Brothers of Star and Sword
Brothers of Star and Sword
by Ursula Warnecke
Ripped from the nightmare’s coil, Ademar took one gasping breath and held still, listening. He heard the crunch of boots, and the crack of drawn bolts echoed through the dungeon’s stone corridors. A chill of apprehension shivered across his skin. It was always dark in the dungeons, but from the bite in the air he thought it was before dawn. No one came here at this hour, not without some grim purpose.
Ademar rose to his feet, brushing straw from his hair and tattered shirt. The footsteps came closer. He turned to face the door, forcing himself to stand straight though every bruise and weal protested. Removed from the nest of straw he began to shiver. Light seeped through cracks in the heavy wood blinding him. He started to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but let it fall. Instead, he stared at the glimmer of light; he would not let them find him cowering in the dark. The footsteps halted. He heard the murmur of voices and wondered who had come for him.
A key grated in the lock, and bolts thudded free. Ademar felt his empty hands curl to fists. Before they had thrown him in this cell he could not remember the last time he had gone unarmed. Now he must face every harsh test without a sword, and he ached for the want. The door edged open and light spread across the cobbled floor. Ademar flinched from the glare; he could not help it.
Four men stood in the corridor, but none moved to cross the cell’s threshold. Blinking, Ademar saw they wore familiar midnight blue robes over glittering mail and carried long swords in plain leather scabbards. All had cowls pulled close over their heads keeping their faces hidden. His sworn brothers, knights of the Star and Sword, come for him in the dead of night. He fought an urge to retreat from them. One of the faceless men spoke.
“You will come with us.”
Ademar knew the voice; the contempt he heard in it kindled a flicker of anger. “I will come with you, if it is the will of the King or Grand Master Tarmont.”
“What else would bring us here?” The voice demanded, and torchlight flared on drawn steel. “I have no patience for this. Will you come freely or will we drag you like a cur?”
The anger burned through Ademar banishing chills and aches. It drove him forward. In two swift strides he crossed the threshold. “Such brave words, de Morriand, when you lack the courage even to show your face.”
Geoffrey de Morriand laughed. “This traitor dares speak to me of courage. It seems he needs another lesson.” He raised his fist. Ademar made no move to defend himself, understanding, too late, that it might be the excuse they wanted. Why else were they here at dead of night. Alive he was a stain on the brotherhood’s honor; a dagger in his ribs would solve that problem. But the blow did not fall. A gauntleted hand caught Geoffrey’s wrist wrenching it aside.
“He has been beaten enough. That is not why we are here.”
Shock drove Ademar back one step, and he collided hard with the wall. His gaze fixed on the man who had spoken, faceless beneath the cowl. “Edwin!” The name echoed along the corridor, unanswered. For a moment Ademar thought he was mistaken, but he remembered the gauntlets. Edwin always wore them to protect his fine, long fingered hands more suited to the lute than the sword. The silence lengthened until Ademar felt an ache in his throat. The anger drained from him. He did not resist as Geoffrey shoved him forward. When he stumbled a gauntleted hand caught his arm and steadied him, but it was withdrawn before he could turn.
They passed through a vaulted hall lined with wooden doors. Torchlight flickered over the dank stone walls, and somewhere water dripped in chiming counterpoint. Head down, Ademar paid no attention. He had long since lost hope, but Edwin’s presence was enough to rob him of that ease. The chance he might have a friend here, at this last desperate hour, was almost too painful. Hope. Friendship. He limped barefoot across the cobbles confused by such an ill-remembered sensations. The knights flanked him. Behind them darkness swallowed the cell doors, and only the skitter of rats and the scrape of chains broke the silence.
At the end of the hall a gate led to a stairway. Ademar came to a halt. Two of the hooded brothers went first; he followed, with Geoffrey’s sword at his back. They climbed in silence, following the twisting stone steps endlessly upward until they reached a landing blocked by another iron gate. Beyond the gate, a long room reeking of tallow and smoke, the walls decorated with fetters, branding irons and other grim implements. Ademar knew the room well. Trestle tables were stacked to one side, and at the far end a half dozen men huddled around a brazier.
One of the brothers called out to them. “Open the gate.”
A heavyset man in drab brown wool turned from the group. With a word to a couple of the others, he left the fire, lifting a heavy cudgel from against the wall. Three men followed silently, hands lingering near the whips coiled at their belts. The jailer crossed to the gate and grinned through the bars. “You found him then?”
Geoffrey cursed. “The key, and quickly, before I choke on the traitor’s stench.”
Ademar snarled and turned. But Geoffrey was too fast, one swift movement and his sword touched Ademar’s neck. Geoffrey laughed a harsh, breathless sound. “Oh, how you tempt me.” The cowl fell back exposing his pale, sharp-boned face. Dark red hair curled to his shoulders. Eyes narrowed, he pressed the blade closer.
Pinned between the blade and the cold stone at his back, Ademar could not move. Good sense warned him to be silent. But somehow, Edwin’s presence changed everything. He could not leave the slur unanswered. Eyes locked to Geoffrey’s, he drew a shallow breath and managed one word. “Craven.” He thought it was done then. But even as the blade bit into his neck, drawing the first warm trickle of blood, a figure moved swiftly from the shadows. With one blow, Edwin knocked Geoffrey and the sword aside.
In the narrow space, he stood between them his voice harsh as he called out to the jailer, “Open the damned gate, now.”
Geoffrey cursed him, muttering of traitors and lies, but he retreated to stand near the gate. He still held the sword but the tip of the blade dropped to rest on the floor.
Edwin ignored him. He turned placing a hand on Ademar’s chest, holding him against the wall. “The Grand Master has sent for you. If you want to live to see him have the sense to keep silent.”
As the jailer fumbled with the keys, Edwin pushed the cowl back. Touched by a gut-wrenching moment of hope Ademar searched his face. But beneath black hair, Edwin’s grey eyes were guarded and weary. The gate swung wide and Geoffrey strode through. Ademar saw the jailer and his men waiting in a rough half circle. He looked to Edwin seeking the right words.
Avoiding his gaze, Edwin caught him by the shoulder. “Don’t provoke him again.”
When Ademar limped into the guardroom, the jailer grinned and shook a pair of manacles at him. The man looked to Geoffrey. “You’ll want him restrained, my lord, fetters and manacles?”
“Yes, see to it.” Geoffrey answered. Ademar looked to Edwin, but he turned away.
Chained, with a sack pulled over his head, Ademar was taken from the dungeons through the door that led to the castle bailey. He felt the sting of fresh air and the chill of frosty grass beneath his feet. He lifted his head, cursing the sack that denied him a chance to see the stars. After a while the grass gave way to cobbles, and he heard a door grate open. Around him the footsteps echoed loud as in a vast space. He knew then that they had brought him to the hall of the Star and Sword. He pictured it in his mind, the tall pale walls, the high, narrow windows, banners and shields hung beneath them. It was a long walk across the stone worn to grooves by centuries of use. Through the sack, he saw the glimmer of candles and caught the scent of fine beeswax. A hand fell on his shoulder pushing him to his knees. A moment later, the sack was pulled away.