by Pierre Pevel
He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, an odour of mustiness and old dust filling his nostrils.
Then he went inside.
He could barely see in the darkness. However, the place was familiar to him and nothing seemed to have moved since …
Since as long as he could remember.
Or at least since the last visit he’d paid his father, upon his return from Sarme and Vallence where he’d gone searching for Alan. Of course, he’d been unable to say anything about his mission, or about the hold that kesh had taken over a prince of the High Kingdom. Even to his father. Even to the royal master-of-arms.
Two days later, Norfold had demanded his sword and placed him under arrest.
‘Who are you?’ asked a voice at Lorn’s back. ‘And what are you doing here?’
Lorn turned round and was immediately dazzled by the light from a dark lantern. He raised his hand to protect his eyes and averted his head, while trying to catch a sideways glimpse of the other person.
‘I warn you that if I call the Guard, it will be to collect your corpse!’ threatened the young woman who stood in the doorway. ‘So answer me!’
Wearing boots, breeches, shirt and doublet, she brandished her lantern in her left hand and held a sword in her right.
‘Naé?’ exclaimed Lorn. ‘Naé, is it you?’
The young woman hesitated.
‘L … Lorn?’
She raised her lantern, which illuminated her face while ceasing to blind Lorn with its glare. He had no difficulty recognised her large dark eyes and wilful air, the tender gleam in her glance and her left cheek marred by a nasty scar.
Naéris.
‘It’s me, Naé.’
‘Lorn!’
She let go of both sword and lantern to throw herself into his arms and hug him tightly for a long moment, her slender, firm body pressed against him disconcertingly. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, but finally put them round her.
Moved, the young woman struggled to find her words.
‘It’s … It’s you, it’s really you … I … I thought …’
‘I was freed, Naé. Declared innocent …’
‘But how?’ she asked, taking a step back to look at his face; ‘We didn’t even know if you were …’
She smiled, tears in her eyes.
‘I was recalled by the High King,’ said Lorn. ‘I—’
Naéris interrupted him.
‘No, not here. Come,’ she said, pulling him by the hand. ‘You’re going to tell us everything. Papa will be so glad to—’
She fell silent, suddenly grave.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lorn anxiously.
‘I … I’m sorry, Lorn … About your father.’
‘Thank you, Naé.’
‘It was Papa who found him, did you know? One morning. It … It was already too late …’
Naéris’s eyes grew misty again, and these tears were no longer ones of joy.
‘Go on, lad. Have another glass.’
Lorn had lost count, but did not have the heart to refuse. Besides, Reik Vahrd had started pouring without waiting for his assent and, seeing the bottle empty, turned towards his daughter.
‘Bring us another, Naé.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?’
The old blacksmith considered his daughter with a muddled gaze.
‘You know that you’re still young enough to get a spanking?’
‘No I’m not, and I haven’t been for some time. Furthermore, it would be the first you’ve ever given me.’
Shrugging, Reik leaned across the table to confide to Lorn:
‘I think I botched my daughter’s education …’
Lorn smiled and pushed his full glass towards Reik.
‘She’s your greatest success.’
‘If you say so,’ replied the blacksmith with a doubtful expression … before winking at his daughter seated at the end of the table, slightly apart from the two men.
With age, Reik’s blond hair, gathered in a ponytail, had become mixed with silver, but he was still as tall and massively built as ever. His rolled-up sleeves revealed some of the blue tattoos that covered his arms, chest and back. Skandish tattoos, similar to the ones Lorn’s mother had borne. Magical, they turned red and changed shape whenever the person they protected was swept up by a warrior’s fury. Reik was both Skandish and a blacksmith so he knew how to work arcanium, allowing him to forge extraordinary weapons and armour.
‘He fought to the very end, you know?’ Reik said suddenly. ‘Your father. He never believed the accusations against you. And when you were sentenced, he tried everything in his power to … But what could he do? Everyone turned their back on him. Even the High King, don’t you see?’
He grumbled.
‘Everyone, except you two,’ objected Lorn.
The blacksmith exchanged a glance with his daughter and smiled at him.
‘Yep. Except us,’ he conceded bitterly. ‘For what good it did … I should have liked to have done more for you, lad.’
Lorn nodded.
‘I know.’
He knew that Reik was sincere. He was Skandish like his mother and in many ways Lorn had been the son he’d never had. His wife had died giving birth and he had never remarried. He adored his daughter, but she wasn’t a son.
‘Your father swore he would have your name cleared,’ resumed the old blacksmith glaring into empty space. ‘That he would obtain a second trial … He raged about it. He couldn’t sleep. He knocked at every door. Every single one. In vain, and it wore him down. He found himself alone and exhausted, with neither friends nor money. But he never gave up …’ Reik heaved a sigh. ‘And then one morning, since he hadn’t opened his shutters, I went to see him. The door was open. He was sitting there in his armchair, in front of the fireplace. Dead.’
Lorn was suddenly cold and felt his hands tremble. His mouth turned dry and a weight crushed his chest. At first, he thought another fit might be coming on. But it had nothing to do with the Dark. It was the anger and pain that invaded him like a burning poison running through his veins.
Staring into space, he had trouble holding back his tears.
‘Where is he buried?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Here,’ replied Naéris. ‘In the small cemetery within the Weapons district.’
‘What?’ protested Lorn. ‘Not the one in the King’s district?’
‘No,’ said Reik. ‘No.’
He drained Lorn’s glass in a single gulp and stood up with less difficulty than one might have imagined, saying:
‘Wait. Don’t move.’
He stomped out of the kitchen where they had gathered, at the back of a large house that was now almost empty. He left the door ajar and vanished into the backyard.
‘Where is he going?’
Naéris slid along the bench to sit closer to him. She emptied half of her glass into Lorn’s and they each drank a mouthful of wine before she replied.
‘His place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He sleeps above his forge,’ she explained.
‘And you?’
‘Here. But in the attic.’
‘Why?’
The young woman looked Lorn straight in the eye.
‘Papa is no longer the royal blacksmith, Lorn. We’ve lost almost everything. And no one is willing to open their door to us … We shouldn’t even be here any more but Papa won’t leave the Citadel. So we’re practically hiding out. Never knowing if someone will come to expel us tomorrow.’
‘And the forge?’
‘Extinguished,’ Naéris said it as if she were announcing a death.
Reik Vahrd was no ordinary blacksmith.
He knew the secrets of Skandish warsmiths and how to work arcanium and steel to make the best weapons and armour anywhere. On becoming the royal blacksmith, he had sworn an oath forbidding him to forg
e for anyone other than the High King.
Lorn looked at the empty bottles upon the table and understood why Reik did not fear losing his touch by drinking more than was reasonable.
‘All this happened because you supported my father, didn’t it?’
‘Yes. But don’t say anything to Papa,’ Naéris hastened to add on hearing her father returning. ‘You know how proud he is. He—’
Reik entered, coming to sit back down and placing on the table, before Lorn, a sword in its scabbard.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’
He took the sword, which he had recognised, and could not resist unsheathing it with a smile.
There was no possible doubt.
This sword was his, the one Norfold had demanded from him when he placed him under arrest. It had been given to him by his mother, who, like all Skandish women, had been a warrior. The sword was also Skandish, and excellently made: its blade was wide and heavy, sharp-edged on one side, and its basket guard enveloped his hand. A formidable weapon, but one that required skill to wield.
‘In the end, that’s all your father had left,’ the old blacksmith explained. ‘I do not know how he managed to obtain it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lorn in a choked voice. ‘Thank you.’
Later, after taking his leave of Reik and his daughter, Lorn found Hurst waiting for him at the gate to the Weapons quarter.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked, as the Grey Guard fell into step with him.
‘Your windows are guarded.’
‘So you followed me and you’ve been watching me from the start.’
‘I’m protecting you. But yes, from the start.’
‘Why reveal your presence only now?’
‘I thought you wanted to be alone.’
Lorn smiled.
‘You follow a strange logic, Hurst.’
‘No, my lord. I obey orders.’
‘Did you know the High King’s former blacksmith still lives here?’
‘Yes. With his daughter. Everyone knows that. Or almost everyone.’
Lorn nodded thoughtfully.
He had already resolved to take revenge against those who had betrayed him.
To that list, he was going to add those who had abandoned his family and friends.
27
‘Because he wanted rest for eternity in the place where he had first known glory, where he had faced and vanquished the dragon.’
Chronicles (The Book of Kings)
The valley was covered with a veil of pale ash when they left the City and followed a steep track until they reached a pass defended by an imposing fortified gate, a vestige of the Last Shadows.
Norfold led the troop, followed by six horsemen carrying grey banners, some of which depicted, in black thread, the five crowns of the High Kingdom, while others had the wolf’s head which was the king’s personal emblem. Lorn and the High King advanced behind them. Twenty riders brought up the rear, wearing helmets, dark leather and mail, their swords at their side and their shields hung on the rumps of their mounts.
Topped by his crown, the High King’s face was concealed by an ebony mask encrusted with silver. He had donned a long cloak and thick gloves, so that not an inch of his wrinkled skin was exposed to the sun. Lorn was astonished to see him thus, but even more so to see him riding in the saddle, helped only by a squire. The knight had directed a questioning glance at Norfold, who remained expressionless.
‘Let’s be on our way,’ the king had said in his hoarse voice, before spurring his mount forward.
After three hours, they arrived in a valley through which a capricious wind whistled, raising whirlwinds and sheets of greyish dust which slowly unravelled in the air. A single road crossed this sinister and desolate valley. It led to the temple built on the flank of highest mountain in the Egides range, which sheltered the mausoleum of Erklant I.
They passed some pilgrims, most of them poverty-stricken, who drew apart ahead of them and doffed their hats, saluting respectfully upon seeing the colours of the High Kingdom and its ruler. The escort thundered by at a full gallop. In its dust it left behind men and women who stood gaping and incredulous, unsure if they had caught an actual glimpse of their king, watching the riders move away in a deafening din of ironclad hooves, whinnying, clanking armour and banners flapping in the wind …
Like them, the High King was going to the temple, where, forewarned of his visit, tattooed priests with shaven heads awaited him. Dressed in grey robes, they belonged to an order solely devoted to honouring the memory of the first of the High Kings, tending his tomb and praying for his soul. All had pledged an oath of silence.
The horsemen dismounted in a courtyard shielded by a high red canopy. Exhausted, the king was stricken by a malaise that obliged Lorn and Norfold to seat him on a bench. Lorn then realised the cause for his surprising vigour: his breath was laced with the heady scent of kesh.
So the High King was drugging himself.
Removing his glove, the king snapped his fingers impatiently to draw Norfold’s attention. The captain handed him a vial from which he drank a few small sips, lifting his ebony mask from below. Lorn watched a golden drop run down his king’s bony chin.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t …’
But the dying king did not want his solicitude, and dismissed it with a vague gesture. When he finally felt better, he grasped Norfold to stand up.
‘Come, son,’ he said to Lorn in a sepulchral voice. ‘We’re almost there now.’
A vertical line of light appeared in the deep darkness. It widened, becoming a slit between the two panels of an immense door as it opened.
The king entered, leaning upon Lorn, and once the door closed behind them, they walked towards the stone platform, the two facing thrones and the flaming bowls burning in the shadows before them. Lorn matched the king’s pace, supporting him without any idea what they had come here to do.
‘Where are we?’ he murmured.
The king gave no reply.
They climbed the steps of the platform, which used up the king’s remaining strength. He collapsed on the empty throne and struggled to regain his breath.
Lorn knew nothing of this place.
He was familiar with the temple, the mausoleum and the immense funerary monument to the glory of Erklant I, before which he and Alan had been required to pay their respects each year when they were children, on the anniversary of the first High King’s death. The pilgrims filed past this same monument in reverent silence, under the watchful eyes of the priests. For they believed the remains of the vanquisher of Serk’Arn lay within.
In fact, the real tomb was elsewhere, behind the colossal doors, in the dark, cold belly of the mountain. Plain but massive, it stood behind the stone throne upon which the effigy of Erklant I sat. Lorn could barely see it in the darkness, on a pedestal, the flames of the bowls reflecting on its black marble veined with arcanium, a frieze of ancient runes encircling its base.
Lorn wondered who else, besides the temple priests, was aware of this secret.
‘Here he is,’ said the old king. ‘I brought him to you.’
Lorn turned back to the High King who had removed his ebony mask and seemed to be speaking to the statue of his ancestor sitting opposite him.
‘Sire?’
But the king ignored him and added:
‘Only you can tell me if he is who the Guardians claim he is.’
‘Sire, you’re not …’
The High King then turned towards Lorn.
‘Come. Come here, next to me …’
Lorn hesitated but obeyed, standing on the king’s right.
‘Look,’ the king said, pointing in front of them.
Lorn looked in the direction indicated, towards the statue of Erklant I and the tomb in the darkness beyond.
‘We are ready,’ announced the old man, straining to raise his hoarse voice. ‘We await you! You can appear!’
Disturbed and worried, Lo
rn stared at the statue seated before him.
Its likeness to the current High King was stupefying, to the point that Lorn expected to see it move, shake off its mineral rigidity and come to life. It would start with a slight twitch. Perhaps a shudder that would crack the stone. Or a gleam in the depths of the eye sockets …
Suddenly, Lorn became aware of a presence in the immense shadows surrounding them. There was the heavy sound of chains being dragged. Then that of claws of steel and bone scraping rock. A movement in the air caused the fire in the bowls to flicker.
He was looking in the wrong place; the High King wasn’t speaking to the ghost of his ancestor. A cold sweat running down his spine, Lorn raised his eyes towards the tomb just in time to see a leg set down upon it.
An immense scaly leg.
That of a dragon who, coming forward, slowly poked its head out of the darkness.
‘I am Serk’Arn,’ said the dragon in a powerful voice that resounded in Lorn’s mind. ‘Who are you?’
Livid, Lorn drew his sword. A futile reflex. An inferno would swallow both him and his Skandish blade if the dragon belched fire.
‘I’m not in any danger,’ said the king, supposing that Lorn had meant to protect him. ‘Nor are you, if you are who I believe you to be. Put away your sword. It’s useless to you.’
Lorn wasn’t listening.
Torn between fascination and horror, he could not take his eyes off Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction whom, according to legend, the first High King had confronted and slain. And yet the dragon was right here before him.
It had come out of the shadows and it was looking at him.
Lorn felt his heart pounding madly.
The dragons had once ruled the world. They had been divine beings before the sacrifice of the Dragon-King had hastened their decline at the end of the Shadows. When Erklant the Ancient had faced Serk’Arn, it was no longer the immortal creature of former times. And no doubt it was even less powerful now, five centuries later. But there was a furnace growling in its throat. Its claws could rip through the best armour and its scales would blunt the best steel. Its jaws were wide enough to close around a man and its fangs were sharp enough to sever him in two.