by Pierre Pevel
But the sky was empty.
Alerted by Lorn’s call, Teogen, Orwain and Garalt had taken longer to turn round. They soon arrived. Orwain and the Skand remained next to Leister, while Teogen urged his horse towards Lorn.
The latter was coming back without haste, pulling his tired and slightly lame mount by the bridle. He halted when he saw the count approaching at a trot.
And waited.
Teogen halted in turn before him and remained in his saddle. They looked at one another in silence and then the count said:
‘Thank you.’
Lorn nodded.
And starting to walk again, he said:
‘We’ll need at least five men for the task awaiting us.’
9
They crossed a pass that led them into the Gorlas valley and they continued onwards when evening came. With night falling, their vigilance waned and they found themselves nodding off dangerously, on spent horses that threatened to collapse under them at any moment. But they needed to move forward at all costs, as much as they could. They did not know whether they had arrived ahead of the Ghelts or not. Only one thing was certain: they couldn’t be very far.
In the black of night, with the Great Nebula particularly pale and the moon absent from the sky, Teogen judged it wise to call a halt in the shelter of a copse of pine trees upon a hill. Once again, they camped without a fire. And they fasted, despite being famished and exhausted. They knew they could not go on much longer in this fashion, without food or any real rest. Just as they knew they would soon have no hope of catching the Ghelts they were chasing. It would be tomorrow, or never. After that, the Ghelts would reach their own territory and the poor hostages they had captured – if they were still alive – would be lost for ever.
It was Leister who first caught sight of the fires in the distance.
Lorn slit the first sentry’s throat.
The young Ghelt had been drowsing where he sat. Lorn pressed one hand against his mouth and held him during his brief death throes. Then he laid the warrior out gently on the ground and, all his senses on alert, carefully looked all around. It was the first grey hour of dawn and the Ghelts’ camp was still asleep.
But for how long?
They had crossed the valley and came as close as they could on horseback. Then they had left their mounts, hidden from view in the steeply embanked bed of a dried-up stream. They had rid themselves of anything on their person that might make noise or draw the eye. Their faces blacked, they had then proceeded taking great silent strides, bent down, making use of the darkness and the slightest relief in the terrain, waiting if necessary for clouds to pass over before venturing across open ground.
They had agreed to eliminate the sentries first, and then counted on finding the prisoners before the alarm was raised and fighting broke out. But daylight was almost upon them. The Ghelts would soon be waking to resume their trek.
Unless …
Intrigued by an odour, Lorn picked up a wooden goblet that had fallen beside the body and sniffed it. He smelled brandy. The sentry had been sleeping at his post because he was inebriated. So the Ghelts had been drinking and the fires they had lit that night must have been joyful bonfires. Why be so imprudent? Perhaps they were celebrating in advance the success of their raiding party, but it mattered little.
The Ghelts were camped at the foot of a cliff, beneath a wide overhang shaped like an eyelid, at the top of a fairly steep slope. Lorn had spotted three sentries halfway up this slope. He turned to the right and saw Leister signalling him that everything was all right. Then he moved to the left, circling round a big boulder, and saw Garalt stealthily approaching the third sentry. This one was wide awake, but was busy urinating and swaying slightly on his feet.
A noise drew Lorn’s attention.
He looked to the top of the slope and saw a warrior emerging from a tent made of sewn hides. It was the only tent in the camp. Most of the Ghelts were sleeping under the stars, on blankets thrown down wherever their drunken state had left them. The warrior who had just appeared yawned and stretched. Tall and well muscled, with skin the colour of mahogany, he was wearing only a pair of breeches. Lorn thought he had the bearing of a chief. His skull was shaven, except at the back where a long braid of black hair with red tints fell between his shoulder blades.
Lorn felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat.
The tall warrior was going to spot him, or spot Garalt, and there was nothing he could do about it. The Skand had not perceived the danger. He leapt upon the sentry, immobilised him and cut his throat. He made no noise but the sudden movement was enough. The Ghelt by the tent turned and opened his eyes wide. Lorn’s heart skipped a beat. He rushed forward but it was too late. The warrior was already yelling a battle cry.
As he was charging up the slope to attack the Ghelts’ camp, Lorn heard Teogen and Orwain screaming as they launched their assault too. He had no difficulty gutting one dazed and disarmed warrior, but had to dodge the blows of a second. He riposted, deflecting his adversary’s blade, struck him in the belly with his knee, grabbed him by the hair and planted his sword in the man’s throat. Lorn kept an eye out for the prisoners, but the camp was already the scene of a furious melee. A knife hissed past his ears, that of Orwain stabbing a Ghelt in the chest as he was about to strike Lorn from behind. Lorn barely had time to give the old knight a grateful look: a warrior armed with two long bloody daggers was leaping upon him. Lorn ducked, threw the Ghelt over his shoulder and sent him rolling in the dust. But the other man picked himself up immediately to counterattack. Enraged, his eyes flashing and lips curled back, he was filled with a murderous frenzy that forced Lorn to retreat and parry, parry, and parry yet again. Finally he sidestepped, severed his adversary’s right wrist and, spinning all the way round, decapitated him with a backhand stroke.
Making the most of the brief respite, Lorn halted and took stock of the situation.
They were still outnumbered, but the element of surprise had served them well. Ten Gheltish warriors, already, were lying dead or wounded, and the others had still not managed to organise themselves. Perhaps they would carry this off, after all, as far as Lorn could judge within the chaos of cries, hatred and violence that surrounded him. Teogen had taken on the chief who had given the alarm; Leister, one arm bloodied, disarmed a Ghelt and broke his skull with the man’s own club; Garalt gutted a warrior with an axe blow before severing the arm from the shoulder of another; Orwain neatly finished off an opponent who had fallen to his knees. Blood ran, spurted, spattered faces and soaked the earth. In the din of battle, the moans of the wounded blended with the rattling breath of the dying.
And then Lorn saw them, behind the crush of fighting men.
Against the cliff, five women with dirty hair, wearing torn clothing, were tied by the wrists to stakes driven into the ground. Taking advantage of the fact that no one was watching them, they were straining at the leather bonds until they cut into their skin.
Striking to the left, striking to the right, throwing a Ghelt off balance with a punch before cutting his throat with a backhanded blade, Lorn headed for the prisoners. He eliminated another adversary who tried to stop him, but did not see the scarified Ghelt who pounced from behind and toppled him. They grappled, rolling in the dust. Lorn’s head struck a round rock. Pain exploded in his skull with a dazzling flash. He regained his feet as best he could, tottering for a moment, his vision clouded and his hearing filled with a loud buzzing. His opponent was also struggling to rise and Lorn charged at him. He crashed into the man’s shoulder, lifting him off the ground and letting him drop under his full weight. The impact left the Ghelt panting, but the effort had exhausted Lorn. Beset by dizziness, he took a few clumsy steps backwards and managed to find a precarious balance. Scarcely better off, the Ghelt stood and unsheathed a knife. He squinted as if trying to see through a thick fog, then his gaze fell upon Lorn and he rushed forward with a scream.
Lorn was waiting for him.
He succeeded in
seizing the Ghelt’s wrist and in giving him one, two, three great blows of the knee to his belly and ribs. But his opponent barely slowed and headbutted him in the face. Lorn fell backwards against a rock. He pulled the warrior with him and found himself with his back arched to the point of breaking, crushed between the stone and his adversary. He blocked the knife blade just a few inches from his face. The Ghelt was pressing with his entire weight behind his weapon which he held in both hands. Lorn could neither push it back nor deflect it. Worse still, he felt himself weakening. Slowly, inexorably, the blade crept forward. Lorn grimaced, sweating, resisting with all his might. Big drops of perspiration were obscuring his vision, but not enough to prevent him from seeing the trembling blade pointed at his pale eye.
Lorn scratched his eyelid against it when he blinked.
And suddenly, the Ghelt ceased fighting. He froze and then collapsed, as if struck by lightning.
Lorn saw the person standing behind the warrior, holding a big blood-stained stone.
It was one of the captives.
Barefoot. Filthy. With drawn features and a crazed look in her eyes. Leather straps dangled from her bruised wrists. She was wearing the tatters of a dress. She was young. With big light blue eyes. Her tangled hair fell in heavy black curls.
She seemed lost, broken.
Lorn thought she was beautiful.
An hour later, in the peaceful glow of the early morning, all of the Ghelts who had not fled were dead. Without flinching, Orwain and Garalt took charge of finishing off the wounded, while Leister saw to the captives and Lorn went to fetch the horses. They only took one prisoner: the renegade who had guided the Ghelts through the Argor Mountains, who Teogen wanted to stand trial. He’d been captured by Orwain, who had almost beaten him to death, blinded by rage. The man was in a poor state, to the point that it was doubtful whether he would survive the return journey. With his broken teeth and fractured jaw, he was in no fit shape to answer questions. They did not even know his name.
Besides their mounts, the Ghelts had left food and weapons – and even part of the loot they had collected in Argor. As there was no lack of horses to serve as pack beasts, Teogen ordered them to take everything. They soon broke camp, leaving the bodies to the carrion-eaters.
10
During the first days of the return journey, they worried about being followed. But it seemed that the Ghelts had indeed fled and would not be returning. So they slowed their pace, camped for longer periods, avoided the dangerous passes and took the less difficult paths. They showed consideration towards the freed prisoners but did not ask them about their ordeal and let the stronger women take care of the more fragile and worst off.
Lorn noticed, however, that one of them remained apart from the others. It was the young woman with the light blue eyes who had saved his life. The others did not speak to her much, avoided her and did not assign her with any tasks, but they never neglected to bring her meals. One evening, in camp, Lorn sat down beside Orwain and asked him if he knew who she was and why she was being treated in this manner.
Her name was Mairenn.
‘A witch,’ the old knight explained, before spitting between his feet to ward off ill fortune.
Lorn asked no more about it.
Yet, intrigued, he felt more and more drawn to the young woman as the days went by. Her beauty did not explain the attraction. Nor her mystery. There was something else, an affinity both deep and physical which she perhaps shared and seemed to understand better than he did. Often she caught him observing her and she held his gaze with a strange calmness.
The calmness of one who knows and waits.
One night, Lorn awoke with a start and saw Mairenn kneeling beside him and staring down at him, one side of her face lit by the flames from the fire, the other plunged into shadow.
‘It’s about to start,’ she told him, in the same sort of tone that Lorn had used to tell to the wounded soldier, encountered upon arriving in Argor, that he was going to die.
He noticed then that he felt hot, very hot, much more than he should have despite the heat from the campfire nearby. His sweat, on the other hand, was icy. And he was trembling.
He realised at the same moment that a pain was shooting up his left arm, originating from his mark.
The Dark.
Lorn’s moans and convulsions quickly roused the rest of the camp and caused a stir. Feverish, his muscles aching and his guts on fire, he could make out the silhouettes that had gathered round and were leaning over him.
Their voices ran together.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Is he ill?’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Lorn! Lorn!’
In the confusion, one voice stood out, clear and serene, that of Mairenn:
‘It’s the Dark.’
That prompted much consternation.
‘The Dark!’
‘He’s under the Dark’s hold!’
‘But Lorn! Look!’
‘Is he going to die?’
They were spectres bending over him now. Spectres come from Dalroth, attentive and cruel. They watched him struggle against the invisible bonds that burned his limbs, and revelled in his madness.
A man forced his way through them.
‘No!’ said Teogen. ‘He’s not going to die. Leave off, I know what it is.’
‘Then help me, count,’ said Mairenn.
‘Orwain! Lend us a hand here. And you others, stand back! Stand back! This isn’t a show!’
Lorn felt cool hands grip him firmly. Unthinkingly, he struggled against them, wanting to free himself.
But to no avail.
Chanting, the witch placed a hand upon his brow. It felt as though molten lead passed through his skull and ran down his spine. He screamed like a demented man. Kicked out. Arched his back. And despite everything, he heard prayers, those of the women who fell to their knees, calling on the protection of the Dragon-King.
‘Make them be quiet!’ exclaimed Mairenn, before resuming her incantations, her hand still pressed to Lorn’s burning brow.
‘Silence, women!’ ordered Teogen. ‘Silence!’
And suddenly it was over.
Lorn lost consciousness at the same moment as a fragment of the Dark left him. He did not see Mairenn reel back as if she had received a blow to the face, nor Teogen supporting her as, exhausted, she went to cough up a big clot of black bile into the crackling fire.
The following day, the sun was already high in the sky when Lorn woke. His mind felt rested but his body ached, as if it had received a beating the previous night. Still sitting in the same place nearby, Mairenn watched over him.
‘Good morning,’ she said, upon seeing him open his eyes.
‘Good morning.’ He sat up with a grimace. ‘How am I doing?’
The young woman smiled.
‘Better. At least I think so. Here, drink this.’
She handed him a goblet which he drained in one gulp. He immediately regretted it. The concoction tasted of earth and bitter herbs.
‘What was it?’ he asked, fighting an urge to be sick.
‘Perhaps you should have asked before drinking it, no?
‘You have a point.’
Squinting in the dazzling sunlight, Lorn watched the men and women going about their business in the camp. He noticed they were looking at him out of the corner of their eyes and conversing in low voices. They hesitated to approach him.
He decided not to pay any attention.
‘Thank you,’ he said, returning the goblet to Mairenn. ‘For that. And for last night.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘How did you know I was about to have a fit? You knew, didn’t you?’
The young woman lifted her long hair behind her right ear to reveal, embedded in her pale skin, a seal similar to the one on the back of Lorn’s hand. It was smaller, however, and the stone was grey.
‘I was born with it.’
So, thought Lorn, that’s
why he’d felt an affinity with Mairenn.
The Dark had recognised the Dark.
‘You’ll feel better for a few days,’ she said. ‘But don’t go thinking you’re cured. I’ve only relieved the symptoms.’
Lorn nodded.
‘Thank you just the same.’
Teogen came over.
‘Well, knight? How are you feeling?’ he asked briskly. ‘Better? Good!’
Mairenn stood up.
‘I’ll leave you.’
‘I’m not driving you away, am I?’
‘No. I have things to do.’
The Count of Argor watched the young woman walk away, and said:
‘Pretty girl …’
Then he crouched to place himself at the same height as Lorn and, with a grave expression, asked in a murmur:
‘How are you, knight? Really.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Can you climb back into your saddle today?’
‘Yes.’
‘You frightened everyone, last night. You should have warned me that …’ He hunted for the right words and could not find them. ‘Well, you know.’
‘The fits are becoming less frequent,’ Lorn said.
‘Good! Good … I’m familiar with this, you know.’
When Lorn frowned, Teogen realised he had the wrong idea.
‘No!’ he explained. ‘Not me. But my wife. She … She died of it.’
Surprised by this revelation, Lorn did not know what to say.
‘Sorry,’ he finally said.
The count was pensive and melancholy for an instant, his gaze distant. Then he pulled himself together and suddenly stood up, full of drive once again.
‘Have a bite to eat and prepare your things. We’ll be breaking camp in an hour.’
The last days of the journey passed by without incident, Lorn and Mairenn usually riding side by side without speaking. Then, one evening, they saw the fires of the towers of Argor and realised they were safe. The night was joyful for all, except Mairenn. Lorn did not understand why, but asked no questions.