by Damien Black
‘Oo is it?’ barked the innkeeper’s wife. ‘It’s after curfew – go away!’
‘We know that full well, for it’s us that keeps the curfew,’ came the reply. ‘Open up and let us in!’
Hettie felt her nerves go taut as a lyre string. They had barely settled after everything she had been through – then the Lanraks had murdered her liege, and nearly her and Adhelina. She could still feel the chair in her hands after using it to club Albercelsus…
She fought to master her rising panic as the mistress of the inn threw the door open. ‘We’ve ‘ad complaints ‘bout banging from yer neighbours,’ said the head of the watch, bustling in self-importantly with three constables in tow. They were a shabby lot, dressed in rough brigandines and wearing short swords at their belts. Clearly no match for their hardened escort, but what if they called for more men? Or got the knights dicing and drinking involved?
All these thoughts and more ran through Hettie’s mind as the head watchman stepped up to them.
‘Well now, what have we here?’ he queried, looking them up and down. ‘Outlanders by look of it. Come now, sirrahs, what’s yer business makin’ a racket at this time o’ night?’
‘We’re respectable travellers from the north,’ said Adhelina, in icily regal tones. ‘And we don’t take kindly to being questioned by commoners.’
Her manner had the watch captain on the back foot. For a moment Hettie thought he would turn and stalk back out into the night…
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Right strange, high-born ladies supping at an inn. What with Turstein Castle bein’ just down the road and all.’
Hettie decided to get involved. The watchman was peering at her mistress, trying to discern her features in the dancing light of the tapers. She ought to distract him.
‘We were delayed by rain on the roads,’ said Hettie, using her haughty voice. ‘So we decided to stop here instead. These are our bodyguards,’ she added, gesturing at the others.
The captain looked sidelong at the four hooded figures whose hands were suddenly much closer to their sword hilts than before.
‘I see…’ he said again. ‘Strange that high-born folk such as yerselves would use foreign freeswords as bodyguards. Where in the north be ye from?’
Adhelina took up the thread. ‘We’re from Freiburg,’ she said. ‘A relative of mine has taken poorly in Westenlund. I’m travelling to see her.’
Hettie had to think a minute. Freiburg was a minor barony, its lands nestling just west of the Great White Mountains on the northern reaches of Ostveld. It made sense that they would be using the road through Thulia to get to Westenlund… The watch captain looked just about satisfied with that answer. He seemed on the point of ordering his men out the door when she heard the jingling of spurs behind her.
Turning she saw one of the knights had got up from the table in the corner.
‘Good evening,’ he said, proffering a courteous half bow. ‘Sir Lors of Micklenburg, at your service. I could not help but overhear your conversation. My comrades and I have come from Ostveld. We’re on our way to Dunkelsicht for the tournament. Curious that we did not see you on the east road…’
Sir Lors eyed them keenly. He was tall and broad-shouldered, an elaborately curved pair of mustachios after the fashion of the eastern Vorstlendings crowning a handsome face. ‘I was fortunate enough to guest at the baronet of Freiburg’s castle last summer, and met all his household,’ the knight continued. ‘If you would but remove your hoods it would be seemly to reacquaint ourselves with one another.’
Hettie held her breath. Nobody moved, except the two other Ostvelding knights, who slowly rose from the table and stalked over to join Sir Lors. Everybody else in the taproom who was still conscious now watched the scene unfolding before them.
Then it came, a tortured whining. The sound of a blade slowly being drawn from a scabbard. Anupe brandished her falchion, its wicked edge catching the torchlight.
‘I think you ask too many questions,’ said the Harijan.
Sir Lors stared at the hooded freesword. His composed expression had not changed, but his hazel eyes had hardened. Without taking his eyes off her he slowly unsheathed his own sword.
‘That is an unmannerly remark for a foreign churl to make to a vassal of the House of Kaarl,’ he said in a voice that was dangerously calm. ‘I suggest you apologise now.’
His two companions added naked steel of their own to emphasise the suggestion, prompting Vaskrian, Torgun and Braxus to bring their own blades to the gathering. The four watchmen followed suit, probably more for fear of being left out than anything else: they already knew they were in over their heads.
‘We don’t want any trouble,’ said Torgun, addressing the Ostvelding knights in Decorlangue. ‘Put up your blades and let us go about our business, no one need get hurt. Reus knows we’ve seen enough bloodshed of late.’
Lors turned cool eyes on the lofty knight. ‘And who might you be, sirrah?’ he replied. His tone had suddenly become formal. He clearly realised he was dealing with a fellow nobleman.
Pulling back his hood Torgun shook out his flaxen locks. ‘Sir Torgun of Vandheim, knight errant and lately commander of the White Valravyn, at your service.’
That gave Sir Lors pause for thought. ‘Sir Torgun,’ he said, nodding courteously. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I had the honour of seeing you joust at the Glade Ring Tourney in Saltcaste two summers ago… Pray what brings you so far from your native land?’
Torgun was just about to reply when the sound of trotting horses came filtering in through the open door. The landlord had been slowly edging away back towards the counter, but now he darted over to close it.
‘You there!’ came a cry from outside. ‘Hold that door if you value your life!’
The landlord froze. The horses had pulled up, Hettie could hear them whickering just outside. She had lived long enough in a castle to recognise the sound of jingling armour as their riders dismounted.
‘The Lanraks!’ she said, turning to look at Adhelina.
‘What’s this about Lanraks?’ asked Sir Lors sharply.
‘Enough games.’ Adhelina pulled down her hood. ‘Sir, we have deceived you,’ she said bluntly. ‘I am Adhelina of Dulsinor, and this is my lady-in-waiting, Hettie Freihertz. We are refugees from a war that has killed my father and driven me from my ancestral home.’
Sir Lors gawped at that, just as four more knights strode in through the door. All wore Lanrak colours and carried drawn swords. The lead one was a beefy, bull-necked fellow with a rude bandage around his head. He looked to be in similarly rude spirits for all that.
‘We’re bachelors in service to the Herzog of Stornelund,’ he declaimed. ‘Soon to be ruler of Dulsinor as well. These damsels are traitresses to their liege and must return with us to face trial and punishment.’
Torgun and Braxus had taken up fighting stances along with Vaskrian, and joined Anupe to stand between the Stornelendings and the damsels.
‘A bold claim, sir knight,’ said Lors. ‘And yet even if it be true, I believe we stand on lands belonging to the House of Ürl… Which means you have no more authority here than we do.’
The bull-necked knight sneered at that. ‘So whose authority do we answer to? These riffraff watchmen? Don’t make me laugh.’
He spared a vicious glance for the captain of the watch. The churl’s poorly kept blade quivered in his hand and he said nothing. Clearly the House of Ürl would have to forego its authority for the nonce.
One of the Ostveldings stepped forward and whispered something in Lors’s ear. He had a mop of brown hair and an ugly face made all the worse by the scar that bifurcated it; Hettie felt sure she recognised him. Sir Lors looked at his fellow and frowned. He seemed troubled by what the other knight had said.
The bull-necked knight waited patiently for a few moments more, then said: ‘Come on, no need to draw this out – we’ve twice our number again just out of town. Give up the damsels and there’ll be no need for bloo
dshed. That goes for you lot too.’ The last remark was aimed at their protectors. Presumably the Stornelending bruiser had mistaken them for freeswords, loyal only to coin.
‘Just a moment,’ said the scarred knight. ‘I’d say we’ve just as much claim to the damsels as you do, seeing as how we’re all on neutral territory.’
The bull-necked knight glared at him. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Sir Ugo of Veidt,’ replied the scarred knight. ‘As it happens I’ve been following the Lanraks and their recent plans with great interest… I take it the wedding didn’t work out as planned then.’ Sir Ugo’s face was creased in two directions now as he smirked nastily. Hettie felt her nerves tighten to breaking point.
Of course, she thought. He was part of the emissary that tried to persuade Wilhelm to cancel the wedding this spring – the last thing the Ostveldings want is to let us go!
Adhelina had clearly realised much the same. ‘The wedding was a hoax,’ she said quickly, addressing Ugo and Lors. ‘The Lanraks never intended it to go ahead – ‘twas merely a ruse to get my father to lower his guard so they could murder his best knights, him, and myself before laying claim to Dulsinor.’
‘Oh the wedding was genuine,’ put in bull-neck. ‘Only Hengist wouldn’t consent to wed anyone who’d dishonoured his house by trying to flee her nuptials. So your father’s blood is on your own hands, my lady.’
Adhelina blenched at the knight’s cruel words. She looked as though she had just been run through.
‘What matter is it who caused what?’ cried Hettie, picking up where her mistress had left off. ‘The point is that the Houses of Markward and Lanrak are now at war. Think on it Sir Ugo, your liege opposed the alliance on the grounds of the Treaty of Lorvost – no one family should become all-powerful in Vorstlund. If you let the Lanraks take us, you’re allowing that to happen!’
Both knights considered that.
‘She’s right,’ said Ugo. ‘That’s why we can’t let the Lanraks take Her Ladyship. Better to take the damsels back with us to Ostveld. Our liege will reward us greatly for such a service.’
Lors seemed to make his mind up. ‘Sir Ugo has the right of it,’ he said, addressing bull-neck. ‘We’re taking them back with us – something tells me your eight friends aren’t close enough to put the odds in your favour. For only a fool would ride into a foreign town near a castle with a dozen armed men at his back.’
Bull-neck scowled. ‘All right then, sirrahs, if it’s a melee you’re after, let’s have at it!’
Torgun was already lunging at him as he spoke. In a second the room was awhirl with flashing steel as all hell broke loose.
A four-way tavern brawl was always going to be a good way of starting a general panic. Hettie found herself lying under the counter clutching her mistress as patrons ran pell-mell, trying to exit a taproom that had suddenly become crowded with highly trained men in armour doing their level best to kill each other.
By the time the stampede had ended, two watchmen lay on the floor bleeding their lives into the rushes as bullneck sat against the wall, screaming as he watched blood pump from the stump of sword-arm Torgun had left him with. The third Ostvelding was also down, wailing as an arc of red spurted from a gash where his eye had been. The rest were involved in a messy tangle of blades. The innkeeper had left with the mass exodus, which had included the watch captain screaming blue murder.
‘They’ll have half the town on us!’ she yelled at her mistress. ‘We have to get out of here now!’
‘We can’t just leave on our own!’ Adhelina shouted back.
Hettie looked at the antagonists, trying to fathom who was fighting whom. She saw Vaskrian, wildly waving his dirk left-handed, but in his state he was little more than a distraction. Unexpectedly she felt her heart clench at the thought of his dying or getting hurt.
She had no time to reflect on the emotion as Sir Torgun cut down another Lanrak and Anupe sidestepped a lunge from Sir Ugo, slicing open the back of his neck and bringing him crashing to the floor in a limp heap. Sir Lors yelled in pain as Sir Braxus struck him just below the knee: tottering back on one leg the knight crumpled to the ground. The two remaining Lanraks backed out of the door before bolting for their horses.
‘After them!’ cried Braxus. ‘We can’t let them warn the others!’
Anupe was one step ahead of him. Drawing her dirk, she bounded over corpses to the doorway and flung it. A cry followed by a crumpling sound told of the trueness of her aim. Sir Torgun shoved past her and ran out of the door, instinctively apologising as he did. Well technically the Harijan was still a woman, Hettie supposed.
Sir Braxus had his sword point at Lors’s throat. ‘Don’t move an inch if you wish to move again,’ he said gruffly. The injured knight froze obediently. ‘All right,’ said Braxus. ‘I’ll not kill a knight in cold blood if I can help it. Vaskrian, watch over him.’ The squire moved to obey. Lors was still bleeding profusely. ‘He’ll bleed out if I don’t help him,’ said Adhelina, getting to her feet. ‘I need some cloth to bind his wound and his comrade’s – find the innkeeper’s wife, I’m sure I saw her cowering in a corner somewhere.’
‘But the captain of the watch is probably raising a hue and cry,’ said Hettie. ‘And one of the Lanraks got away by the looks of things.’
‘All the more reason not to strike out cross country in the dead of night,’ said Adhelina. ‘I say we take our chances with the rest of the watch and try to save a life.’
‘Aye, you’re right my love,’ said Braxus, nodding deferentially. ‘Truly your intelligence is exceeded only by your beauty – ’
‘Enough,’ said Adhelina, raising her hand. ‘Save the courtly loveplay for a better time, Sir Braxus – perhaps you should see about helping Sir Torgun hunt down the last Lanrak.’
The sound of mighty hooves tearing up the highway told them Northalde’s greatest knight had that task firmly in hand. Looking sheepish, Braxus turned to help Hettie up.
I notice he only notices me when my mistress is accounted for, she thought resentfully. Part of her wondered why Vaskrian hadn’t come to help her. Because he’s busy doing as he’s told and guarding Sir Lors you idiot, she berated herself. And anyway, why should you care either way?
A pitiful groaning provided her with a welcome distraction from her awkward thoughts. The bull-necked knight had expired, bleeding away the last of his life. Hettie had no pity for him. She knew a chivalrous knight when she saw one, and he wasn’t it.
A scrabbling sound alerted her to the innkeeper’s wife, trying to sneak towards the door.
‘You, churl,’ said Hettie, grabbing her. ‘We need cloth from the bedsheets or anything else you have, and some water in a bowl. Hurry! Two knights’ lives are at stake.’
‘I’m no churl but a freewoman of the town,’ retorted the crone, yanking her sleeve free. ‘I’ll see to it, but there’ll be hell to pay when the watch come back, mark my words!’
Hell wasn’t how Hettie would have put it after all she’d seen, but new problems presented themselves soon enough. Her mistress was busy patching up the Ostveldings by the time the innkeeper returned with the captain, a dozen watchmen and a score of sturdy town dwellers in tow.
‘All right, we know you’re still in there,’ said the captain in a timorous voice. ‘We’ve an escort ready to take ye to Turstein and we’re far more in numbers, so don’t make any more trouble!’
Braxus stepped towards the entrance, bloodied sword in hand. Anupe clutched her dripping falchion as she took up position on the other side of the doorway.
‘Lady Freihertz,’ he said. ‘You speak their tongue… what are they saying?’
‘They’re inviting us to enjoy the hospitality of the castle dungeons,’ said Hettie. ‘They say they overmatch us in numbers.’
Braxus spared the mob a dismissive glance. ‘Tell them numbers don’t always make for victory. They’ve seen what we can do – we’ll cut them to ribbons if they try and take us.’
Hettie did
her best to translate diplomatically: ‘We’ve got enough trained swordsmen to make life short for the first of you that come in through that door.’ She added to Braxus in Decorlangue: ‘There’s only two of you that can fight and more than thirty of them – even when Torgun comes back that’s odds of ten to one!’
‘They still have to come at us through the door,’ said Braxus. ‘Let them try it.’
That gave Hettie another idea. ‘We’re of noble blood,’ she yelled, stepping up to the doorway. ‘If commoners raise a hand against us in peacetime… you know the law! Thulia isn’t at war – that means the Eorl will have to respect it and punish you all!’
That gave the mob pause for thought.
‘All right,’ came the answer at last. This was an elderly man dressed in a sumptuous nightgown. She took him for one of the rich burghers of Volfburg, which prospered from trade thanks to its crossroads location. ‘We don’t want any more trouble. Just pack up your things and be gone!’
‘My mistress is tending two knights of Ostveld who were injured in the brawl,’ replied Hettie. ‘Give her leave to finish and we’ll be on our way.’
‘What about Torgun?’ asked Adhelina, looking up from the binding she had just wrapped around Lors’s calf. ‘And there’s other Lanrak knights out there waiting for us!’
‘What choice do we have milady?’ asked Hettie. ‘We can’t stay here – they’ll send for knights from the castle! Then we’ll have to submit.’
‘She’s right,’ said Braxus. ‘We’ll have to take our chances, hope Sir Torgun got to the last one and stopped him warning the others.’ Even now the Thraxian couldn’t resist underscoring the Northlending’s name with hatred.
They waited in tense silence while Adhelina saw to the knight with a missing eye. He had passed out, making her job easier.
‘There,’ she said, rising at last. ‘I’ve done what I could for both of them, but without my herbs – ’
She was interrupted by the sound of galloping. Sir Torgun rode into the circle of light from torches carried by the mob, which scattered before his Farovian’s hooves.