Chapter 47: Arthur Pendragon
The four knights prepared to depart on the fourth day.
Encrid had known it was coming. Their orders were to deliver him, not to keep him in company, and the Wall barred standing noble entourage the same way it barred crests and carriages. But knowing it was coming and actually standing in the cold, watching four horses being saddled, turned out to be two very different things.
"The report I send His Grace will be accurate," Sir Gareth said, cinching a strap.
"That’s what worries me."
"It will say that his son arrived safely, was assigned meaningful work, and is training daily." The old knight paused. "It will also say that in thirty-one years of service, this was the strangest escort duty I have ever performed, and the only one I was sorry to see end."
Encrid looked at him and found he had no easy reply. Behind them, Harun was saying goodbye to Gus by gripping the boy’s shoulder and telling him solemnly that if anyone at the Wall gave him trouble, he should write to Harun, who would ride north and be extremely unpleasant about it. Berrick was checking the other boy’s saddle for the third time.
Because that was the arrangement.
Encrid had made the decision the night they arrived, lying awake under the weight of a seven-star quest. The Sword Saint’s primary objective was survival until the story began. And the Wall was the single most guaranteed place of mass death in the next two years of this world. Keeping the boy here wasn’t safe. It would be like storing a legend inside a bomb.
"Sir Gareth, one more matter." Encrid produced two sealed letters. "The first is for my father. The second is a request to you personally, and you’re free to refuse it."
He nodded across the yard, to where the grey-eyed boy stood beside the horse Berrick had prepared, wrapped sword slung across his back, watching everything.
"Take the boy back to the Gannon Household with you and train him."
Sir Gareth went still.
"You have better eyes than me, Sir Gareth," Encrid said. "You must have noticed him the first day. Don’t pretend otherwise. I’m asking you to teach him the sword properly. The letter asks my father to pay for his keep. I’ve written that he can cancel my stipend to cover the cost, since I don’t need it anymore." He smiled thinly, making a circle out of his fingers as he looked at Volk, who was also present there to see off the knights, but mostly because Sir Gareth wanted to warn him not to try anything funny before they left.
"Young master." The old knight’s voice was careful. "Who is that child?"
’Someone who will become the strongest sword of the continent,’ Encrid thought. ’The blade the last age measures itself against. The author’s favorite. The character whose Chapters crashed the forums.’
But he didn’t say all those things, instead.
"Someone the world is going to need," he said. "Sooner than it thinks. I can’t train him - I can barely train myself. You can. And one more thing, Sir Gareth." Encrid held his eyes. "The sword stays with him. Whatever happens, whoever asks. The sword is his. That condition isn’t mine to waive, so don’t ask me to."
A long silence ensued as the wind moved the horses’ manes.
Sir Gareth took the letters and said at last, "I’ll train him, young master. On my name."
✧ ✧ ✧
The boy had not spoken a single word in the eleven days Encrid had known him.
Not when he was fed. Not when he was freed. Not through the whole rattling journey north, sitting in the carriage corner with his sword in his arms, watching Encrid work through ledgers, watching Gus practice his letters. Always watching, with those steel-grey eyes that missed nothing and gave nothing back.
Now he stood by the horse, ready to ride south into a future Encrid had redirected with two letters.
Encrid crouched in front of him, the way he had once crouched at the cell bars, putting his eyes below the boy’s level.
"You’ll be safe with Sir Gareth," Encrid said. "Safer than with me, which is exactly why you’re going. He’ll teach you what that arm of yours is starving for. Eat what they give you. Grow. And keep the sword." He tapped his own shoulder, mirroring the sling. "Always keep the sword."
The grey eyes studied him.
"When you’re ready - when Sir Gareth says you’re ready, not before - come and find me. I have a feeling I’m going to need you." Encrid stood and gave the boy the same small salute he’d given him across the fire. "Whoever you are."
He turned to go.
"Arthur."
Encrid stopped.
The voice was small and rusty, and it cracked in the middle - eleven days of silence, and months of silence before that. But it was clear, and it was aimed at him. When Encrid turned back, the boy was standing straight beside the horse with his chin up, offering his name the way a knight offers his sword to a liege.
"Arthur Pendragon."
The world went white at the edges.
[ Quest Update ]
[ ✦ NARRATIVE QUEST: THE SWORD BEFORE ITS LEGEND ✦ ]
[ Certain lives are destined to shape the history of the world. This child is one of them. The existence of the boy marks the beginning of a legend that should have started years into the future. The fate has accelerated, and the narrative sequence beyond this point will depend on the choices involving this subject. ]
[ Quest Rank: ★★★★★★ ]
[ Quest Difficulty: ★★★★ ]
[ Narrative Value: ★★★★★★★ ]
[ Primary Objective: Ensure the child’s survival until the opening of the original narrative. ]
[ Secondary Objective: Preserve the sword entrusted to him. Under no circumstances may it be stolen, destroyed, or permanently separated from its rightful bearer before the appointed narrative point. ]
[ Hidden Objective: ▮▮ 16% ▮▮ ]
[ Failure Conditions: Subject’s death/ Permanent loss of the wrapped sword ]
[ Reward: Uncertain ]
[ Note: The sword has found its teacher. The teacher has found his purpose. ]
[ Your decision has altered the course of the future by a significant margin ]
[ Narrative Relevance Updated: 0.25% → 1.25% ]
[ Reward: Withheld pending quest completion. ]
The quest suddenly updated, and two things had changed.
First, the hidden objective, which had shot up by 15%, and then his own narrative relevance.
’A full percent,’ Encrid thought, staring at the number through the after-glare.
He looked at the boy. Arthur. Arthur Pendragon, eleven years old, four feet and a handful of inches of bone and scar tissue and steel-grey eyes. The system had just priced this moment higher than everything else Encrid had done in this world combined.
’What are you going to become,’ Encrid thought, ’that your name is worth this much?’
He knew, of course. That was the terrible, wonderful part. He knew.
"Arthur Pendragon," Encrid repeated, and bowed to him slightly, with full courtesy, noble to noble, in the middle of the transit yard, to a scarred child in a borrowed coat, while the gate watch stared. "Encrid Gannon. It’s an honor."
Something happened to the boy’s face then that Encrid would remember for years. It wasn’t a smile. It was the place where a smile would someday be built.
Then Arthur mounted - smoothly, infuriatingly, like everything physical he did - and the four knights formed up around him, and the party rode into the throat of the Mouth and was gone south.
Encrid stood in the yard with Gus, watching the empty gate.
’Grow well and become my insurance, Arthur.’
✦ ✦ ✦