Knights of Bayard

In the tavern, there were many more soldiers and the rain had stopped. There were bottles of wine and loaves of bread, and bowls of cut carrots, and berries, and pork for the wolf-ponies, and a breeze came from the open window, a small relief from the boisterous crowd. He could see the city in the distance and the old castle above it with the mountains behind it, blue-grey mountains with frosted slopes. There were more wagons being moved outside, and there were some new faces, he met fresh-faced stallions and a few mares in the tavern, and they chatted and flirted, and others, the older ponies, sat quietly among themselves and drank.

It was warm, and Lulamoon sat beside Swift Bolt. They were served spiced wine in an iron jug, and grilled hay, and they drank from tin tankards. Sitting in another table, across from them, was a young mare, in a brown hemp cloak, and her mane was unkempt, and face dirty with powder. Her bombard with its dark oak handle, mage-steel barrel, and sharpened glaive, hung over her shoulder. The grenadier, Swift Bolt, took a mouthful of hay, chewing slowly, and downing it with a swig of wine. He pointed a feather when he noticed the culverin across form them and spoke.

“Glykiá theá,” he said. “That’s some serious firepower.”

“No kidding.”

Lulamoon poured himself some wine and drank it slowly.

“You think she’s with the Knights?” he asked.

“Can’t say,” said Swift Bolt. “They pull ponies left and right, and they can’t refuse. Where we go, what we do, they tell us and we do it. Say no and you might get strung up to a tree.”

“I heard these ponies are different. The Princess respects them.”

“You talk like you know. Did you have any beautiful adventures with them?”

“No.”

“Well, I have.”

“When?”

“In Mareseilles. Met one when I clipped my wing on a run. You can tell right away that he was a noble. He had that sort of face. Did everything he could to fix my wing. I could have stayed all night.”

“Did you?”

“No, I couldn’t. I wish we had some of them here. Preened nobles. Not these malakas they have running the hospital.”

“They are pretty rough.”

“You understand then?”

“I understand you want to get in bed with a preened noble.”

He smiled. “You are a good friend. I’d take you to paradise if only you ask.”

“Go to Tartarus,” said Lulamoon.

Lulamoon looked back towards the mare. “Are they preparing another push soon?”

“They haven’t said anything, but every day you see somepony with cuts, bruises, strangles, thrush, and cracked hooves. Every week some pony gets wounded. There are a few real wounded. Next week the war might start again. Maybe. You hear rumors. Do you think we should invite her to drink with us? It’s no good to drink alone.”

“Probably,” he said and poured his tankard full of wine.

“To-night, I will be helping the priest,” said Swift Bolt. “I might not be back till morning, so you must keep that bastard Fence away from my things.”

Lulamoon chewed some hay and drank from his tankard. While he did he looked around the room and out the window and at Swift Bolt drinking with his eyes closed. He was good-looking, was Lulamoon’s age, and he was always straight with him. He loved being a grenadier, and they were great friends. While he was looking at him he opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry friend, but I’m saving myself for somepony else.”

Lulamoon laughed.

Swift Bolt set aside his tankard, rose from his seat, and stretched his wings. He smiled, “I must get to the chapel early and make my confessions. You really are my good friend and noble protector.”

“Have fun,” said Lulamoon.

That night Lulamoon returned to his room and he was tired and suddenly frightened when he heard the shouting and laughter from the soldiers nearby. He had remembered the mare in the tavern and the others like her sitting quietly among the drunken crowd. He felt as badly as he did and could not understand how they became that way. It was what had happened to them, and what would happen to them and Lulamoon wondered if he would end up like them someday. He realized he had drank too much wine and after water and bread he thought, winefully, how he did not do the things he wanted to do; was there time left for such things anymore.

He laid on his bed and tried to get himself to sleep. He had wanted to go to someplace far away. Someplace where it was quiet, and the roof didn’t leak, and every night there wasn’t the sound of thunder, clanking iron, and rocks being crushed beneath horse-shoes and the towns-ponies didn’t stare down at the ground and tremble as you walked past. He hadn’t found such a place but where houses were leveled and once verdant fields were scorched and smelled like charred meat, and nights where the room whirled and he needed to look at the wall to make it stop; nights in bed, drunk, where all he knew that that was all there was, and a strange fear of not waking up tomorrow and not caring when he woke, sure that he would do it all over again. To wake up in a warm bed, in a quiet place, and happy to get out on the street and feel the sun against his coat; not another day starting and another night fearing. He could have this, and he really wanted to go to such a place, but he had to wait. He wondered why it was always like this when he drank, and he tried to forget it. Here, now, he had Swift Bolt, the tavern, and a place to sleep, with food, water, and a roof. More than they usually had; more than what that mare probably has.

He wrapped the sheet tightly around him and eventually found sleep.