A Knight at the Inn (2/3)

A/N: This three-part story is inspired by an old Vocal prompt where writers were asked to select 3 words from a word search to include within a piece. I decided to challenge myself further with 10 random words from an online generator and include them within a fictional story. There are as follows:

• Exile
• Stomach
• Panel
• Owner
• Institution
• Rider
• Remark
• Draw
• Summit
• Ambition

When they appear - they are highlighted in bold.

Enjoy!

“Hail there, Ser! If you squeeze that mead any harder it shall boil in thine own hand!” Anwir shouted, freeing Ser Amery from his trance.

He was staring into the amber mead, with an iron grip on the mug. Registering Anwir’s words, he released his grip.

“Where did you go?” she asked with a laugh.

“A bad memory of a bad place.” Ser Amery deadpanned, his flirtatious mood from earlier was gone.

“Alright.” Anwir shrugged but didn’t press further.

She refilled his flagon three times before they spoke again.

“I shall prepare you a room,” Anwir stated.

“I haven’t said anything about staying the night,” Ser Amery replied, voice emboldened by the alcohol which was sitting heavily in his stomach.

“And yet, I think you will,” she winked at him before disappearing up a set of stairs behind her.

“And is the owner here to discuss payment?” he called after her.

“I am the owner, darling!” she called back.

‘A woman owning her own inn?' such a thing was unheard of for Ser Amery and he was a little unsettled by the idea. Not that he was unbelieving in her ability, he simply worried that unsavory men may take advantage of a woman so young and beautiful as Anwir. The thought brought another to Ser Amery’s head – ‘we are completely alone in this building, possibly even for miles’.

The realization had Ser Amery both hoping some weary company would arrive and that no one would arrive at all.

Anwir returned, hopping past the final step with a jump.

“You are the landlady here?”

“Aye.”

“Are you not worried for yourself?”

“Would ye like some stew?” Anwir silenced the Knight with an unexpected question, she seemed frustrated.

“Pardon?”

“Stew.”

“Nay, no thank you.”

“Ah, but ye must! It will delight your senses I am sure of it, darling! I shall get us both a bowl!” and with that, she disappeared into a room behind her.

Her sudden change in mood did not go unnoticed by the Knight. She was strange indeed. Through the scraping of wooden spoons and bowls, Ser Amery made out her voice.

“This…mutton was a much cheaper cut than what ye must be used to I am sure, but most delicious, yes, most delicious…”

“Oh, I am sure it will be, most delicious!” Ser Amery called back, taking her ramblings for nervousness – worrying about his expensive taste.

“Here,” she emerged quickly, handing him a bowl piled high with stew.

A thick soup coated chunks of lightly singed vegetables. Fat floated high in bubbled across the top of the broth. Ser Amery sucked a spoonful of it into his mouth, the liquid sticking to his lips.

The flavor mimicked the sharpness Ser Amery saw in Anwir. The taste was strongly herbed, covering up the taste of the meat. It was sour and bitter, but pleasantly so. He popped a large chunk past his lips and chewed thoughtfully.

“Tastes more like pig, than mutton,” he heard himself remark carelessly.

“You are displeased?” she asked in response.

“Nay! Nay! It is most pleasing!” He reassured her. In truth, he did find the stew tasty. It was salty, sweet, and smooth – delicious. He took another mouthful and savored the taste. Anwir watched him eagerly. The sharpness in her features came back. Her smile was so wide.

Gulping, Ser Amery decided to call an end to the night.

“I must go to bed,” he stated.

Anwir leaped up in response.

“I will show ye the way!”

“Oh, there’s no need, I’m sure I can find it myse…”

“Nonsense! Follow me!”

The concept of walking into a bedroom with such a beautiful woman both unnerved and excited Ser Amery. He followed her to the summit with heavy breaths. He stared at the back of her brown skirt, praying the heavy fabric would swallow him whole.

Anwir turned to face him when they reached the room, her back was to the closed door. There was very little distance between them. They both drew a breath. Ser Amery began to lean towards Anwir, towards her lips. How enticing they looked...

She leaned backward, opening the door with her delicate hand. She was leading him into the room. Together, a mirror of one another, they moved towards the center of the room – towards the bed.

Suddenly, Anwir twisted them around, so Ser Amery had his back facing the bed. She pushed him down onto it assertively. He landed on the tough, wool-covered hay with a dull thud. As he looked up at Anwir, he saw her sharp beauty, her wide smile. He leaned in to kiss her but she once again leaned away.

“Let me get ye something to loosen those bones,” she proposed.

“Uh, right…”

She scampered through the bedroom door and back down the stairs.

Ser Amery sat there stunned. The last eight hours had been a whirlwind of unexpected circumstances. First, he was expected by his baron to enter into the institution of marriage to a peasant girl. Then, he stumbled upon this stunning woman in this inn who appeared to be more than willing to spend the night with him.

‘Should I invite her to stay the night? Would that be betraying the woman I am to marry? Will God punish me for these... human wants?’

Anwir reentered the room and the Knight's thoughts became very silent all of a sudden. She held two expensive glasses in her hands. She handed one to him.

‘She really is beautiful, if a little strange.’

She had changed into a dark blue dress. It was cut sinfully short at the front, showing Ser Amery a clear view of her pale, freckled legs. When she bent forward to hand him his glass, Ser Amery was also privvy to the sight of her chest. Silky and soft, she was a raven, ready to dig her talons into some squirming prey.

And Ser Amery was squirming.

“Drink up, darling”

He downed the contents of his glass without thinking. He had hoped to find sanity or bravery at the bottom. Instead, he found only darkness.

“CHARGE!”

The Knights kicked into their horses, beginning the momentum against the heathens below. Ser Amery squeezed his horse’s sides and bucked his hips. His horse began to gallop quickly. The run was short but mighty. Hooves rumbled a shaking roar into the mud. The wall of silver leaped into the fray.

The surviving peasants jumped to avoid the horses' gallop. Some were unlucky and got trampled. Ser Amery kept his eyes on Warin. A heathen had caught up to him and was attempting to wrestle him into the mud. Ser Amery rode towards them. He swung his sword low on his left side and skillfully beheaded the assailant trying to kill his friend.

“Ser!” Warin shouted with a wide smile.

“My Woodlark!” Ser Amery galloped by him with a small smile of his own.

His smile soon fell when he turned to see the front line of heathens rapidly approaching. He raised his bloodied sword and roared.

The next thing he remembered was the flash of an axe above his head. He was chucked from his horse and landed on his back. His armor was sucked into the mud, preventing him from righting himself. His socks slopped against the ground, blood-soaked.

He saw his fellow Knights fighting with smooth efficiency, cutting through the heathens with well-rehearsed fluidity. Most of the horses had fallen, ran away, or been taken by the heathens. One of the Knights on foot stopped and dug his hands through the gaps in Ser Amery’s armor, lifting him from the mud with an almighty pull.

“Help us turn the tide, brother!” he shouted through his helmet.

Ser Amery shook off his stupor and began to clash with the heathens.

He gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands. He swung with a wide arc, hitting an enemy in the hip and knocking her off balance. Before he could finish her off, a screaming heathen sprinted at him with an axe. With no time to swing again, Ser Amery dodged the axe and shoved his armored shoulder into his assailant. He knocked the man directly into the path of another Knight who dispatched him quickly.

Ser Amery stood sharply on the woman he knocked down, keeping her in the mud. She wriggled and turned under his sock, shoving a knife between the armor plates on his knee. Ser Amery roared and plunged his sword into her neck.

Spit, sweat, and copper blood dripped from Ser Amery's mouth, into his helmet. The battle waged on for many hours before Ser Amery’s pierced knee began to fail. He was forced to kneel, leaning on his sword for support.

By then, both sides of the battle had scattered. The longboats were burning in bright orange flames, black smoke billowing out into the sky. With nowhere to escape to, the heathens' numbers grew scarce. The fight was nearly won. Ser Amery felt his heart swell.

Suddenly, Ser Amery felt a sharp thud against his helmet. He turned to see a heathen facing him. He held a dulled axe. Several arrows poked out of his back and a knife was buried in his torso. He swayed on his feet, death was tugging on the strings of his soul.

Ser Amery could not lift his sword. He had nothing left to give.

The demon lifted his axe again.

Ser Amery closed his eyes. Strangely happy was he. He had served his King and kept his honor. Soon, the nightmare would be over.

“AARGH!”

Ser Amery heard the clash of metal. He opened his eyes to see Warin defending him. He held Ser Amery’s sword up high, blocking the axe.

At that moment, Warin was the perfect image of a Knight. Though without armor, he stood firm in a Knight’s boots, wielding a Knight’s sword in defense of the weak. With a righteous blow, he brought the sword down on the heathen, killing him.

Warin turned to face Ser Amery.

“Thought ye wouldn’t object,” he said, gesturing to the sword, “I already have yer boots!”

Ser Amery barked a laugh.

“Thank you, friend.”

Warin held out his blood-stained hand to Ser Amery. He reached out to accept when, as if under a spell, his senses slowed down. He saw the sword before Warin did. It swung at the peasant’s shoulder, cutting deep.

Ser Amery tried to get up, but the knife jangled against his kneecap, and he came crashing back down to the mud. He saw his sword fly from Warin’s unpracticed hands and the heathen’s sword plunged into Warin’s chest, emerging from his back.

Another Knight killed the heathen quickly. Warin fell towards Ser Amery, who crawled to meet him. Warin lay flat on his back, breathing heavily.

“No more chirping in your ear for me,” he spluttered in shock, blood was spewing from his wound, flooding the mud around him.

“You are more of a Knight than I could ever hope to be.” There was no time for shock, he had to say those words to Warin.

“A Knight, eh? That would be a fine thing,” Warin’s face was turning pale.

“My Woodlark.”

“Thank you… for… for the boots…”

Warin died.

With the bodies of his noble training companions surrounding him, Ser Amery wept over the body of a peasant. The battle was won and soon, the birds began to sing again.

When Ser Amery awoke, he was in a precarious position. Naked and bound he lay face down on a wooden panel. His head felt crushed under the weight of a hundred battle helmets and his thoughts were a thickened mucus.

“Welcume,” a voice spoke.

“W-what happened?” Ser Amery managed to turn his head to view the source of the mysterious voice slowly.

He was underground. A mud cave supported by the long and deep roots of something above. It smelled like dirt; fresh, metallic, and natural. Bundles of dried herbs were strung across the cave walls, their aromas stung Ser Amery's nose.

Ser Amery felt hot, too hot for being underground. He looked around the cave again. This time he caught a glimpse of a roaring fire next to him. It quickly explained the burning he felt on one side of his skin.

Ser Amery took a breath to try and clear his senses further. With his hands bound behind his back, he used his knee and shoulder to push himself into a kneeling position with a grunt. His vision blurred threateningly when he did.

“There he is!” the voice was coming from a hooded figure, hunched over the fire.

“Who are you? Where is Anwir?!” Ser Amery bellowed, fearing for the young woman’s safety.

The hooded figure chuckled darkly. Ser Amery could not tell if they were a man, woman, or otherwise. Instead, he placed the voice as an unknown. It sounded…supernatural. As if several people were speaking at once, layering over one another. Its posture was so stooped; he could not see any feature to identify it further than a walking cloak.

“Who are you?!” he bellowed again, much louder.

The figure turned to fetch an extremely large pot, hanging it above the fire. The stooped posture appeared unable to support the weight of such a large metal object but did so smoothly. This thing was strong, very strong.

When the light of the flames pieced the hood covering the figure's face, Ser Amery saw his first glimpse of his captor.

He screamed.

A/N: Dun Dun DUUUUUUN! Ooooh, a cliffhanger! Who is the mysterious figure? Where is Anwir? What does Ser Amery's captor want? Find out in 3 days' time!

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