of gold and sapphires – glided through the nobles, who parted and bowed as she approached. A frown creased her otherwise serene, regal features. She stopped before the two knights at the center of the commotion, both of whom immediately faced her and bowed their heads. Behind her followed the darkly-bearded King Aetius Illikoni IV, looming like a tall shadow.

It fills us with shame, said Queen Illikoni, the bejeweled adornments on her blue and gold dress giving her a divine glow under the spreading chandeliers, to witness such behavior from knights of Illikon. These actions only lend credence to tales of our kingdom’s supposed barbarity. A royal banquet in the great hall of our castle, and two knights bicker like children and start a tavern brawl!

Though Valens kept his head lowered, he shot a glance at Tom. Scarcely-contained fury burned in the green-and-gold fires of his eyes. Valens took a breath but stayed quiet – he wasn’t meant to speak without permission, and he wasn’t the one being addressed.

When he answered, Tom kept his voice calm. "Forgive me, your Grace. But Sir Cassian slanders my name, the name of my house – and the honor of my Queen."

Be that as it may, remember your place, Sir Thomakos Drake. You are a knight, and you are in the halls of royalty.

Queen Carlisa then turned her sharp blue eyes to Marks, who further lowered his head.

And as for you, Sir Cassian Marks, she went on, your claims about Sir Thomakos are unwarranted and unsubstantiated. You risk bringing great shame upon your own house by spreading such falsehoods.

Cassian said, I swear, your Grace, I wish only to protect Illikon. Sir Tom is a pox upon our beautiful city. He offers no one due respect, throws insults and curses at his leisure, and makes a mockery of the laws put in place by the Imperium, the royal family, and the code of chivalry.

Queen Illikoni looked between the two of them. We will settle this dispute one way or another, but not now, in this time of merriment. As you both no doubt know, you are due to face each other tomorrow in the tournament. Should we remove one of you from the joust for both your sakes, or can we trust that neither of you will ride into the lists with the intention of harming the other?

For what seemed an eternity, there was silence, without so much as a murmur from the crowd. No one even dared chew their food or swallow any drink. Tom and Cassian locked gazes – and Valens carefully observed the anger in Marks’s eyes. He wondered if Tom saw it, too.

Tom firmly answered, I intend to cause him no injury, your Grace, so long as he swears the same.

Cassian responded almost too quickly. "I will joust