by Pierre Pevel
‘Gentlemen,’ the veteran said, ‘it’s time to get ready.’
The Onyx Guards retired, except for Yeras whom Vahrd discreetly detained.
‘I know you were expecting Lorn to choose you rather than Eriad,’ the blacksmith said. ‘But we have something else in mind for you …’
Less than an hour later, Andara was in a foul mood when Eriad presented himself at the Broken Sword. The militia chief had been drinking alone in his office and was still simmering with rage over the beating Lorn had given four of his men.
‘What brings you here?’ he said in an unfriendly tone. ‘I’ve heard enough about the Onyx Guards for one day …’
‘Exactly. And you’ll be able to rid yourself of them tonight.’
15
Eriad returned after night had fallen, knowing that everything was ready. He had warned Andara, who upon learning of Lorn’s plans had immediately called up his militiamen and a few extra thugs: an opportunity like this to eliminate the Onyx Guard would not happen twice. The trap was laid and only needed to be sprung.
Thirty armed and determined men were waiting for Lorn and the others. Andara wanted no survivors. He had deployed his troops in his house, the garden and the surrounding area. Their orders were to wait until the Onyx Guards had crossed the outer wall before attacking. For two reasons. The first was to place Andara in a situation of legitimate defence: he would be the victim of aggression, his property invaded in the middle of the night, and no one – neither the prefect Yorgast, nor royal justice – could reproach him for protecting his goods and his life. The second reason was that Andara wanted the combat to take place out of sight because it would be combat in name only: he was planning a massacre. At odds of six to one, Lorn and his men stood no chance of escaping the ambush.
Eriad knew that Andara wanted no prisoners and had even promised a bonus to the man who brought him Lorn’s head. The young man told himself he could be the one. After all, wasn’t he the best placed to deliver a fatal blow to the First Knight? Yorgast would perhaps be interested to learn who had killed Lorn. And who could say, perhaps his name would even one day reach the ears of Esteveris? For Eriad was ambitious as well as being a handsome lad. He had the face of an angel, but an unscrupulous one, incapable of feeling the slightest remorse.
It had almost been too easy fooling Lorn and his clique.
And it was almost as easy to draw them into the wolf’s jaws.
Eriad was smiling at this idea as he entered the Black Tower’s courtyard, but his smile was replaced by a puzzled expression when he found the Onyx Guards about to leave in two wagons.
‘Something’s come up,’ Lorn told on. ‘Climb up, we’ll explain to you on the way.’
Caught short, the young man could not refuse the hand that Dwain stretched out to him.
Andara was waiting at the rear of a porch with two of his militiamen when a third came running up to them and identified himself.
‘It’s me,’ he said, halting at the porch’s entrance. ‘Are you there?’
Andara took a step forward from the shadows.
‘Obviously!’ he snapped in annoyance. ‘Don’t just stand there, you cretin!’
Breathless, the man darted a last look behind him before obeying. He had come from the Black Tower, which Andara had ordered him to watch until the Onyx Guards’ departure.
‘It’s on,’ he said. ‘They left.’
‘Was Eriad with them?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will they be here?’
‘In about half an hour, I think.’
Andara raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s seems a little long to me,’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘They’re coming in wagons, that’s why.’
‘Wag—’ Andara started to say. ‘What?’
‘Two of them,’ the man stated.
Perplexed, the militia leader scratched his cheek.
‘But why wagons?’ he wondered in a murmur.
Bah! They’d see, soon enough …
Turning to the two militiamen he’d been waiting with, Andara said:
‘Go and warn the others. Tell everyone to be ready.’
The Onyx Guards halted the wagons in an out-of the-way alley and waited for Yeras, who’d gone ahead as a scout, to find them.
‘Only three sentries,’ he announced in a low voice. ‘One at the gate and two on patrol. No movement inside.’
‘Perfect,’ said Lorn.
The neighbourhood was very quiet, with few residents about. For the most part, it was made up of warehouses, silos, building sites, workshops and waste ground. In the sky, the Great Nebula dispensed a wan light.
Lorn addressed his men.
‘Vahrd and Eriad, you stay here with the wagons and wait for our signal. The rest of you, with me. Ready?’
Everyone nodded.
‘Then here we go.’
‘Be careful,’ said Vahrd.
Hand on the pommel of his sword, Lorn went off, taking long silent and graceful strides, followed by Dwain, Logan, Liam and Yeras. The old blacksmith watched them go, then, tranquilly, he turned towards Eriad and asked:
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of dice on you, would you?’
In concealment along with fifteen other men scattered throughout the garden surrounding his house, Andara raised his eyes towards the sky and cursed. More than an hour had passed since the Onyx Guards had left the Black Tower and they still hadn’t arrived. Had they been delayed? Had they given up at the last moment? Had Lorn smelled a trap?
What if Eriad had been unmasked?
Andara tried to reason with his fears.
An opportunity like this to get rid of Lorn would probably never repeat itself. It was well worth being a little patient. It would really be too stupid to miss their chance, just because they hadn’t waited an extra fifteen minutes.
Lorn and his men would be coming over that wall before long, Andara was sure of it.
Hoisted up by Dwain, Lorn climbed over the outer wall and straddled it. Next, he helped Yeras up beside him, and then it was the others’ turn. Dwain came last, requiring both Logan and Liam give him a lift up.
Lorn let himself drop quietly to the far side and drew his sword, all his senses alert. His men joined him, their weapons also in their fists. They knew what they had to do and were only waiting for a sign from their captain.
Lorn gave it to them before setting off to the right, Dwain at his heels. Liam and Logan went to the left, in order to circle around the immense warehouse that, dark and silent, stood before them. Meanwhile, Yeras began to climb the building without making a sound.
Eriad let nothing show, but his guts were knotted by a mixture of frustration, anger and anxiety. Liam had explained to him in the gently rocking wagon that their objective has changed. It was no longer a question of attacking Andara’s house, but of emptying a warehouse in the port.
Being aware of Andara’s business, Eriad had immediately guessed which warehouse was the target. Nevertheless, he listened as Vahrd explained it to him and confirmed his fears.
To spare Oriale from famine, the city council had been buying up poor quality wheat and transforming it into flour, which it resold, at very low prices, in the poorest districts. The operation was costly but necessary according to the civic leaders: it was designed to prevent rioting in the High Kingdom’s capital. The district prefects were charged with distributing the subsidised flour, permitting Yorgast to enrich himself by diverting part of the stocks. This ill-gotten flour was hidden in a warehouse, waiting to be sold for a handsome price.
According to Vahrd, Lorn had decided to strip this warehouse at the last moment, based on an anonymous tip. It would no doubt be less well defended than Andara’s residence and the blow they would strike would be just as damaging. The blacksmith, at any rate, seemed to prefer this option.
‘And what are we going to do with all this wheat?’ asked Eriad in surprise.
‘Give it away, lad. Give
it away …’
In the alley where Vahrd and he were guarding the wagons, Eriad could only think of Andara who was waiting in vain and would be outraged when he found out what had happened. It wasn’t the young man’s fault but he knew Andara well enough to understand that someone would be made to feel his anger. That someone might very well be him, Eriad. Or another. Andara would not tolerate this failure, not to mention the loss of earnings. And the worst thing was, he had removed most of the sentries from the warehouse in order to reassign them to his ambush …
But was this really by chance?
Eriad was not an imbecile and, as time crept by, his suspicions grew. What if he had been unmasked? What if Lorn had charged him with scouting Andara’s residence before the attack in order to give him a chance to warn the militia leader? What if they had been planning to rob the warehouse all along?
More and more worried, Eriad told himself that the Onyx Guards knew and had set him up. Besides, wouldn’t Yeras have been the logical choice to watch Andara’s residence? Wasn’t he the band’s scout and lookout? Of course, Eriad had volunteered first, in order to tip off Andara. But why had Lorn picked him?
Feeling a nervous sweat beading his brow, Eriad realised that Lorn knew. He wanted to give him freedom of movement so he would contact Andara. Lorn knew he would step forward and was even counting on it.
Eriad had been manipulated from beginning to end.
It mattered little how he had been unmasked. Perhaps he had given himself away, after all. He needed to flee before it was too late. Lorn was no doubt waiting for the end of this mission to settle accounts with him, or worse let him leave while spreading word that he had betrayed Andara. That would be signing his death sentence. There was no question of letting that happen. Perhaps Eriad still had a chance to explain things to Andara, but he needed to escape now.
Starting by eliminating Vahrd.
He slowly unsheathed his dagger and turned towards the blacksmith, who had been waiting until now at the entrance to the alley.
But he was no longer in sight.
Eriad sensed the presence behind him too late. He never saw the blow that knocked him out cold.
Vahrd looked scornfully at the body stretched out by his feet and spat on it.
‘Traitor.’
Lorn and Dwain had no trouble getting rid of the two sentries who were patrolling the warehouse. Lorn knocked out his target with a blow to the back of the neck. Dwain lifted his from behind and choked the man until he lost consciousness, indifferent to the frenetic scrabbling of his legs.
Liam and Logan joined them after circling the warehouse.
‘Nobody,’ said Liam.
At the same moment, Vahrd arrived driving one of the wagons. The man guarding the gate stepped forward to force him to halt and ask him his business, but Yeras cut him down with his crossbow, from on top of the roof. The bolt had a small bag of sand instead of a point. Hit in the head, the man would have an aching skull when he woke.
The Onyx Guards hurried to open the gate for Vahrd. They hid the sentry and Logan went to find the other wagon, while Dwain and Liam pushed open the large doors of the warehouse.
Inside, sacks of flour were piled in neat rows.
‘We load everything we can,’ said Lorn.
‘And him?’ asked Liam.
He was pointing at Eriad, lying unconscious and bound in the back of the wagon.
Lorn hesitated.
‘I’ll take care of him when we’ve finished,’ said Vahrd gloomily.
They set to work.
Andara found his spy early the next morning, legs and hands bound together, hanging by the neck from the sign in front of the Broken Sword, with just enough rope to touch the ground on the tips of his toes. Eriad was alive, his eyes bulging and full of tears. A bloody rag stifled his desperate moans.
Exasperated, Andara ordered that his gag be removed first.
‘You idiot,’ he said. ‘It really didn’t take them long to find you out …’
But the young man did not reply.
Making a vile sound, Eric coughed up clots of black blood along with the tongue of a stray dog he’d been forced to keep in his mouth all night long, at the risk of choking to death. Several of the militiamen present retched violently.
One of them vomited.
‘Talk,’ said Andara, lifting the young man’s head by the hair.
He was livid with anger, but this was nothing compared to the rage that came over him when he saw the warehouse where nothing remained but a few burst sacks of flour. He took out his frustration on a sentry whom he almost beat to death, then roared with his bloodied fists in the air, pacing back and forth like a wild beast caught in a trap.
For Yorgast, the lost revenue would be significant but he was rich enough already, so Andara already knew the prefect would not lift a finger. For the militia leader, on the other hand, the setback was severe. The financial loss was enormous, especially as the lost money was not just destined for his pocket, but also to pay or corrupt his henchmen, informers and other collaborators who only served him out of self-interest. But there was also the affront, the public insult which just been heaped upon him.
Because everyone would soon know or guess who had committed the deed and there was nothing he could do about it. The news was probably already spreading throughout the district like wildfire and Lorn Askarian, up in his accursed tower, could simply let people gossip and celebrate, the inhabitants of Redstone laughing at the daring, clever blow that he and his men had just struck against the militia. They had stolen from thieves, seizing contraband goods whose loss could not be reported. Unless he carried out justice himself, the militia leader would be forced to remain silent and grit his teeth.
And if there were still those who doubted whether the Onyx Guards were behind the theft, they all received blatant confirmation that afternoon, when the Black Tower hosted the first of a series of free distributions of flour.
With the compliments of the First Knight of the Realm.
After that, painted crossed swords began to appear on doors throughout the district.
16
Days went by without Andara appearing in public, while his militiamen kept their heads down: they continued to walk the streets of Redstone but they avoided making any trouble and even did people some honest services.
But it did not bode well.
Certain that Andara would not stand idly by and watch the crossed swords spread, Lorn had urged Father Eldrim not to go out alone. He had also charged Yeras with a special mission, secret from all except Liam, and he still forbade Daril from venturing out in the neighbourhood on his own for long. Lorn was convinced that Andara would not come after him, but instead attack a member of his entourage, or even innocent parties uninvolved in their conflict. Nevertheless, all he could do right now was wait for the militia chief to make his move.
So Lorn had his mind on other matters.
When he was not exhausting himself in building work, he could not stop thinking of Alissia, Enzio’s sister whom he had loved so much. They had fallen in love during the years Lorn had spent in Sarme. Despite Enzio’s prickly vigilance, they had kept company and promised themselves to one another. Unfortunately, Lorn’s modest origins were an obstacle. For although his father was a former companion in arms of King Erklant II, his family belonged to the very minor nobility of the sword. Lorn’s mother had been a hostage offered by a Skandish ruler to the High King, along with a golden shield and two steeds, during the signature of a peace treaty. Yet, aged sixteen, Lorn had found the courage to confess to Alissia’s father the feelings he had for his daughter. He loved her. She loved him. He wanted to marry her. The duke asked for time to reflect on the matter, and then said he would approve the union when the time came, on two conditions. That Lorn respect his daughter until their wedding day. And that he become worthy of her through his merits. It was more than Lorn could have hoped for: he promised everything that was demanded of him.
And kep
t his word.
Several years later, he was fight Dalatian barbarians at the border of Valmir and found glory at the battle of Urdel, where he saved a city from destruction by his courage. Wounded, he returned to the High Kingdom and was welcomed as a hero. He became the darling of the entire court. King Erklant bestowed honours upon him, gave him lands and made him an officer in the royal guard.
So one fine autumn day, with a grey-crested helmet tucked under his arm, Lorn presented himself again before the duke of Sarme and Vallence. He was now a man marked by war, but his love for Alissia had not weakened. She was waiting for him, beautiful and delicate, with white flowers in her hair. The duke called him ‘my son’ before giving him a paternal embrace. It was agreed that the marriage would take place the following spring, after Lorn carried out a mission the High King had just entrusted him with.
The dream was very swiftly broken.
That day, at the end of the afternoon, Lorn returned from the Royal Archives only to find the Black Tower was plunged in an unusual state of excitement.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, handing the reins of his horse to Daril.
‘We’ve made a discovery, my lord.’
Seen from the outside, despite the scaffolding which still surrounded it, the keep seemed almost completely rebuilt. But there was still considerable work to be done within and, urged on by Vahrd who could not bear to remain idle, the guards had decided to tackle it. Indeed, from below, one merely needed to raise one’s eyes to see right through the timbers and broken boards almost to the top of the keep. Only the last floor was, if not habitable, at least relatively sound. As soon as the roofing was repaired, Lorn had installed himself in austere comfort there.
He entered the tower, where all of the guards were gathered.
‘We’ve found a chapel,’ announced Vahrd on seeing him.