COMPANIONSHIP

  Gehrman tossed and turned on his cot. His breathing was fast, unrhythmic. Sleep did not come easily these days, and when it did, it did not last. Slowly, Gehrman raised himself to the edge of his cot. His eyes burned. His body ached.

  He knelt on the ground. Cool air entered his tent, and with it a faint smell of decay. “This place is dying,” he muttered to himself.

  Gehrman dismissed the thought and started to pray when something wet touched his face. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the furry snout of Arnaud. He couldn’t help himself and started to chuckle.

  “Good boy,” he said, scratching the dog behind one of his ears. The fur felt rough and scruffy against his fingers as the animal leaned against his touch.

  The quiet steadied Gehrman more than the prayer had. Gehrman closed his eyes again and took a deep breath.

  Arnaud’s quiet growl caught his attention.

  From outside the tent, a voice was heard: “Ser Gehrman, I am sorry to intrude at this early hour, but the cultists have been spotted again.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Ser, you demanded to be informed, if … “

  “I know Geoffrey …” Gehrman sighed, petting Arnaud. “Do you have any more information?”

  “Only that they are moving in large numbers towards quarters near the Clocktower …”

  Gehrman could hear Geoffrey’s nervous breathing. “Anything else, Squire?”

  “I must apologize; Lady Justine seems to be in quite a hurry to leave.”

  Gehrman shook his head. “I see, well then, if the good Lady is in such a hurry, we best not leave her waiting, shall we?”

  “Yes, Ser, the knights are arming themselves and waiting for your command!”

  “Squire, how often do I have to repeat myself? They act of their own volition. I am in no position to order them to do anything.”

  “O.. Of course.”

  Gehrman knelt and adjusted the straps on Arnaud’s harness. The dog waited patiently. He had indeed been trained well and was worth the small fortune Gehrman had paid.

  Gehrman went to his armour rack, looking at the dented and battle-worn cuirass and pauldrons. For a brief moment, a smile curled around his lips. Donning his armour had become more than just preparing for battle. He took his time, checking the straps and his movement.

  Gehrman felt the weight of the armour, the plates and straps containing his movement just enough to give a certain comfort.

  At last, Gehrman picked up his great helm and strapped it to his belt. On his way out of the tent, he reached for his axe. The grip covered in leather straps felt familiar in his hand.

  Outside, the air was cool, and a shallow wind was picking up as dawn set in. Gehrman looked around the camp and over to the city gate. He had to endure this wretched place. Why the others followed him was beyond him. Never had he asked nor ordered. Whenever he went through the gates, they were by his side.

  A long sigh escaped Gehrman’s lungs – the burden of the first step was his to carry.

  Gehrman didn’t rush through the alleys. There was no need to, after all, there was no purpose in meeting these cultists exhausted. He controlled his breathing, the rhythm of his steps.

  He did not scan his surroundings; he just kept an eye on the dog. He had learned to trust the animal’s senses more than his own. But Arnauld just trotted at his side, claws clicking softly against the pavement. His tail was low and relaxed.

  They passed between two collapsed buildings when Arnaud suddenly halted mid-motion. Gehrman looked at the war hound. The fur along his spine rose as a low guttural growl rolled out of him. The next moment, the dog lunged forward, pulling against the leash tightened to Gehrman’s belt.

  Gehrman gave the man a signal to prepare for battle. Gehrman did not have to look; the sound of blades being unsheathed and footsteps behind him was information enough. Arnaud was still growling and pulling more ferociously at his leash. He braced a foot against the pavement to secure his stance.

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  Gehrman leaned his axe against the side of a building and reached for his helmet. He put it over his head, adjusting the straps. He enjoyed the sensation, his field of view narrowed, focused on what lay before him.

  He reached for his axe and unleashed Arnaud. The dog rushed off into the alley ahead. Gehrman followed. Houses and ruins rushed by him. He heard his breath going faster inside the helmet, sweat formed on his forehead.

  The alley ended abruptly. One moment, he was between stone buildings; the next moment, he stood beneath open sky. The sounds of clashing steel and shouts reached him, muted only by the metal of his helmet.

  His peripheral vision impaired, he needed a moment to realise what was going on. On the open square before him, cultists and furred vermin were clashing against one another. He felt a sudden pressure behind his eyes as the air over the battlefield shimmered. From what he could tell, the vermin had the upper hand.

  Gehrman cursed, tightening the grip around his axe. He scanned the battleline, looking for an opening. There, the rearguard of these vermin-creatures lagged slightly behind the rest. Gehrman charged, building up speed with every move he made.

  The vermin reacted too late. Gehrman closed in and drove the hook of the axe beneath the creature’s shoulder. He used his momentum to step past the creature, twisted his hip, and yanked at the shaft. The vermin was caught off balance, spun around, and crashed into the ground. Gehrman reversed the haft and drove the butt end in a downward motion. The cracking sound was all Gehrman needed to know. The creature would not rise again.

  Gehrman wheeled around, ready to deliver the next blow. But the fighting line had been pushed back. The rest of the Order had caught up with him and pushed hard against the vanguard. Thibault stepped up to Gehrman, nodded, and raised his shield to charge forward.

  Suddenly, a searing pain exploded behind Gehrman’s eyes. The air around Thibault seemed to flicker, as if heated by unseen coals. Then shapes tore through the shimmer – fur, claws, teeth – and a heartbeat later, Thibault screamed and collapsed in agony.

  Gehrman threaded the shaft of his axe underneath Thibault’s armpits and dragged him back, step by step, away from the battle line.

  A harrowing roar echoed over the square. Gehrman looked up as something huge crashed into the Bretonnian line, crushing Squire Alfred under its weight. Seeing the boy buried under the behemoth, Gehrman felt nothing. No anger, no fear.

  A few steps behind Alfred, Adalhard exchanged blows with the lesser vermin. He had not yet realized the danger he was in.

  Gehrman slid his axe free from Thibault’s armpits and let go of the young knight. Squires Geoffrey and Ambrose staggered a few steps back – the Bretonnian formation buckled. Yet they shielded the unconscious knight from the enemies.

  Gehrman glanced at Adalhard, who was rolling his scarred shoulder in a practised motion. He had just delivered a fatal blow to his opponent. He turned to face his next enemy. His posture stiffened as he saw the monstrosity before him. For a heartbeat, Gehrman and Adalhard’s gazes met. Adalhard did not move.

  Gehrman faced the beast, raised his axe, and took a step forward.

  He eyed the behemoth, trying to find a weak spot in its physique.

  Suddenly, one of the greater vermin squealed three times. The sound tore through the tension. The monster staggered back one step at a time. It snarled, spittle dripping from its maw. Its arms threshed about, as if to keep any attacker at bay. Slowly, it withdrew, covering the retreat of the other rat things.

  In the silence that followed, Gehrman unbuckled his helmet. His fingers trembled as the fire of battle subsided in him. As he took off the helmet, he could hear the heavy breathing of the fighters surrounding him. They looked as puzzled as he was. The cultists were nowhere to be seen. Somewhere to the left, someone laughed in relief.

  Gehrman let out a sharp whistle and listened intently for a reply. In the distance, he heard a bark. Gehrman turned around, trotting towards the sound. Through the rubble, Arnaud raced towards him.

  Gehrman kneeled and scratched the war-hound behind the ears. “Now, where have you been?”

  He looked at his dog; the muzzle covered in fresh blood. Arnaud dropped scraps of fabric covered in blood. He panted and wagged his tail. Gehrman picked up the fabric. It looked like the same cloth the cultists wore. “Good”.

  They returned to camp as the sun was high up in the sky. Yet the mist covered the sky, and the sun was only a pale circle behind the grey veil. Thibault had come to consciousness and was supported by one of the squires. Squire Alfred had also survived, by the Lady’s grace alone, Gehrman told himself. The young squire was wounded, yet his shield had taken the brunt of the impact.

  Gehrman was the last to reach camp, a very silent Lady Justine at his side.

  “You seem troubled,” Gehrman said without looking at her.

  She did not reply.

  “You were in quite a hurry today,” Gehrman mentioned, all the while petting Arnaud. The dog did not leave his side. “You expected something else.”

  “Ser Gehrman,” Lady Justine sighed. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. 'I don’t expect anything, I am a mere vessel of the Lady,” and with that, she turned and went off.

  He looked one more time at the Damsel and retreated to his tent.

  He undid the straps fastening his armour and took off the plates, followed by the chainmail. Ironically, he felt heavier unarmoured than with his armour on.

  Methodically, he started cleaning the metal, preventing rust from settling. He sharpened and oiled his axe and put it back on the rack. Finally, he undid Arnaud’s harness and fed the dog some meat.

  His limbs felt heavy. He sat down on his cot, his head buried in his hands. From outside the tent, he could hear the first songs of victory. He heard Adalhard’S voice, “Gehrman, care to join the celebration?”

  Gehrman sighed and rose to his feet. He joined Adalhard and the others at the fireplace. While the others laughed, sang, and prayed, Gehrman sat in silence. He did not feel like celebrating, after all, what exactly had they won?

  He did not stay long and retreated to his tent. In his seclusion, he told himself, they had not failed. They had endured. And so had he.

  As nighttime settled in, Gehrman could hear Arnaud’s shallow breathing. Sleep had found the war-hound. Yet it avoided the knight. He lay on his cot, listening to the celebrations slowly dying down. Only to be replaced by the muffled whimpering of the young girl in the tent next to his.