Questing Knight(科幻战争)-第3部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


sword　and　rode　towards　it。
A　foetid　stench　assailed　his　nose　as　he　approached　the　barn；　something　akin　to　rotting　meat　and
excrement。　Rounding　the　rotting　structure；　he　saw　a　cluster　of　peasants　gathered　around　a　woman　on　the
ground。　They　were　beating　her　mercilessly　with　sticks；　and　Calard　winced　at　the　savagery　of　the　attack。
She　screamed　again；　but　was　knocked　back　to　the　ground　as　she　tried　to　rise。　The　peasants　laughed

cruelly；　clearly　enjoying　their　sport。　Indignation　and　anger　swelled　in　Calard；　and　with　a　yell；　he　kicked　his
steed　forwards。
The　peasants　looked　up　in　shock；　then　scattered。　They　took　off　over　the　fields；　and　Calard　dragged
on　the　reins；　cutting　short　his　pursuit。
‘Cowards；’　snarled　Calard；　shaking　his　head　in　disgust。　He　sheathed　his　sword　and　turned　his
attention　to　the　woman。
She　was　sitting　on　the　ground　like　a　broken　puppet；　slumped　forward　over　her　splayed　legs。　Her　hair
was　long　and　unkempt；　hanging　down　over　her　face。　Her　thin　shoulders　heaved　with　each　pained　intake
of　breath。
‘They　are　gone；’　said　Calard；　stepping　towards　her。　‘They　will　trouble　you　no　more。’
Her　tattered　peasant　garb　was　ripped　at　the　shoulder；　exposing　skin　that　was　purple　with　bruises　and
cuts。　The　girl　made　no　move　to　cover　herself；　and　Calard　averted　his　eyes　out　of　modesty。
‘You　are　hurt；’　he　said；　stepping　close。
Her　head　snapped　up　and　Calard　caught　a　glimpse　of　bloodshot　eyes　staring　out　through　the　girl’s
tangle　of　matted　hair。　Thin　lips　drew　back　to　expose　filthy；　jagged　teeth；　and　as　Calard　recoiled　in　disgust
she　lashed　out；　seizing　his　forearm。　Swearing；　he　tried　to　pull　away；　but　the　girl　was　surprisingly　strong
and　held　him　in　a　vice…like　grip。
With　a　feral　hiss　she　slashed　at　him　with　her　free　hand；　fingers　curved　like　talons。　Those　fingers　were
long　and　bone…thin；　their　nails　cracked　and　encrusted　with　filth。　Instinctively；　Calard　turned　his　face　away
from　the　blow；　a　move　that　undoubtedly　saved　his　eyes　from　being　torn　from　their　sockets。　Still；　he　could
not　avoid　the　strike　entirely；　and　her　nails　gouged　four　deep　cuts　across　his　cheek　bone。
With　a　curse；　Calard　backhanded　the　feral　peasant　girl　hard　in　the　side　of　her　head。　She　slammed
heavily　to　the　ground；　losing　her　grip；　and　Calard　backed　away；　blood　dripping　from　the　left　side　of　his
face。
Scrambling　onto　all　fours；　the　girl　glared　up　at　him；　pure　hatred　burning　in　her　eyes。　An　animalistic
growl　rumbled　from　deep　in　her　chest。　Her　teeth　were　bared　and　she　began　to　crawl　swiftly　towards　him；
like　a　spider　closing　in　on　its　prey。
Calard　drew　his　bastard　sword；　and　she　hesitated。　Sensing　her　indecision；　he　yelled　loudly　and　took
an　aggressive　step　towards　her。
With　a　hiss；　the　girl　turned　and　fled。　He　watched　her　go；　revulsion　written　on　his　face；　but　his　head
snapped　around　as　he　heard　Chlod　scream。
‘Master！’
Moving　quickly；　Calard　hauled　himself　into　the　saddle　of　his　warhorse。　Rounding　the　front　of　the
barn；　he　saw　his　manservant　pointing　wildly。
There　were　dozens　of　loping　figures　approaching　the　farm　from　across　the　muddy　fields。　Calard
could　not　be　sure　if　they　were　the　same　ones　that　had　been　following　them；　but　he　thought　it　likely。　He
saw　instantly　that　there　were　too　many　of　them　to　fight；　and　while　the　notion　of　fleeing　from　them　made
his　face　burn　with　shame；　he　knew　that　it　would　not　serve　the　Lady’s　purpose　to　die　meaninglessly　here。
‘Forgive　me；　Lady；’　he　whispered。　‘Peasant！　We　ride！’
Chlod’s　mule　bucked　suddenly　as　the　wind　shifted；　bringing　with　it　the　scent　of　the　approaching
hunters。　The　hunchbacked　peasant　fell　backwards　into　the　mud；　and　the　mule　took　off　over　the　fields。
Calard　swore；　and　made　to　go　after　the　beast；　but　dragged　himself　back　as　more　of　the　hunched
figures　appeared；　rising　from　concealment。　They　leapt　on　the　mule　like　a　pack　of　wild　dogs；　and　it
screamed　in　terror　as　it　was　dragged　to　the　ground。　They　were　peasants；　he　saw　now；　undernourished
and　filthy；　but　some　of　them　appeared　so　devolved　and　inbred　as　to　be　barely　human　at　all。

His　steed　tensed　beneath　him；　stamping　its　hooves　and　snorting　in　agitation。
The　starving　peasants　were　running　towards　them　now；　closing　the　distance　quickly。　Their　faces　were
twisted　in　ravenous　hunger。
‘Keep　back；　or　by　the　Lady’s　name　I　will　not　stay　my　blade！’　roared　Calard；　holding　his　sword　high。
They　came　on　undaunted；　and　he　swore　again。
Making　his　decision　quickly；　Calard　rode　forward　and　plucked　Chlod　from　the　ground　by　the　scruff
of　his　neck。　He　dumped　him　on　the　saddle　behind　him；　and　urged　his　destrier　on。
If　the　warhorse　was　overburdened　carrying　two　riders；　it　didn’t　show；　and　within　heartbeats　they
were　riding　hard　up　the　muddy　roadway。　The　starving　peasants　ran　after　them；　but　they　were　easily
outpaced。　Only　once　the　hellish　farmstead　was　several　miles　behind　them　did　Calard　rein　the　destrier　in；
patting　her　neck　appreciatively。
Darkness　closed　in；　bringing　all　its　claustrophobic　terrors　with　it；　and　so　their　second　night　in
Mousillon　began。
V
IT　WAS　PITCH…BLACK　as　they　approached　the　inn；　yet　it　could　only　have　been　an　hour　after　nightfall。
It　was　built　like　a　fortress。　It　had　few　windows　on　its　lowest　level；　and　these　were　shuttered　and
barred。　Fifteen…foot…high　walls　topped　with　spikes　enclosed　it　completely。　Braziers　burned　brightly　in　a
vain　attempt　to　keep　the　night　at　bay。　A　stout　gatehouse　was　the　only　entrance　to　the　compound；　and　to
Calard’s　trained　eye　it　looked　able　to　withstand　all　but　the　most　concerted　siege。
As　they　rode　into　the　light；　Calard　pulled　his　hood　down　over　his　face。　They　were　spotted　as　they
approached　the　inn’s　fortified　gate；　and　sentries　levelled　heavy　crossbows　in　their　direction。　Calard　knew
that　his　armour　would　provide　scant　protection　at　this　distance；　but　if　he　felt　any　unease；　he　did　not　show
it。
‘Who　goes　there？’　called　out　one　of　the　guards。
‘Travellers　seeking　a　room；’　replied　Calard。
‘The　gates　are　sealed　at　nightfall；　stranger；’　came　the　reply。　‘Move　along。’
‘What　now？’　said　Chlod；　eyeing　the　night　with　haunted　eyes。　Wolves　howled　in　the　distance　and　he
shivered。
‘I’ll　be　damned　if　we’re　spending　the　night　out　here；’　Calard　said　under　his　breath。　‘We　have　coin；
peasant；’　he　called　out。　‘We　are　not　paupers。’
‘How　much？’　called　down　the　guard。
‘Enough；’　said　Calard。
‘Approach；’　ordered　the　guard。
Calard　nudged　his　warhorse　forward；　noting　the　deep　scratches　and　gouges　in　the　front　of　the　gate。
The　sign　swinging　above　the　arched　gateway　proclaimed　the　inn　to　be　called　Morr’s　Rest。　Below　the　sign
was　a　carved　icon　of　the　god　of　death　in　his　guise　as　the　reaper。　Unlike　more　formal　representations；　this
carved　wooden　statuette　clasped　a　foaming　mug　of　ale　in　one　skeletal　hand；　while　in　its　other　it　held　its
more　traditional　sword。　Calard　frowned；　uncomfortable　at　such　disrespect；　and　he　muttered　a　prayer　of
appeasement　to　the　god　of　the　underworld。
A　hatch　in　the　gate　opened　up；　just　large　enough　to　show　the　pig…like　face　of　a　guard；　who　squinted
at　them　through　a　latticework　of　bars。
‘Show　us　the　colour　of　your　coin；　stranger；’　he　said。

Calard　edged　his　steed　closer　and　slid　from　the　saddle。　He　drew　a　copper　piece　from　his　coin　pouch
and　held　it　out。
‘You’ll　have　to　do　better　than　that；’　said　the　guard。
‘This　is　more　than　you　deserve；’　said　Calard。　‘Take　it　and　open　the　gate。’
‘I　don’t　think　so；’　said　the　porcine　guard；　grinning　smugly。　‘What　else　you　got？’
Calard　sighed。
‘Fine；’　he　said；　pulling　a　second　pouch　from　beneath　his　travel　worn　tabard。　This　one　was　made　of
fine　velvet；　and　the　sentry’s　small　eyes　lit　up。
‘Closer；’　Calard　said　in　a　conspiratorial　whisper。　‘I’ve　only　got　the　one；　so　it　will　only　do　for　you；　not
the　other　guards。’
The　man　leaned　in　close；　licking　his　lips。　Calard’s　hand　shot　out；　slipping　through　the　bars　to　grab　the
guard　by　the　throat。
‘You　should　have　taken　the　copper；’　said　Calard　in　a　low　voice。
The　guard’s　eyes　were　bulging。　Calard　shifted　his　grip　to　the　back　of　the　man’s　neck　and　pulled　him
violently　forwards；　slamming　his　face　against　the　bars。　Before　the　guard　could　recover；　Calard　pressed
the　blade　of　a　knife　to　his　throat。
‘I　have　a　new　proposition。　Open　the　gate　and　you　live　to　see　another　dawn。’
The　man　tried　to　speak；　but　Calard　pushed　the　knife　more　forcefully　into　the　rolls　of　fat　beneath　his
chin；　drawing　blood。
‘Nod　your　head　if　you　agree；’　he　said；　eyes　cold　and　dispassionate。　‘Gently。’
The　man’s　eyes　were　wide　with　fear；　and　he　nodded　his　head　slightly。
‘Good；’　said　Calard。
‘Open　it　up；’　said　the　guard；　his　voice　hoarse；　and　Calard　heard　the　heavy　bar　being　removed。　He
released　the　guard；　his　knife　disappearing。
The　gate　swung　wide。
‘Try　anything　before　I　leave；　and　I’ll　gut　you　like　the　pig　you　are；’　Calard　hissed；　leaning　in　close　to
the　shaken　guard　as　he　walked　through。
Calard　caught　a　snatch　of　the　conversation　behind　him　as　he　led　his　steed　into　the　walled　inn’s
courtyard。　He　heard　guards　asking　how　much　the　gatekeeper　had　got。　Calard　glanced　over　his　shoulder
and　caught　the　man’s　eye。
‘Enough；’　he　heard　him　say；　looking　away　quickly。
THE　COMMON　ROOM　of　Morr’s　Rest　was　crowded　and　filled　with　smoke；　and　even　the　aroma　of
cooking　meat；　sawdust　and　ale　was　unable　to　fully　conceal　the　stink　of　humanity　and　vomit　within。
Conversation　stopped　and　heads　turned　as　Calard　stepped　through　the　door。
He　drew　his　hood　down　lower　over　his　face　under　the　scrutiny　and　took　in　the　layout　of　the　place　at
a　glance。　He　noted　that　the　inn　had　holy　sigils　and　loops　of　garlic　hung　above　its　entrances。　The　drinkers
themselves　were　a　surly　lot；　their　expressions　ranging　from　suspicion　to　outright　hostility。　He　glared　at
those　whose　gaze　lingered　on　him　too　long；　and　one　by　one　they　turned　back　to　their　drinks；　muttering
darkly；　and　the　hubbub　of　conversation　resumed。
A　more　disreputable　crowd　of　people　Calard　had　rarely　encountered；　and　he　wondered　wryly　if　he
would　be　better　off　facing　the　creatures　of　the　night。　The　patrons　of　Morr’s　Rest　scowled；　bickered　and
spat　as　they　gambled；　drank　and　stuffed　their　faces　with　greasy　stew　and　stale　bread；　laughing　loudly　at

ribald　jokes　and　groping　the　beleaguered　serving　girls　as　they　squeezed　from　table　to　table。　Calard　kept
one　hand　on　the　hilt　of　his　sword　as　he　pushed　his　way　towards　the　bar；　scanning　for　potential　threats。
Most　of　the　drinkers　had　the　look　of　outlaws；　brigands　and　vagabonds；　though　some　of　them　might
have　been　desperate　merchants　fallen　on　hard　times　or　fleeing　debtors。　Nor　were　they　all　of　low　birth；
many　were　knights；　though　few　of　them　displayed　their　colours　or　heraldry。　Most　of　these　were　outcasts
and　dispossessed　nobles；　Calard　judged；　knights　who　had　fled　to　Mousillon　in　dishonour　rather　than　face
justice。　Most　were　likely　murderers；　traitors　and　cowards；　and　Calard　fought　to　keep　the　disdain　off　his
face　as　he　moved　amongst　them。
He　bumped　into　one　of　these　knights　as　he　shouldered　his　way　to　the　bar。　The　nobleman　was　tall；
gaunt…featured　and　dressed　in　dark　colours；　and　he　had　his　hand　on　the　hilt　of　his　sword。　He　had　a
vicious　scar　across　his　throat；　and　his　eyes　were　cold。　Calard　held　the　man’s　gaze　for　a　moment；　before
pushing　past　him　and　signalling　the　squint…eyed　innkeeper　for　service。　An　ogre　stood　nearby；　easily　nine
feet　tall；　its　brutal　face　a　mess　of　scars。　It　had　a　bored　expression　on　its　face；　and　its　arms；　as　thick　as
tree　trunks；　were　folded　across　its　massive　chest。
‘Keeps　the　rowdier　ones　in　check；’　said　the　innkeeper。　He　wore　a　heavily　stained　apron　over　his
obese　gut。　‘What　are　you　wanting？’
‘A　room；’　said　Calard；　‘and　feed　for　my　horse。’　He　pushed　a　pair　of　coins　across　the　bar　and　they
disappeared　in　the　blink　of　an　eye。
‘One　of　the　girls　will　bring　you　food　and　drink；’　said　the　innkeep；　handing　over　a　room　key　before
turning　to　serve　another　patron。　Calard　grabbed　the　innkeeper　by　his　arm　and　dragged　him　back。
‘I’m　looking　for　someone；’　said　Calard　in　low　voice。　‘A　noble　by　the　name　of　Merovech。’
The　innkeeper　pulled　his　arm　away；　scowling。　‘You　ain't　from　around　here；　are　you？’　he　said。
‘You　know　him？’　said　Calard。
The　innkeeper　nodded。
‘Them’s　his　knights　back　there；’　he　said；　gesturing　through　the　crowd。　‘Bastards’ll　ruin　me；　drinking
me　dry　and　not　paying　a　copper；　but　what　can　I　do？’
Nodding　his　thanks；　Calard　found　a　secluded　table　in　a　dark　corner　and　sat　with　his　back　against　the
wall。　A　bowl　of　gristly　stew　was　brought　to　him　along　with　a　goblet　of　cheap　wine；　and　he　had　some
bread　and　water　sent　out　to　Chlod。　He　didn’t　touch　his　food；　and　made　only　a　pretence　of　drinking　his
wine；　eyes　locked　on　the　knights　that　the　innkeeper　had　identified。
There　were　six　of　them；　drinking　heavily；　and　their　table　was　piled　high　with　empty　dishes　and
goblets。　Calard　saw　that　one　of　their　number　was　the　cold…eyed　knight　he　had　bumped　into　at　the　bar；
though　he　sat　apart　from　the　others；　distancing　himself　from　their　drunken　excesses。　These　other　five　were
being　loud；　obnoxious　and　aggressive；　shouting　and　pounding　their　goblets　on　the　table　as　they　watched　a
puppet　show　under　way　upon　the　small　stage　at　the　back　of　the　inn。
Creepy…looking　marionettes　were　re…enacting　various　events　from　history；　and　Calard’s　attention　was
drawn　to　the　performance　as　something　caught　his　eye。　He　saw　a　puppet　knight　dressed　in　a　white
tabard；　and　his　eyes　narrowed。　The　puppet’s　heraldry　was　unmistakable：　a　black　fleur…de…lys　on　a　white
field。　The　knight’s　face　was　white；　as　was　his　hair；　and　he　wore　a　crown　of　rulership　upon　his　head。
‘The　duke　invited　all　the　nobles　in　Bretonnia　to　Mousillon；　to　celebrate　his　great　victory！’　screeched
the　voice　of　the　story’s　narrator　from　behind　the　puppeteers’　screen。　‘The　king　himself　came；　and　the
Duke　of　Mousillon　was　proclaimed　saviour　of　Bretonnia！’
A　cheer　erupted　from　the　watching　crowd　as　puppets　representing　the　dukes　of　Bretonnia　lifted　the
puppet　of　Duke　Merovech　high　into　the　air。
‘However；　the　king　was　jealous　of　our　beloved　duke’s　achievements；’　continued　the　narrator；　‘and

he　knew　that　Duke　Merovech　would　make　a　far　better　king　than　himself。　He　began　plotting　our　duke’s
downfall。’
The　crowd　booed　as　the　puppet　of　the　king；　carved　to　look　like　a　drunken　buffoon；　rubbed　its　hands
together　in　an　evil；　conspiratorial　manner。　Calard　frowned。　He　knew　this　tale；　but　its　telling　was　unlike　any
he　had　heard　before：　its　perspective　was　skewed；　its　heroes　and　villains　flipped。
The　true　tale　was　from　a　dark　period　in　the　history　of　Bretonnia；　hundreds　of　years　earlier；　and　it　told
the　story　of　the　last　Duke　of　Mousillon；　who　was；　by　all　reports；　a　butcher　and　murderer；　a　drinker　of
blood　and　an　eater　of　children。　However；　in　the　puppet　show　being　performed　here；　the　sadistic　duke
was　portrayed　as　a　living　saint；　while　the　king　and　his　loyal　dukes　were　little　more　than　jealous　inbreds；
conspiring　against　him。
The　crowd　cheered　as　the　Duke　of　Mousillon　uncovered　the　conspiracy　against　him；　and　thumped
their　tables　as　the　puppets　of　their　duke　and　the　king　drew　swords　against　one　another。　The　marionettes
duelled；　the　skilled　puppeteers　making　them　fight　with　surprising　believability；　and　the　inn　resounded　to
the　sound　of　swords　clashing。
Cheers　and　laughter　erupted　as　the　king’s　head　was　lopped　from　its　shoulders；　and　those　in　the　front
row　were　sprayed　with　pig’s　blood　pumped　up　through　the　puppet’s　severed　neck。　The　marionette　of　the
Duke　of　Mousillon　lifted　up　a　tiny　goblet　to　catch　the　rain　of　blood；　which　it　then　drank　down　in　one　gulp；
which　was　met　with　further　cheers。
The　curtain　fell；　and　the　narrator　continued。
‘The　traitor　king　was　dead；　but　the　jealous　dukes　turned　against　Mousillon。’
The　curtain　lifted　again；　showing　the　Duke　of　Mousillon　and　his　knights　battling　against　the　other
dukes。
‘Led　by　the　treacherous　Duke　of　Lyonesse；’　said　the　narrator；　eliciting　derisive　hisses　from　the
crowd；　‘they　besieged　Mousillon。　Yet　even　heavily　outnumbered；　our　lord　could　not　be　bested；　not　with
his　five　trusted　lieutenants　beside　him。　Finally；　the　Duke　of　Lyonesse　resorted　to　treachery。’
Boos　and　hisses　greeted　the　appearance　of　a　cloaked　and　hooded　marionette　that　reared　up　behind
the　Duke　of　Mousillon　and　stabbed　him　to　death。　The　deed　done；　the　puppet　threw　off　its　disguise；
revealing　its　identity　as　none　other　than　the　Duke　of　Lyonesse。　The　lights　dimmed　and　the　curtain　fell。
The　crowd　booed　loudly；　but　they　hushed　as　the　curtain　rose　one　more　time。　The　stage　was　unlit　and
bare　but　for　a　puppet　reclined　in　death；　wrapped　in　a　shroud。
‘But　before　he　died；　our　beloved　duke　swore　an　oath。　He　swore　that　he　would　return　from　beyond
the　grave　and　seek　vengeance！　He　swore　that　Mousillon　would　be　returned　to　its　former　glory；　and　that
the　rest　of　Bretonnia　would　pay　for　its　betrayal！’
The　death　shroud　was　suddenly　whisked　away　from　the　puppet…corpse　and　the　figure　of　the　Duke　of
Mousillon　leapt　up；　a　sword　held　in　each　hand。
‘Long　live　Duke　Merovech！’　screeched　the　narrator；　and　the　curtain　fell　for　the　last　time。
Calard　shook　his　head　as　the　crowd　cheered　and　banged　their　tables。　His　gaze　settled　on　the　knight
that　he　had　bumped　into　at　the　bar。
Perhaps　sensing　someone　watching　him；　the　knight　looked　up；　but　by　the　time　he　did；　Calard　had
already　gone。
VI
AN　HOUR　LATER；　the　knight　made　his　way　up　the　narrow　staircase　to　his　room。　He　unlocked　the　door；

which　opened　with　a　drawn…out　creak。　It　was　dark　within；　and　he　cursed。　He　had　left　a　lamp　burning　low
on　the　table　within；　but　a　draught　must　have　blown　it　out。　Leaving　the　door　ajar　so　that　he　could　see　by
the　light　in　the　hallway；　he　moved　towards　the　table。
The　door　clicked　shut　abruptly；　and　darkness　swallowed　him。　He　spun　around　on　his　heel；　reaching
for　his　blade。　It　was　half…drawn　when　the　tip　of　a　sword　touched　his　throat；　and　he　froze。
‘Sheathe　it；’　said　a　voice　from　the　darkness。　The　gaunt…featured　knight　scowled　but　did　as　he　was
bid。　The　shutters　of　a　lamp　were　opened；　and　the　knight　squinted　against　the　glare。
‘Sit；’　said　Calard。　He　forced　the　knight　back　with　the　point　of　his　sword；　making　him　sink　into　a
moth…eaten　chair。　To　his　credit；　the　dishonoured　knight　showed　no　fear。　‘Put　your　hands　behind　your
head；’　Calard　said。　The　knight　gave　Calard　a　long　look。
‘You　are　making　a　mistake；’　the　knight　said；　placing　his　hands　casually　behind　his　head。　His　voice
was　coarse；　little　more　than　a　growl。　Calard　lifted　the　man’s　chin　with　the　point　of　his　blade；　exposing　a
jagged　scar　that　reached　across　his　throat　from　ear　to　ear。
‘Nice　scar；’　said　Calard。
‘I’m　alive；’　growled　the　knight。　‘The　same　cannot　be　said　for　the　whoreson　who　gave　it　to　me。’
‘What　is　your　name？’
‘Raben；’　said　the　knight。　‘Who　the　hell　are　you？’
‘You　are　going　to　anse；　Raben。’
‘You’re　the　one　with　the　sword。’
‘You　are　one　of　Merovech’s　knights？’
‘You　already　know　the　answer　to　that。’
‘Where　is　he；　then？’
‘You　honestly　don’t　know？’　said　Raben。
‘If　I　did；　I　wouldn’t　need　you；　outcast；’　said　Calard。
‘Outcast；　is　it？　Oh　that　hurts；’　said　Raben。
‘Where？’　said　Calard。　A　trickle　of　blood　ran　from　Raben’s　throat。
‘The　ducal　palace　of　Mousillon　city；’　he　said　in　his　gravelly　voice。　‘He　does　p