by Damien Black
‘By the sounds of it the vassal who owns these lands really was loyal to a fault,’ said Horskram, taking the reins. ‘Had he been less so, the Lanraks might have spared his domains. At least their bloody deed will have given our friends a chance to extend their lead on them. Butchering peasants takes time.’
As they kicked their horses into a gallop again Adelko hoped the next vassal would be a bit more compliant. Despite everything he’d seen, he still wasn’t used to war. That was a good thing, he supposed.
Dusk was creeping across the plains as they crested a hill to get a better view of the land they had spent the day fleeing across. Squinting, Vaskrian could make out a blaze of light on the horizon.
That’ll be the demesne we passed this afternoon, he thought ruefully. He felt sorry for the innocents who got caught up in a war, but war was war for all that: a chance of glory and spoil for the knights, death and privation for the commoners. He supposed he was somewhere in between.
At least his squiring job had got easier, he reflected as they set up a rudimentary camp for the night. His days of leading a laden sumpter were long gone: daring rescues of damsels meant speed took precedence over everything. His guvnor now had to ride in full harness on a charger and tough it out like Sir Torgun did.
Neither knight had exchanged a word, but they were still rivals alright: you could see it in the way they jockeyed for Adhelina’s attention, each one doing his utmost to make sure she was comfortable. Not that she had much of an eye for either of them right now.
But who could fault her for that? Vaskrian had seen it all unfold from the copse, itching to get involved and cursing his arm all the way. So the Eorl of Markward was dead – a shame that, he’d seemed alright as barons went. But she shouldn’t go weeping like that: she was better off than a lot of poor buggers he’d seen bite the dust.
He winced as he rose to gather wood for a fire. His arm ached from riding all day – not exactly the rest Adhelina had advised for it but still, knightly fortitude and all that. Even if he’d never get to be a knight he could still try to act like one.
Anupe came and laid a hand on his shoulder as he was awkwardly breaking branches off a lone laurel that topped the hill. She shook her head, saying something in Vorstlending.
‘She says not to make a fire,’ translated Adhelina, wiping her eyes. ‘Best not to attract attention.’
‘But our pursuers are busy burning villages,’ said Vaskrian, motioning towards the horizon. ‘Doubt they’ll go much further tonight.’
‘Even so, we shouldn’t take that chance,’ put in Braxus. ‘Leave it be, Vaskrian, we’ll sup on cold meats and cheeses – is there any wine to warm us?’
‘Fair enough, sire,’ said Vaskrian. ‘Night’s not too cold at this time of year anyway. Managed to pack a wineskin too…’ Walking over to his horse he pulled it from his saddle bag and handed it to Braxus.
‘We’ll post a watch just in case,’ said Torgun. ‘The night skies are clear but they’ll be riding by torchlight, so we should get to see them if they catch up with us.’
‘Good,’ replied Braxus curtly. ‘Vaskrian, you take first watch.’
Sighing inwardly the squire sat down to a plain supper under starlight. At least he’d get a few mouthfuls of wine to set him up for the night.
His watch passed uneventfully. Once or twice he saw flickering lights off in the distance, accompanied by the low rumble of distant horses, but they were headed north. Markward vassals most likely, riding to relieve Graukolos. It felt strange to be riding away from a battle. If only the Vorstlendings knew they were riding straight past their new liege. Funny old game, adventuring.
Adelko’s heart slumped just as his gorge rose when they came upon the next ruined village. Slaughtered peasants lay scattered about their burned-out wattle huts. Nearby two slain knights lay sprawled in the mud, flies clustered about their wounds as an opportunistic crow pecked out their eyes.
Horskram stooped to examine them. ‘These weren’t Lanraks,’ he said. ‘Most likely father and son, the lord of the manor and his lucky heir.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Adelko, ignoring his sardonic humour.
‘Coat of arms,’ said Horskram, pointing to the triple-coloured escutcheon on the older knight’s rent tabard. ‘It matches the one on yonder banner.’ Adelko looked to where Horskram was pointing. A flag blazoned red, white and blue lay on a broken shaft before the smoking manor house that overlooked the village. ‘Whoever’s in charge of the knights pursuing our friends is taking every chance he can to wipe out knights loyal to Dulsinor.’
‘But why slaughter the peasants too?’ Even now, after everything he had seen, Adelko could not bring himself to accept the realities of conflict. It seemed so brutal and senseless.
‘Every able man slaughtered is one less man to serve as a conscript, or support the Markwards with toil in the event of a prolonged war,’ replied Horskram.
‘But the women… the children?’ Adelko gestured expansively at the four score dead bodies. ‘Thule’s knights did the same thing, back in Northalde… Why did they have to kill them as well?’
‘To terrorise the population,’ replied Horskram, more sadly than anything else. ‘It all adds up over time – war is as much an endurance test as it is a battle of wits and skill. The more people you kill, the more likely you are to end up the eventual victor. Or so the received wisdom has it.’
‘That can’t be right,’ protested the novice.
‘I am not saying it is,’ sighed Horskram. ‘But that is how many knights and lords believe war should be conducted. In truth I think some do such things simply because they enjoy it. The rest – cause, methodology, justification – is an excuse.’
Adelko mulled over his mentor’s words while he said a quick prayer over the mutilated bodies. Something occurred to him.
‘Did you fight like that?’ he dared to ask as they remounted. ‘When you were a knight I mean?’
‘I fought for different reasons,’ replied Horskram. ‘But in the end those reasons brought me to blood and guilt, just the same. As I told you outside Strongholm, I have repented my sins. Now let us be gone – the Blattwood is but a few hours away. At least one good has come of this travesty – our quarry’s bloodthirsty behaviour should mean our companions have gained some distance on them.’
Horskram said no more and spurred his horse on again. As Adelko followed in his wake he had a vision of his mentor, covered in mail with the sign of the Wheel on his tabard, slaughtering peasants in some distant land in the name of the Almighty.
That thought filled him with more horror than all the things he had seen on his travels.
The skies were a deepening purple by the time they reached the Blattwood. Horskram took them in an easterly direction now, skirting the trees as they made their way towards the highway. Gazing across the green fields and well-tilled lands they had passed through, Adelko felt pity for the prosperous people of Dulsinor. He had read of Vorstlund back at Ulfang: many of its lands were rich and arable, and its peasantry lived as well as the yeomanry in the King’s Dominions.
Judging by what he had seen, they wouldn’t be living well for much longer.
War. It seemed to be coming on all the lands they passed through. For one mad instant he had a fancy that it was them bringing the spectre of desolation wherever they went. He thought back to his vision in the Earth Witch’s realm, of the black angel. Azrael’s words came back to him with a chilling clarity.
All shall meet me in the end.
Was it true, he wondered: did the Lord of Azhoanarn ride at their backs? The unpleasant thought blanketed him like a shroud as they rode through the gloaming towards the road.
Adelko awoke to find Horskram nudging him with his boot. His mentor proffered him a skin of water and an oatcake with a slab of hard cheese. For an instant he thought they were back in the Brekawood in Northalde, his adventures just beginning… But no, they were in another forest in another country. The air was rich and
alive with summer smells, but the clearing off the road where they had bedded down was much like any other he had been in, the birds and bees no different.
It was he who had changed.
As he ate his breakfast hurriedly he found himself wishing that wasn’t the case. He had come so far and learned so much, and yet he felt jaded. Where before his spirits would have risen at the thought of more lands to explore, now they felt as weary as his aching limbs.
He needn’t have feared, for things soon became interesting again.
They had been riding along the road for a couple of hours when they heard voices up ahead. Slowing their horses to an amble, they rounded a bend in the road… A tell-tale glint of armour had Horskram raising his hand, motioning for him to stop.
Following his mentor’s lead, Adelko dismounted and led his horse off the road. Tethering them to an ash the two monks crept through the woods towards the sound of voices up ahead. Beyond that they could now hear the Graufluss wending its way steadily from the Hyrkrainian foothills to the west. Gingerly they moved through the thinning line of trees, until they could see a cleared area around the road where it crossed a triple-arched bridge of stone fording the river. To one side of the clearing a tent was pitched. Adelko recognised the coat of arms at the same time as he recognised Sir Wrackwulf, the Vorstlending freelancer who had distinguished himself at Graukolos.
But what really grabbed his attention were the dozen swords pointing at Wrackwulf. All but one of the knights clutching them bore the emblem of Lanrak on their surcoats and shields. The other appeared to be the leader, judging by his personalised coat of arms.
‘Well, well,’ said Horskram. ‘I might have known. A vert stag on a sable chief with two gauntleted fists clutching a chain in argent on an azure base.’
Adelko blinked. Vaskrian had taught him the basics of heraldry, but it wasn’t a strong point.
‘Sir Hangrit Foolhardy,’ clarified Horskram. ‘That rakehell has been causing trouble since he was old enough to wield a flagon. Small wonder the Stonefist’s yeomanry found no mercy.’
Adelko strained his ears to follow the exchange in Vorstlending above the roaring of the river.
‘… on the Herzog’s business,’ Hangrit was saying. ‘As such I recommend you stand aside forthwith.’
‘I am not a man to interfere with His Grace’s business,’ answered Wrackwulf. He was dressed in his hauberk and leaning on a large warhammer, looking unruffled. ‘Nevertheless, we stand on the border of Dulsinor and Upper Thulia. In accordance with the common law of Vorstlund, a knight of the realm who pitches his tent at any such crossing is permitted duelling rights, for ransom.’ The bushy-bearded knight grinned, showing his crooked yellow teeth. ‘And as you can see, I am well acquainted with the law.’
A couple of Lanrak knights sneered and nudged their horses forwards menacingly. Wrackwulf spun the hammer up into a fighting stance.
‘Ride me down if you wish,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘But don’t forget you’re about to enter demesnes belonging to the House of Ürl. I don’t think the Eorl of Upper Thulia would be pleased to learn you have violated his laws – especially if you plan on bringing armed Lanraks into his territory without his say-so. For something tells me you aren’t planning on entering the tourney at Dunkelsicht… A great shame I might add, a jouster of your calibre will be sorely missed.’
The rotund knight’s eyes sparkled as he favoured Hangrit with another grin to accompany the sarcastic jibe. The rakehell glowered back at him, but ordered the two knights to halt.
‘All right, Wrackwulf, have it your way,’ he spat. ‘Sir Gunthor! Get down off your charger and clear this jumped-up freesword out of my path.’
Sir Gunthor complied cheerfully. A bull-necked man about a head taller than Wrackwulf, he looked well able for the task in hand. Sir Wrackwulf did not move as the knight bore down on him, kite held across his chest and the point of his blade extended towards his face.
Adelko had seen many evenly matched fights on his travels. This was not to be one of them. At the last moment Wrackwulf sidestepped, his graceful movements oddly contrasting his stocky bulk. Bringing his warhammer around in a whirling arc as Gunthor lunged past him, he caught him square in the back of his head. Gunthor’s bascinet saved him from being brained, but the knight went down like a sack of oatmeal as a resounding clang from the blow sent a flock of woodgulls careening from the branches overhead.
‘Far too eager,’ commented Wrackwulf, resting the hammer over a broad shoulder and twirling his moustaches thoughtfully. ‘He might as well have sent a town crier telling me he was going to try a charge and lunge! Oh well, never mind – I’m sure he’s learned a valuable lesson, assuming my blow hasn’t robbed him of his wits!’
Hangrit cursed loudly. ‘All right, Wrackwulf, you’ve had your bit of fun,’ he snarled. He barked an order to two more knights to get Gunthor back on his horse. Wrackwulf cleared his throat pointedly.
‘I think you are forgetting the law again,’ said the freelancer. ‘That’s my horse and my armour now… Old Gunthor will just have to ride pillion, or head back to Hockburg on foot.’
Hangrit nudged his horse forwards until he was towering over the knight. ‘I think,’ he said, leaning over the pommel of his saddle, ‘you are forgetting that I command a dozen knights, while you stand alone. You’re well liked on the tourney circuit, Wrackwulf, and for that reason alone I’ve indulged you thus far. I’d take it very kindly if you didn’t abuse my generosity.’
Hangrit nodded and the other Lanraks moved forwards. Their swords were still pointing at Wrackwulf, who looked from one knight to the next in slow succession. Adelko held his breath.
‘I see,’ said Wrackwulf after an uncomfortable silence. ‘How sad the traditions of our forefathers are no longer regarded. Still,’ – with a sigh he stepped aside off the road – ‘at least you were decent enough to let me give your fellow a lesson in duelling. You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish you well.’
‘I care not a jot what you wish,’ sneered Hangrit. Gunthor was just coming to his senses. They paused long enough to get the groggy knight back on his horse, before leaving without a backwards glance. Wrackwulf’s eyes fired invisible crossbow bolts into Hangrit’s back until they vanished beyond the trees on the other side of the river.
‘I think now would be a good time for reintroductions,’ said Horskram.
Wrackwulf betrayed no surprise as they emerged from the trees. ‘Thought you might be along presently,’ he said, placing his warhammer back among the assortment of weapons he carried on his sumpter. ‘Saw your friends yesterday. They told me about the ambush. Bad business, but then the Lanraks always were too big for their spurs. Should have seen it coming really – fat chance a jumped-up little sot like Hengist would stand for it, his future bride causing a scandal like that.’
‘Sir Wrackwulf, did they say where they were headed?’ Horskram pressed.
‘Aye, as far away from Dulsinor as possible!’ replied the knight. ‘Their plan is to take the south road through Upper Thulia and try to get to Westenlund. The Prince of that realm is too powerful to trifle with – they should be safe to take a ship from Westerburg once they get there. I said I’d try and delay any Lanraks as best I could – the Stonefist always made me feel welcome at Graukolos, and I’m right sorry to hear of his death. Never could stand Hengist, nor his uppity seneschal.’
A light entered Horskram’s eyes. ‘We could use a strong right arm on the road. Would you come with us? A chance to be avenged on Hangrit for denying you your ransom…’
Wrackwulf scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Coming with you would mean missing the tourney at Dunkelsicht,’ he mused. ‘And I’m in good form right now. ‘Twould be a shame to miss another chance of spoil.’
Horskram licked his lips. ‘Wrackwulf, I am a senior monk of the Order, and our business takes us to Rima. Our headquarters there is both wealthy and powerful. If you elect to come with us, I can make it worth your while.’
‘Well I suppose a stint of freeswording wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Wrackwulf. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of an advance though? Just in case – heaven forefend! – my new employer should meet Azrael upon the road, you see…’
With a wry smile Horskram reached for his purse and pulled some coins from the money the King had given him at Strongholm. Adelko caught the glint of gold as he pressed them into Wrackwulf’s hand.
‘Five Northlending sovereigns up front – as a gesture of goodwill,’ he said.
‘Foreign coin, eh?’ mulled the knight. ‘I’ll get swyved by the moneychanger when we get to Westerburg – you know what the exchange rates are like nowadays…’
Horskram sighed and reached into his pouch again. ‘Another sovereign then – to cover said swyving.’
Wrackwulf burst into a fit of stentorian laughter. ‘Brother Horskram, I think I’m going to enjoy working for you very much!’
‘That’s Master Horskram to you, sirrah,’ replied the irascible monk. ‘Give us a minute to fetch our horses, and we’ll be on our way.’
‘Do we really need him?’ Adelko queried as they went to fetch their steeds. ‘I mean if the others are only half a day ahead of us…’
‘I’ve no idea whether they’ll get out of Upper Thulia alive,’ replied Horskram bluntly. ‘And whilst we may not be embroiled with Hengist’s knights we could still fall prey to highwaymen – and after our last lesson I don’t fancy your chances in a straight fight, Adelko of Narvik.’
Adelko paused, then made up his mind to speak it. ‘But, after the way you fought against Andragorix… surely you could – ’
‘The way of the hierophant is not to be used lightly,’ said Horskram curtly. ‘Enough of your prattling and questions now! We ride with the freelancer. Our first responsibility is to get to Rima in one piece – if we can aid our madcap friends without jeopardising that, all well and good. If not, they’ll just have to fend for themselves.’