The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  “I cannot fault Stenna and Vorbek,” said Daris, when he’d finished reading the report. “They were exemplary, were they not?” He tossed the report on the table. Dressed in his ceremonial armour he looked every inch the warrior king. Hyram noted with unreasonable annoyance that he was wearing his hair in three braids in honour of his precious Guards.

  “Yes, my Lord, your knights’ prosecuted war with brutal precision. It will be a desperate day before King Ranulfi contemplates the shores of Antia with hungry eyes.”

  “Good, let’s hope he’s learnt the lesson his cousin did not.” Daris rocked on his heels. “So… How badly did my brother disgrace me?”

  Hyram knew he’d have to tread carefully with this subject. “From what I’ve gathered, not a great deal—at least, not with the Suvians. According to reports they’re struggling to come to terms with the aftermath of their first real war for over twenty years. I don’t think they noticed the slight.”

  “So who did?”

  Hyram closed the window. “The Free Companies are certainly aware that the Prince did not disembark a single soldier. The Cathlan nobles have also been bragging about how their Governor slighted you, but then they would; they’re his subjects.”

  “And he is mine, damn him to the Void!”

  “I’m sorry, my Lord. I don’t know what to suggest.”

  “Why don’t you suggest what you’ve hinted at before; that I have my brother quietly done away with?”

  Hyram sighed inwardly. His mistake had been in mentioning that accidents sometimes happened to troublesome younger brothers who threatened the stability of a kingdom. It had only been the slightest suggestion, but enough for Daris to almost soul bind him into swearing never to consider harming Jerim—to the point where Hyram dreaded what would happen if the imbecile had a genuine accident. If only he’d done away with the poisonous little fuck without attempting to gain approval from Daris, then they wouldn’t have to deal with his constant scheming.

  Daris paced angrily. “Why does he seek to infuriate me so? Have I ever denied him anything?”

  “You’ve always treated your brother well, better than he has perhaps deserved. He has always been…difficult, my Lord. I don’t think it’s in his nature to be amicable, or to recognise where his best interests lie.” This was Hyram’s most diplomatic way of saying Jerim was a power-obsessed madman. The Councillor didn’t hedge out of fear, but out of love. He didn’t want to add to Daris’s problems. Unlike Jerim, Daris was a prince amongst men irrespective of rank, and happily for the people of Antia, had been born first. Hyram knew it hurt him deeply that the love he bore his brother had only ever been repaid with scorn. They’d fought since childhood, then, as now, Hyram had stood between his cousins, protecting one from the schemes of the other.

  “Enough of Jerim. Today is not a day I want to think about him. Truth be told, I’m glad he’s too ill to attend the celebrations—he’d only darken the day with his malice and I would have my Guards welcomed home with joy in every heart in Weyhithe.”

  Hyram smiled, but his stomach was churning. Not all hearts were full of joy, of that he was certain. His was gripped by fear and anxiety. His gaze was drawn back to the window. Down in the Great Ward, the 4th Company of the Royal Guards were preparing to ride from the Arth. Hyram was rarely roused to anything more than casual cynicism by martial displays. They were so damned pompous—little more than excuses for overindulgence, and buffing the egos of boorish thugs. Today however, he was keenly interested in the parade. Somewhere among the teeming crowds, his best agents were on the trail of the King’s enemies. While the knights basked in the adulation of the masses, his people were hunting killers in the shadows of Weyhithe. He didn’t know who he was looking for, but the threat, the merest whisper of the word assassin was too serious to ignore.

  Daris clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, cousin, there’s no need for such a serious mien. Put Jerim from your thoughts and enjoy the day.”

  “Forgive me, my Lord. ‘Tis only the heat that vexes me.” Hyram smiled in a bid to convince Daris of the lie.

  Garian wasn’t tall, or particularly strong or, alas, a deadly swordsman. He was however, quick, intelligent, and very good at his job. But if the axe had been thrown with a little more accuracy, and a little less haste, he would now be nothing more than a twitching corpse sprawled in the doorway. Spurred on by the sharp reminder of mortality that had splintered the woodwork inches from his head, Garian charged into the room. The axe man looked surprised that he’d missed and hesitated before reaching for a sword that was hanging on the back of a chair. Garian didn’t waste a breath, and vaulted the table between them. He kicked the chair away, pinned the axe man against the wall, and held a knife to his throat to keep him there.

  “Don’t move,” said Garian.

  The man nodded slowly, then headbutted him. Because he didn’t have room to throw his head back the blow lacked strength; even so, he hit Garian hard enough to momentarily stun him. The axe man made a grab for the sword. Blinking away tears, Garian kneed him in the balls, reversed his grip on the dagger and thrust it, two-fisted, into the man’s shoulder. He felt the tip skid off bone before cutting through the muscle. A solid shiver leapt up his arm when the blade finally hit the wall. The man let out a shrill scream.

  “Let’s try again, dog shit, and if you so much as breathe in a way I don’t like, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” Only the slightest tremor in his voice betrayed Garian’s fury. The axe man nodded. “Good. So, Gilhas—who and where?”

  Gilhas’s eyes widened at the mention of his name. Garian hoped he could bluff him into thinking he knew more than he did. All he knew for certain was that he was running out of time.

  Gilhas clamped his lips together in a hard line. Garian twisted the blade. The bloody key unlocked his mouth and Gilhas let out another high-pitched scream.

  “So help me man, I will flense the fucking meat from your bones if you don’t tell me what you know.”

  Gilhas’s resolve began to crumble; tears pearled and ran down his bloodless cheeks.

  “Are your new friends worth dying for?” Garian pressed.

  “She…she had me buy poison… that’s all, I swear on the Twins! That’s all I did.”

  “Tell me everything,” Garian demanded, praying that there was more to tell.

  “A ca…captain, one of them comin’ back fr…from Suvia, that’s who she’s after, but I don’t know which one.”

  Garian twisted the knife again, eliciting another agonized scream from Gilhas.

  “For Asha’s sake! I swear it, I swear…” he blubbered.

  “What does she look like? What’s her name?”

  “No name, short, ‘bout your height, black hair—Hadami looking. A red cloak, g…grey cap.”

  Garian pulled his dagger from Gilhas’ shoulder. The injured man yelped and slid down the wall leaving a scarlet smear on the panelling.

  “You, innkeeper! Get your arse in here now.” Garian ordered the woman who was loitering in the hallway.

  “Watch him until the City Guards arrive. If he’s gone when they get here, you’ll take his place in the King’s dungeon, understand?” He sheathed his knife, and wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve.

  She prised the axe out of the door frame. “Aye, sir, as you say, sir. Don’t worry I’ll cut the fucker in ‘arf if he tries to move.”

  Garian didn’t give a damn. Gilhas was a taken piece. Now he had to decide his next move, and do it quickly. There was no way he’d be able to battle his way back to the Arth in time to tell his master what he’d found out, the streets were rammed, and even if he did make it, the word of a petty criminal like Gilhas wasn’t enough to cancel the parade. Out of time and choices, he headed over to the East Gate where the knights would enter.

  On the way over he collared a Sergeant of the City Guards and told her to detain every woman who fit the description Gilhas had given him. The indignation of the gypsies was a small price to pay compared to the riot
s that would follow if one of the King’s knights was murdered. He had no idea which one was the target, but at least they’d both be in the same place at the same time.

  The Hammer and the Anvil reached Weyhithe in time to see the sun pierce the dark horizon before beginning its ascent into the clear, blue sky. Alyda smiled. It was going to be a perfect day.

  By mid morning, her knights were dressed in their finest harness, and waiting in a tent that had been set aside for their use until it was time to enter the city. Outwardly, Alyda maintained an air of cool detachment as befitted a Captain of the Royal Guards. Inside, she was as excited as a child on the eve of Midwinter.

  Althus beckoned her over, the green and black plumes in his helm brushed the canvas roof with every movement. He was being besieged by an army of young ladies and gentlemen who’d brought flower garlands for the knights.

  “Mornin’, Captain Stenna, you’ve scrubbed up well.” Althus grinned and politely ducked so that more garlands could be added to the half dozen that were already draped around his neck. “Don’t go fainting in the heat now, Shorty—I know what a delicate flower you are.”

  She gave him the lizard eye. “If I do pass out, promise you won’t try to revive me with a kiss.”

  “Ach, I’m hurt!”

  “Call me a flower again and you will be.”

  Satisfied that it was immaculate, Jamie folded the Captain’s red velvet cloak over his arm. There was just one more item he needed.

  He lifted the Silver Spur from the Captain’s trunk as though it was made of the most delicate crystal rather than… whatever it was made from. The spur was the highest honour the King could bestow on a knight. Jamie remembered the day Daris had presented it to the Captain like it was yesterday. Today would be another great day to remember.

  The squires and pages had been given a tent of their own and were frantically busy, polishing armour, cleaning cloaks, paying minute attention to every buckle and stitch to ensure the knights they served would look their best for the parade. Everyone was excited. They all talked at once, voices growing louder, and louder, as they fought to be heard. The young warriors boasted extravagantly of how they would dazzle the noble young ladies and gentlemen at the feast with tales of their daring exploits in Suvia, but not Jamie. The only person he could think about was the Captain, and making sure everything was perfect for her.

  “So Turlowe, d’you think Captain Stenna will bed Corvinius tonight? Or has her affection turned to Vorbek?”

  Hedden was the newly appointed squire of Rann Lacgarde and had only been with the Company for a couple of weeks. He’d come as replacement for the Standard Bearer’s previous squire who’d been killed in Suvia. Unlike his predecessor, Hedden was obnoxious and abrasive, and for some unknown reason had decided to tease Jamie whenever he got the chance. It was expressly forbidden for squires and knights to fight each other, but Jamie was finding it increasingly difficult holding to the rule when it came to Hedden.

  Hedden sneered; he was a couple of years younger than Jamie, but a good deal taller. “Well, copper top, what d’you think?” He either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care that a space had cleared around them. “Who do you think the Captain will have between her thighs tonight? Or maybe she’ll do both? I’ve heard Hadami women are given to taking more than one lover at a time.”

  Jamie laughed; he wasn’t intimidated by Hedden. He’d always been a likely looking target for bullies; he wasn’t tall and, as Countess Duvessi had noted, was cursed with a boyish face, but in his case, looks were deceiving. Jamie was a veteran who’d fought in the line, and looked his enemies in the eye when he’d killed them. Hedden was an untried recruit, full of piss and wind.

  “I neither know nor care who, if anyone, the Captain will take to her bed tonight,” he said, “but I do know that I wouldn’t take you to mine if you were the last warm body in Antia. Now don’t start crying because I’ve spurned you, it’s embarrassing.”

  Hedden flushed as scarlet as the Company colours and barged from the tent, hounded by the mocking laughter of the other squires. Jamie winked at Keris who was watching him with an expression somewhere between curiosity and admiration. He liked her; she understood what it was to be a captain’s squire, and she made him laugh. He gathered up the cloak and was about to leave when she came over.

  “I thought you were going to belt him,” she said.

  “So did I, and then I remembered he’s an idiot and not worth being kicked out of the Guards over.”

  She laughed. “Aye, true enough, although, if he’d said anymore about my Captain, I’d have punched him myself.” Her eyes lit up. “Is that the Silver Spur? Can I have a look?”

  “I…alright, but I have to take these to the Captain. Come, walk with me, and be careful with it.”

  They passed the horse lines; like their riders the knights’ mounts had also been groomed within an inch of their lives and kitted out in their finest harness. The Captains’ mounts both had great plumes attached to their crinets, Lyco’s in flaming red and Vorbek’s horse in black and green. Jamie pretended not to notice Lyco dragging two grooms over to a bale of hay, while they dangled from his reins like ornaments.

  Keris held the spur up to the light. “I’ve seen Trease’s spur from a distance, but I’ve never touched one.”

  “Ah, well, there are only two knights alive who’ve won them. I was her squire when she received the honour.” Jamie beamed, unable to resist showing off just a little.

  Keris gave him a lopsided grin. “Yes, Jamie, I know, I was there too. They say they’re a pair. What d’you think?”

  Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know, but I suppose it would explain why only two knights have them. They’re Fey made, I can tell you that for certain. Look at the engraving, no human smith could produce something so detailed.”

  Keris nodded appreciatively. “It’s beautiful, but I wouldn’t know Fey work if it bit me. I’m the daughter of a farmer, not a lord. We don’t have too many Fey treasures tucked away in the family vaults, unlike some.” She elbowed him playfully in the ribs.

  Outside the officers’ tent they saw Lieutenant Lorhine and Lieutenant Tiran. The two officers were locked in a heated debate.

  “I think you’d better use the other entrance,” said Keris when the senior knights began shoving each other.

  Aye, I think you’re right.”

  Keris smiled and handed him the Silver Spur. “It’s really stunning.”

  “Aye, well, I spent about two hours cleaning it last night.”

  “Your Captain’s lucky to have you.”

  Jamie slapped her on the back. “Thanks Ker, it’s nice of you to say so. No one else understands what it’s like being a Captain’s squire.”

  “I think we’re very alike, you and I.” She picked a speck of lint off the Captain’s cloak and smiled in an odd, shy sort of way.

  “Aye, we could be family, like brother and sister—you know what I mean,” said Jamie.

  Her smile vanished. “Brother and… I’ll see you later Jamie, you don’t want to keep Captain Stenna waiting.”

  “I thought you’d got lost,” said Captain Stenna.

  “Sorry, Captain, I had to help the grooms with Lyco.” He knew she wasn’t really annoyed. Despite the raised eyebrow and folded arms, the half-smile and bright gleam in her eyes betrayed her good humour.

  She threw on her cloak. Jamie looped the gold braided ties through the rings set near the shoulders of her breastplate, careful not to leave finger marks on the shining metal. Her parade armour was exquisitely decorated, but could turn a blade as well as her battle harness should the need arise. Unlike her battle armour, this set was mirror bright, and every surface was etched with roses and curling vines. It was a fine testament to the skill of its maker. Jamie dreamed of one day owning a suit of armour made by Master Bainley. When he was finished draping her cloak, he handed her the Silver Spur. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched her hold it against her right boot heel. There were no buckles or
straps; the metal simply flowed around her boot, seamlessly locking itself in place around her ankle. The Captain saw that he was watching and winked.

  Outside, someone shouted; “The Black Lancers have left the palace!”

  Vorbek clapped the Captain on the shoulder. “Lock up your sons and daughters, Weyhithe! The Hammer and the Anvil are coming to town. Knights! To your horses!”

  Cassian checked the girth on his saddle and cinched it up another notch. On his signal, the Standard Bearer unfurled the company colours. The sable field rippled in the gentle breeze that swept through the walled canyons of the Arth, animating the silver griffin emblazoned across it. He cast a critical eye over his company as they prepared to leave. Their coal black horses were immaculate, their blackened armour pristine. The 4th was ready to ride.

  Cassian was looking forward to seeing Alyda and Althus again, but he didn’t enjoy banquets. He’d stopped being embarrassed by how he looked years ago, but still found social gatherings awkward. Hefting the Guard’s ceremonial mace, he admired the bronze griffin that topped the ironwood shaft. Every minute scale had been polished to perfection. He raised it aloft and ordered the Lancers to move out.

  By the time they reached the East Gate, Cassian’s ears were ringing. The noise and colour, the tidal roll of bodies pressed against each other was as disorientating as the battlefield, the only difference was that nobody was trying to kill him. He raised the mace, the 4th came to a halt behind him, and the crowd fell silent. Moments passed; Cassian and the citizens of Weyhithe held their breath until the gates split and a blade of sunlight sliced through the shadows crowding the street. The hundreds of spectators gave a thunderous cheer, so loud it shook the glass in the windows. The gates were thrown open to reveal the Hammer and the Anvil waiting outside.