by Damien Black
Vertrix felt anxiety gnaw at his innards as he thought on that. It was an all-too familiar feeling by now; they had been forced to spend nearly an extra week at sea, trading in their carrack for a cog leaving Grendel for Ongist. A week to churn over the news, wondering what had befallen kith and kin at home.
On top of all that now they had to return to whatever was left of that home via the troubled capital. It was the last thing he wanted, but they hadn’t been left with much choice: to have any chance of making it to Gaellentir they would have to approach from the south and hope the lands held by Lord Cael hadn’t been overrun yet.
Of course, in happier times reporting to the King would have made perfect sense under the circumstances. But given everything that had happened, who knew what kind of reception their news would get. Since Abrexta had entered his life, Cadwy had seemed completely indifferent to the plight of the northern wards.
‘Go and fetch Bryant and Regan,’ he muttered, trying to take his mind off possible future events. ‘And make sure everything is prepared – the sooner we’re off this wretched ship and out of Ongist the better I shall like it!’
Gormly nodded curtly and dashed off to see it done. Vertrix returned to staring at the walls of Ongist, growing across his vision and clouding his mood further.
The harbour was a riot of activity. Yard-arms and great wheeled cranes were loading and unloading goods from the cogs, carracks, sloops and barges that vied for a space at Ongist’s crowded wharf. Shipcraft was one thing Thraxians did do well, Vertrix reflected – but that hadn’t stopped them losing the War of the Cobian Succession nearly a decade ago. Despite its being fought primarily at sea.
He sighed heavily, weighed down by his gloomy thoughts. It was a miracle the realm was still together – come to think of it, it barely was thanks to Abrexta and her sorcerous meddling. Sir Braxus had also hinted at a darker conspiracy when he had pressed the parchment scroll upon him, with strict instructions that it be delivered straight to Lord Braun’s hand: wizards had been behind the civil war in Northalde, wizards were behind the strange mission the young knight had chosen to accept, and those same wizards might well have something to do with Abrexta.
‘Wizards here, wizards there,’ muttered Vertrix as the ship slowly creaked in to dock at one of the many jetties jutting out from the wharf. ‘Wizards every blasted where.’
Sir Regan, who had just joined him with the others, glanced at him quizzically. ‘What was that?’ the raven-haired knight asked. There was a sharpness in his voice that wasn’t often found in the easy-going youngster; the thigh injury he’d picked up in the Northlending civil war still hadn’t healed and he was reduced to limping. But then the last few weeks had been trying for all of them.
‘Ah, ‘tis naught,’ said Vertrix, hastily dissembling. ‘Just wondering what state the realm’s in, what with the highlanders up north and things as they are down here.’
‘It’s in a state of change is what it is,’ said Bryant, striding over from the starboard side. ‘Why don’t you both come and look at this?’
The urgency in his voice brooked no delay. Ongist did most of its maritime trade on the north side of the Rundle; the south was typically reserved for the warehousing of goods owned by the wealthy merchants.
Until recently that was. Vertrix took a sharp breath as he registered the sight: a hundred skeletal ship frames lined the waterfront. They were in the early stages of construction, but their purpose was unmistakable.
‘War galleys,’ he breathed. ‘More than I’ve seen since our last military disaster. Seven Princes, what in the Known World is Cadwy playing at now?’
‘Cadwy, or Abrexta?’ asked Regan pointedly. ‘Building warships when what we need is a land army to face off the highlanders! This has her mark all over it, the conniving bitch.’
Vertrix favoured the young knight with a sour glance. He despised Abrexta as a witch and a danger to the realm, but he still didn’t hold with disrespectful talk of women. Regan and Braxus were notorious – or rather celebrated – for their conquests, but the old knight didn’t approve. In his day chivalrous knights hadn’t done that sort of thing. Or he hadn’t anyway. Longing for his wife Rihanna surged up in him. He’d missed her so. That feeling quickly turned to sickness at the thought of what might have happened to her while he was away.
Banishing the thought he said: ‘Sharp words will avail us nothing – this isn’t our concern anyway. We’ve to get back up north as quickly as we can.’
‘Shouldn’t we try to find out more first?’ put in Bryant. ‘Folk here are likely to have heard more since we left Grendel.’
Vertrix nodded reluctantly. ‘Aye, start asking questions as soon as we’re off the ship – but don’t take too long about it, Bryant! I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to. Something tells me it won’t go well for us if the King’s men learn we are here.’
Bryant frowned at that but said nothing more. Vertrix fidgeted with his sword belt fretfully. Here they were, dodging their King to get back to a homeland that had probably been pillaged thanks in part to that same monarch. The world had turned upside down.
Longshoremen released the poles holding their cog clear of the jetty, permitting it enter a space opened up by a sloop embarking on its latest voyage. The ship docked and sailors lowered the gangplank at the captain’s call. Their squires led their horses down onto the jetty – all except poor Paidlin, who limped along glumly behind them. His leg was healing well and he had escaped the horrors of gangrene, but he was a wretched sight stumbling down the gangplank, nearly letting go of his crutch as he slipped.
Vertrix caught him and helped him down. ‘Easy now, lad,’ he said. ‘Takes a while to get used to an injury like that. Don’t rush.’
‘Aye sir,’ replied the former squire, looking even more downcast.
The old knight had no more words of comfort. But how did you comfort a promising young noble who’d been crippled for life at fifteen summers?
The harbour was a swarming throng of merchants and sailors, with a smattering of harlots for good measure. Ignoring them all with a distasteful grimace, Vertrix scanned the crowded market stalls and taverns, trying to tell if anything had changed.
Ongist felt chaotic – but then it had always seemed that way, even before Abrexta. There were no port officials to register their arrival, but that was all too typical of the disorganised Thraxians. Now he was immersed in its noise, he could hear the strains of fiddle and lyre more clearly. The sound raised his spirits somewhat. Music, that was another thing Thraxians actually did well. He’d heard enough of the Northlending bards at Strongholm to last a lifetime – half of them played renditions of Thraxian songs anyway, badly.
He was just thinking that perhaps it wasn’t so bad to be home after all, when Bryant came bustling over. He had just been talking to a group of rugged-looking men.
‘Well, what news?’ asked Vertrix, the others gathering round.
‘Not good,’ replied Bryant, as stoical as ever. ‘Yon men are fur traders, from the north. Say they escaped with their lives by a cat’s whisker, highlanders came at them on the western fringes of Liathduil. Only their horses saved them.’
‘Liathduil?’ exclaimed Regan. ‘Redeemer’s wounds, that means they’ve crossed the Burryn!’
‘We fathomed as much at Grendel,’ said Vertrix, impatiently waving him to silence. ‘That’s why we didn’t retrace our steps and sail back down the river, remember? Go on, Bryant, what else?’
Bryant’s face was set grim as he answered. ‘Lord Tarneogh is dead, and so are most of his retainers. Tíerchán’s lot overran Daxtir more than two weeks ago. They razed the place to the ground and killed every soul for leagues about. Clan Joyce has been wiped out.’
‘Pagan savages!’ snarled Vertrix. ‘What about Gaellentir?’
It was the question he feared to ask most, but they had to know if they were about to ride into a death trap.
A flicker of hope crossed Bryant’s face. ‘The t
raders haven’t heard anything fresh for a week, but last they heard it still stands, though Slangá has it surrounded and many of the lands about have been scoured. The highlanders have Lord Cael penned in as well.’
Vertrix shut his eyes tightly, trying to think above the noise of the city. One of the northern wards conquered and the other two hanging on for dear life under siege. It wouldn’t be long now.
Opening his eyes he let out a deep breath. ‘Let’s saddle up – we’ve no time to lose.’
The other knights just stared at him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he barked.
Regan made an awkward face. ‘I’m not one for sounding disloyal, Sir Vertrix, but… they’re surrounded. How in Gehenna are we going to get into Gaellen?’
‘And even if we could,’ added Bryant, ‘what good would it do? Risk our lives just to tell Lord Braun that our mission has failed, no knights from Northalde, his son isn’t coming back…’
‘He is coming back!’ snapped Vertrix. He took another breath and ran his hands through thinning grey strands of hair. He was usually unflappable: Sir Vertrix of Cornach, a safe pair of gauntlets in any situation. But he was at a loss as to how to deal with this one. It just kept going from bad to worse. He had to admit, the other two were probably right. Even if by some miracle they did get past the highlanders, what good would it do?
‘We’re still Lord Braun’s vassals,’ he persisted stubbornly. ‘And if that means dying with him, so be it.’
‘Unless we try to change things here,’ said Bryant, speaking slowly as if giving voice to an incipient idea. ‘We demand an audience with the King, try to convince him – ’
‘And he’ll just ignore us, like all the other ambassadors we’ve sent!’ barked Vertrix. ‘And don’t you think he might want to know how we came to be down here?’ He lowered his voice so their squires and any passers-by wouldn’t hear him. ‘What do we tell him? That we’ve just returned from a secret voyage to try and have him overthrown, for his own good?’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, we’re as likely to find ourselves dangling on the end of a rope as anything else if we go anywhere near Cadwy while he’s in this state.’
Bryant was about to reply when a hue and cry went up the length of the harbour.
‘HANGINGS! MORE HANGINGS! Market Circle, there’s more hangings!’
Drunken sailors and curious shoppers started moving up towards the circle, which lay just off the waterfront. An ugly swarm of commoners was soon pushing its way into it. How city folk loved a good hanging.
‘I think we need to see this,’ said Sir Bryant. ‘Might give us an idea of how badly the resistance movement is doing.’ At least the knight had rediscovered his deadpan humour.
‘Market Circle lies on our quickest route out of this rathole in any case,’ said Vertrix. ‘But I’ll be damned if I’m going there on foot with the rest of this rabble! Gormly, help Paidlin mount, the rest of you saddle up now!’
A few minutes later and they were jostling their way none too gently through the throng into the circle. It felt good to sit a horse again after so long at sea, but even that pleasure was quickly soured by the spectacle that greeted them.
‘Redeemer’s wounds, that’s Lord Math’s son!’ exclaimed Sir Regan, recognising one of the bloodied men on the scaffolding. Squinting at the young man’s face Vertrix saw he was right. Sir Gwydion of Cerdigion, a future lord of Low Umbria, was about to meet a traitor’s death.
At least there was one small crumb of comfort – that meant the rest of the realm was starting to wake up, realise that something had to be done. Perhaps news of the situation in the northern wards had finally reached them, spurring them into action. And the lands of Low Umbria lay directly south of the King’s Fold: this uprising had been close to home.
Vertrix scanned the other faces as the hooded executioner put ropes around their necks. There were seven in all, but he only recognised two others – Father Nynniaw, the Senior Perfect of Low Umbria, and Prior Máel, head of the Argolian chapter there. The Order had been suppressed in lands directly ruled by the King, though clearly Máel had refused to heed to the royal decree.
These were illustrious men – something of note had happened.
‘The Low Umbrians revolted again,’ said a nearby merchant in response to his question. ‘Only this time it was more serious, the whole province rose up in arms against the King. They marched on Ongist – His Majesty’s forces met them in an open field south of the Rundle and won. Took these seven prisoner, killed many more. The rest they put to flight.’
‘What’s happened since?’ pressed Vertrix.
‘He’s got knights occupying the lowlands of Umbria now, last I heard anyway,’ replied the merchant, twisting a mustachio.
‘And the north, what of the north?’ pressed Vertrix. ‘We just heard they’re close to being overrun.’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ replied the merchant. ‘The word is King Cadwy’s parlaying for peace with the highlanders.’
‘Peace? Since when did lowland Thraxians make peace with pagan rebels?’
The merchant lowered his voice, leaning in across the saddle of his piebald pony so Vertrix could hear. ‘Rumour has it His Majesty’s consort has… contacts among the highlanders. Some are even saying the King plans to make a gift of the northern wards to the pagans, allow them to settle there permanently if they don’t encroach any farther south.’
The merchant appeared unruffled. But then such wretches didn’t care who owned the land or ran the country, so long as they could sell to them. Suppressing the urge to yank the preening trader from his pony, Vertrix thanked him curtly and turned to whisper the news to Bryant and Regan.
‘This isn’t right,’ said Regan. ‘If these are traitors, the King should be here to preside over the execution!’
‘What’s been right with the realm of late?’ said Sir Vertrix. A herald was proclaiming their wrongdoings, detailing the sentence of death by hanging, drawing and quartering. ‘Reus knows how many so-called traitors Cadwy’s executing nowadays – he’s probably too busy disporting himself upriver on his damned pleasure barge to bother doing it in person!’
‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Bryant. ‘Half the circle will hear you!’
‘Think so?’ cried Vertrix bitterly above the crowd, now baying for blood. ‘Listen to them – blasted churls, they’ll cheer anything that gives them respite from their sorry lives! Never mind that these poor devils are dying for their country!’
With a sneer of disgust the old knight wheeled his horse around, barging a couple of sailors out of the way. One of them glared up at him fiercely, but Vertrix matched his stare, putting a hand to his sword hilt for good measure. The salty cur soon remembered his place.
‘Come along!’ he barked at the others. ‘I’ll not tarry here and watch good men die as sport for whores and drunks – let’s away, we’ve seen enough!’
By the time they had pushed their way through to the other side of the circle, the hangings had begun. It wouldn’t end for the poor devils there – that was only the beginning of their torment. Out of the corner of his eye Vertrix caught the executioner preparing long knives for the drawing as the condemned men danced the gallows dance; at least he’d not have to see their entrails get spilt.
The winding street led away from the heart of the city, slowly ascending towards the perimeter walls. More folk were coming to watch the executions; he drove his steed through them, cursing all the way, looking back once to check everyone was still following him.
The sickening spectacle at Market Circle had settled it for him. Even if there was little hope left up north, he’d be damned if he would die here like those men. Put a sword in his hand and a field beneath his feet, give him a chance to see Rihanna one last time at least. He’d married late in life and his two sons were barely of squiring age; they lived in a manor just a few leagues from Gaellen. He could only pray they had made it to the safety of the castle.
Yes, he’d die fighting to be with them, the
Fallen Angel take this cursed city and its stench –
That thought died as he rounded a corner and saw a dozen mounted serjeants led by a haughty-looking knight. All had their swords drawn and bore the King’s coat of arms. The winding street was wide enough for three abreast at most, but even so the odds weren’t in their favour. Besides that, fighting the King’s soldiers was likely to get you killed even if you won.
Vertrix had the uncanniest feeling that they had been waiting for them. The others pulled up short behind him, and his worst fears were realised when the knight spoke. ‘Sir Vertrix of Cornach,’ he declaimed, ‘I arrest you and your retinue in the name of the King.’
‘Who says I am such?’ replied the old knight coolly.
‘The coat of arms on your tabard,’ replied the haughty knight smugly. ‘An old knight with a running grey deer on a green background was the description I was given. You seem to fit it remarkably well.’
Vertrix cursed inwardly. It hadn’t even occurred to him not to wear his surcoat. He prided himself on keeping a cool head under fire, but subterfuge wasn’t his style.
‘I see,’ he replied, doing his best to sound unperturbed. ‘And may I know on what charges my men and I are being arrested?’
The knight’s smile was icy as the royal guards nudged their steeds towards them, mail armour jingling and hooves clattering on the rude cobblestones.
‘Treason.’
CHAPTER XII
A Renewed Pursuit
Balthor gasped as a torrent of cold water slapped him from unconsciousness. Sitting up with a start he blinked and looked around. Corpses of men and monsters littered the ground about him. Standing over him was the foreign mercenary, clutching an empty bucket she had just emptied over his head.