The Red Knight

by Davies, K. T.

  Arrogant bastard. Thorgulsen could have been more provocative, but not by much. Fire burned in Stenna’s eyes and for a moment Trenham thought she was going to draw her sword and set to, but she didn’t. She turned her attention to him.

  “I didn’t know you were in the business of killing children, Trenham. You’ve gone down in the world.”

  He wanted to explain that he’d thought Thorgulsen was going to offer a better deal, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even warn her of the fate Thorgulsen had in mind for them. What should have been a straightforward surrender now balanced on the point of a blade—one that cut whichever way it fell.

  “Just surrender, Captain Stenna,” was all he could say that wouldn’t break his contract, or perjure his conscience beyond redemption.

  She gave him a disdainful look and turned to Thorgulsen. “Will the garrison be treated as honourable prisoners of war?”

  Thorgulsen smoothed his long moustaches. “Life should be enough for someone who is in no fucking position to bargain.”

  Lacgarde growled—Lorhine’s hand clamped around his sword hilt. Trenham was sure he could hear the creak of taut bowstrings and got ready to slide down the side of his horse and ride like fuck for the trees. Alyda raised her hand and stilled the bladed air. “I’ll need time to consider your offer,” she said.

  “You have one hour,” replied Thorgulsen.

  Trenham couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to negotiate, the outcome would have been more or less the same, but the Antians would have had safe passage as honoured prisoners, not sold into slavery.

  Thorgulsen’s orders were to capture the Queen, all he had to do to achieve that was sweeten the pill, but he’d fucked it up. Telvier knew it too; his fellow captain gave him a resigned shrug. Like him, he’d seen the look in Alyda Stenna’s eyes when she turned for the Arth. There would be no surrender. Bemused, Trenham began to recalculate his plans.

  Cassian was waiting for them in the bailey when they got back. “What did he have to say?” he asked.

  Alyda had clenched her jaw so hard against her anger that her teeth ached. She took a breath and let the anger go. “Nothing that we didn’t expect. Hand over the Queen and he’ll let us live, don’t and…You know the rest. We have an hour before we tell him to go fuck himself.”

  Without waiting out the hour, Alyda ordered the call to arms to be sounded. What she didn’t tell Cassian was how relieved she was. She couldn’t have given the Queen up, no matter what the Guthlander had promised. That he’d promised nothing had made it easier to reconcile.

  The children, elderly and sick were moved into the cellars beneath the Riverside Hall. They were large and deep and would offer the best protection from any heavy missiles that might be loosed at the Arth. The hall backed onto the west curtain wall, but the gate would be the focus of any attack.

  Ropes had to be dowsed in water to stop them burning from hauling basket after basket of stones up the wall. Fires were lit at intervals along its length and pots of tar and oil set over them to boil. Archers took up positions behind the battlements, smoothing arrow flights and waxing bow strings. After some debate, the ballistae were positioned on the wall and towers and their bases weighted with sacks of rocks and river sand.

  In the bailey, against the rise of the keep hill, forges were erected and blacksmiths set to work. North of the hill, the stables were full to capacity with the restless mounts of both companies. Engineers worked furiously to finish assembling the two huge trebuchets. Alyda had them positioned opposite the barbican on the far side of the bailey. Dozens of large clay pots were stacked beside them. The pots were filled with jagged stones and sealed, ready to hurl at the enemy from the mighty catapults. They were called ‘beehives’ because of their shape and the nasty sting they delivered.

  Alyda was in the Bailey with Cassian, waiting for the last grains of sand to trickle through the hourglass. She looked around. Nothing of the domestic remained. The tents and livestock, washing lines and children were gone. The Arth was now fit for battle, sharp and deadly, a towering grey monster with teeth of steel and bones of stone.

  Cassian handed her a flask. “We’ve enough stores to feed the Arth for a month, including the refugees. The horses probably two, maybe three, weeks. Thank the Twins we don’t have to worry about water.”

  She took a swig from the flask. It was brandy and burned all the way down. “Aye. Those wells are a blessing.” If only supplies were the worst of our problems. “We’re in good shape.” She said. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

  “How long do you think we can hold?” Cassian asked.

  She handed the flask back and let her gaze travel across the Arth as she watched the ghost of a battle that had yet to take place. “If they storm the walls they could take us in hours. If they come in waves…I don’t know, perhaps a week? Much will depend on how long it takes them to get through the gates. Can we Ward-Lock the ones in the outer gatehouse?”

  “No, nor the outer gates of the barbican, perhaps once, but no longer. I think when they built the bridge, the magic was damaged.”

  “No matter. We won’t have to hold out for long. Relief’s probably already on its way.”

  Lyco snorted; she patted his neck to calm him. All the horses were fired up, they could sense the tension building. “If for some reason help is delayed, is there another way out that isn’t on the plans?”

  Cassian sighed. “No. It’s either over the walls or through the gate, unless you can fly.”

  Griga, Cassian’s Lieutenant coughed.

  “What is it, Grig?”

  The Lieutenant stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, Captain Stenna, I couldn’t help overhearing.” She lowered her voice. “There is another way out, under the Queen’s Tower. There was a boat landing there, but it kept flooding, so Captain Mardyn had it filled in.”

  Alyda looked across to the tower on the north east corner of the Arth. “Who knows about it?”

  “Not many,” said Griga, “it hasn’t been used in years, but the cellar’s dry, so I’m guessing the tunnel might be useable.”

  “I want it cleared. Have people you trust on it day and night until it’s open, and nobody else must know about it. I mean it Griga—this rests on your head.”

  The Lieutenant saluted and left.

  “For what it’s worth, I understand.” Cassian said when she’d gone.

  Alyda wished he didn’t. She’d feel less guilty if he was angry and unreasonable. “We can’t let the Queen and the princes be taken, Cass. If they are, they’ll be used to make the King surrender and we’ll lose the kingdom to Jerim.”

  “It’s alright, Ali,” he said.

  Will you say that when they come to kill your child and your woman? For the first time in her life, the responsibility of command weighed heavily on her shoulders.

  “I won’t lose,” she said, as much to herself as to Cassian.

  “We won’t lose. We’re in this together.”

  He was right of course; it just didn’t feel like it.

  Kilner let his spirit sink into the earth and float on the rivers of energy that spilled from the Arth and webbed the world in a net of power. He drifted beyond the castle, out beneath the forest, delighting in the bubbling presence of tiny sprites like the ones he used in his performances.

  There was something else close by, something much more powerful, and far more dangerous. The slumbering elemental slept, wrapped in the roots of the forest. The magician steered his spirit away—even asleep it could destroy him if he strayed too close.

  Like a fish kiss on the skin of a lake, a pulse of magic rippled from the heart of the Arth. He could almost taste the raw essence as it washed over him. This far from the source it was like warm honey.

  It was very different in the heart of the Arth. In there it was a raging inferno, a volcano of magical essence that would destroy him if he got too close. Power consumes power. The thought that he was so close to something so awesome t
errified him. He froze, afraid to move. He might have stayed like that for hours, paralysed by fear, but something tugged at his consciousness, drawing him back to the world of flesh.

  It was never pleasant returning to his body. The first painful breath that had to be dragged into dusty lungs, the heaviness of ungainly limbs chaining his lighter-than-air spirit had little to recommend it. He opened his eyes to see the Captain of the First’s Squire standing before him.

  The lad grinned. “Finally. I thought you’d died in your sleep. Captain Stenna wants to see you.”

  Gathorl tapped the last grains of sand to the bottom of the hourglass. “Time’s up, my Lord. Shall I send Snowfoot over to find out what they have to say?”

  Thorgulsen spat into a glowing brazier. The flames hissed. “No need, they’ve given their answer. I knew the Steelskin was arrogant, I didn’t think she was insane.”

  Trenham didn’t know how Thorgulsen could be surprised after the offer he’d made the Antians, but he held his tongue. Like it or not, he had a job to do and arguing with his employer wouldn’t make doing it any easier.

  The Thane sat by the table on a fur heaped chair, brawny elbows making space amongst maps and candles. He looked at Gathorl. “When will we be ready to attack?”

  The hirth opened his mouth, but Trenham saw his chance and cut in, earning a sour look from the old warrior.

  “I think it would be wise to build some earthworks, Thane Thorgulsen. It’ll take two days at the most to raise some banks. If you look at the plans I’ve drawn up you’ll see what I had in mind. The ground here is perfect for it.” Trenham unrolled a sheaf of plans on the table.

  Thorgulsen brushed them aside. “I don’t have time to waste building walls to protect your precious machines. We’ll attack as soon as we’re ready—today. I’ll let you use those…what do you call them, crawlers? Get them up to the moat with the ladders and bridges, as fast as you can. My hirths will finish the job and we can all get out of here.”

  “If you let me throw up some earthworks, more of your hirths will survive to scale the walls. It’s over three hundred and fifty yards from the trees to the Arth.”

  Thorgulsen looked up slowly and fixed him with a hard stare. It might work on Telvier, but Trenham wasn’t as easily cowed.

  “We signed a contract, Trenham. Must I show you the part where it says you will obey my commands? Or have you decided to break a Free Company contract?”

  Trenham took a deep breath before answering. “I would never break a contract. I just want to get the job done as efficiently as I can. Give me a day; it will save time and lives.”

  “Enough. This has already taken longer than I can spare, damn that Steelskin bastard to the Void. Now go do the job I’ve paid you for, or I’ll find someone who will.”

  It was pointless to argue, Thorgulsen’s face was as hard set as dung in the sunshine. Trenham swallowed his frustration, rolled up his plans and left.

  “The lad’s right,” said Gathorl when Trenham had gone. “That’s a big old killing ground they’ve made for us. Makes sense to throw up some earth banks.”

  “Do you think I’m a fucking dullard?” Thorgulsen snapped. His old friend didn’t deserve his ire, but he was annoyed. “I know it makes sense, but we don’t have time. This whole plan, this ‘bloodless victory’ has already gone to shit and will go worse if Daris beats Jerim before we capture his Queen. We need to take her quickly and damn the cost.”

  “If I were Daris, I wouldn’t give the stink off my shit for her. You can always find a wench able to sire an heir or two; crowns are a mite harder to come by.”

  “Which is why we need to take her sooner rather than later, while Daris is still unsure of victory. If he knows the Queen and his sons are prisoners it’ll take the fight out of the bastard, especially when Redbear sends him a few pieces to encourage his surrender; an ear, a hand, a tit—something he’ll recognise.”

  Gathorl chuckled. “Aye, true enough. These Ants are a soft lot. Lucky for the Queen she isn’t wed to a Guthlander.”

  Thorgulsen sat back and regarded the old warrior with a critical eye. “Wouldn’t you surrender to save your woman?”

  “You’ve met my wife. Why do you think I still drag these old bones on campaign?”

  Thorgulsen grinned and smoothed his beard. “So it’s not because I inspire unwavering loyalty?”

  Gathorl gave a gap-toothed grin. “Aye. That too, my Lord, that too.”

  “But you could do it if you wanted to?” Alyda was trying not to lose her temper, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Well…er…no. As I have already explained, it’s not that simple. I can’t just ‘cast a spell or something’, as you put it. My abilities don’t work like that…it’s much more complicated. If there was anything I could do, I assure you, I would do it.”

  Reese plucked at some lint on his robe to avoid her gaze. She wanted to slap him; a blind woman could see he was lying. “You cast a spell on my sword the other night.”

  He shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, yes. And I would be happy to do so again, but you see, the enchantment I placed on your blade merely enabled it to hurt the Void creature. If you think there are more Void creatures out there ‘tis worth doing, but against ordinary humans it’s pointless, I’m afraid.”

  This was getting nowhere. “Why can’t you do something like the damn sorcerer did? Blast our enemies from the field, or use those fire things you had at Trelanlith and set them ablaze?”

  Reese looked horrified. “Captain! I know you speak from ignorance rather than wilful malice, so I will not take offence.” He sucked in his gut and stuck out his chest in a bid to affect an air of gravitas; it failed. “I am an earth mage—not a filthy sorcerer. I do not use blood magic, nor do I warp essence or twist the weave and the weft of the world to suit my will.”

  She slammed her fist on the table. “Why the fuck not?”

  He shrank back in his chair.

  “Damn it, Reese, I’m trying to save lives—yours included. Make an effort, man.”

  “I’m s…sorry, Captain,” the mage stammered, “I c…cannot help you.”

  She couldn’t waste any more time on this. The man had a coward’s heart and wouldn’t do anything. Not even to save his own hide.

  “Just go, Reese. You’ve been most…informative.”

  The mage smiled weakly and hurried towards the door. He paused on the threshold. For a moment she thought he’d changed his mind. “I wonder; might it not be better to surrender, Captain?”

  The look she gave him conveyed her thoughts on the matter. He turned red, swallowed hard, and scuttled out.

  It was only after he’d left that she noticed the child. He couldn’t have been more than five. Filthy, and as thin as a rake, he was wearing ragged clothes three times too big for him. She’d no idea how long he’d been there, but he was playing with the feather in her helm, brushing the plume against his dirt-streaked face and smiling as the delicate fronds tickled his skin. He opened his eyes, saw that she was watching him and dropped the helm. Quick as a flea, he bounded for the door and was gone. She laughed. A minute later, the first volley of stones rocked the Arth.

  Trenham’s first task was to destroy the gatehouse and the barbican, but leave the bridge intact. His second was to provide cover for the warriors to get the bridges and ladders up to the moat. No doubt his third task would be to sprout wings, fly over the Arth and piss fire onto the Ants. He’d brought all twelve of his new trebuchets. Two had been damaged on the journey and needed repairs, but the other ten were in good working order.

  They were not the biggest examples of their type, but they were more than capable of raining destruction down on the Arth. He’d worked like a dog and saved everything he’d earned for two years to buy them, but even with the favourable price he’d got from old Kon Stenna he still had a sizable loan left to pay the Free Company Council.

  Only a few short weeks ago, before he’d taken this damn contract, he’d been eager to test them in battle,
but the shine was now well and truly tarnished. He could derive little pleasure from using them against someone he respected and admired and, worse still, was the daughter of the man who’d made them. It was a cruel co-incidence, and one that he’d probably come to regret. He kept trying to convince himself it was only business, but it didn’t sit right.

  Trenham’s mood didn’t improve when upon returning from his pointless meeting with Thorgulsen, he found Telvier in his tent.

  “I’m no seer, but I guess by your sullen mien the audience with the Thane didn’t go well,” Telvier purred. His desire to gloat breaking through the thin veneer of sympathy he was trying to project.

  Trenham wasn’t interested in gossiping with the Suvian. He’d only use whatever was said to try and wheedle his way back into the Thane’s favour. Telvier’s reputation for backstabbing preceded him. Fellow Free Company Captain he may be, but he was not to be trusted.

  “You’ve fought with the Antians before, d’you think they’ll surrender?”

  “Possibly. Eventually.” Trenham feigned interest in some maps on his desk in the hope that Telvier would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. He nosed around the tent, further irritating Trenham.

  “What about bribery?”

  Trenham laughed. “Corvinius is an exception. Coin isn’t the currency these knights deal in.”

  “No, perhaps not, but I’ll wager their families will be happy to pay up if it means getting their kin back in one piece. We could make some coin if we were allowed to ransom the surviving knights. Damn that Guthani oaf to the Void! He’s going to ruin me; I’ve been forced to empty the prison yards to fill my ranks this year. I need to make on this contract or next year I’ll only be able to afford to enlist old people with wooden spoons. Some of these knights will have wealthy families, it’s such a waste.” The mercenary fanned himself with the enormous ruffles of lace at his cuffs. “Why can’t he kill peasants to slake his bloodlust? I have debts to pay! You know how it is. Which reminds me; I must congratulate you on your fine trebuchets. I do so admire your ambition, and bravery. Those things must have cost a fortune.”