by Pierre Pevel
‘The colours of Yrgaard shall fly above this fortress,’ the dragon-prince swore. ‘Anyone still here shall be put to the sword. You have until nightfall to leave this place!’
And turning back at the threshold of the great double doors, he cried:
‘After that, it shall be war!’
Once the doors of the hall shut, there was general relief, at least until the dragon-prince’s final words sank in. A feeling of urgency then took hold of the audience and the Azure Guard had to mobilise itself to calm and contain the most restless, the most selfish and the most eager to leave.
As for the queen, she rose and descended from the dais as if totally oblivious of the growing panic.
‘Mother …’ Alan said, attempting to hold her back.
But in vain.
She did not hear him. She did not hear anything.
With a slow step, she walked towards Lorn. Livid, her gaze furious, she stared at him for a long moment.
Before slapping him in the face with all her might.
Lorn’s head jerked sideways, then his eyes locked with the queen’s. His split lip was bleeding. But he remained calm and, as if nothing had happened, said:
‘You should leave, ma’am. For your own safety. This evening we will be at war, and the first battle will take place right here.’
17
‘For the Dragon had spoken to him, in the secret heart of the mountain that sheltered the tomb of the first High King, who had imprisoned and enslaved it in order to steal its power.’
Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)
In the heart of the mountain against which Erklant I’s mausoleum had been built, Lorn had forgotten the old king from the moment the Dragon of Destruction had addressed him, and only him. All his thoughts, his entire being, had been captured by it, and he’d been unable to tear his eyes away from Serk’Arn.
‘You know what they all want you to believe, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Lorn.
‘And you know why.’
‘I do. Is the king—’
‘Fooled by all this? Yes, I believe he is. There is no faith stronger than that of a madman who wants to believe. And this madman desperately wants to believe he is your father.’
Serk’Arn’s voice filled Lorn’s skull with a low, almost painful roar. It was the expression of an ancient power, which had declined over the years, to be sure, but still surpassed understanding. Serk’Arn was no longer a god. However, he had been one once and the vestiges of his might were still greater than anything Lorn had encountered so far.
‘And the Guardians?’ he asked. ‘What do they believe?’
‘Them? I don’t know. I wonder … I can only tell you they expect something from you too.’
‘The fulfilment of my Destiny.’
‘Yes. And perhaps something more. Everyone wants something from you.’
‘Even you?’
‘The magic which binds me only protects Erklant I’s descendants. If I wanted you dead …’
A shiver of horror ran through Lorn.
He was crushed by the power of this fallen god imprisoned by a spell. It was like standing in the shadow of an avalanche held back by a breath of air, like raising one’s eyes towards the foamy crest of a tidal wave frozen by an enchantment. Lorn sensed the incredible power which a few runes and arcanium chains could not suffice to subjugate.
‘Then what do you want?’ he asked.
‘To conclude a pact with you,’ replied the dragon. ‘A secret pact that will benefit both of us.’
‘What can you offer me? I’m at your mercy. You can destroy me with a breath, but that is all you can do. And once I pass those doors, you can do nothing against me, or for me.’
‘Don’t be so sure of that, Lorn. There is much I can do for you.’
It seemed impossible, unreal.
And yet this really was Serk’Arn, the Dragon of Destruction, Lorn was speaking to.
‘The Dark is in you. I sense it. It is stronger than anyone yet guesses and, one day, it will overwhelm you. But you already know that. You don’t want to admit it, perhaps, but you know it’s true.’
Lorn nodded gravely.
At that instant, he did not know what he was hoping for, but he could not prevent himself from doing so. A glimmer of hope, flickering and distant, had kindled within him. That of a man with an illness who wanted to believe in a miraculous remedy. That of the condemned man waiting for a pardon.
‘I cannot free you from the Dark, Lorn. Any more than I can free myself from these chains.’
With those words, hope died within Lorn and was replaced by icy shadows.
‘But I can let you dominate it,’ continued Serk’Arn. ‘I still have that power. The Dark is in you. With my help, however, you could control it. And who knows? Perhaps even use it for your own benefit …’
Lorn thought about it, hesitant and more troubled that he wanted to let on. The dragon’s words kept returning to him: ‘There is no faith stronger than that of a madman who wants to believe.’ Wouldn’t they apply just as much to himself as to the old king, if he let himself be tempted?
‘The Dark will cease to be a disease eating away at you, and become a strength,’ the Dragon of Destruction added. ‘Do I need to describe the Dark’s power to you? Can you imagine if that part of the Dark that lies within you were subject to your will?’
It was enough for Lorn to imagine the Dark no longer corroding his body and soul. But the dragon’s claims nevertheless struck home when he recalled the resurgent energy he’d felt in Bejofa, after he’d received a beating at the end of an alleyway. He had been lying there vanquished and broken, bleeding, when something had awoken inside him and made him stand up. His strength had returned to him, along with a savage determination that had rendered him cold, lucid and merciless. That determination, that renewed physical and mental vigour which had saved his life, he owed to the Dark.
‘You’ve already tasted its power, haven’t you?’ said Serk’Arn.
Lorn nodded, aware that he could hide nothing from the dragon. Nevertheless, he voiced an objection:
‘Nothing can dominate the Dark. Not even you. Sooner or later, it will destroy me.’
‘As the sea wears away the cliff that will inevitably crumble, yes.’
‘So what good will it do me?’
‘Think of the time that is now allotted to you. Think of the self they stole from you. Do you want to simply brood and await death? Do you want to spend your remaining years in a futile combat against the Dark? Do you want to remain the condemned prisoner that you were at Dalroth?’
‘No. I … I want to live.’
‘Then become my ally.’
‘And the Dark? How will I—’
‘That does not depend entirely on you. But if I’m not mistaken, a moment will come. You’ll recognise it. You’ll understand. It’s even possible – you’ll foresee it … And when the moment arrives, you will need to return to me.’
‘And if that moment never comes?’
‘Then the Dark will slowly complete its work and kill you.’
Lorn thought about it.
Then, his decision made, he had looked directly into Serk’Arn’s incandescent gaze.
‘So be it. What do you want from me?’
‘They are going to give you power,’ the Divine Dragon had replied in the immense shadows of the hollow mountain. ‘Use it.’
18
‘ “Since the king is so intent on keeping Saarsgard, let him see to its defence!” Those were the last words Queen Celyane, in her anger, uttered before embarking on her ship, abandoning Saarsgard to Yrgaard’s wrath. The court followed her, worried and anxious to depart, and soon there were only a handful of men left to defend the fortress and the honour of the High Kingdom. A prince, however, was one of them.’
Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)
The afternoon was drawing to an end.
From Saarsgard’s ramparts, L
orn watched the High Kingdom’s ships disappearing in the distance, upon waters which were already growing dark. Then his gaze fixed on the black-and-red sails of the Yrgaardian fleet at its moorings in the now otherwise deserted port.
‘How many of them, do you reckon?’ he asked.
Alan screwed up his face.
‘Ten ships. Forty men per ship.’
‘Four hundred, then.’
‘Of which about a third are sailors. But they also know how to fight.’
‘Four hundred …’ repeated Lorn to himself. Then, straightening up: ‘The sun will soon be setting, Alan. It’s time for you to leave.’
‘Out of the question.’
‘And that goes for you as well,’ added Lorn, turning to Enzio.
The latter, leaning against an enormous bombard which pointed out to sea, was scribbling with a pencil lead in a notebook.
‘Bad news, my friends,’ he said. ‘According to my calculations, we’re well within range of the Yrgaardian cannons.’
‘Naval guns,’ objected Alan. ‘Effective against a wooden hull. Less so against stone walls.’
‘True. But their gunners will have plenty of time to adjust their aim, in the calm waters of the harbour. And thanks to the reserves in the port’s arsenal, they won’t be running out of powder or cannonballs any time soon …’
‘Are you listening to me?’ asked Lorn, raising his voice.
‘No,’ replied Enzio, correcting a trajectory. ‘Siege warfare is a science which requires one’s full attention.’
‘Alan,’ insisted Lorn. ‘You are a prince of the High Kingdom. Your life is worth more than this fortress.’
It was not the first time Lorn had tried to persuade his friend to leave. And before him, Esteveris had pleaded in vain until the moment of embarkation. As for the queen, she had not said a word upon learning the news of her son’s decision to remain behind.
‘Lorn is right,’ said Enzio without lifting his eyes from his notebook.
‘Look who’s talking!’ protested Alan.
‘I am merely a Sarmian gentleman. The blood of the High Kings does not run in my veins.’
‘And now he’s being modest, too …’
The elder son of the Duke of Sarme and Vallence gave a smirk.
‘Lorn,’ said Alan, ‘you know as well as I do that we’re not just defending a fortress here. And even if we were, isn’t it the king’s will that we do? My father’s will? What sort of son would I be if I went against my father’s will?’
If only you knew … thought Lorn.
‘Yrdel did not have such scruples,’ he said.
‘Don’t bring my brother into this. First, he is the crown prince. Second, I’m certain he’s doing his utmost to persuade my mother to rethink her decision to abandon Saarsgard. Believe me, if a fleet comes to our rescue, we’ll owe it to Yrdel. And he will be commanding it.’
Lorn wanted to object but the prince did not give him the chance.
‘My place is here, Lorn. Here. Upon these walls. I am sure of it as I have not been sure of anything for a long while now. We’re going to defend Saarsgard and we’re going to send that dragon-prince packing.’
Alan’s almost naive confidence moved Lorn.
‘Besides,’ added Enzio, ‘Alan’s presence might actually save our lives. Without him, I can see no reason that might convince the queen to return here in order to do anything other than gather up our bodies.’
‘That’s right,’ said Alan.
‘So be it,’ said Lorn. ‘And you, Enzio? What’s your valid reason for remaining?’
Enzio flashed a wide grin.
‘It would be inconceivable for a Sarmian prince to run away when a prince of the High Kingdom chooses to make a stand.’
‘Ah! You’ve become a prince again! What happened to the modest gentleman you were just a minute ago?’
‘Bah! All gentlemen from Sarme and Vallence are more or less princes.’
‘I thought it was the other way around,’ said Alan in jest.
‘Very funny. Remind me to kill you in a duel, once the siege is over.’
Alan and Enzio then became aware of Lorn’s silence as he had turned back to watching the port again.
Their smiles faded.
‘Enzio, how long do you think we can hold that gate?’
A road paved with flagstones led from the port to the fortress between two fortified gates at either end. Lorn was pointing to the first: the gate near the port.
‘Not long,’ said Enzio, becoming serious again. ‘The men defending it will come under heavy cannon fire.’
‘Speaking of which …’ said Lorn, looking at the enormous bombard close to where they were standing.
In its haste to hand over the stronghold to Yrgaard, the High Kingdom had not waited for the treaty to be signed to begin its withdrawal. Thus, most of its garrison troops had already departed, taking with them the fortress’s cannons, with the exception of a dozen old bombards too bulky and heavy to be moved.
On the other hand, they could be turned around.
‘We will never be able to hold these ramparts,’ said Lorn. ‘We’ll need to fall back fairly quickly into the Castel. And in that case, it would be best if the enemy could not use these fire maws against us.’
‘Let’s stuff them full of mortar,’ proposed Enzo. ‘It’s still the quickest method.’
‘Why not use them against the Yrgaardian fleet?’ asked Alan.
‘Too risky,’ said Lorn. ‘They’re unreliable. They might very well blow up in our faces.’
‘Besides,’ continued the prince, thinking out loud, ‘if we used them ourselves, we might not have time to render them harmless against us.’
‘Exactly.’
Liam arrived at that very instant, with Cael Dorsian handcuffed between two of the garrison’s soldiers. They had arrived from the gaol cells, where Liam had gone to fetch the prisoner on Lorn’s orders. Dorsian proudly endured Alan and Enzio’s hostile appraisal.
‘Unchain him,’ said Lorn.
The soldiers freed Dorsian from the irons which bound his wrists together.
‘To what do I owe this honour?’ he asked.
‘Look.’
Dorsian approached the parapet’s embrasures. He saw the Yrgaardian fleet in the port and the sails of the last of the High Kingdom’s ships disappearing in the distance. Then he turned back towards the fortress, which he found strangely silent.
‘What’s going on?’
Lorn outlined the situation and Dorsian listened, astonished at first, then admiring and … puzzled.
‘So you’ve started a war between the High Kingdom and Yrgaard …’
‘Only if we win this battle. If we lose, the High Kingdom will present its apologies, Yrgaard will accept them, and the treaty will be signed. If we win, on the other hand …’
‘And what are your chances?’
‘None to speak of.’
‘I know that most of the garrison has already left. How many men do you have to defend this fortress?’
‘Thirty-odd soldiers from the garrison.’
‘Thirty!’
‘Alan has the twenty soldiers forming his escort. Enzio, ten.’
‘And your Onyx Guard? How many men?’
‘Four.’
Dorsian snickered.
‘Including you three, if I’ve done my sums right, that makes less than seventy blades. And opposing you, how many are there? Five hundred?’
‘Less.’
‘And they have cannons.’
Lorn did not reply.
Turning to look out to sea, Dorsian pondered for a moment, rubbing his chafed wrists.
‘What am I doing here?’ he asked gravely.
‘You wanted to fight in order to prevent Angborn being ceded to the Black Dragon, didn’t you?’
Dorsian stifled a small chuckle and displayed a cynical smile.
‘So these are the choices you’re offering us, my men and myself. Die defending these ramparts
or wait to be executed in prison … Now I understand why you wanted us to regain our strength yesterday. I’d almost believed you brought us food out of the goodness of your heart …’
‘Lorn is offering you the chance to fight and die as a gentleman,’ said Enzio. ‘It’s already more than you deserve.’
Stung to the quick, Dorsian almost snapped a retort, but restrained himself.
‘Moreover,’ added Lorn, ‘I’m only offering you this deal: either you fight at our side, or you return to the dungeon.’
‘I don’t understand. And my men?’
‘They’re free to leave or to fight. I won’t force them to defend Saarsgard against their will.’
‘Just me. Thanks for the special treatment.’
‘And we want you to give us your word of honour that you’ll be loyal, Cael,’ demanded Alan.
Enzio raised his eyes heavenwards in exasperation.
‘You have my word,’ said Dorsian, after a moment’s reflection. ‘But I can’t speak for my men.’
‘I’ll talk to them,’ said Lorn.
Gathered together in a courtyard, everyone looked up at Lorn when he appeared on a gallery overlooking them. He was accompanied by Prince Alderan of the High Kingdom and Elenzio de Laurens, along with his lieutenant from the Onyx Guard and Cael Dorsian, who stood behind them.
Evening was approaching.
The great fortress was silent and already invaded by deep shadows.
Lorn spent a moment observing the men who had come to listen to him. They included the remnant of Saarsgard’s garrison, the dark and impassive silhouettes of the Onyx Guard, Alan’s and Enzio’s bodyguards, and the prisoners freed from the fortress’s gaol cells. In all several dozen men, most of whose names Lorn had not had time to learn.
Drawing a breath, he said:
‘Once the sun sets, a dragon-prince will advance towards us. He will demand that we open Saarsgard’s gates and abandon Angborn. He will demand that we lay down our weapons. He will demand that we surrender and deliver this stronghold to him.’