A Knight's Calling

  A Knight’s Calling

  A Shackled Verities Story

  Tammy Salyer

  A Knight’s Calling

  The Shackled Verities Novella

  Copyright © 2020 by Tammy Salyer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1-954113-00-8

  Introduction

  Hello and thank you for being here! Should you enjoy the words on these pages (and I hope you do!), I encourage you to join my Reader Group and visit me at:

  www.tammysalyer.com

  I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and other bits of news. New Reader Group members will receive a handful of novellas and short stories FOR FREE. Sign up for your copies of CONVICTION, prequel to the Spectras Arise series; plus a short story collection. More details at the end of this book.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Afterword

  Also by Tammy Salyer

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter 1

  A dragørfly hovered in front of Griggory’s nose close enough that he could make out every detail of its finger-sized body. Lizard-like, more dragør than insect, the little creature differed from the giant firebreathers that were their namesake most in their ommatidial eyes. The orbs seemed too big for their small bodies, and their wings oscillated rather than flapped, much too fast for his eyes to capture, even though their constant buzz was unmistakable to his ears. For Griggory, this sound was more musical than anything people might make, which was probably why he’d spent much of his life avoiding people to study the dragørflies and their distant dragørkind cousins.

  He might have been called a devotee, or an obsessive, of dragørkind and all its evolutionary offshoots. This was why he now sat in a glade outside the city of Umborough’s walls, enticing the little flying creatures so close to his face. His method was simple. He held the handle of a spoonful of honey in his mouth. They couldn’t resist the sweet nectar of bees, produced from the pollen of the dalla flower, any more than he could.

  This little creature now inches from his eyes hadn’t braved a dip into the honey just yet. Instead, it seemed to be sizing him up. He imagined it was judging him, assessing what speed and strength he might have, and wondering if it—along with the help of all its companions—might be able to challenge him in a fight and make off with the full jar that sat beside him.

  The thought was amusing but as far-fetched as could be. Griggory would never hurt the little creatures, not in a hundred lifetimes. He’d sooner drown in honey than harm them. The tiny dragørs were favorites of the celestial called Vaka Aster, creator of this realm, one of the Great Cosmos’s five, and therefore were as precious to him as his own life.

  Then again, there was nothing Griggory would harm, unless forced to. He wasn’t a violent sort, nor avariscious or cruel. His desires were simple and direct, to get lost in the world and see all its pecularities, explore all its off-the-beaten-path crannies, dive into all its oceans, and learn about all its many wonders. And the most wondorous of all, of course, was dragørkind.

  Thinking of this invariably brought his mind back to his current problem, and the reason he was now here in Umborough with little more than a knapsack and jar of honey to his name: exploring the world’s wonders cost coin, but coin, called crimsons in Yor, was not something that came easily to someone like him, without a full-time home, without a full-time craft or occupation, and, worst of all, without the tempermant necessary to sit still long enough to establish either of these.

  This dragørfly, with a mellow rose-colored sheen to its thorax and giant amethyst-colored false eyes on its wings, seemed to have seen into his nature and realized the sort of man Griggory was: a looker but not a toucher. It dove for the honey in the spoon’s bowl and sat dead in the center, letting its long, spindly tongue-like proboscis loll like a dog’s into the nectar. Griggory stayed as still as he could, watching it without blinking, strangely moved by the simple trust the creature had shown him.

  If only he could lure a dragør as easily, though he supposed he’d need a half-ton vat of honey for that, and the likelihood he’d end up as crisp as leaves in winter for his troubles was quite strong. Probable, in fact.

  As if listening to his wishes, the rumble of a distant firebreather slipped through the trees, echoing throughout the forest like a restive spirit. It rose from a dramatic bass, pitched low enough to make the very air feel like a battering ram, to a slighly higher baritone, ending in a few quick hoots like an owl. He’d read of this cacophony before—the sound of a new dragør parent celebrating! An egg must have recently hatched. The occasion was vanishingly rare, an event that occurred once perhaps every four or five hundred turns. He would have smiled if it wouldn’t have disturbed his new little friend.

  For the better part of half an hour, he lingered in this morning-sun-spotted glade a bit more than a mile outside the city, at the edge of the Howling Weald, studying the dragørfly and its companions. The dragør’s call didn’t come again, but he didn’t mind. It was a gift to have heard it at all.

  It was quiet here outside the bustle of Umborough, and more peaceful even than the Resplendolent Conservatum, where he was being temporarily housed. In need of money once again, he’d come back to the city of his birth after a turn exploring the wide-spanning desert of the Lœdyrrak Province in search of the red-scaled dragørs of the southern lands. The Lœdyrrak had little use for a pale northeasterner and his reckless vagabonding. So, here he was, home again—though home to him was more a mood than a place. He always had a job at the stuffy Conservatum, teaching acolytes the subject he knew best—the natural and wystic traits of Vaka Aster’s most favored of all creatures: dragørkind.

  It was a niche area of study, and there were some who argued it was useless. The dragørs had shunned humanity for centuries, why learn about them now? But it was the only subject Griggory was unequaled in. How many others had spent hours, or even a moment, of their lives holding a honey-dipped spoon in their mouth to entice dragørflies up close, after all? How many others knew that dragørs and dragørflies were still, despite the vast gulf of evolution that seperated them, able to communicate as clearly with each other as he could with another Prelate? Or so he assumed, based on their shared traits, and hoped to one day know for sure.

  Several dragørflies hovered around his head now, hoping for a turn at the honey. The edges of his lips did turn up in a smile this time, but he was careful to keep the spoon steady. He needn’t have worried. His small, flighty friend was far too immersed in its snack. Carefully, he scratched an itch on his chin, and not even this bothered the small creature. Nor did the scritch of Griggory’s fingernails through four days of beard stubble, now slightly peppered with gray though he was still in his midforties. He remembered he’d planned to shave the wiry hairs, but he couldn’t remember why. Shaving was a thing he reserved for special occasions, such as—

  The far-off sound of the Conservatum’s morning bells rang out, so diffuse outside the city that they almost seemed imaginary. They were tolling to call the acolytes to their first day of spring classes.

  Griggory leaped to his feet. Vaka Aster’s eyes, h
e was supposed to be teaching today! Thoughtlessly, he spit out the spoon, and the purple dragørfly and its mates sped out of his reach.

  “Sorry, my little friends,” he said as he quickly patted the grass and leaves from his long shirt and trousers. “Duty calls. Can’t afford to bring you honey if I don’t earn money first. I’ll be back soon!”

  With these words trailing behind, he loped from the glade into the thickets and low brambles outside the wall back to Umborough as quickly as he could.

  Chapter Two

  Griggory was halfway through the earthen tunnel beneath the twenty-foot-thick stone city wall before he realized he’d forgotten his knapsack. Along with the jar of honey, it held writing lead and notebooks, a loaf of bread, a kórb fruit or two (and whatever rot or worms might have resided in them—he’d picked them too long ago to hope they were untarnished), a water bottle, a thick cloak, a few odds and ends, and his trusty little dirk for any purpose he might conceive of. On the whole, the pack served as an essential and convenient travel item an itinerant such as him never went anywhere without.

  He spared it only a momentary thought, though. The tunnel he now passed through, to his relief, appeared to still be unknown to others, and the path outside was of his own making. No one went into the Howling Weald anymore, no one who was smart, that was. His pack would be fine until the season’s first day of classes was done.

  The sights, sounds, and smells of the interior of the wall stripped away the freshness of the outer forest as quickly as a whip strike. Refuse from the streets had found its way into the tunnel, along with standing water that had bred mold from rains. He used no light, preferring not to get too close a look at any creatures or insects that may likewise be residing there. At the far end, Griggory slowly pushed aside the heavy wooden plank from the tunnel mouth and peered out. The alley leading to the breach was narrow and dark and little used. He’d found it as a child, his wandering ways having begun before he was old enough to make his own wages, and had never told anyone else about it. His secret, and his escape from Umborough when needed.

  After pulling his lanky body into the alley, he dusted off what grime he could and began pacing toward the Conservatum. When he hit the main street, civilization accosted him. A women was sweeping the dust from her stoop, nearly into his face, making him sneeze. A merchant was pushing his cart with one squeaky wheel toward market. A small girl was chasing a cat. Frenetic and, to his orderly mind, frivolous, the activity of Umborough made Griggory yearn to turn back into the tunnel and leave for good.

  But one had to eat. And more importantly, he would be out of honey soon, and one needed to bribe the creatures of Vinnr, which had a much more interesting nature, to his mind, than its people did.

  He was just a block or so away from his hidden breach, on the edge of the market district that was already filled with folk beginning their daily routines of commerce. If he cut through the throng, there was a chance he might make it in time for the latter half of class at least. Surely the Chief Prelate wouldn’t dismiss him if he managed that much?

  But his lengthy stride was interrupted by a brisk-walking black-cloaked figure who bumped into his shoulder—hard. They were both diverted off course at the impact, and Griggory might simply have shrugged it off as someone who had equally urgent matters to get to, but for the brief glimpse he caught of the woman’s profile and the scent of light citrus subtly overlaying a deeper musk. A perfume he knew because he’d brought it back with him from Lœdyrrak for no other reason than he liked it. A smell that, due to its rarity, was worn by only one person, the person he’d given it to, a person he admired—and one time had (all right, still) fancied.

  “Knight Gwinifeve?” he called, stopping in place and turning to track the black-cloaked figure.

  At her name, she spun back. Her face was still hidden deep in her black hood, but her pale features, dotted with freckles, and sharp nose could hardly be concealed by a simple hood in full daylight. Even more prominently, the mark of Vaka Aster stood out on her chin, a deep indigo nine-pointed star. As a Knight Corporealis, Dye Gwinifeve shone nearly as bright as Halla the daystar due to Vaka Aster’s favor. Or perhaps that was simply how Griggory perceived her, smitten as he always had been.

  “Griggory Dondrin?”

  Yes, it was she. They’d last met a little over a turn ago when sharing memorable drinks at a local tavern, and an even more memorable night afterward. He would never forget the delight he felt that a Knight, that this Knight, would take such interest in him, especially after she’d hardly seemed to notice him all the turns prior. It was a delight that she, apparently, shared, as she’d been quite happy to retire with him to his rented room.

  After a moment, she went on. “Last I heard, you were bargaining for passage aboard a sloop to Lœdyrrak. What are you doing back in Yor Province? I expected the dragørs of the south to have already made a bite of you.”

  Ah, he remembered now. On his last night in Umborough before he’d left for the southern province, she’d pressed him about all his varied knowledge of dragørs for most of the evening. Unusually fascinated by his endless observations of them, she’d wanted to know everything, from their overt behaviors—such as destroying villages and eating all their inhabitants—to the more mundane. What were their habits? How did they breed? Did the travel in flocks or individually? Had any ever been tamed by a person?

  Most people of Vinnr only cared enough about dragørs to know what they needed to do to avoid them. Acolytes of the Conservatum, some of which went on to become ordained Knights, were assigned to study them more deeply, but not as deeply as Griggory. The dragørs had retired to the far reaches of either the Howling Weald or the Anzuru Desert of southern Lœdyrrak, a province that was bigger than the other two provinces combined. No one knew why the dragørs had become so reclusive, but the story was that it had happened so long ago that not even a single Knight Corporealis, as long-lived as they were, could remember the days before. Dragørkind did not cross paths with humans—by their choice—unless humans entered their lands. It was a kind of truce, but a truce that would result in devastation to not only any person who foolishly broke it but to all whom that person knew, all whom that person lived with, even the town he or she occupied if the dragørs were threatened. Dragørs, in other words, did not tolerate frail humanity meddling in their lands.

  Though she’d bumped into him in a hurry, she still stood before him, waiting for him to respond. And he realized he’d kept her waiting a while. Tongue-tied as he often was around the lovely Dye, around most people, actually, he stammered when he was finally able to speak.

  “Ah, yes. Yes, I well, I was compelled to return for want of…well, you see—”

  “Broke, were you?” Like most Knights, she had little patience for prevarication or doddering mumbling.

  He simply nodded, expecting little more in response than a smirk and the sight of her back as she continued on her way. After all, she hadn’t seemed overly sentimental the morning following their tryst and had left without so much as a cup of tea as soon as Halla had risen.

  Surprising him, however, she remained. “And did you find any? And desert dragørs?”

  On this subject, he found the ground firmer. “I did. Some live in burrows, you know, in Anzuru. Others amid the stone cliffs overlooking the coastal waters. It took me nearly a full turn just to cross the western desert to get near one.”

  “Did you know one of those in the Weald has spawned?” she asked, her eyes glinting with excitement.

  “I did, as a matter of fact. Just this morning—”

  He was cut off by the single ringing chime signaling the end of the first class. She must have caught his trapped expression. “You’re supposed to be teaching your class on the species now, aren’t you?”

  He nodded again.

  She chuckled softly, a sound that managed somehow to be both an insult and an indulgence. “Griggory Dondrin, a Prelate of unmatched intellect who yet lacks the discipline to ever become
a Knight. You set your sights too low and your pursuit of ideas too high.” She paused, eyeing him critically. “It’s too bad. You could have made an excellent Knight.” Without another word, not even a goodbye, she spun and rushed away in the direction he’d come from, quickly disappearing from his sight.

  Griggory remained in place for a moment, not fully grasping the reason for her low esteem of him. Why, he wondered, would anyone care so much about discipline in a natural world that is itself utterly without it?

  Chapter Three

  Yor Province’s white-stone Resplendolent Conservatum complex lay in the heart of the capital city just past the market. The scattering of two- and three-story structures served as classrooms, meal house, and living quarters for both acolytes and lifelong Prelates. No streets ran through the complex, allowing for walkways and courtyards brimming with greenery and smelling, in this early vernal season, of the year’s first lind tree blossoms. When he couldn’t get beyond the city walls, the Conservatum’s quiet, calm interior was the one place Griggory enjoyed in bustling and overcrowded Umborough.

  But today, the courtyards of the Conservatum were as busy as the city streets. As he stepped onto the main square, he couldn’t quite figure out why so many acolytes were milling around outside instead of in class. Then the reason nearly ran him down.

  A cadre of Knights, five in total, hurried through the center of the square directly toward him, cutting a path through the confused-looking crowd. A few Conservatum members had to jump out of their way to avoid being run over. Griggory, too caught up in trying to make sense of the unexpected throng, was nearly knocked into again as they swept by him. The Knights had come from their own private sanctuary, Fenestros Hall, where none but those who were invited were allowed.