by A. J. Smith
Fallon had known the previous cardinal well. Jareth of Du Ban had named him the Grey Knight after a drunken indiscretion during his years as a trainee. He had been a fine man. Malaki Frith was an unknown. He had risen to the highest office of knights through loyalty and, by all accounts, an apathetic approach to politics.
Hundreds of possibilities flowed through Fallon’s mind. He was pessimistic by nature and couldn’t ignore the many ways he could get himself and his men killed. An ill-advised insult, a drunken comment from Vladimir. None of it mattered until he knew what kind of man the cardinal was.
The raven took flight again. It circled the camp above Fallon’s head and glided across the trebuchets. Its cawing was the loudest noise he could hear, rising over the distant clatter of armour and the braying of horses.
‘That’s the symbol of Canarn isn’t it?’ slurred Vladimir. ‘A raven in flight?’
‘Used to be,’ he replied, shielding his eyes from the morning sun and looking at the large bird. ‘I hear the risen men are in charge there these days.’
Vladimir bit his thumb to ward off evil spirits and took another drink. ‘I never met Lord Bromvy. Maybe he sent a raven to watch over us,’ he said, spluttering out some wine.
The raven drifted to a halt nearby, resting on a barrel of crossbow bolts. To its left, the ghostly form of Torian’s shade appeared. The Purple cleric approached the bird with interest and Fallon narrowed his eyes.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Vladimir, looking at the bird.
The bird flapped, but Fallon wasn’t sure whether it flapped at the shade or not. They appeared to be looking at each other, but that could have been a trick of the dawn light.
‘No,’ replied Fallon, not wishing to confide in Vladimir. ‘Just remembering Canarn.’
‘Lots of people die?’
‘Unnecessarily,’ he replied. ‘Same at Hail and South Warden. No one likes being conquered.’
The Lord of Mud didn’t know how to respond. He opened his mouth a couple of times but no words came out. His lips were stained red from the wine and his eyes drooped. Fallon liked him, but occasionally he could wish for a more balanced confidant.
‘Don’t worry, my Lord Corkoson,’ he said, turning from the raven as it took flight and soared away from the yeomanry’s camp. ‘You and I are going to make sure that no one else dies.’
‘Or gets conquered,’ said Vladimir.
They left the forward defences and went to prepare their men for whatever was going to happen. Arms and armour were cleaned, repaired and donned, horses were fed and saddled, trebuchets loaded and crewed. Once everything was in place and no word had arrived from the cardinal, Fallon returned to the forward palisade and waited.
* * *
Malaki Frith wore unadorned armour. His breastplate was polished steel and his tabard a dark red. Neither had any conspicuous insignia or marks of personal status. Even the cardinal’s sword was a simple blade in a simple scabbard. He could have been mistaken for an ordinary knight if it weren’t for the embroidery on his cloak and the high, white plume on his helmet.
Fallon took this as a good sign. The more ornate a man’s attire, the more concerned he was likely to be with status and hierarchy. His own armour had been simple and patched together, and he’d not had a red cloak since Ro Canarn. Currently, he looked more like a mercenary than a former knight, with reinforced leather armour and heavy riding boots. Mud stains, rusted buckles and mottled leather had become his new uniform.
He scratched at his stubble and hoped the cardinal wasn’t concerned with personal grooming. He chuckled to himself, realizing that his former life as a knight was hard to shake off. The mere sight of the Red cardinal had conjured images of midnight inspections and punishments for appearing slovenly on duty. Verellian would often chide him for his less than exemplary appearance, his missing cloak, his lackadaisical attitude to his uniform. None of it mattered now. At least, he hoped it didn’t.
‘He looks very serious,’ said Vladimir, riding between Fallon and Theron towards the parlay table.
From the other direction, Knight Commander Tristram and his adjutant, Taufel, rode from South Warden to join the growing assembly of senior knights. The Red cardinal himself was accompanied by a single knight, a captain from the look of his armour, and several bound men standing as aides.
‘He looks quite humble, though,’ offered Theron. ‘Look at his breastplate. No personal heraldry. That’s rare for a senior knight.’
‘Okay, serious but humble,’ said the Lord of Mud. ‘Is that good?’
‘It’s better than jovial but arrogant,’ answered Fallon. ‘Assuming he acts as his appearance would suggest.’
The raven cawed from above. The bird had been lingering around the camp most of the morning. Since it had first soared overhead from South Warden, Fallon had seen it flapping at Torian’s shade, pecking at the yeomanry’s defences, and shitting on Red knights. A few crossbow bolts had been loosed at it from Frith’s camp, but the large, glossy black bird remained defiantly aloft.
‘Is that thing an omen of some kind?’ asked Vladimir, miming the pull of a bowstring at the raven.
‘No idea. Omens, portents, visions, who needs them?’ replied Fallon.
As if in answer to his question, Torian appeared, floating in the air before him. The apparition was transparent and more like a mist than usual. It said nothing, merely ghosting alongside them, moving as a wisp.
‘Just so everyone’s clear,’ said Vladimir, ‘I am absolutely terrified... and a little drunk.’
‘Just don’t puke on him,’ replied Fallon.
The three of them rode slowly, as did Tristram and Taufel. Each group was giving the others the chance to see them. The Red knights assessed one another and Vladimir tried not to vomit.
The cardinal only looked at Fallon. He was inscrutable, showing no emotion, positive or negative, as he assessed the Grey Knight.
‘Fallon of Leith, Tristram of the Cross, you are both welcome. Sit in peace with your blades tied.’ Frith stood as he spoke, holding his arms wide.
The riders all stopped and dismounted, handing their reins to the attentive bound men. The parlay table was a slab of oak on four squat pillars, with well-made armchairs all round it. The table was isolated, equidistant from South Warden, the camp of the yeomanry, and Frith’s army. No men stood guard over them and no crossbows or artillery were aimed at them. For a change, Fallon didn’t feel like a traitor or a criminal.
Tristram looked at him with a thin smile. The knight commander appeared unwell and peace-tied his sword with shaking hands. Captain Taufel saluted the cardinal enthusiastically with a ramrod-straight back and an imperious rise of his chin. The two knights then sat.
Fallon waited, motioning for Theron and Vladimir to sit before him.
‘Hello,’ said Vladimir, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
‘May I present Lord Vladimir Corkoson, commander of the Darkwald yeomanry,’ said Fallon.
Cardinal Frith nodded to the Lord of Mud, but said nothing, motioning for Fallon to sit. The two men stood, looking at each other, both remaining on their feet. Slowly, keeping his eyes on the knight general, Fallon sat down. Now that he was close to the man, he found him still inscrutable. His face was lined, but not harsh, and there was wisdom in his eyes. Or maybe it was something else, not wisdom. He still didn’t know what kind of man he was.
Frith sat last, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table.
‘I am Knight General Malaki Frith. This is Knight Captain Dolf Halan.’ He leant back, his face becoming harsher. ‘Which of you is going to tell me what in the name of the One is going on here?’
Fallon chuckled, Tristram frowned and Vladimir smiled awkwardly.
‘It’s complicated, my lord cardinal,’ said the Lord of Mud.
‘Clearly,’ replied Frith. ‘I was summoned from Arnon to reinforce the king. Does he still need reinforcing? I can’t tell from my current view. What I can tell is that we do not h
ave a unified army on the Plains of Scarlet.’
‘South Warden appears cowed,’ said Captain Halan. ‘Scarlet Company no longer a threat?’
‘I would ask you to speak plainly, knight commander,’ said the general, addressing Tristram. ‘Whose orders do you follow?’
‘That, too, is complicated, sir,’ replied Tristram, coughing into his hand. ‘Cardinal Mobius has taken day-to-day command.’
Frith snorted with humour and exchanged a glance with Halan. Fallon could tell that neither of the men liked the Purple cardinal.
‘Please, Tristram, do you have any idea how long it takes ten thousand men to march here from Ro Arnon? We are tired, irritable, and we don’t know why we’re here. Speaking to other knights should have cleared this up... but so far it has not. Perhaps the Purple would be more talkative.’
‘May I speak?’ asked Fallon.
The cardinal bowed his head and screwed up his face. He didn’t look at Fallon. ‘I’m not sure. I’m actually questioning the wisdom of inviting you to parlay. Dolf wanted to clear your camp before we sat down.’
‘I’m rather glad you didn’t,’ spluttered Vladimir. ‘We really don’t want to fight. We just want to go home.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have questioned your king,’ replied Halan.
‘Enough!’ Frith said to his adjutant. ‘We’ll hear what Fallon of Leith has to say.’
Fallon leant back. ‘I’ll tell you the truth, my lord, but you won’t like it.’
‘Talk to me,’ replied Frith. ‘Your answer couldn’t be worse than Tristram’s.’
‘The king is mad. A Karesian witch has enchanted him and the Purple cardinal. Mobius is a pig who does not speak for the One. You have been called to help them subjugate the Ranen because that’s what the Seven Sisters want.’
It was a gamble to tell him this, to blurt it out as a man would describe movements on a battlefield, but he was fed up with uncertainty. The general could listen or he could kill him. Either way, the stalemate was over.
‘Seeing conspiracies, captain?’ said Dolf Halan. ‘That is not your reputation.’
‘I’m not a captain, not any more,’ he replied.
‘I could kill you just for that,’ snapped Frith. ‘I should kill you just for that.’
Each man reacted. Theron leant towards Fallon protectively. Vladimir backed away and held his hands up. Tristram and Taufel nodded in agreement. But Fallon laughed.
‘I am Fallon the Grey, I serve the One God. That remains true whether you try to kill me or not... and I emphasize the word try.’
Frith didn’t respond. He looked at the exemplar, neither blinking nor showing any sign of anger. His eyes were light green and his lined face had a day’s growth of stubble. At least they agreed that shaving was to be done infrequently. Other than that, Fallon couldn’t read him.
‘This is a parlay, correct?’ asked Vladimir, smiling pathetically. ‘So we should all try to be friendly.’
A horn sounded from South Warden. They all looked up from the parlay table and saw the wooden gates open.
‘My lord?’ queried Dolf Halan, rising from his chair.
‘Stand easy,’ replied Frith.
The general stood and peered to the north. Fallon did the same, seeing ten mounted men riding fast towards them. Two banners were carried by a single man – a white eagle and a purple sceptre. Men watched from South Warden and the camp of the yeomanry, pointing with interest at horsemen coming from the city.
‘The king approaches,’ said Fallon drily. ‘Perhaps he can clarify things.’
‘Oh dear,’ offered Vladimir, rubbing his face nervously.
Nine Purple clerics, fully armed and armoured, plunged noisily across the field. Cleon Montague, the king’s bodyguard, bore their standards and rode at the front, his purple tabard spotlessly clean. The other clerics encircled the king, who cut an uninspiring figure. Thin, with poorly fitting armour and a lank, greasy ring of hair. His eyes were still manic and he appeared to twitch as he rode, finding it hard to control his horse.
Fallon strolled round the table, casually untying his sword. He stopped next to the knight general. ‘You’re about to see the evidence of madness and enchantment, my lord,’ he said, taking no pleasure in being proved right.
‘Peace-tie that sword, soldier,’ replied Frith, not looking up from the approaching riders. ‘And sit back down. I’ve known Sebastian Tiris since he was a boy, I’ll know if anything is wrong.’
The clerics stopped, forming into a line with the king and Sir Montague at the front. Their swords were not peace-tied.
‘My king,’ said Knight General Frith, bowing respectfully. ‘It has been too long. You are well?’
‘How dare you meet without your king,’ barked Montague. ‘You of all people should know your place, my lord general.’
‘Well, you’re here now,’ replied Frith, remaining cool.
King Sebastian did not take his eyes from Fallon. They were bloodshot and his red-veined cheeks gave him the appearance of a man the worse for drink. His golden robes were stained and he clutched them tightly around his shoulders, huddling up on his saddle. That did not make his glare any less sinister.
‘We meant no disrespect, my king,’ said Frith. ‘Will you take a seat?’
The general was just as inscrutable when faced with the king. His face was like stone, hard and expressionless.
‘I will sit when these traitors are dead,’ whined Sebastian Tiris.
‘This is a parlay table, my king.’ Frith cast his eyes towards the nine clerics. ‘You will notice that our weapons are tied.’
‘We will not parlay with this peasant swordsman,’ said Montague, pointing at Fallon.
‘We will,’ said Dolf Halan. ‘As is our right as knights of the Red.’
‘Your right?’ bellowed the Purple cleric. ‘You have the rights we give you and no more, soldier.’
Frith stepped towards the king’s bodyguard. He looked up at the mounted man. Without changing expression, he pulled his saddle up from below, spilling the rider on to the grass. The horse reared up and the other clerics held their sword hilts. The knight general put his boot on Montague’s throat, stopping the startled man from standing.
‘I am Knight General Malaki Frith, cardinal of the Red. If you need more reason to treat me with respect, here’s my boot.’
Fallon exchanged a look of amusement with Vladimir and Theron. The Lord of Mud, biting his lip and snorting, barely stopped himself from erupting into laughter.
‘General!’ shrieked the king. ‘You insult a cleric of the sword.’
Frith removed his boot and stepped back. ‘Of course, my king, I forget myself,’ he said conversationally.
Cleon Montague stood and adjusted his tabard. He stared at the general but didn’t answer the challenge. Picking up his fallen saddle, the cleric went to retrieve his horse. The rest of the Purple clerics dismounted and assisted the king as he clumsily tried to reach the ground.
‘Are we going to die?’ mumbled Vladimir. ‘He looks angry.’
‘He looks pathetic,’ replied Theron.
‘Both of you, shut up,’ snapped Fallon. ‘We’re not going to die here.’
‘I advise you to be silent,’ whispered Dolf Halan sharply. ‘Let us handle things and you and your men may survive.’
Frith approached Sebastian Tiris and dropped to one knee.
‘My king, I report from Arnon as ordered,’ he said, ignoring the armed Purple clerics glaring at him.
‘I receive you gratefully,’ slurred the king, offering his hand. ‘I command that you place these criminals under arrest.’
The Red cardinal kissed the offered hand and stood up. His eyes were now narrow as he studied the king’s face.
‘As you say, my king. What is their crime?’ asked Frith.
‘Treason!’ he shrieked.
‘I see,’ replied the general. ‘And the details of this treason?’
Montague returned, leading his horse. His
manner was more guarded now. Perhaps a boot to the throat was the best way to talk to a Purple cleric. ‘The details are incidental, general,’ said the king’s bodyguard. ‘You have been ordered to arrest them and arrest them you must.’
‘I don’t believe I was speaking to you, cleric,’ replied Frith, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.
The raven made its presence known with a caw. It had been there since the king had arrived, silently circling them, but now its shrill call signalled the appearance of Torian’s shade. All eyes except Fallon’s looked up. The Grey Knight studied the ghostly purple image that was facing the king, while the other men shouted curses at the bird.
Montague pointed at Dolf Halan. ‘You, knight! Fetch me a crossbow. I’ll deal with this winged harbinger.’
Halan looked unimpressed. He turned to his general for confirmation and Frith shook his head.
‘Throw your sword at it,’ said the knight general. ‘And don’t give my men orders.’
‘Cardinal!’ barked the king. ‘I have given you an order. I trust I am permitted.’
The bird caught a downdraught and soared towards the ground. It flew over their heads and turned sharply, plunging directly at Torian’s shade and the king. The raven was large and its glossy, black wings shone in the morning sun. It pulled up before the king and the others all followed its graceful flight. Fallon didn’t look up. He looked at the ghostly raven that had sent its shade out towards Torian and the king. The form looked exactly like the raven, but was transparent and shimmering white.
Torian’s shade held his arms wide and received the ghostly raven in its chest. The two apparitions fused and a bright blue light made Fallon wince. Then the bird emerged from the cleric’s back and plunged at the king.
‘For the One!’ roared Torian in the depths of Fallon’s mind.
The raven entered the king and the light disappeared. The other knights and clerics reacted only because Sebastian Tiris appeared to faint. They had not seen the ghostly raven and Fallon had kept his astonishment under control.
‘My king,’ spluttered Montague, moving to assist him.
Sebastian held his head while his clerics formed a circle round him. Fallon puffed out his cheeks and cocked an eyebrow. He found himself amused. He wasn’t sure why, but so much time spent with Torian’s shade had made him cynical, even about the supernatural. He was jaded about so much and this was just the latest thing to add to the list.