The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  When they saw their fate, some of the other prisoners found the courage to fight, but it was far too late. Thorgulsen gave the order and his hirths slashed the Steelskins’ throats. Before the bodies cooled, they cut out their hearts and tossed them at the feet of the sorcerer alongside the other ghastly tribute.

  The sorcerer fell upon the organs, and one after the other, sucked them dry. When he’d slaked his thirst, he raised his arms above his head and began to chant. The eerie, inhuman voice and the strange words all preyed upon the most ancient fears locked deep within Thorgulsen, a shiver ran down his spine. In contrast, Bethanglyn’s eyes were shining. Thorgulsen saw her mouthing the aberrant words under her breath.

  Still chanting, the Obsidian Prince turned his shadowed face towards her. She flashed him a brazen smile. Thorgulsen weighed the axe in his hand and wondered which one of them he’d like to kill the most.

  The sorcerer ceased chanting. For a moment nothing happened, and then the air above the bloody spine began to run like water on glass.

  “I’ll see you again,” he said to Bethanglyn before stepping over the spine and vanishing into the watery nothingness.

  Thorgulsen didn’t like magic but there was no doubting its power. What about the price? He was an ambitious man, but when he considered the question: how far would I go? The answer was:—not that far, not again. If only he could say the same of Bethanglyn. Thorgulsen broke the spell of silence that had settled over the square by slapping his wife across the face.

  He turned to Telvier, who took a cautious step back. “Round up your people, we’re leaving this midden. Gathorl! Gather the warband and send the scouts ahead to this, Gallen Arth. I want whatever the Void-spawn leaves.”

  He was consumed with rage and guilt when Corvinius had taken over and imprisoned Hyram, but that was nothing compared to how Garian felt watching Weyhithe burn, knowing there was nothing he could do to save it. A few hours earlier he was about to sneak back into the Arth, when he encountered another of Hyram’s agents, wading through filth beneath one of the garderobes. She was called Jarel, and what she told him saved him the trouble of climbing up through the slimy shithole, as she’d just climbed down it.

  A cobbler by trade, she’d stayed in the Arth as long as she’d dared. When the Guthani began to kill indiscriminately, she decided it was time to get out with what little information she’d been able to glean. She told Garian that the Guthlanders had ransacked the Arth when they couldn’t find the Queen or Corvinius. As the skinny cobbler cleaned herself up, she explained how she’d heard that the knights guarding the Queen had been found dead in her apartments some time during the previous evening, but that was all she knew. The Guthlanders’ murderous rampage aside, Garian was reassured that Stenna had succeeded in getting the Queen out of the Arth. The agents wished each other luck, and then went their separate ways.

  That had been hours ago. Now he was sitting on a rooftop, watching his city burn. He desperately wanted to stay in Weyhithe and hunt down the bastards who’d torched his home, but he had his orders. With a heavy heart, he turned his back on the conflagration.

  When he could go no further by rooftop, he climbed down into an alley a few hundred feet from the East Gate. The moment his feet touched ground, a group of mercenaries rounded the corner.

  “Hey, you!” One of them shouted at him in Suvian and drew her sword.

  “Stay where you are, I want to talk to you!”

  Without wasting breath Garian unhooked the small crossbow, spanned it, dropped a bolt in the notch, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The woman fumbled her weapon and staggered, dumbly clutching at the shaft sticking out of her chest. Her three companions charged past her, yelling obscenities at Garian. He dropped the bow and ran.

  There were many who could run faster than him, and a good few who knew the city better, but he was a damn sight faster and more knowledgeable than the mercenaries chasing him and soon lost them in the guts of the city.

  With his blood still pumping from the chase, he turned a corner and ran straight into another group of mercenary scum who were busy looting a half loaded cart. Lying in the road nearby were the bloody bodies of the family the cart must have belonged to. As soon as they saw him, the mercenaries stopped what they were doing and drew their weapons.

  “Wrong time, wrong place, boy…” one of them snarled in Antian and advanced towards him.

  There were four of them, all armed and armoured. He was about to turn around and run back the way he’d come when a door opened behind him and another one stepped into the street carrying a large trunk. When he saw Garian he sighed, put the trunk down and unhooked the axe from his belt.

  “Whatever you’ve got, hand it over and we’ll let you go on your way. Isn’t that right, Dario?”

  “Like you let these people go?” Garian spat.

  The one called Dario shrugged. “They wouldn’t play nice.” He laughed. “Don’t make the same mistake, boy. Drop the knife and hand over your purse and you can run along, unless you want to stay and play? Pretty lad like you, who knows? Play nice and I might end up giving you my purse.”

  Garian drew his knife. The mercenaries closed in. He backed up against the wall, trying to keep them all in view. They stopped. Their smiles faded, their eyes widened.

  Garian wasn’t arrogant enough to think he’d inspired such a swift change of attitude. They were staring at something above him.

  He desperately wanted to know what it was, but daren’t risk a glance, not while they were within striking distance. A shadow passed over him; he felt a whoosh of air and ducked instinctively. When he looked up he understood why the mercenaries were afraid.

  The beasts were sickeningly fast and the uneven contest was over before the mercenaries had time to scream. When they’d finished, one of the seven foot tall monsters raised a dripping, dagger-clawed hand and pointed above him. Garian looked up to see Suli clinging to a drainpipe, smiling down at him. He’d never been so pleased to see anyone in his life.

  She dropped the last six feet and landed lightly beside him. She wasn’t wearing traditional Vodoni dress today, but practical buckskins. A knife was hanging from her belt, although with her companions, he doubted that she’d need to use it.

  “You did so well to get away from the first lot,” she said, and kissed him.

  “How long have you…? I mean are they…when did you…?”

  “Not long, and they’re my cousins. When we saw the smoke we came as quickly as we could. It took a while to find your scent in all this mess and because you don’t actually use the streets. You go under them and above them, but not often on them. You’re a strange fellow, Garian Tain; did I ever tell you that?”

  “Yes, I think you did.” Garian refrained from commenting on the two hulking shapeshifters that were snuffling about the pile of corpses not five feet away. And she calls me strange. He returned her kiss with interest.

  “We need to leave this place quickly. There’s something here that we do not want to run into,” said Suli.

  He would take her at her word; whatever it was must be pretty bad for her to say that. “Lead on. I trust you and… your friends know a way out of the city?”

  Suli looked expectantly at the shifters. The shaggy beasts sniffed the air and exchanged a look. Their feral yellow eyes glowed in the light of the fires licking at the nearby buildings.

  They seemed to come to an agreement, although it was hard to tell, their conversation was conducted in grunts and sniffs. The male nodded to Suli before he and his companion loped off the way Garian had come.

  “Let’s go,” said Suli and took off after them. Garian followed.

  The Children of the Moon made escaping the city seem easy. Garian and Suli clung to their massive backs and the two shifters flowed up the wall faster than he could have run the distance on the flat. Minutes later they were on the other side. If anyone saw them, they didn’t dare try to stop them.

  When they were safely down, the shifters bounded off ahe
ad. Garian and Suli were forced to sprint just to keep them in sight. On all fours, they could almost be mistaken for animals, but when one or other of them stood on their hind legs to sniff the air or peer into the distance, they were clearly more than mere beasts. Garian could see elements of wolf and cat in their facial features, but no animal ever looked at a person with eyes like theirs.

  In spite of the circumstances of their reunion, he was overjoyed to see Suli. He was still distraught that Weyhithe was being sacked, like everything else he’d loved; it was being destroyed by an act of wanton brutality.

  He had a sudden desire to keep running, to go somewhere far away with Suli and never look back. He was suddenly afraid for the girl running by his side.

  “Don’t love nothing, and then nothing can hurt you.” That’s what Minchin, one of the older boys in the orphanage had told him. Then as now, he understood what he’d meant.

  For a moment—a heartbeat, he regretted that he’d wandered into the wrong inn and let a blue-eyed girl strip him of his defences, because just for a moment, with Weyhithe burning behind him, he felt as vulnerable and helpless as a five year old boy grieving for his murdered mother.

  A few miles from Weyhithe, the shifters disappeared into a stand of trees. Garian and Suli took the opportunity to catch their breath. They returned a short while later in human form. Garian guessed that they must be brother and sister by how similar they looked. They were the same height; both had the same sandy coloured hair and very similar features. Like Suli’s mother, it was their eyes that he found most disturbing, even in human form. They were too bright and a little too large—hunter’s eyes. The male smiled a toothsome grin, displaying the tips of sharply pointed canines.

  “Garian, I’d like you to meet my cousins,” said Suli. “This is Pytre.”

  The male stood forward and tipped him a nod.

  “And this is Lhazinia.”

  The female smiled. “Garian Tain; the King’s man. We’re pleased to meet you.”

  “And I you. Thanks’ for the help back there.”

  “Don’t mention it, we’re kin. Family look out for family, isn’t that so even amongst the Gadji?” Lhazinia asked.

  He snorted. “In theory.”

  He spared no detail when he told them what had happened. They took it in, but neither they nor Suli showed the level of concern he would have expected. He concluded that rather than a lack of empathy it was probably because they were nomads and didn’t have strong ties to any one particular place. He shouldn’t have been surprised that they didn’t feel the loss of Weyhithe as keenly as he did. They were more concerned that mercenaries and Guthani were roaming the countryside, and it was quickly decided that Lhazinia would go and warn the Charaval.

  “These are ill tidings for all, not only the Gadji,” said Pytre.

  Garian grunted his agreement. He was bone weary and the thought of what he still had to do was daunting, even for him.

  “What’s wrong, Captain?” Suli asked.

  “Nothing.” There was something, but he was reluctant to ask more of Suli and her family.

  “I don’t believe you. What is it, Garian?” She pushed him towards the inevitable request.

  “Suli, Pytre; do you think you could track the Queen?” He asked quickly so that the question wouldn’t stick in his throat.

  The shifter raised his eyebrows and smiled a perfect, white-toothed smile. “The mortal hasn’t been born who I cannot track, cousin.”

  “I know I’m asking a great deal of you and your people… you’ve already done so much…”

  Pytre rested his hand on Garian’s shoulder. “We’re your people now. You are family, Garian Tain, and really, it’s not much of a task.”

  “Thank you, both of you.” As much as he was grateful, he felt uncomfortable being obligated to anyone, but this was too important to let pride get in the way.

  “I’ll catch up with you when I’ve found her; it may take a few days. Tell ‘Zia where I’ve gone when she gets back, and be careful.” Pytre kissed Suli on the cheek and set off at a jog, back towards Weyhithe.

  Unlike the shapeshifter, who looked like he could run all day and night without tiring, Garian was dead on his feet, but he still had to find the King. “I’d better be going too… do you want to come with me?” he asked Suli, trying not to sound as desperate for her to say yes as he was.

  She gave him a kiss. “Try stopping me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gallen Arth was like an old dog sleeping through its dotage. It either didn’t mind, or hadn’t noticed Kilner’s presence. Some of the other Arths, like Trelanlith, were positively hostile and jealously guarded every drop of power, but not Gallen. Here essence dripped like honey from the deep well of its untouched reserves and he drank his fill. Kilner liked Gallen for that reason, and because the great, high walls and huge, drum towers made him feel safe.

  It was a pity that he’d have to leave soon. He didn’t like travelling or being out in the wilds. He feared the creatures that hunted in the dark forests and lonely moors, and now they were saying there were brigands and mercenaries abroad to add to the danger. He was capable of defending himself if he had to, he was a mage after all, but the very thought of violence made him feel ill. Kilner did not like conflict. If only he had enough coin so that he didn’t have to work. If only I could turn rocks into gold and had my own personal well of earth essence…

  “Ah, there you are, Master Magus—just the person I was looking for.”

  The voice jolted Kilner from his daydream, but he had the presence of mind not to turn around. Pretending not to have heard her, he put his head down and continued at a brisk pace in the opposite direction. He thought he’d got away when he reached the Guest Hall, until a heavy hand slapped down on his shoulder. Groaning inwardly, he turned to face Lady Berwick.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to avoid me,” she said, a wry smile on her face.

  “You’re right: you don’t know better. Now leave me be or…” the mage mumbled and made to go inside.

  She palmed the door closed and casually leaned against it. “Or?”

  Kilner took a step back; his knees were already turning to water. “Just leave me alone. I can’t help you. How many times must I tell you before it sinks in?”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t! I’ve told you: you are what you are, what you were born. It cannot be undone, you’re g… going to have to learn t…to live with it,” Kilner stammered. “Or not. I don’t care, just leave me be.”

  “I still think if you tried you could do something to at least help me keep control.” Her smile vanished. “I’m tired of drugging myself just to get through the day, just to feel…human.”

  Kilner felt sorry for her, even though she’d hounded him from the moment she arrived with the other knights, he wasn’t made of stone. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m not as young as I was. It’s too risky and…I just can’t. Earth magic doesn’t work like that. I must use what I’m given, we cannot destroy—only…well, I can’t take it out of you, and if I tried to change your pattern, I’d most likely end up killing you or worse, killing myself—and I will not risk either outcome, so please, stop hounding me.”

  She looked downcast. Kilner really did feel sorry for her, but the risk was too great…for him.

  “Is it money? I can pay,” she said brightly. “I’ve got pots of gold.”

  It was as though she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “Money can’t buy me my life back! I’m not a…a sorcerer. I don’t have power over life and death, I ca—” Without warning an excruciating pain ripped through his body. Kilner fell, paralysed and in agony, unable to even scream.

  Berwick caught him as he collapsed. “What is it? What’s wrong with you? Reese! Speak to me!”

  He could barely think, let alone speak. All he could do was send a weak pulse of power into the Arth to warn it about what was trying to break through, what had burned his very spirit. Befor
e unconsciousness claimed him, he heard the Arth Ward scream.

  Alyda was halfway to the door, sword in hand before she was even awake, dragged from deep sleep by the Arth’s deafening Ward. She looked around and tried to remember where she was. Constable’s room. The barbican. Gallen Arth. She hadn’t bothered getting undressed when she’d fallen onto the cot and ran from the room and down the stairs, in search of what had set off the Ward. She glanced out of the arrow loops, expecting to see an army massing, but all was quiet.

  In the bailey, knights and civilians were running in all directions, hunting for the source of the disturbance. Over by the Guest Hall, she saw Bear Berwick kneeling beside a prone figure.

  When she got closer she recognised the earth mage. He was as pale as death, but trying to speak. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  “He just collapsed, and the Ward started ringing,” said Bear, her eyes shining in the torch-lit darkness.

  “I…I’m alright,” the mage gasped and raised himself onto his elbow.

  “I know you…” Alyda said. “Reed isn’t it?”

  “Close enough,” he groaned. “Listen, Captain—a sorcerer is trying to get into the Arth. In the name of all that is holy—you must not let it in.”

  Alyda’s blood ran cold, she shuddered. “Where is it?”

  He reached out his shaking hand and touched her sword. “Now you can hurt it, like her Ladyship here, but the spell won’t last long, so hurry!” Kilner fell back, exhausted, leaving Alyda no wiser as to where the demon might be.

  Bear craned her neck, tilted her head as though she’d heard something. “It’s near Tal,” she said, and tore off towards the Keep Tower. Alyda followed.

  The Obsidian Prince perched on the broken spar of a dead dragon’s wing bone while he waited for the hunting spell to find the human Queen. He held a trinket he’d made over a thousand years ago. It had survived in the mortal realm all that time. The flower was fashioned from Yorl—the metal of magic, formed of raw earth essence. It had been a gift for his lover. Such a long time ago. Back when his dragon had flesh on its bones.