Knight Takes Pawn

Havelock’s Inception in to the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush pt.2

Havelock’s thoughts momentarily touch on realisation: though amongst the meanings of the title of the knights of the Illustrative and Insinuative Order of the Inconscient Brush, he has delved the multiple meanings of illustrative, insinuative and inconscient, it dawns on him, so ingrained with paints as he is, that he had always considered the brush to be that of an artist but now, faced with vegetation, it bears many more meanings, not least trees and branches.

While his mind turns out new meanings: light touch; to clean by such a touch or tool of the same name, he turns to his colleague and says, “I may possibly have been remiss Zubenelgenubi, I have not asked about you. What is your speciality within the order? Are you an artist like myself?”

Stepping off in the direction indicated he once more tousles his copper locks; oh yes, he recalls; another meaning – the tail of the fox.

Zubenelgenubi turns his ever-revolving eyes from the open fields to his companion. “No, I believe none of House Malastar are versed in the Art of the Mystic Image. I understand it was once endemic in all houses in the Thelbane, but no longer. All of my House are dedicated to the art of Divination, principally by Astromancy and Nihilomancy; each specialises in another form of Divination as well. I am versed in Numerology.”

Havelock follows Zubenelgenubi on a path, leaving the unsettling woods behind. The ground appears to be a hard, dark wood but Havelock can see square fields of a paler colour on rolling hills ahead and to the side. Overhead persists the dramatically glowering stormy sky with the occasional rumble of thunder but no actual lightning.

As they walk Havelock continues his questioning, “So I conclude then the Illustrative Knights are not Illustrators? How does this relate to the order’s title? Do you demonstrate examples or explanation of something gradually by some insidious method?”

Zubenelgenubi takes his time before replying and by now Havelock is beginning to read the faster spin of his bright eyes as indicative of the cogs of inner thought. While Havelock is waiting for the reply he is sure will come eventually. He notices the thunder is getting nearer, though there’s still no lightning. It is also changing in pitch, rising and falling, and in tone.

The two men negotiate a shallow dyke between two fields. The ground on the farther side is a paler sort of wood, but just as hard. With a deep sigh, as if Zubenelgenubi is unhappy with his answer but it’s the best that he’s got, “Our Order uses Illustrative means to Insinuate in to the Inconscient. If I may use a metaphor that may perhaps make things clearer for you, we use subliminal applications of the brush to improve the bigger picture.”

“Ah, means and into, yes that’s much clearer”, agrees Havelock.

As his companion falls silent, Havelock becomes aware that the thunder now almost sounds like speech, an enormous basso-profundo voice. He finds himself playing a game with it, the audio equivalent of the children’s game of making pictures out of clouds.

After a while comes a sentence that seems to make sense… of a sort.

“Knave of Cups and King’s Pawn to Stark Outpost Five.”

The voice seems faintly familiar.

The chequerboard countryside makes more sense to Havelock as thoughts of Carroll’s Wonderland and Stevenson’s Counterpane come to mind now. He considers which of the primordial game players has called out the latest move and wonders if it makes a difference. Just in case, he changes the angle of his scabbard a touch, whilst making small adjustments in movement and dress to make himself more responsive to any counter move.

For mental exercise he makes to deconstruct the player’s words. If I, Havelock, correspond to the Knave of Cups, then my companion is a King’s pawn, but which King? And what is Stark Outpost Five? Running a subconscious finger down the list of Houses of the Thelbane he tries to recall seeing the name House Stark. Havelock recalls Stark as being one of the domiciles of the lesser houses, but for the moment he can’t recall which.

Paying fuller attention to the scenery he and his partner now crosses he asks, “Sorry to move away from the topic a bit, Zubenelgenubi, but as a numerologist, does anywhere in this locale, or where we are going, associate with the number five?”

Zubenelgenubi casts an irritated glance at the sky and raises his voice slightly, as if wishing his words to be heard by someone else. “Alas, I may not reveal where we are bound, since it must remain secret until we are there.”

Havelock cannot help but follow the glance and finds twin breaks in the two cloud layers match up for a few seconds. Through that ephemeral gap Havelock spies an enormous eye and a familiar hooked nose as a second thunderous voice joins the first in conversation.

“You mean to knight him, of course?”

“Of course, he’s the last and it will give me the set. And your move?”

“Grafine von Laus to take the Logrus – brings the suit of Eyes back to strength.”

“If successful.”

“I have every confidence.”

“Pay no attention to the voices behind the curtain of rain!” interrupts Zubenelgenubi, now definitely sounding testy. “They are merely disconcertions and of no consequence.”

Havelock smiles: disconcerting, indeed; no consequence? Probably that would be wishful thinking.

Accepting this advice and realising further contemplation could be dangerously distracting, he files thoughts of the meaning of the Trump suit of Eyes away for future consideration and, turning his attention from listening to voices on the wind, asks, “Tell me more of what lies ahead at the initiation, if you can? Are there rules I must obey, such as restrictions on speaking before being incepted or questions I should not ask? Or dangers I can be made aware of?”

The clouds close over again, hiding what might or might not be Dworkin – the picture wasn’t that clear and Havelock is put in mind of Oberon’s face in the sky after the battle.

Zubenelgenubi smiles thinly and starts walking again. “There are a few rules but chiefly amongst these is secrecy, so I cannot advise until we are at our destination.” He sighs, “We have few arcane ceremonies and rituals, unlike lesser institutions devoted to style rather than substance.” Again Havelock hears that critical sniff. “Most of what you will learn will be of a practical nature. There are very real dangers but if you apply yourself to technique and follow the direction of our senior members (which I am not) then these dangers can to a large extent be nullified.”

Havelock looks at the path ahead, scanning the terrain, but is discomforted slightly by the thought that at any moment the world will be whisked away. However the chequerboard countryside seems quite comforting at the moment. “Well I suspect therefore much else of what I’d like to know would be too revealing to speak of, where the clouds have ears.”

Zubenelgenubi lifts his strange, bright eyes to scan the heavens but the clouds are just clouds and the thunder remains an incoherent rumble. For the moment.

“Maybe you could tell me a little of your practice of Numerology?” Havelock asks, “For example, what is your text of choice? As a diviner of sorts myself I sometimes enjoy the odd little riddles the tools of our trade put before us and am then as oft perplexed by what others find easy to comprehend. You know my cards have numbers?”

“I did notice the numbers but the relation of the numbers to your inferences and conclusions seemed unclear to me. However I put this down to my being unversed in the art.

“There are many ways to practise numerology but recently I have taken to practising a method taken from a text gifted to our house by House Zephyra. Unfortunately the text is badly damaged and the title is lost. Furthermore the arts it reveals are very abstruse and arcane. It has taken me some time to tease any meaning from it at all but I am beginning to think it shows considerable promise.”

Havelock and Zubenelgenubi cross another field boundary and Zubenelgenubi retrieves a thumb-sized stone from the dyke between. On the other side, the wooden floor underfoot turns dark again. Zubenelgenubi gestures to the middle of the field where what looks to Havelock’s eyes as a battered, white chess pawn, stands all alone, about 5 feet high.

Zubenelgenubi leads Havelock toward the pawn. As Havelock gets closer he spies markings that suggest a hunched figure with hands resting on two blades, head on one side, as if asleep. Zubenelgenubi indicates the pawn as he halts a short distance from it.

“If I might demonstrate: behold yonder! The object of our attention is some ten paces distant, is it not? Now I have in my hand a stone. By the arcane divinatory arts of Numerology, I can predict that if I were to throw this stone at a certain speed, say ten paces per eyeblink, it will reach said object in approximately one eyeblink.”

Zubenelgenubi throws the stone and it flies true, striking the pawn on the head after an interval of, more or less, one eyeblink.

“Of course, this is a very simple problem and, as with any divinatory art, it can go amiss, but in my experience it is right at least as often as it is wrong and has applications in much more complex situations.”

The pawn jerks awake, startled, and looks around, drawing its blades in evident anger as it spies its assailants. Havelock can tell by its movements that it’s hideously strong. It draws each blade with great deliberation. Its gaze glitters implacably as it strides forward.

“Um… Lord Havelock, without wishing to pry, might I enquire whether you are particularly skilled in the use of your blade?”

Even before his companion has finished his question, Havelock’s hand flashes forward, sending his dagger along the stone’s ten-pace pathway. It may only be a second eyeblink but, as the pawn deliberates in getting its weapons clear, Havelock has crippling intent and wastes no time in striking for its eyes. Then in one flowing motion he follows through from the cast and draws his sword.

As the dagger flits toward its target, the pawn jerks its head to one side and the dagger chinks off the side of its helmet, which looks like stone but sounds like metal.

[Havelock is disappointed that the dagger cast did absolutely nothing given what he believed would be the yawning gap in his level of skill (somewhere in the very high Amberite) facing what he believed to be a Chaos ranked pawn, but is obviously in the low rankings. Backed by what he hoped was a quite superior agility.]

[You need to be aware of which stats are effecting the situation. Warfare governs whether the dagger hits the target and the quickness with which it leaves Havelock, but it is a kinetic missile and the damage inflicted is governed by Havelock’s Strength.

Also, Havelock has underestimated the pawn’s Warfare – this is a warrior demon, which means it must have a ‘ranked’ Warfare (though the term ‘Chaos ranked’ has no meaning in the system we’re using). This means its warfare is higher than anything Havelock could find on RL Earth, for example, though doubtless inferior to Havelock himself.

Finally any missile dilutes the effectiveness of Warfare, since the time of flight allows the potential victim to take action. Benedict can sidestep rifle bullets at medium to long range, no matter who fires them – as long as he can see them coming, of course.]

Tersely Havelock snaps, “Fortunately princes of Amber seem to get regular practice. As you are not one I suggest you retire over there and do not get in the way!”

Not taking his own eyes from the pawn, with his offhand he gestures Zubenelgenubi back beyond the dyke they had just crossed. Meanwhile ensuring the brute cannot pin him against that barrier, he advances further onto the field and keeping his guard up between them.

Here, in the middle of the field, there’s some forty yards to the dyke behind him, so all parties have plenty of room to manoeuvre.

The pawn flashes a mirthless grin, “Pawn takes knight!” it snarls, and flings itself at Havelock.

“No, I moved into your square; I think you’ll find prince takes pawn.”

Havelock knows the thing is hideously strong. He feels it’s also pretty quick; it’s hard to believe it’s as quick as him and intuitively he suspects that any pawn should be inferior to a knight, but he’s not sure how much of an advantage he might have and it does have two blades.

Alas the ground is hard, dark wood, nothing to scoop or throw.

The pawn’s blades could charitably be described as scimitars but they’re more like heavy cutlasses and the pawn uses them like meat-cleavers. There’s a real danger that a blow from one of them could break Havelock’s much lighter weapon so Havelock has to use pure footwork to avoid being hit.

The thing is better than Havelock had assumed, however there’s little finesse in the pawn’s style and it flails at him, raining scything blows at any part of him it can reach. The way it occasionally chews the ground confirms its phenomenal strength.

Havelock retreats slowly but steadily before the pawn’s whirling blades. An early stop-thrust chinks off its chest armour but serves to slow its advance. A quick slash at an arm knocks out a chip of something but draws no blood.

After retreating 5 or 6 paces, Havelock feels he has the thing’s measure. He’s confident of a significant skill superiority but the problem is essentially two-fold. Firstly, he has to put the point of his blade in a chink in the pawn’s armour. There are several of these but Havelock thinks the eye or the throat seem most likely. Probably the throat – it’s a larger target and the eye might result in his blade being trapped in the eye-hole of its helmet.

The second problem is that one of the flailing blades might strike home even as Havelock runs it through. He’s beginning to regret disposing of his dagger so early in the fight.

“You’re getting above yourself, knight,” mocks the pawn, “Prince of what?”

“Havelock, Prince of Amber at your service... and you seem like you do need my help and instruction. Your style with those cleavers of yours lacks skill. For example when you chop away like that,” he steps to his left to avoid the descending left falchion, avoiding another timber splintering blow, “you leave your side vulnerable.” He stings in a strike for the wrist holding that blade.

Havelock retreats in a circular fashion to avoid the dykes. The pawn pays absolutely no attention to this but continues to fling a continual barrage of scything slashes from all quarters. Havelock again chips something off a wrist but it seems to do absolutely nothing to the thing’s fury. His problems remain as before.

“I am schooled in the princes of Amber and none are hight Havelock.”

“Ah, so poor schooling would seem to serve you badly with both blade and with knowledge of those superior to you. You would seem to be a demon peasant and not even a well-educated peasant at that.”

So it isn’t getting angrier. Havelock doesn’t mind, he enjoys the sport anyway. The multiple scything strikes from two weapons make throat strikes too risky until he disarms it of one of its blades unless Havelock is staring real openings in the face. This thing is ranked and he wouldn’t expect to beat close ranked swordsmen to him too quickly so he will continue to work on weakening by one sword.

By now Havelock has a good appreciation of their relative prowess. He has a clear superiority in Warfare, it has an equally clear superiority in Strength – he suspects the ratios are about the same each way. He is also beginning to suspect the pawn has an advantage in Endurance, though not as marked as Strength.

Havelock feels the chips to the wrists are having little effect. They do not draw blood, or whatever its equivalent might be, and as far as he can see both have already closed over – Demons are shapeshifters and this one apparently heals like a Troll.

Then the inevitable happens. Havelock has done his best to keep his sword out of harm’s way but in the flurry of swordplay it is caught a chance blow from a cutlass. There’s a musical ‘tching’ and a splinter of metal flies away.

Havelock can immediately feel the unwanted flex in his blade – it won’t take another hit like that.

The pawn’s grin grows wider. “Pretender Havelock, thy words are passing strange, but they shalt be thine last.” Sensing victory, it puts in extra heft and another blow bites wood. There are now half-a-dozen gashes where it has had to jerk it free from the ground, earning Havelock another moment’s respite.

Taking advantage, Havelock strikes immediately for the throat but as he lunges he’s forced to catch the pawn’s wrist with his left hand to avoid being decapitated. However his blade goes in and something resembling a faint purplish gas boils from the wound.

Then with a ‘tchlang’ the damaged blade breaks. Havelock is left wrestling with a (hopefully) mortally wounded demon, with just six inches of steel left to defend himself. More than two feet of rapier blade is still stuck through the pawn’s throat. A loud clang suggests it has dropped the remaining blade.

Acutely conscious of the dangers of wrestling a demon of such strength, Havelock hopes the thing dies quickly. He feels claws rake his back but then his eyes lock with the demon’s and he senses its death approaching as it sees in to his soul.

“Thou’rt no prince, knave,” croaks the pawn, somehow past the steel. “Had’st thou not lied, thine victory would have been easier.”

Then it slumps in death. Havelock reels away, retching. That purplish gas is noxious. He feels a warm dampness spreading over his back.

“Oh Pawn fatally misled, for your doom is Havelock of the Blood of Amber, though not titled Prince, my blood is pure and my skill is as good as but a few of that kind.

“I am more than mere Lord or Knave; I am of direct descent from the blood of Prince Bleys, the Golden, my pater, and by him from King Oberon who was. As only one third of Kolvir’s stairs stood between him and the throne it was only those steps that withheld that title, that you lay such store in, from me. My shining father casts a long shadow and yet the time has come for us cadets, whose grandsire was the King, to take their place amidst their Elders.”

Once clear from the fumes, Havelock uses his experience as a trauma surgeon to test his injuries. With an injury to his back he is first concerned to check for signs of any puncture of chest wall, which could lead to haemomediastinum, haemothorax or pneumothorax. Subsequently he flexes the muscles of shoulder and back to locate what tissue has been torn to cause the bleeding he knows he is doing.

Havelock is reasonably sure he need fear none of those dreadful conditions – he’s having little trouble breathing and feels no fluid on his lungs. He’s pretty certain the pawn’s claws inflicted superficial, if messy, wounds to his back. Since little blood is reaching the ground, the flow cannot be too heavy. But it stings!

The body of the pawn crumbles to dust which a cold wind blows away. The very ground also seems to mend. Within a few minutes no one might know there’d been a vicious duel fought on this spot, save for the broken rapier blade on the ground.

“Zubenelgenubi,” asks Havelock, “I have demonstrated what a Blooded son of Amber knows of swordplay, what do you know of the arts of healing?”

Zebenelgenubi shrugs as he moves forward to help Havelock to his feet. “I could divine where best to search for such arts but I am sure none are closer than our destination, which is not very distant. Please walk this way.”

For the moment Havelock finds walking fairly easy but he knows once his wounds stiffen that may not be the case, so for the moment he needs to keep moving.

Zebenelgenubi continues the trek across the now pristine ground and helps Havelock over the dyke at the far side. This is now the fourth field and the ground turns pale again.

Havelock can tell by the rapidly spinning eyes and the furrowed brow that something is troubling his companion.

“Something bothers you Zebenelgenubi? As soon we will be colleagues together in the order, would you share what concerns so as not spoil our future fellowship?”

Zebenelgenubi seems to have trouble articulating his thoughts. He crosses his arms in that monkish fashion so as to hide his hands and bends his head, deep in thought, as he resumes trudging onward. After another half field, he finally raises his head to speak…

“My lord Havelock, I could not help overhearing your words to the departed white pawn. Pray, what is their meaning?”

It’s not far to the next dyke and Havelock can see a dark, squat tower rising in the next field. Somehow he knows this is their destination.

Havelock answers, “I am of the Royal Blood of Amber, blood that contains within it the power of the Pattern etched by Dworkin Barimen. It is this blood that allows us to attune ourselves to that form and thus to move through shadow and impose our will upon it. No others in all reality are like our family. We are few and we are an elite.

“When King Oberon vanished, a cabal of four of his nine brothers conspired to deny my father the crown that should have been his,” he continues, “and pass it instead to one of their number, Eric. This was despite the King intimating before he disappeared that his son Bleys should inherit and it was to bar the best candidate that these jealous brothers acted. Maybe Corwin would have been better, but some member of the cabal had disposed of him. Perhaps Benedict would have been as good, but old law says a fratricide should not inherit. This should have put paid to Eric too, as he was chief suspect for Corwin’s vanishing.”

Havelock stops momentarily to flex his back again to try to slow the creeping stiffness.

“Undaunted, my father, Bleys, and his brother, Brand, along with their sister, plotted to resist Eric’s tyranny. They found and freed Corwin from where Eric had exiled him, and even that Prince saw the justice in their cause and supported my father’s march back to recover what was rightfully his. They would have been better served if my uncle Brand had not become unhinged. Bleys brought his men to the very borders of Amber City, whilst Corwin carelessly lost his contingent of troops at sea and then needed rescuing.

“Here my father showed not only leadership but that he had the courage of Kings and, whilst Corwin hung back, led their soldiers up the Kolvir stair,” Havelock sighs, remembering watching his dad’s tremendous display of swordsmanship, “He fought and won every step until near the top, when he was unlucky and slipped from the face.

“I was ready and conveyed him to safety but the struggle was lost. Corwin did his best to try to follow-up and seize the throne for himself, but without dad his forces fell apart and he was soon overcome.

“So I am a little bitter when the title Prince is thrown back in my face. I know that only the son of a King is a Prince. However, but for the treachery of four uncles, the madness of a fifth and the incompetence of a sixth, my father would be King and I would bear that title.”

He looks at his companion, “Does this answer your question? Or was it the last part of my statement that troubles you?”

Zubenelgenubi seems shocked. “So truly does so little lie between you and that title?” The question seems rhetorical for he seems not to need an answer, falling in to a deep reverie.