Crown of Silence

by Constantine, Storm

  The next day was born in fog, an ideal condition in which the Cossics could make their attack. Soft hooting sounds drifted from the invisible crags around the camp, advertising the presence of the renegade forces. There might only be a handful of them, intent on unnerving the Magravandians, or there could be a horde ready to fall upon the camp. Valraven positioned troops around the valley, behind heavy shields.

  The officers gathered around the Dragon Lord, beneath his banner at the centre of the camp. ‘They will employ the usual tactics,’ Valraven said. ‘Bowmen first, to draw us out.’

  The Cossic bowmen were renowned for their accuracy and an almost animal ability to fire effectively from the most precarious locations.

  Bayard, standing close to Valraven, laughed. ‘This will be suicide for them. Why do they bother?’

  ‘They believe this to be their country,’ Valraven answered smoothly. ‘They will continue to fight for it until Ashalan is dead – and perhaps even beyond that.’

  ‘You should have sent Mewtish agents to capture his sister, Helayna,’ Bayard said. ‘Ashalan would soon be waving the white flag, then.’

  Valraven ignored this remark. The Princess Helayna, if anything, was more of a threat than her brother. It was doubtful that even the most accomplished of Mewtish agents could get near her, and if they did, whether they’d survive the meeting. ‘The weather conditions are with them,’ Valraven said. ‘We may take heavy casualties, but we’ll send the cavalry out first as usual.’ He addressed the other offices. ‘Have your musketeers ready. We’ll have only once chance at this.’

  Presently, a deadly rain of slim Cossic arrows hissed out of the fog. Lightly armed, the bowmen could swiftly draw back, and as Valraven had said, they clearly intended to draw out the Magravandian cavalry, who could then be attacked quickly by pikes and spears. Little could be seen from behind the ranks, but the scream of horses could be heard, muffled through the fog, and the cries of men. The Magravandian musketeers advanced behind the cavalry. At the point when the Cossic bowmen drew aside to allow their hidden pikemen to charge forward, the Magravandian cavalry must also peel away, in order for the musketeers to have clear shots at the enemy, but the fog made it difficult to anticipate the right moment. Valraven rode forward with the cavalry, as he always did. It was he who gave the order for the horsemen to gallop to the side. He did it by instinct, as he always did. And the musketeers began to fire.

  The Magravandians did take casualties, perhaps more than usual, but the outcome of the battle was no different to any other the Dragon Lord had led in Cos. The remaining Cossics retreated behind the lizard grey rocks of the lower valley. Between their camp and that of the Magravands was a muddy, bloody arena of carnage. Mist combined with gun smoke and the air smelled of death and horror.

  Khaster went to his tent, where there was no Tayven to attend to his wounds. Not that he’d accrued many, just a scratch here and there. Like Valraven, and other Caradorean officers on the field, he’d taken part in the battle himself, albeit once the musketeers had done their work. He’d fought off his rage and his frustration. Each blow of his sword into leather and flesh had been a release. Men had died because of it. The enemy. But they were men, who like Khaster’s own ancestors, had fought bravely for their land against impossible odds. Somewhere, hidden in the Rhye, their women and children must wait in ragged camps for news of their husbands, fathers and brothers. Tonight, the crags would ring with their laments. Exhausted, Khaster did not care. He lay on his couch, staring at the canopy overhead, where insects clustered around the swinging lamp. It was hard to recapture the feelings he’d experienced in Recolletine, a sense of hope and freedom, a chance for the future. Now, he felt nothing except trapped, functioning without feeling. Perhaps this was what had happened to Valraven.

  He heard running feet and rasping breath and knew they came to his threshold. He wanted to sit up, but couldn’t. The entry curtain was raised and there was a face, red, anguished. He didn’t recognise it. ‘You must come, my lord. You must come.’

  It didn’t seem real. Khaster slowly managed to raise his body, experiencing a dozen aches and twinges in his muscles. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You must come.’

  ‘You must tell me where.’

  ‘Prince Bayardc’

  ‘Has he summoned me?’

  The messenger shook his head. He looked afraid.

  Khaster nodded and got to his feet. For a moment, the world tilted. This is the end, he thought. He could run now. Vanish. Hide. He followed the messenger out of the tent. ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘No one,’ the boy said, ‘but you must come. You must stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  The messenger glanced around himself fearfully. ‘We were friends, Tayven and I. I can’t let this happen.’

  Khaster began to run, ignorant of the messenger’s thin cries behind him. He was driven by instinct, a terrible knowledge deep within. He could hear them before he reached the prince’s pavilion. Laughter, cries. The guards at the canopy made a cursory attempt to stop him, and no doubt could have done. If he’d been more aware, he’d have realised this, but Khaster simply plunged past them. He didn’t even have a weapon. He was unprepared. Bayard was in the main chamber with half a dozen or so of his cronies. Khaster saw the prince first, standing with arms folded to the side of the group, his face composed in a restrained smile. He noticed Khaster’s arrival and his expression did not change. One of the cronies, stood erect, flicked back his hair and delivered a kick at something that lay on the ground between them, a figure curled up, bloodied pale hair spread over its face. Khaster’s entire body went cold. He was frozen. Then, release, and he leapt forwards, tearing at clothes, pushing bodies aside. For a moment, he saw Tayven lying at his feet, his hands over his head, trying to protect himself. Strong arms grabbed Khaster from behind, pulled him back, and Bayard moved towards him. ‘You should not be here,’ he said, and Khaster knew then that Bayard had sent for him deliberately. Khaster had to be contained, not react in the way Bayard would expect. He knew that the wrong words or action might end in Tayven’s death.

  ‘Your highness, you are breaking the law,’ he said in the steadiest voice he could manage. ‘When Valraven hearsc’

  ‘Valraven?’ Bayard laughed. ‘This has nothing to do with him. Hirantel tried to escape, to reach the Cossic lines. No doubt all our plans would have been revealed to the enemy.’

  ‘Plans? What are you talking about? Tayven knows nothing. He’s just my squire.’

  ‘You deluded fool.’ Bayard marched to where Tayven lay and lifted his head by the hair. Tayven’s eyes were swollen shut. They had beaten him badly. Perhaps he was not even aware Khaster was there. ‘He says nothing,’ Bayard sneered. ‘Is that the action of an innocent? He will not even defend himself.’

  ‘Look at the state of him!’ Khaster cried. ‘He cannot speak. He’s barely conscious.’

  ‘That was not the case earlier.’

  ‘This is torture. Remember Tayven is a favourite of Almorante’s.’

  Again, Bayard laughed. ‘Who knows that more than I? I have no fear of my brother. He is guilty and will not want this matter to become public. Our father would be furious if he knew. He wants us all to get along, as loyal subjects of our brother, Gastern.’

  ‘Is there a price on this?’ Khaster said.

  Bayard studied him for a moment. ‘Are you trying to buy my favour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The prince drew in his breath. ‘The price is Hirantel’s confession. I want him to confess to me and then to my father in Magrast.’

  ‘Is that why I’m here?’

  ‘He might well listen to you.’

  ‘If he confesses, he will be executed. How can I be party to that? I am not convinced he has anything to confess. I need to speak to him privately first.’

  ‘You argument is reasonable,’ Bayard said, ‘but I am not prepared to let the little snake win you round. You are too gullible.’ He gestured to one
of his friends. ‘Throw water on the wretch. Revive him. There are other methods.’

  ‘No!’ Khaster cried.

  ‘Then tell him the right thing to do. Will you countenance his suffering otherwise?’

  Khaster rubbed his hands over his face. ‘This must be mediated. Send for Valraven.’

  ‘No. He will not want to be concerned with this.’

  ‘I disagree. He spoke to me yesterday.’

  Bayard raised his eyebrows, but did not seem particularly surprised. ‘Whatever he might have said to you, Palindrake will not give you his support openly. Not against me. I know this as I know the beat of my own heart. He has too much to lose – the favour of my mother being the main concern. We are out in the wilderness. There are no laws here, and courtly behaviour does not apply.’

  ‘Then I will go to him myself.’ Khaster tried to pull away from the men who held him, but after a brief gesture from Bayard they only increased their grip.

  ‘Revive the boy,’ Bayard said.

  The whole scene seemed suddenly to freeze in Khaster’s mind. A memory came back to him, as vivid and pure as a lucid dream.

  Long ago, when he and Valraven had been youths, Khaster had ridden his gelding to one of the high pastures above Norgance, the Leckery estate, for he had agreed to meet Valraven there. They had been young teenagers, first experimenting with life. The annual summer horse fair in the village of Greenriver, nearby, had attracted a number of travelling clans to the area. Travelling girls were free and wild. They were happy to dally with handsome youths from the great houses. They liked receiving presents. They liked excitement. It had been Valraven’s plan for Khaster and himself to visit the camps that afternoon and see what would happen next. Neither of them had experienced a woman and Valraven thought it was time they did. Khaster always did everything that Valraven told him. He felt nervous but also full of anticipation. Valraven was late. No doubt Pharinet had detained him, with that sixth sense she had for when he was up to mischief. She would want to come too and Valraven would have to be clever to put her off. Khaster sat on the fence kicking the wood, chewing on a sweet grass stem. The sun shone on the glossy backs of the mares and foals that grazed among the flowers. He was quite content to wait for his friend, fantasising about what might transpire later in the afternoon.

  Presently, the sound of loud male voices could be heard emanating from the nearby forest and a group of youths strolled into view. They were older than Khaster, and he immediately felt wary of them, then considered that they must be traveller lads. They wouldn’t make trouble. The travellers were too fond of extracting money from the rich landowners of Caradore and that circumstance required a respectful relationship between the two tribes.

  The youths jumped over the fence on the far side of the field, pushing each other around, laughing crudely, shouting. Khaster shifted uncomfortably on his perch. Where was Valraven? He looked behind, but no rider galloped along the long road from Caradore Castle. As the rowdy group drew nearer, Khaster realised they weren’t traveller boys at all. Their attire lacked the flamboyance associated with travellers and they did not have the typical rangy, forest folk appearance common to the wandering tribes. But then many people were drawn to the horse fair, some from bigger towns over the border in Magravandias. Some of these people weren’t interested in the horses, but in the other delights that could be sampled at the fair. Merchants from all over Magravandias brought their wares to display. Intoxicating beverages were on sale, and in the evening people would dance and drink themselves insensible in the balm of Caradorean summer air.

  It was clear to Khaster that, despite the early hour, the youths before him had already been sampling some of liquor merchants’ wares. To his horror, they began to chase the animals in the field, waving their arms and yelling, then doubling over with laughter as the creatures fled, terrified. Khaster saw foals separated from their mothers, screaming in fear. He saw one bulky youth run after a lone foal and throw himself upon it, bringing it to the ground. The animal uttered a piercing cry and its mother ran towards it, but a couple of the other youths, who carried sticks, beat her away. Khaster jumped down from the fence and ran into the field. He knew, because Valraven had often told him, that he was not a particularly brave person, but he could not countenance what he was seeing. He shouted out in fury, and for a moment, the gang froze and stared at him. Only for a moment. Then they were laughing again, pulling stupid faces at him, making obscene gestures. The bulky youth stood up and the foal got shakily to its feet, almost too terrified to move. Khaster felt helpless. He had initiated something he could not handle. Where could he go from here? The gang would beat him senseless, perhaps worse. They were advancing towards him, their eyes full of a hideous hunger Khaster had never seen before. It was the lust to harm. He felt his legs go weak. Then he was running back towards the fence, where his horse was tethered. He must reach it, gallop away. He could hear the thud of heavy feet behind him, the delighted cat-calls of the gang. He would never get away in time. But then, miraculous wonder. A black stallion was galloping towards the fence, Valraven upon it, his black hair flying back from his head. The stallion cleared the obstacle in one soaring leap. Valraven pulled it to a rearing halt for a moment as he surveyed the situation. Then he urged it forward, uttering a scream of rage.

  The stallion pounded past Khaster, and in seconds Valraven was amongst the gang, his mount rearing and kicking, its rider lashing out with a long stick. He needed a crop to control the horse, which was notoriously wilful. The gang did not fight back. They were stunned, overwhelmed. They ran away, saying nothing. They just ran.

  Khaster looked after them, full of an awareness of his own incapability. Valraven rode over to him and pulled the sweating beast to a snorting halt. He jumped down and put his arm round Khaster’s shoulders. ‘There,’ he said.

  That was that. He needed to say no more. Both of them knew that Khaster without Valraven was powerless, only half a creature.

  That was how Khaster felt now. It was not a young foal before him, but a person he loved. What Bayard was doing to him was beyond terrible and Khaster could do nothing. The men had thrown water over Tayven’s head to revive him. They had stripped him naked. Khaster expelled a sound that did not sound human even to his own ears. He found his strength, but it was not the strength to intervene. He broke free of his captors, who were too interested in what was going on before them anyway. He ran, stumbling, out of Bayard’s pavilion, out into the night that stank of death. The camp seemed strange to him, he did not know it, but somehow he found his way to Valraven’s pavilion. The guards at the entrance made some effort to detain him, but he was too driven to stop. He clawed his way inside, beat at the canvas to find his way to the only person who could ever help him.

  There was an uncanny stillness in the inner chamber. Khaster found Valraven there, sitting before a small table, upon which lay a cup of water and a plate containing the remains of an austere meal. Nearby, Valraven’s squire moved silently and discreetly around the chamber, attending to his master’s battle gear. The boy glanced round when Khaster burst in and stealthily left the room between some curtains. Valraven did not look up. His face was pinched, turned in on itself. He had a knife in his hand, which he held point first against the table top. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for Khaster to come to him.

  ‘Val,’ Khaster gasped. ‘Help. I needc. Val, you must stop them.’

  At that point, Valraven looked at him. What Khaster saw in his eyes was an immense and eternal black void. There was no emotion there. No response.

  ‘They are killing Tayven. You must stop them. I beg you. Go to Bayard. He’ll listen to you. You know he will. Val, do anything, but stop them. Please!’ Khaster was weeping now, the same tears he had wept a thousand times in boyhood, when he’d curled himself into a dark corner, overcome by feelings of inadequacy and fear. Valraven had always found him, brought him out into the light, filled him with strength.

  But Valraven only shook his head.


  ‘Val!’ Khaster went to the table, leaned upon it, almost retching with despair.

  Valraven sighed deeply. ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Why? This is me, Val. Remember everything. Remember it now. Forget the anger between us. I’d give you my soul for your help. I beg you. I beg you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Valraven said again. He was luminous with a strange indigo light. He was inhuman, like a demon.

  Khaster fell to his knees, clasped his hands upon the table, as if in prayer. ‘What can I do? Tell me. I’ll do anything. Forgive me. Help me.’

  ‘Go,’ said Valraven. ‘I cannot help you. I am not the man you knew.’ He spread out his left hand on the table top and raised the knife. ‘This is who I am now.’ He plunged the blade into the back of his hand, skewering it to the wood.

  For a moment, Khaster stared at this sight, then at the dark pulsing countenance of the man before him. He was physically repelled by the black force that emanated from those eyes. He did not know this man. It was not even a man. It was something else.

  Khaster ran from the pavilion. He was like a spirit cut free from reality. He was adrift, helpless, insubstantial. His only thought, born of desperation, was to offer his own life in place of Tayven’s. Somehow, without remembering how, he was in Bayard’s pavilion again, on his knees before the prince. There was activity around him. He could hear Tayven’s guttural moans of agony. He was praying.

  Bayard was a blade of radiant light, the power of the sun. Yet he was serene, controlled. He listened to Khaster’s outpourings in stillness, perhaps fascinated. Then he raised a hand and murmured, ‘Stop.’

  Behind Khaster, there was a thump as the two men who held Tayven dropped him to the floor. A third man stepped away, tidying his clothing. Khaster could hear choking rasping breath, like a death rattle. He raised his head, implored with his eyes, but there was no compassion in Bayard’s face, just a watchful calculating chill.