The Red Knight

by Miles Cameron

  ‘Tom?’ he called.

  ‘No,’ replied Harmodius.

  The captain wriggled. The water seemed to burn where he had abrasions, and where he had cuts, and where he had sores.

  So pretty much everywhere.

  He realised that his soap – his lovely almond scented soap from Galle – was in his leather portmanteau.

  Harmodius came across the room. ‘You are stronger,’ he said without preamble. ‘I saw you last night. Fast and strong.’

  ‘I do your exercises every day,’ the captain admitted. ‘And as you said – I try to do everything I can by the arts.’ He shrugged, and the water was delicious. ‘When he lets me.’

  ‘Our adversary?’ Harmodius nodded.

  ‘He’s camped outside my place of power.’ The captain reached all the way to the well, a long way for him. Thirty paces through rock. But he could feel the power there, now. He reached out, touched it, took a sip, and cast.

  The soap rose, crossed the room, and fell into the bath with a splash.

  ‘Damn,’ said the captain. Not his soap. The sharpening hones for his razor.

  Harmodius grinned. ‘Soap? Is it pink?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the captain.

  ‘Still, you are much improved. I know you were well trained, you just have to be less secretive.’ He shrugged. ‘An easy thing for me to say.’ He picked up the soap and then held it out of reach.

  ‘I’d be able to do more if he weren’t right outside my door, waiting to come in and rip my soul out,’ said the captain, scratching. ‘Soap please?’

  Harmodius looked out from the tapestry. ‘Nice new window,’ he said. ‘Get your power elsewhere. You know how.’

  ‘From the well?’ the captain asked.

  ‘How about the sun?’ Harmodius asked.

  ‘I’m a child of the Wild,’ the captain said. ‘My mother made me that way.’

  Harmodius wasn’t looking at him. He was looking out over the fields. ‘Do you trust me, boy?’

  The captain looked at the tall, proud figure. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Not to give me my soap, anyway.’

  Harmodius barked a laugh. ‘Fair enough. Fair enough. Do you trust me as a mentor in Hermeticism?’

  The captain thought for a long few heartbeats. ‘I think so,’ he said.

  The old Magus nodded and ripped the tapestry off its hooks, so that the afternoon sun fell right on the tub. ‘Take the soap. With the sun. Do it.’ He held the soap where it could be seen.

  The captain felt the sun against his bare skin like a faint weight. He held up a wet hand, and let the sun lick it.

  He had always liked the sun. Especially in spring.

  . . . scent of flowers . . .

  For a fraction of a heartbeat he’d had it, and then revulsion set in. It was like a gag reflex.

  The soap didn’t move.

  ‘Try harder,’ Harmodius said.

  ‘You could just give me the soap, and we could do this when I’m dressed.’ The captain felt very much at a disadvantage, naked, wet, hurt and vulnerable.

  Harmodius narrowed his eyes. ‘Cast.’

  The captain tried again. He let the sun kiss him. He drank in—

  And spat up, narrowly avoiding his bath. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Better,’ Harmodius said. ‘Very good indeed. May I tell you what I admire in you, Captain?’

  ‘You’re going to try flattery now?’ asked the captain.

  ‘It’s not that you are not afraid of anything, because, as far as I can see, you are afraid of everything.’ Harmodius crossed his arms. ‘It’s that you overcome that fear every time.’ He nodded. ‘Now seize the power of the sun and cast.’

  He let the sun caress him. He felt the power of it, which was rich, like good cheese – thicker than the power of the Wild, and more intense.

  And then something in his mind slammed shut.

  ‘Damn it,’ Harmodius said. ‘Again.’

  The captain took a deep breath, and tried again. He could feel the power. And he wanted it. To touch the sun—

  To touch the sun was to be clean.

  I am the child of incest and hate. I was made to be the destroyer. I can never harness the power of the sun.

  The bathwater was warm, and the sun was warm. He pushed his revulsion down, and he reached for it. He thought of riding in the sun. Of horses in the sun. Of Amicia standing in the sun—

  Just for a moment, he connected again. The sun falling on his hand was a conductor, and his skin drank in raw power like a sponge.

  And then he gagged on it again. He coughed, physically, and the soap, halfway across the room, fell to the floor.

  ‘Ah-HA!’ roared the Magus.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ said the captain.

  ‘You just did it,’ Harmodius said. He picked up the soap and handed it to the man in the bath. ‘There is no limit, boy. There are no rules. You can tap the sun. For a long time, you will resist it – something in you will resist. But by God, boy, you just reached out and tapped the sun in its purist form. I know men who take the sun from water, from the air. Damn few take power straight from the source.’

  His water was cooling, and the captain began to soap himself.

  It grew cooler, too fast.

  ‘You bastard,’ the captain said to the Magus.

  ‘Best do something about it,’ Harmodius said.

  The captain reached out to the well.

  Harmodius was there, a tower of blue fire.

  He went into his palace.

  Don’t, said Prudentia. He’s waiting.

  ‘So he is, said the captain after touching the key hole.

  He could feel the bath getting colder. ‘You bastard,’ he repeated.

  The sun was all around him, and he reached for it.

  And nothing much happened.

  He thought of a summer day. But he thought too much and all he saw was sweat and bugs.

  Autumn. The colour of pumpkins and standing corn and wheat ready for harvest – so many things golden and orange and ruddy in the setting sun—

  Prudentia laughed aloud. ‘Well done, young master!’ she cried.

  ‘Pru!’ he said. He was alight with a ruddy gold.

  Without intending it, the windows – the stained glass windows, in the clerestory above the rotating panels – flared to brilliant life. Coloured light fell across the floor.

  ‘Son of a bitch’ he said.

  He pointed to a statue, a panel, a symbol. ‘Saint Mary, Herikleitus, Cancer,’ he said.

  The wheels turned. And stopped, with a click.

  Prudentia smiled a solid marble smile. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Watch.’

  She held up a prism. It took the coloured light, bent it, and sent it as one coherent beam to strike the central panel of cancer.

  Ah!

  The water was warm. Then warmer. Verging on hot.

  Harmodius laughed aloud. ‘Well done!’ he said.

  The captain lay back in the bath, tired. Amazed. ‘I had help,’ he said, to cover his confusion. ‘Magus, that shouldn’t have been possible. How is it possible?’

  Harmodius shook his head. ‘I have theories. No proof.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘I didn’t plan to ride out on errantry, two weeks ago. I planned to find some quiet, far from a trap Thorn had set for me. I wanted to perform some experiments.’

  ‘Instead, you got the siege.’ The captain was soaping himself shamelessly.

  ‘I managed a few of my experiments,’ Harmodius said.

  ‘Like what?’ asked the captain.

  ‘I got a Wild caster to use sunlight instead,’ Harmodius said smugly. ‘I knew you could do it.’

  The captain shook his head. He ought to be angry. But he felt—

  He felt very powerful, indeed. ‘What if you were wrong?’

  Harmodius shrugged. ‘It was unlikely. I had reason for my theory in the first place. Besides, I no sooner got here than I found a woman who cast in both colours. Wild and sun. Every time I watch her heal, it is like
a miracle.’ He rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Last night I linked with the Abbess,’ he said.

  ‘You sound like a boy bragging about his first kiss,’ the captain said.

  Harmodius laughed. ‘You are quick. She used to come around to our rooms – oh, in those days she was the very embodiment of what a woman should be.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s funny, how you are never too old to be young. But I’m not here to bandy tales of lust and love, lad. The lady has proven what I already suspected. This is going to change the world.’

  ‘I like the world fine as it is,’ Tom said from the doorway. ‘When you two man-witches are done having your bloody rites, sacrificing babes and eating them or whatever heathen thing you do, I’m ready with the day’s muster.’

  The captain was still lying in the hot water, unmoving. ‘Did you come to find me just to experiment on me? Or did you have another motive, Magus?’

  ‘Thorn is planning to attack us. Directly.’ The Magus was trying to put the tapestry back over the opening. For a man of such power, he was curiously inept at the task. ‘Last night he learned he could overcome our defences. Now he’ll come.’

  Tom came over, shkk’d him out of the way, and reached the corners out to tug them over heavy iron spikes driven into the end beams of the floor above.

  ‘Really?’ The captain asked. ‘How do you know?’

  Harmodius shrugged and poured himself some wine. ‘We are linked to each other, for good or ill. I can feel his fear. And his anger, and his gloating. As can the Abbess.’

  ‘Fear?’ Tom asked. ‘Fear? Yon mighty godling is afraid o’ we?’ He laughed.

  But the captain understood. ‘He must be afraid,’ he said. ‘I would be.’

  ‘He has a great deal to lose,’ Harmodius said. ‘But he knows he can destroy our trebuchet with one shot if he gets close enough. Of course, he has to risk himself on the plain to get it, hence his attempt to get it done with the wyverns. But they’ve failed.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘You make him sound like he’s but an engine himself.’

  Harmodius bobbed his head. ‘Not bad, Tom. In a way, the magi aren’t much more than siege engines, on a battlefield. Except we move much faster and we are much deadlier. But I agree, the effect is the same.’

  The captain made a face. ‘Why must he get the trebuchet? So he can move his engines against the Bridge Castle?’

  Harmodius nodded. ‘I suppose so. That’s not my department.’ He put his wine cup down. ‘I’ll leave you to get ready. The Abbess asked us for sunset.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘Don’t stop practising, young man. We need you.’

  Tom watched him go. ‘He’s an odd one and no mistake.’

  The captain smiled. ‘This from you?’ He summoned a linen towel from the door. It flew to his hand. He grinned and rose, dripping.

  Tom rocked back in his seat. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said. He had his heavy knife half out of its sheath. ‘I’ll thank ye to keep that sort o’ thing private, where it belongs.’

  The captain felt himself blush. ‘I can cast magic, Tom,’ he said. ‘You know I can.’

  Tom grunted. ‘Knowing and watching is different beasts.’ He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘We lost five men-at-arms yesterday and three archers.’ He looked at a wax tablet. ‘Nine men-at-arms and nineteen archers since the siege began. ‘Twenty-eight, and two valets is thirty.’ He shrugged. ‘One man in four.’

  The captain got his shirt over his head.

  ‘I’m not saying we should quit,’ Tom said. ‘But it may be time to see if we can make a deal.’

  ‘You, too, Tom?’ The captain got into his braes. They felt clean and crisp. He felt clean and crisp too. And very tired.

  ‘We’re losing ’em faster every day,’ Tom said. ‘Listen. I’m your man. You’re a fine captain, and even Jehannes is coming around to that.’ He shrugged. ‘But this ain’t what we do, lad. One monster; sure. An army of of them?’ He frowned.

  The captain sat on his cot and reached for his new hose. They were rich black wool – a trifle coarse and itchy, but heavy, warm, and stretchy. He took one and pulled it carefully up his right leg.

  ‘We’re not losing,’ he said.

  ‘As to that . . .’ Tom said.

  ‘We’re going to hold here until the king comes.’ He grabbed the second leg.

  ‘What if he’s not coming?’ Tom leaned forward. ‘What if your messengers didn’t get through?’

  ‘What if pigs fly?’ the captain said. ‘I know the owners of this fortress were notified. I saw it, Tom. The Knights of Saint Thomas will not let this convent – the base of their wealth, the sacred trust of the old king – they will not let it fall. Nor will the king.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘We could all die here.’

  The captain started rooting through his clothes for a clean doublet, or at least one without a noticeable smell.

  The one he found was made of fustian and two layers of heavy linen, rumpled but completely clean. He began to lace his hose to it.

  ‘We may all die here,’ the captain admitted. ‘But damn it, Tom, this is worth doing. This isn’t some petty border squabble in Galle. This is the North Land of Alba. You’re from the Hills. I’m from the Adnacrags.’ He raised his arms. ‘These people need us.’

  Tom nodded, obviously unmoved by the needs of the peoples of the north. ‘You really think the king will come, eh?’

  ‘One day’s time. Perhaps two,’ the captain said.

  Tom chewed his moustache. ‘Can I tell the lads that? It will help their morale . . . only once I tell them, that’s all the time you get. M’lord.’

  ‘Is this an ultimatum, Ser Thomas?’ the captain stood up straight, as if that would make it better. ‘Are you telling me that in two days, my troops will demand that I look for another solution?’

  Bad Tom sneered. ‘Like enough there’s some as would. And more every day after that. Yes.’ He stood. Six feet and six inches of muscle. ‘Don’t you go and mistake me, Captain. I like a fight. I don’t really care who brings it. I could fight here forever.’ He shrugged. ‘But there’s some as can’t.’

  ‘And they might want to quit,’ the captain said, with a feeling of relief.

  ‘They might,’ Tom said. He grinned. ‘I swear, there’s something in the air, like a poison today. Lads are touchy. Every comment has an edge.’

  The Red Knight took his scarlet cote off the stool and began to lace it. ‘I’ve felt it.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I hate your magery. Takes all the sport out of a fight.’ He shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I don’t so much mind dying, so long as I go down my way. I like a good fight. An’ if it’s to be my last, well, all I ask is it be good.’ He nodded. ‘Good enough for a song.’

  The captain nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll tell the lads,’ Tom said.

  As soon as he passed the door, Michael and Toby came back. His scarlet jupon was brushed, and he saw that the embroidered lacs d’or on the front were repaired.

  Michael helped him into it. They each laced a wrist while he stood, thinking.

  He thought more while he pulled on his long boots. Toby did his garters and Michael held his cote.

  Toby brushed his hair and got the water out of his beard. Michael brought out his riding sword.

  ‘War sword,’ said the captain. ‘Just in case.’

  Michael shortened the belt and buckled it at his waist, and then stood back while the captain drew it three times, testing the hang of the belt. Toby buckled his spurs on. Michael held the heavy gold belt with a questioning air.

  The Red Knight smiled. ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  Michael buckled it around his waist, handed him his hat, gloves, and baton. ‘You’ll be early,’ he said, ‘but not by much.’

  The captain walked down the steps to the courtyard. Men and women looked at him – clean, and, although he couldn’t see it, glowing.

  He walked across the yard, nodding to all. He stopp
ed to compliment young Daniel on his swordplay; to share a jibe with Ben Carter, and to tell the younger Lanthorn girl that he was sorry for her loss, as both of her parents had died in the night. She rose to give him a curtsy, and he smiled when he saw her eyes slide off him to Michael, who was following him.

  He heard the tale of No Head’s near death experience told by a circle of archers who slapped their booted thighs in merriment, and he listened to a complaint that someone was stealing grain from Ser Adrian, who also handed him a piece of parchment rolled very tight.

  ‘As you asked,’ the clerk said. ‘I’ve spoken to a dozen sisters and some of the farmers.’ He shrugged. ‘If you want my opinion, Captain—’ He let the words trail off.

  The captain shook his head. ‘I don’t,’ he said. He smiled to take the sting out. Tucked the scroll into his cote sleeve and bowed. ‘I have an appointment with a lady,’ he said.

  Ser Adrian returned his bow. ‘Count your fingers after you eat,’ he said softly.

  There was a long table, set for thirteen. In the centre was the Abbess’s throne, and he sat on her right hand. The table was empty as he was the first to arrive. He went and exchanged glares with Parcival, on his perch and was suffered, with incredible grumpiness, to stroke the bird’s head.

  A sister came in, saw him, and gave an undignified squeak. He turned, bowed, and smiled. ‘Your pardon, sister. A glass of wine, if I might?’

  She departed.

  He walked over to the Lives of the Saints. Now that he knew its secret, he was far more interested and only lack of time had kept him from it. It was so obvious now – a Hermetical Grimmoire. He turned the pages, deciphering them roughly. Know this one. Know this one. Hmm. Never even heard of this one.

  It was, quite literally, an awe-inspiring tome. Which was sitting in the open, under a window, in a fortress.

  He scratched under his beard.

  Say that every woman here is like Amicia, he thought. And the Order sends them here. To be safe? And to keep them out of common knowledge. Why else—

  She was standing at his side. He could smell her – her warmth. And he could feel the golden power on her skin.

  ‘You,’ she said.

  He turned. He wanted to take her in his arms. It was like hunger.

  ‘You have come to God!’ she said.