The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  Talin rounded on her. “Damn it, Bear, I’m serious. I won’t stand by and watch her get hurt.”

  “I understand how you feel, but don’t forget; it’s what she does. If you interfere you’ll lose her respect, and the respect of the Hammer.”

  “Fuck the Hammer! You’ve seen the size of that Guthlander. Do you really think she stands a chance against him?”

  “I do hope so, I’ve got a…I mean, yes! Of course. Now come on, or it’ll be over before we get there.”

  The crowd was already three deep by the time Talin and Bear arrived. Guthlanders and mercenaries lined one half of the arena, the knights and squires of the Hammer the other. All he had to do was tell the Marshal to stop it. He was the heir to the throne, and not averse to giving orders, but he didn’t, mostly because of the Hammer.

  None of the knights seemed even the slightest bit concerned for their Captain. Most were watching the combatants preparing for the fight with an air of studied detachment. Some looked bored, and were hardly paying any attention to what was happening in the arena. Their attitude confused him, and caused him to pause. If they weren’t worried, should he be?

  The Guthlanders and the mercenaries weren’t as reticent as the Antians. They were cheering Thorgulsen as though the fight was already won. Against his better judgement Talin decided to heed Bear’s council, and say nothing—for the time being.

  The Thane was arguing with the Marshal, while Kieran continued to school the juniors, infuriating the Guthlander even more. Alyda smiled within the darkness of her helm. It would soon be her turn to teach the pig-fucker a lesson and she couldn’t wait.

  “Pay attention, you lot!” Lorhine barked—startling the squires and pages to rapt attention. “You’re not here just to watch the Captain win a duel; you’re here to learn, so listen up. A suit of plate can weigh fifty pounds…on a good day. You will not always be mounted and therefore you must be able to carry that weight and fight on foot, like common warriors.” There was a ripple of laugher among the youngsters. “You must be able to run in your armour, fight in it, even sleep in it. It must become part of you, a second, steel skin. The superior craftsmanship of Antian plate—the finest armour in the world—will enable you to effectively carry the battle to whomever, and wherever you are sent to enforce King Daris’s will.”

  Lorhine was good. Alyda almost forgot why she was there. She flexed her fingers, worked them deeper into her gauntlets. Kieran gave her a sly grin and continued to instruct the youngsters. The Thane was sounding more enraged with every passing minute, which was exactly what she wanted. While she waited for Kieran to finish, she idly scanned the crowd. Prince Talin and Bear Berwick pushed their way to the front of the arena. Talin’s face was as dark as a storm. She wondered if he was worried for her, and laughed at the fanciful notion.

  “—The Captain will now choose weapons appropriate to the combat, taking into account her opponent,” said Lorhine. “This is not a luxury you’ll be afforded often, so you must make the most of it when it happens.”

  That was her cue. With great deliberation, she examined the weapon rack by the side of the arena. She turned, and very obviously looked over to the Thane before grabbing a stick that had been placed on the rack for this very purpose. It was a childish joke and, got the response she expected: The Thane turned purple with rage and everyone, including some of the mercenaries laughed their arses off. Alyda had a few practice swings with the stick before she tossed it aside and picked up a mace and a warhammer.

  When they were both armed, the Marshal called them to the centre of the arena. “Captain Stenna, Thane Thorgulsen.” He bowed to both. “You will fight until one of you yields, or you both decide ‘tis a draw, or one or both of you are unable to continue, due to injury or death. Do you accept these terms?”

  Alyda agreed immediately, but Thorgulsen shook his head.

  “Before we start I want the Captain checked for magic,” he said.

  Furious, Alyda swept up her visor. “Do you think I’d dishonour myself and my Company by cheating?”

  The Thane smiled, and leaned on his huge, double-headed axe. “Let’s find out, shall we? Unless you have something to hide, something your Ward is keeping quiet about…?”

  “I don’t need magic to put you on your arse,” she snarled.

  The Marshal cleared his throat. “Captain Stenna, do you have someone here who can, er…test the Thane? Thane Thorgulsen, I gather you have someone who can detect such things?”

  “Aye, Marshal, I do.” He jerked his thumb at his wife.

  Alyda saw the trap too late. They weren’t just after her blood—they wanted her honour.

  “Captain?” enquired the flustered Marshal.

  Alyda shrugged nonchalantly, even though she was fuming. “The Ward will sound if the Thane has been foolish enough to use magic.”

  The Marshal muttered under his breath and turned to the Thane’s wife. “If you would…” He threw up his hands. “… Do whatever it is you do.”

  Alyda focused her concentration and ordered the Ward to accept the spell the Guthlander was about to perform—so long as it isn’t a harming spell. The court mages had drilled her for days on how to order the Ward with a thought when she had become Captain. It was always an unsatisfying experience because there was never the slightest indication that the damn thing had heard.

  The thought occurred to her that the Guthani might not even bother to cast a spell. All she had to do was accuse her of using magic and that would be enough to ruin her reputation. The witch closed her eyes and began to chant under her breath. The air grew heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. She was casting a spell alright. Alyda was uncomfortably reminded of when the Shadewalker appeared.

  After several tense minutes the Guthani opened her eyes. “Captain Stenna has nothing of a magical nature about her person.”

  Thorgulsen’s smile vanished. He fixed his wife with an icy stare. “Are you sure?”

  Alyda didn’t know exactly what they’d planned, but if the murderous look Thorgulsen gave his woman was anything to go by, the plan hadn’t worked.

  “Quite sure, husband,” the woman said. As she turned to leave, Alyda saw her wink at someone over on the Antian side of the arena.

  Talin turned to Bear. “Did she just wink at you?”

  Bear looked suitably confused. “Who, Highness?”

  “Don’t make me waste breath on this. You know who.”

  The tiniest hint of a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, her. No I don’t think so, Highness. She might have something in her eye, or a nervous affliction… or something.”

  “By Sest, I swear, Lady Berwick, if Alyda gets hurt because you’ve been acting like a bitch in heat, you and I will have a problem.”

  Alyda’s visor locked into place with a satisfying click. She rolled her shoulders and waited. Thorgulsen adjusted his grip on his axe.

  “Are you both satisfied that everything—magical or otherwise—is as it should be?” The Marshal asked, somewhat exasperated. Alyda and the Guthlander nodded their assent. “Thank the gods for that,” said the Marshal brushing a palmful of rain off his balding pate.

  He began to explain what they could and couldn’t do to each other. Alyda had heard the speech a dozen times before and took the opportunity to get the measure of her opponent.

  The Guthani was wearing the same heavy scale coat that he’d worn for the melee, but a different helm. This one had a mail aventail and bronze cheek plates instead of a full visor. It allowed for a broader field of vision, but less protection than a fully enclosed helm. Alyda had a far more limited view of the world though the narrow slit in her sallet, but she was used to it. The Guthlander was big enough and slow enough that she wouldn’t lose sight of him in the small arena.

  If Lorhine’s lecture was anything to go by, she should be flattered by his choice of weapon. The haft alone must have been over five feet long, but it was the twin-bladed axe heads that earned her respect. Every gleami
ng curve, every inch of finely honed edge promised pain.

  The Marshall cleared his throat, “On my mark…”

  Alyda took a step back. She was sure he’d go for a quick strike and try to finish her before wielding the beast of a weapon took its toll on his strength. The Marshal raised his baton. After a last check to make sure they were both ready, he brought his arm down and backed out of the arena.

  As she expected, the Guthlander rushed her the moment the baton dropped. Yelling a battle cry, he brought the axe over his shoulder in a gleaming arc. Alyda easily dodged the blow, but with unexpected speed, Thorgulsen swept it up and back round. The huge axe wasn’t a weapon to block, it was one to avoid. She leapt back. The fine edge of the blade kissed the keel of her breastplate, striking sparks from the metal.

  The near-miss focused her attention; she circled the Thane, edging back and sideways, careful to avoid the spinning blades. Mud squelched underfoot. One slip, one misplaced step and it would be over.

  Ignoring the mocking taunts of the Guthlanders and mercenaries, Alyda made no attempt to attack, but continued to dodge around the arena until she’d turned the Thane so that his baying supporters were behind her. She let their insults wash over her as she bided her time, waiting for the right moment to strike. She didn’t have to wait long. Something behind her caught Thorgulsen’s attention, just for a second. It was enough. The moment he looked away, she hurled the mace at his head.

  The Thane reacted quickly, and batted it away with the axe, just as she’d hoped he would. Alyda took a single, long stride towards him, swinging the warhammer underhand as she closed. The Thane had blocked his own line of sight with his axe, and wasn’t quick enough to parry the lighter warhammer with his unwieldy weapon.

  She could have driven the warhammer’s lethal, rear spike through his jaw, and into what passed for a brain. But she chose instead to clip his chin with the flat hammerhead of the weapon. She’d already decided that she wasn’t going to kill him if it could be avoided, she didn’t want to mar the tournament with his death. His head snapped back, he staggered. She pressed her advantage and side-stepped right, pivoting on her right foot, which put her almost directly behind him. You’re mine. She swung the warhammer against his unarmoured knee. The Thane howled. Alyda stamped on his calf. He dropped.

  “Do you yield?” she growled, hammer raised, ready to deliver the killing blow.

  The Thane rolled over and tore off his helm. His face and beard were streaked with blood that was welling from a deep gash on his jaw. A tense silence fell over the crowd as they waited for him to answer.

  “I yield,” he snarled through bloodied teeth.

  Alyda lowered her weapon and stalked over to the Antian side of the arena.

  Lorhine turned to the squires. “Observe and take note.” The youngsters, who had been screaming themselves hoarse cheering her on, fell silent. “Size and brute strength are not enough to win out against an intelligent and skilled opponent. I hope you were paying attention. We’ll be discussing this lesson in more detail on the ‘morrow. Dismissed!”

  It was over, just like that. A sudden flurry of blows and the duel—if it could be called such—was over and, Twins be praised, Alyda had won. It was not what Talin had expected, nothing like the practiced rituals that took place in the Royal Gardens and training yards of the 5th. Back home, the knights and nobles with honour to defend would posture with whip-thin blades and dance about until a hit was scored, or honour was satisfied by a particularly dazzling display of blade work. Fatalities happened occasionally, but were usually accidents and considered bad form. What he’d just witnessed was an entirely different beast. It was so… unashamedly violent.

  At some point in the future Talin might be able to put into words the tremendous sense of relief he’d felt when Alyda walked out of the arena unscathed. Right at that moment, all he could do was stand there and catch his breath while she and her knights headed off to the Arth to celebrate.

  He’d wanted to end the fight a dozen times, but Bear had begged him not to interfere, insisting every time that Alyda knew what she was doing. His friend had been right, although he could never tell her because he’d never hear the end of it.

  “See? I told you there was nothing to worry about.” Bear grinned, and tucked a bulging pouch into her doublet.

  “Don’t get all smug—you once thought that mare’s piss was an aphrodisiac.”

  “At least I didn’t drink it…”

  They both laughed.

  “I promise you this, Iris, when I’m king; I’m going to outlaw duelling—no matter how skilled my wife is.”

  The poppy juice Bethanglyn had given him took the edge off the pain, but it still took his breath away when she straightened his leg and eased his kneecap back into the socket. The pain lessened immediately, but his knee was swollen and didn’t feel like it wanted to stay where she’d put it.

  She pressed her fingers against his foot. “I can feel your heartbeat, the leg hasn’t died.”

  “That’s fascinating. Now splint it, and before you say I should rest it—don’t.”

  “As you wish, but don’t blame me if you cripple yourself.”

  He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her towards him until her face was inches from his. “Why would I blame you for that, when I have so many other things to choose from?”

  She glared, but held her tongue. Tempted as he was to wring her neck, he let her go.

  “You got off lightly, Thane.” Telvier purred.

  Thorgulsen shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit he’d come to the same conclusion. “What did you expect? Stenna hits like a girl.”

  “And yet she showed a remarkable…” Telvier began, and then caught the look on Thorgulsen’s face. “Yes. Quite. She hits like a girl…who got lucky.”

  Thorgulsen laughed. He’d give Telvier his due; the man had the survival instincts of a cockroach. “That’s what I thought, but I’m still going to kill her.”

  Hot water lapped around her ears. Alyda rolled the stem of the wine glass between her fingers and drowsily watched steam rise off the skin of the bathwater. Alone at last, she let herself wallow in the warm afterglow of victory. She still had no idea why the Guthlander had picked the fight, but she was sure she’d find out, this stank of unfinished business.

  She took a sip of wine. The deep oak tones and hint of summer fruits washed over her tongue and filled her mouth with rich, velvety sweetness. The door creaked softly. Her eyes snapped open and locked on the hand curling around the edge of the door. Instantly awake, she reached for her sword… and then stopped when she saw the familiar ruby ring flash scarlet in the lamp light.

  You must tell him to go! The voice of reason ordered. Talin came over to the tub. No good will come of this…She reached out, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.

  Water boiled from the tub. The voice of reason drowned in the torrent. Without regret, Alyda acknowledged that this was one battle she was happy to lose.

  Chapter Eight

  Weyhithe Forest was burning. At least that was what its autumnal livery looked like to the King’s Councillor. Everything is burning. Acid bile scourged Hyram’s throat and his stomach cramped as he thought about the storm that was brewing. He stared hard at the flaming hues of autumn, tried to see the beauty, but all he could see was fire.

  It was the end of September; the Autumn Council was in full session. The King, the Governors of Cathlan and Tamalan, and the kingdom’s most influential nobles were gathered for the third and final time before Midwinter. Hyram hated every excruciating minute of every Council meeting. This one was no exception, but this time it was for other, more important reasons than his general loathing of the squabbling and back-biting that invariably attended these gatherings of sycophants and dullards.

  Familiar footsteps echoed across the polished floor. He casually turned away from the window. Neither the master nor his apprentice showed the slightest flicker of recognition when their eyes met for the br
iefest of moments. Garian was helping an aged Duchess to her seat. Hyram was impressed with the boy’s performance; he looked completely ordinary, utterly bereft of personality and invisible to the noble company. None of them would suspect what a sharp mind lurked behind those lustreless eyes. Just as it should be.

  Hyram let his gaze slide across the chamber. He wondered who could be trusted, who was a true supporter of the King, and who he would have to kill, blackmail, or imprison. He could make a good guess, he knew these rogues of old, but he had to be sure before he acted. A good surgeon did more than guess when they had to cut out a diseased organ, and he was a good surgeon. He and the boy would observe the honourable Council members and wait for the masks to slip, which they surely would. If he knew one thing, it was that few people had the wit to keep secrets. Knowledge was currency and most people were spendthrifts. He on the other hand had always been a miser.

  Feigning boredom, he gazed at the ceiling. His mind was awhirl with the schemes of kings and princes, but he couldn’t deny the magnificence of the Council Chamber.

  As a child, he was awed by its beauty and believed absolutely in the legend that the hall had been created using Fey magic. The only concessions to practicality were the seats that had been cut into the white marble walls and the magnificent rainbow-hued window. The ring of seats was broken by the King’s dais and the massive Wildwood doors that were opposite the throne.

  Hyram thought the doors must have been an afterthought; beautiful though they were, they marred the smooth perfection of the walls that rose to form the graceful vault a hundred feet above them.

  In recent years the pale walls had begun to blur into indistinct, grey fuzziness long before they reached the ceiling. These days he was forced to rely on memory to conjure the detail of the roof, rather than his failing eyesight.