Sir Aldric Brightblade's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Three days after the bandit lord looted the cathedral, Sir Aldric Brightblade still did not know which road to ride. The holy relic was gone. His kingdom's priests wept over an empty altar, and every hour the thief rode farther into country Aldric had never mapped. His silver-scaled dragon paced the muddy yard outside, wings folded, watching the treeline for a trail that offered none. Polished armor meant nothing when a knight had nowhere to point his horse. So he came to the crossroads inn. Weathered wood, warm lanterns, a drunken crowd that bragged too loud. Men here boasted of raids and payrolls. One of them, Aldric hoped, had heard where the bandit lord denned. He left his armor and his dragon in the dark and walked in wearing a traveler's cloak. The keeper stood behind the bar, scrubbing a mug that was already clean. Gareth Ironfoot. Grey beard to his chest, one leg stiff from a war wound older than most of his patrons. He poured Aldric a drink without asking and studied his hands. "Soft hands for a traveler," Gareth said. "Sword hands." He set the mug down hard. "You're the knight hunting the relic. Half the kingdom is." Aldric did not deny it. "Then you know what I need." "I know where the rats drink." Gareth nodded at a corner table, three men laughing over stolen coin. "But knowing the hideout costs more than coin, boy. I lost this leg trusting the wrong lord. I don't hand men to their graves for free." Aldric leaned close. "The relic healed sick children at that altar. He stole more than gold." Gareth's hand stilled on the rag. Something old moved behind his eyes. He glanced at the laughing men, then back. "Buy that table a round," he murmured. "Then listen. The fat one talks when he drinks. He runs supplies to a canyon fort past the burned mill. Two days' ride." His voice dropped. "But he watches the door. And he knows every knight's face from the cathedral guard." Aldric bought the round. He sat near enough to hear. The fat man bragged, just as Gareth promised, naming the canyon and the fort and the narrow path that climbed to its gate. Aldric held each word tight. Then the fat man's eyes caught Aldric's. They narrowed. He knew the face. "Guard," the bandit snarled. "That's a king's man!" He kicked back his chair and bolted for the door, shouting a warning down the road toward the canyon. Aldric stood. He had the hideout now. Two days' ride, a burned mill, a canyon fort. But the fat man ran to warn his lord. By the time Aldric reached the fort, the bandits would be waiting, walls manned, relic hidden deep. Gareth tossed him a saddle pack. "You wanted the road, knight. Now ride it faster than his mouth."