The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  Some kept busy cleaning weapons, others searched for courage in the bottom of a bottle. Many sat and stared into the camp fires, as though trying to divine their future in the flames.

  Alyda yawned; she’d get some sleep as soon as she’d seen the Company. She’d had to order Cassian to go and rest, but she understood what was driving him. He not only faced a battle to protect his Queen, but also to save his family.

  Her father had done the same when Bear’s Tooth was attacked on the day she was born. He’d gone into battle knowing his wife was about to give birth alone, somewhere in the hills. Year’s later he’d told Alyda it was the best and worst day of his life. Her mother never spoke of it.

  The next few days were going to be hard if the Guthani came, and although she relished the challenge of command, at times like this, she missed the easy companionship of her fellow knights.

  She paused in the doorway of their barracks to steal a glimpse of the life she’d left behind when she’d become Captain. Rann was sitting cross-legged on the floor, gruffly instructing his squire how to sharpen a sword the Company way. Della was on her bunk, quietly playing a tin whistle. Nevenna was beside her, cleaning her armour. Some knights were reading, some prayed, others slept. War was coming—it hung over the Arth like a cloud, but the barracks was a haven of calm, the eye of the gathering storm.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Kieran with a keg under his arm. When he saw her, he cleared his throat loud enough for those inside to hear.

  “We’ve been here a few times, eh, Captain?”

  “Aye. And we’ll be here a few more before we have to settle the butcher’s bill.”

  “Do you want me to assemble the Company?”

  “No. It’s an informal visit.”

  “In that case, would you care for a wet?” He patted the keg.

  Alyda grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  It was still a wonder to Cassian that something so small could so completely disarm him. He could have sat there all night, watching Tomas sleep. The feared Captain of the Black Lancers, completely at the mercy of a one year old. If his knights could see the idiot smile that was plastered across his face they would, quite rightly, laugh themselves sick. One of his braids drifted into the crib. Although he was fast asleep, when it brushed against his hand, Tomas grabbed it.

  “Come to bed, Cass,” Beria called sleepily.

  The Knight Captain gently uncurled his son’s fingers from his hair and kissed him goodnight. He stirred, but didn’t wake.

  Cassian sat on the bed. “He’s got a good strong grip. He’ll make a fine Lancer,” he said to Beria who began un-braiding his hair.

  “You’re so handsome,” she whispered and kissed his neck.

  A thrill of excitement ran through his body at her touch. After they’d made love with quiet, ardent passion they lay in each other’s arms. Sleep eluded them both.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked her.

  Beria had an intense look of concentration on her face. “That portrait doesn’t do you justice.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She got the crooked nose right—and the scar on my chin. Thin, pointy face, pale as a dead fish. I think it’s an excellent likeness.”

  Beria slapped him playfully, and nestled against his hairless chest. “It’s your eyes. Painters never get eyes right, especially yours. She gave you cold eyes and they aren’t, they’re alive and warm and…Oh, Cass. I’m so afraid.”

  Alyda returned to her quarters to find Jamie asleep on the floor. Her spare sword was lying next to him, along with a heavy file and some blade oil. He’d been busy; the old blade was shining like it had never been used. She carefully stepped over him. She’d moved out of the barbican and into here. It was a smaller room, but it had everything she needed. The room in the barbican was now full of archers, baskets of stones and pots of oil.

  She grabbed a blanket off the bed and threw it over her squire before taking off her gauntlets and unsheathing her sword. She propped the naked blade against the bed and lay down. She didn’t bother taking off her armour; the scouts had reported that a large force of Guthani and mercenaries were on their way and would reach them around dawn if they kept their current pace. It was bad news, but at least they’d had a warning. She closed her eyes.

  It wasn’t uncomfortable sleeping in harness; she’d done it many times before and in much less pleasant surroundings. She went over the list of everything that needed to be done, and measured it against what they had managed to achieve. It balanced well.

  She yawned and pushed aside all thought of war and sieges, and pictured instead the high mountain pastures near Bear’s Tooth. She made the season of her dreams summer, and the horses grazing on sweet grass, fat and playful. The sky she painted was brilliant azure, speckled with the lightest brushstroke streaks of cloud. With the image fixed in her mind, she was soon fast asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Was that blood? His blood? He held up his hand, it was twisted and broken. A crooked black claw against the grey Void sky. Something that tasted sharp and metallic dripped into his mouth. He was bleeding. The Obsidian Prince laughed.

  “Who did this to you, brother?” hissed the Prince of Bones.

  Although he couldn’t see her from where he was lying, her sibilant voice was as unmistakable as the faint hollow clinking of tiny bones that accompanied her speech.

  “Oh, I think you know what it was. Surely you can smell the unmistakable aroma of an Unmaker.” He groaned, relishing the sharp pain of breath ripping through his torn lungs. It had been so long since he had felt this alive.

  “Of course we can smell it, but what happened? You know full well that you are currently the only one with a connection—the only one who has named and is named because of your slave whore’s gift.”

  She knew that he was broken or else she would never have dared to insult the woman whose love bound him to the mortal realm. The flower. Panic gave him strength and he sat bolt up. It was where he’d left it on the dragon’s bones. He fell back onto his shattered elbow, the agony was exquisite. The Prince of Bones glided towards the hairpin, her fingernail garb rattling around her fleshless body as she moved. She reached towards it, the bony digits of her fingers questing like antennae before withdrawing into the sleeve of her robe.

  “Go on, touch it—end it all, go back to the essence,” he joked as his blood soaked into the hungry ground. She snapped round to face him, her white eyes blazing. If she still had eyelids, she would no doubt have narrowed them.

  “I’ll never give up this form because of a human’s magic, especially not that of your pet,” she hissed.

  Her venom fed him, gave him the strength to smile. “It’s not human magic. This is the gods’ will. That’s why it would turn you to charcoal if you touched it. Be assured; I’d use your bones to write a most beautiful eulogy in your honour.

  “How amusing. I wonder if you will still be laughing when I’ve told you why I’m here. The Order has sent me to seal your realm. You will not join in the Sharing.”

  She tilted her bony jaw to emphasise her triumph. He thought it a fair attempt, considering she didn’t have any skin.

  “You have been to the mortal realm three times and brought us nothing of our own, just let us lick the crumbs from your fingers—and this time you almost brought an Unmaker back with you. What would have happened if it had followed you here?”

  “You would have had to use some of the power you’ve all been hoarding and fight for your existences, like the old days. You should try it, it’s invigorating.” He coughed up a slimy clot of black blood.

  “You’re a fool,” she hissed. “You have such power and you waste it! While we have to search through millions of dirty little human minds to find one that might be open to our influence, you have a link and you squander it. You are banished and thrice damned! You will never partake of the Sharing again. You are cast from the Order, and your realm will be sealed wh
en I leave.”

  “Tell me, sister; how long before another is singled from the herd to feed the hunger like poor dear Azure? Will you be next? For all the hissing we both know you are as weak as a newborn. That is why they sent you to me. If I take you, they lose nothing. How long do you think you can sustain yourself on what you have left?”

  She drifted over, planted a bony foot on his chest, and pushed him back to the ground. “Longer than you.”

  He lacked the strength to sit up, but he sensed when she left had his realm. He turned his head; fascinated by the new perspective that the inability to move had given him. Agonising pain, incapacity and banishment. Such a busy day. The spine lay nearby, still fleshy, still alive with writhing maggots. Still alive. He inched his hand towards it, tendons straining. Too far. He tried again; something tore in his arm but he moved a fraction closer. He laughed; this might take a while.

  The villagers had fled, but Thorgulsen burned the village of Galegallen to the ground all the same. It wasn’t merely an act of spite, although he enjoyed it. Even in Antia, where the winters were mild, rebuilding their homes in the snow would teach the peasants to respect and fear their new masters. Cold and hunger were useful tools to keep skraglings in line, but that wasn’t why he was here. He had come to make the crows fat.

  The few peasants they’d winkled out of their hovels had babbled about evil magic at the keep. The sorcerer hadn’t shown up with the Queen in a sack, so he had to assume the demon had fucked up—not only that, but the Ants would know he was coming. Thorgulsen spat in the mud, all that gold, wasted.

  “Pity they’ve gone,” said Gathorl, “the Ants will be more biddable when we’ve skinned a few more of ‘em.”

  Thorgulsen shrugged. “Be content, the wretches from here and the other villages will have fled to this, Gallen Arth. They’ll huddle there together like flies on shit, sharing fleas and talking up their fears while they wait for us. The crying of bairns and handwringing of the olds will wear at the nerves of their warriors and every tear stained face will remind them of what they have to lose.” He grinned. “And then, when they behold our cold eyed hirths and red handed mercenaries, what store of courage they’ve hoarded will vanish like morning mist. Mark my words; they’ll beg us to take the Queen and her get in exchange for their lives.”

  Gathorl nodded. “Aye. I’ve waited behind the palisades more’n once, forced to listen to the young ‘uns bawling and hating it for putting me on edge. Wains give voice to what we pretend not to feel, eh?” The hirth winked.

  “You can’t pretend anything, Gat. We can smell the shit in your pants when you go into battle,” one of the hirths chimed in, to the amusement of all.

  On the ride to Gallen Arth it began to rain heavily, making the day as piss-dreary as the country they were stuck in. Thorgulsen warmed himself with the image of the knights begging to surrender, and of him handing the Antian Queen to Redbear. He was keen to be done with this and return to Guthland, ships laden with slaves and booty. He’d return a wealthy and influential man, the Dragon Throne but one corpse away.

  Behind him, six hundred hirths and two companies of mercenaries were warming up for the fight, their voices raised in jagged laughter, their rough songs promising death and glory. The Irregulars’ war engines and their knowledge of the Steelskin’s tactics would set the edge to the formidable weapon he wielded. He just hoped Trenham was a more able commander than the idiot Suvian.

  Telvier had avoided him ever since the worm-sack of a sorcerer had failed to bring him the Queen. He’d have strangled the rat-faced little prick with his own guts long before now if his rabble didn’t take so willingly to butchery. Thorgulsen smiled to himself. If nothing else, dreaming of tormenting Telvier was an amusing distraction from thinking about the inglorious task that lay before him.

  A slender blade of light severed the earth from the sky just as they reached the recently cleared tree-line. Rising from the mist that covered the open ground was Gallen Arth.

  Thorgulsen was impressed. Unlike Weyhithe, this place hadn’t been born of womanish fancy. This was a keep birthed from the hard experience of war. The castle’s forbidding walls soared above the trees, crowned by five huge towers that speared into the sky. The walls were sheer, save for strategically placed arrow loops. It had a moat, a double barbican, and four huge towers anchored the corners of the curtain wall. The fifth tower was taller than its siblings, its turret graced by a night black standard. His gut clenched when he saw the scarlet banner of the Hammer hanging beneath it.

  A thousand warriors could hold that keep for years, if they had food and water to supply them. It was built to crush the will and break the bones of any force set on attacking it. Even now, he could feel it testing the strength of his determination. But the Ants didn’t have a thousand warriors or the guts to stand.

  At most, there were two companies of Steelskins cowering within and they were more used to playing games of war than making orphans. Confident that he was mere hours from accomplishing his mission, Thorgulsen sent his herald over to the Arth.

  An icy chill ran through Alyda as she watched the Guthani crowd into the tree-line. When the hordes were packed in tight, shield overlapping garish shield, they began to sing. Hammering sword hilts and axe hafts against their shields, they beat out a primitive rhythm and announced their intentions to the garrison. Alyda spat a curse when she saw the Irregulars’ standard amongst those of the Guthlanders.

  “That treacherous bastard,” growled Lorhine. He and a dozen other knights and squires were with her on the roof of the barbican. He’d shaved his head except for his twin braids, revealing intricate blue spirals tattooed around his skull. Usually hidden by hair, they declared his Clan heritage.

  Alyda shrugged. “He’s a mercenary. It’s not personal.”

  “With all respect, Captain, I think he’s an honourless turd. He was fighting with us a few months ago.”

  Alyda laughed. “Aye, and he’ll remember how well we schooled the Suvians, and that he’s the one about to face us now,” she said, loud enough for those in the gatehouse to hear and take heart. Battles were won or lost on the strength of an army’s morale. She had to nurture the spark of courage in her warriors, turn it into a flame strong enough to sustain them when the dark tide swept towards them.

  After about half an hour of wailing and shield beating, the noise died down and a lone rider trotted out of the trees on a shaggy little pony. The rider was waving a flag of truce. When he reached the bridge he halted. The Grey Beard was wearing bronze scale armour and red and orange striped trews. He looked remarkably composed, to say there were a hundred bows bent upon him.

  “Know me and hear my words!” His voice carried clean and clear on the brittle air. “I am Garuld Snowfoot, Herald and Talespinner of Thane Kasper Thorgulsen, son of Thane Brandar Thorgulsen, Warleader of his people. Thane Thorgulsen seeks to discuss terms with the Commander of this castle. What say you? Before your gods, and upon your honour.”

  Alyda tipped Lorhine the nod. He climbed up between the crenels.

  “The Commander of the garrison will meet to discuss terms with your leader, upon her honour and before the gods,” he bellowed.

  The herald bowed and trotted back to his lines.

  Alyda turned to Jamie. “Saddle Lyco.”

  Three knights rode out of the shadows of the gatehouse. Trenham knew them. They were the tip of the spear, the point of the blade, the hard, striking face of the Hammer.

  Front and centre was Alyda Stenna, clad in mirror bright plate, a fiery plume in her closed helm. To her right, making the tall captain look slight by comparison was Rann Lacgarde, the Company Standard Bearer. He had his visor up and was grinning like a broken bottle; he carried the company colours and a spiked ball and chain draped across his saddle. Third was Kieran Lorhine, Second-in-Command of the Hammer. Even with his head shaved, those black, killer’s eyes were unmistakable. So this is what it’s like to see them as enemies. It was much less appealing than viewing
them as comrades.

  “That armour is magnificent!” said Telvier, his voice a breathy mix of appreciation and avarice. “It must be worth a small fortune.”

  The Thane bestowed him with a frosty glare. Trenham laughed.

  “She’s overdressed for the coffle,” the Thane snarled.

  “What?” Trenham was sure he must have misheard.

  Now it was Thorgulsen who grinned. “You heard me—or did you think I was just going to let them go?”

  “I…yes, well… under escort and unarmed, but not…” This wasn’t what he’d expected. The game had changed somewhere and he’d missed it or worse; just assumed they were playing by different rules.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Trenham. We’ll draw lots for the armour—and for who goes first on the officers. If you’re lucky you might be near the top of the list.”

  Telvier coughed. “I’ll pass on the officers if I can have two draws on the armour…?”

  The knights came to a halt and waited. If he didn’t know better he’d swear they’d come to accept Thorgulsen’s surrender and after what he’d just heard he almost wished it was that way round. Ali Stenna raised her visor and nodded curtly to Thorgulsen. A sly smile twitched the corner of her mouth.

  “Thane Thorgulsen. How’s the jaw?”

  Thorgulsen‘s fist tightened around the axe haft. This could turn sharp, certainly would, if they knew what Thorgulsen had planned for them. Trenham didn’t rate their chances against those archers’ dead-eyeing them from the wall. Wisely, neither did Thorgulsen and he relaxed back in the saddle.

  “It’s fine—unlike Weyhithe which I have reduced to smouldering rubble. How are the Queen and Corvinius?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Thorgulsen continued. “These are my terms: hand over Queen Thea and her sons and you and the garrison will be allowed to live. If you do not hand them over, I will destroy this Arth and kill every man, woman, and child within and still take the Queen and her sons. Many lives are depending on your decision, Captain Stenna. Don’t let your pride kill them; this is not a fight you can win.”