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Chapter One
"Wake up, sir knight! Wake up!"
My eyes snapped open and I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as I did so.
There was the merchant, the whites of his terrified eyes glinting in the firelight. He was raving. "It's out there!" he cried. "It's out there!"
"What's out there?" I asked, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
The merchant gripped my arm with both hands and drew his face close to mine. His forehead was drenched with sweat, his eyes were wide, his voice little more than a whisper.
"The dragon, of course," he croaked.
Being bodyguard to a rich merchant was a nice little earner for a knight down on his luck. At least, that's what I'd thought three weeks earlier when I was offered this job. I should have known it wasn't going to be that simple. It never is.
After all, I'm a free lance, a knight for hire. Trouble has a way of tracking me down, no matter how far I roam. This was no exception.
I was broke. Penniless as a juggler's monkey. And what was worse, I'd lost my squire, Wormrick.
I'd had to leave him nursing his broken leg beside a roaring fire in a fine inn. He had the last of my gold coins jingling in his pocket. It was the least I could do after our last little adventure.
That had started with yours truly doing a pretty duchess a favor. I'd agreed to retrieve a solid-gold drinking vessel that had been "borrowed" by her wicked mother-in-law. It had ended with Wormrick being chased up a spiral staircase by a pack of castle hounds, and taking a nasty tumble from the top of a tall tower.
But that's another story....
So there I was, in a dusty citymarketdown south. I had no squire, no money, and I needed a job -- any job. But then so did all the other knights down on their luck who had shown up in the market square that day.
I was just about to give up and retrieve Jed, my thoroughbred Arbuthnot gray, from the dingy stables where I'd left him that morning, when I spotted the merchant. He was tall, with a neatly clipped beard and expensive-looking clothes -- flowing silken robes, purple turban, satin slippers. You know the type. As plump and gaudy as a stuffed peacock.
He'd rejected at least ten other knights before he got to me, which wasn't surprising really, as they were even sorrier-looking than yours truly. Some were nursing old tournament injuries, while the others hadn't been in a tournament for years, judging by their rusty armor and even rustier swordplay. When it came to my turn, the Peacock glanced down at the sword at my side.
"Can you use that thing?" he said.
I drew the sword in a flash and cut the top off the feather in his turban with a flick of my wrist. He gawked at me, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Impressive," he said as I returned my sword to its sheath. "You're hired."
It turned out that he was a wealthy merchant. He had a dozen mules loaded up with rolls of fine silks, jars of expensive oils, and sacks of fragrant spices, and he needed to get them from the city market to his hometown all in one piece. That's where I came in.
"There are many dangers along the way," he said, his voice hushed, his eyes narrowed. "Brigands. Wolves. And possibly worse..."
"I can handle most things..." I told him, trying hard to sound nonchalant. I needed this job and, judging by his clothes, this merchant looked as if he could pay well. "...for the right price," I added.
The Peacock didn't bat an eyelid. "Fifty gold pieces if you get me and my merchandise to my hometown safely," he announced.
It was a good offer, and I didn't think twice. That's the problem. I never do.
"Done!" I said before he could change his mind.
We set off early the next morning. And as the sun rose higher, a low mist gave way to a bright, cloudless sky. The land grew drier and more desolate. Large scavenging birds with curved beaks and ragged wings wheeled across the sky as we left the city far behind us.
It became clear soon enough that the merchant was right about our route. There were brigands -- though they were easy to spot, hanging around at crossroads and in the hills above mountain passes. Brigands aren't hard to avoid if you scout ahead and keep your eyes peeled, travel during the day, and set up a secure camp at night. And the same goes for wolves, only with a good, bright campfire thrown in.
Of course, with a dozen heavily-laden mules, and, with the Peacock on his skittish white mare, Jed and I couldn't relax for a moment. Back and forward we went, to and fro, covering plenty of ground to make sure they all stayed safe. It was certainly tiring. Then again, compared to slaying monstrous hags and surviving blood-drenched tournaments, being a bodyguard to a rich merchant was easy.
A fortnight later, we came within a day's ride of our final destination. I could almost feel those fifty pieces of gold jangling in my pocket.
The sun had just slipped down beneath the horizon when I called a halt. The Peacock wasn't happy. He wanted to press on through the night and get back home, which was understandable. Understandable and foolish. Wolves liked nothing better than a night hunt, and we were in typical wolf country -- a rocky, desolate plain, fringed with jagged mountains.
There was a chill wind blowing, which stirred up the dust and whistled between the boulders. It was spooky, but I was far too busy to let it bother me.
I had the mules to secure, Jed to settle, a fire to build, the torches to light, a meal to prepare.... As ever, the Peacock said little and did even less. Even so, I could tell that he wasn't happy. In fact, he looked as nervous as a goose in a cook's kitchen. He flapped about anxiously as he tethered his skittish mare, Sherazah, to a rock. He was muttering under his breath and constantly looking over his shoulder.
"Something tells me you're not crazy about my choice of campsite," I said to him later as I served him up a portion of my Squire's Stew.
He shuddered and pulled his cape around him. "This, my friend," he said, "is an evil place."
"Evil place?" I said.
He nodded. "The Plain of the Dead, it is called," he said.
"Interesting name. Let me guess..." I said, stifling a smile. "Now you're going to tell me why."
Copyright© 2005 by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell
