by Damien Black
A sense of rising panic gripped him, and just then he imagined he felt the long grass of the plains drop away from him at a breakneck pace. He was looking down at four tiny figures on horseback, riding desperately towards a forest that stretched for leagues without number. It suddenly occurred to him that there was no path by which they could enter.
As if answering this unspoken thought the foremost trees suddenly pulled apart, their boles bending impossibly. With an unearthly flash of green light, the four horsemen were swallowed up by the forest, and the trees closed behind them.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
Of Fathers And Sons
Hardened as he was by war and toil, Sir Braxus almost wept with relief when he and the other survivors crossed the river. It was good to be back on firm dry land again. Even then they did not stop to rest, but spurred their exhausted steeds across the fields for another hour before finally pausing.
Dismounting, the young knight turned to gaze back across the treacherous land that had so nearly doomed their escape. Beyond the marshlands on the other side of the river the Whaelen Hills could still be seen in the late afternoon sun, rolling up to meet the Hyrkrainian Mountains in the east.
Raising a mailed fist he shook it at the indifferent peaks melodramatically. Over the years he had come to despise those ranges with an irrational hatred. But then he knew full well what dangers they harboured.
‘A thousand curses on the mountain clans!’ he cried, giving full vent to his rage. ‘And a thousand more on the tribes of the Brekkens,’ he added, turning north to face the adjoining range and shaking his fist again. He was acting like a man gone wood in front of his men, but he didn’t care.
One of the three other knights who had survived the ambush walked over and placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
‘Peace, Sir Braxus,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll need all the energy you’ve left for the rest of the journey home.’
Looking into the older knight’s careworn face Braxus felt his anger dwindle into despondency. He was not looking forward to returning to Gaellen. Certainly not under these circumstances.
‘I had hoped you wouldn’t remind me of that,’ he said drily. ‘Seven good knights lost, and nothing to show for it! My father will disown me for this, you see if he doesn’t Sir Vertrix!’
The grey-haired knight shook his head. ‘Don’t take on so, Braxus – you weren’t to blame. Ever since the mountain clans elected a new High Chieftain they’ve had us on the back foot. Reus knows but this Slánga Mac Bryon must have Azazel sitting on his right shoulder! I’ve never in all my years seen highlanders fight with such ruthless cunning – never.’
Running his fingers through his auburn locks, Braxus felt some resistance. That would be the blood that had spattered over him when he’d opened a highlander’s throat. One more at least that wouldn’t cause further trouble.
Turning away from Vertrix he strode over to check on the other two. Sir Curulyn had taken a nasty wound to the shoulder, but it was Sir Cadwy who worried him most. He’d taken a spear in the back and he was coughing up blood. His armour had saved him from being spitted like a wild boar, but hadn’t been enough to prevent his lung being punctured.
Felled by a thrown spear. It wasn’t a death Braxus would choose. But then the highlanders fought like the savages they were.
Curulyn had Cadwy’s head cradled in his lap. He was still breathing, but wouldn’t be for much longer. Only by a superhuman effort of will had he managed to make it this far.
Kneeling beside him Braxus took his limp hand in his own and lied as best he could. ‘Never fear, noble Cadwy, we’re back in Gaellentir – we’ll get you patched up as soon as we make the castle.’
Cadwy, a young knight of twenty summers who had only recently been dubbed, coughed up more blood by way of answer. It dribbled down his cheeks and into his hair as he croaked: ‘You may be good at lying to your mistresses, Braxus, but you can’t fool a true knight!’ His bloody face cracked into a deathly parody of a grin as he added: ‘I just... wanted to die... on home soil. Sure you understand... I didn’t want to be any trouble...’
His voice trailed off. They waited a few moments for Cadwy to speak again. He didn’t. His head slumped to one side, his eyes frozen and sightless.
Curulyn wept. Getting to his feet Braxus felt a tear roll down his own cheek. Thraxians were less ashamed to show their emotions than their stoical rivals east of the mountains. Northlendings often mocked them for it, but Braxus knew better. A man could cry and still be brave and strong.
Still, now wasn’t the time for grief. Swallowing his, Braxus barked a few curt orders in a hoarse voice.
‘Let’s get him back on his horse – we’ll see that he gets a decent burial at least. More than can be said for the other poor devils. Vertrix, bind up Curulyn’s injury first. Then we’d best get going. I wouldn’t put it past the highlanders to try crossing the river after dark, way things have been going lately.’
Brushing his tears away Sir Curulyn began to protest. ‘I’ll be fine until we get back - ’
Braxus cut him off harshly. ‘I said to bind up your wound! I’ll not have another brave knight bleeding to death on my watch – we’ve lost enough good men today as it is.’
Kicking a stone angrily across the long grass he strode back over to his horse and wearily remounted. All told, a dreadful day. And it was about to get even worse.
His father was waiting for him up in his solar. A modest chamber, what it lacked in size it more than made up for in location. Its three north-facing circular windows commanded a spectacular view across the citadel and the silvery waters of Lake Cuchlain. Beyond that, the Brekken Ranges.
Mountains, always the mountains.
Lord Braun of Gaellen, First Man of Clan Fitzrow and ruler of the Ward of Gaellentir, turned to greet his only son with a scowl. He was shorter than Braxus but considerably thicker about the shoulders. In fact the only attribute he shared with his offspring was his auburn hair and beard, surprisingly ungreyed given his fifty-five winters. The two were different in just about every other way, and not just physically.
‘Well?’ he said curtly as Braxus favoured his father with a grudging half-bow. ‘What have you to report?’
Braxus licked his lips nervously. He’d tried as best he could to prepare himself for this moment on the rest of the journey home. But faced with the patrician father he hated as much as he loved, all his carefully prepared words drained out of his head.
‘I... I regret to report that we were ambushed, taken unawares, that is to say, father - ’
‘Aye, I know that already!’ exclaimed the burly lord. ‘D’you take me for a fool, young man?’
Braxus blinked. ‘I... how do you know?’
‘What are those?’ he barked again, suddenly pointing at the round windows behind him.
Braxus blinked again. ‘They’re... they’re windows, father.’ He felt his heart sink another fathom. This was to be yet another exercise in paternal humiliation.
‘Yes, that’s right! Very good, son of mine!’ replied his father, a steely edge entering his voice. ‘They’re windows. And more to the point, they’re windows that overlook the approach to the castle. So imagine my surprise when I see my son and heir returning with just three knights in tow, one of whom looks decidedly worse for wear! Remind me, how many knights did I send out with you?’
Braxus dropped his eyes to the floor. Though the braziers had been lit against the encroaching night and a fire crackled in the hearth, he felt as cold as the flagstones beneath his feet.
‘Ten, father,’ he answered in a small voice.
‘Aye,’ roared Lord Braun, advancing towards him heavily. ‘Ten! And only three returned! So that’s how I know you were ambushed! And that’s why I always keep the castle approach well lit – so I can know immediately when my useless, good-for-nothing-but-wenching-and-merry-making heir has failed, yet again, in his duties! Now tell me something I don’t know! How did it happe
n?’
Braxus knew better by now than to try and embellish the truth with his wily sire. So he told him the plain truth instead.
They had been on their way to reconnoitre with another contingent of knights sent by Lord Tarneogh of Daxtir in the Whaelen Hills. Over the past week reports of incursions into the hills by highlanders had increased. They had struck like lightning, razing villages and slaughtering their occupants before vanishing. Such tactics were typical of their kind, but this was different: they had never been so organised before, so coordinated.
‘We managed to catch one band, as they were burning Meath about five leagues north-east of the Cuchlain River,’ said Braxus, secretly pleased to be able to give his father some good news. ‘We came on them and slew them to a man, but we were too late to save the village.’
‘You took no prisoners for interrogation?’ his father asked, keen-eyed.
Braxus shook his head. ‘There was one that survived our attack, but he took his own life before we could stop him.’
‘Pagan scum,’ muttered Lord Braun, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Go on.’
‘A couple of days after that we reached the rendezvous point at Fangwyn Hill,’ continued Braxus. ‘We saw their pennants waving in the breeze. We rode up the hill to meet them and it was only then that we realised... that we realised they weren’t Tarneogh’s men. They were highlanders dressed up as his knights. By the time we spotted their corpses piled in the middle of the hilltop it was too late. The highlanders were at us.’
‘Ye Almighty!’ breathed Lord Braun, genuinely shocked. ‘These savages grow more cunning by the day! I swear this Mac Bryon is in league with the Arch Deceiver himself!’
‘They killed Sir Aedan and Sir Maedoc before we could react. Even so, we started to get the best of them, for highlanders don’t move well in heavy armour, and they were little match for us in a straight fight at close quarters. There were about a dozen of them – we killed half and the rest broke and fled down the other side of the hill. So we gave chase.’
His father closed his eyes and shook his head painfully. A seasoned campaigner, he was too long in the tooth not to see what was coming next.
‘I know it seems reckless now, but our blood was up and, well – we were out there to kill highland rebels after all,’ the young knight faltered.
‘You’re knights,’ said his father with unusual forbearance, his hard manner softening somewhat. ‘I’d have done the same in your position. Go on.’
‘We chased them down the hill. We didn’t see the others coming until we were at the bottom of the next valley. They came swooping down at us from either side. There must have been thirty of them at least. We lost another couple of men to spear-throwers before we could even engage with them. The ones we’d been chasing turned about face and joined their comrades. It was then that we realised they’d been nothing more than the bait all along.’
His father sighed heavily. ‘So, out with it. How did you manage to escape?’
‘Almighty as my witness, we stood our ground and fought as best we could,’ said Braxus, flushing. Now if anything he felt too hot. ‘I myself cut down three or four of them, and the rest of the lads acquitted themselves admirably under the circumstances. But even with most of them on foot, we were still outnumbered four to one. When I realised we couldn’t overcome them, I ordered a retreat. Four of us including me managed to cut our way out and flee, although Sir Cadwy took a spear in the back as we disengaged.’
‘The one I saw slumped over his horse,’ said his father grimly. ‘How is he?’
For a second time Braxus failed to meet his eyes. ‘He died of his injuries. We were bringing his body back so we could bury him.’
Lord Braun’s face looked more sad than angry now. ‘A great pity. Promising young knight. Don’t suppose being named after our wonderful king brought him much luck.’ The first statement was sincere; the second tinged with sarcasm.
Walking over to an oak table by the windows his father reached for a jug and poured two horns of mead. Handing one to his son he said: ‘Well, you did what you could. Fighting’s your trade not dying, after all, and Reus knows the Fitzrow line must stay intact. It’s not as if you’ve any sons of your own to succeed you if you die – apart from the illegitimate ones of course, and they don’t count.’
Braxus started over his mead horn. His father’s words stung him – even by his standards, that was cold. Was that all he meant to the old man now? An heir to keep the family name going, and nothing more? He felt a bitterness that not even the finest Thraxian mead could assuage.
‘This is getting worse by the day,’ his father went on, oblivious. ‘Ever since Slánga took over the Brekken tribes they’ve been getting more disciplined. This new alliance with Tíerchán’s lot in the Hyrkrainians will be our undoing – united, the mountain clans pose a greater threat than we barons of Dréuth alone can hope to contain.’
Braxus nodded perfunctorily over his horn of mead. All his father was doing was reiterating what the northern lords of Thraxia and their vassals had known with a dread certainty for weeks.
‘What about the King?’ he asked reluctantly, expecting little joy there either. ‘Has he yet replied to your latest summons for help?’
‘Oh yes, he has,’ replied Lord Braun with mock levity, turning back to the table and reaching for an unfurled vellum scroll. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to his son. ‘At least you managed to get your letters before you took your own wayward path in life. See for yourself.’
Ignoring the umpteenth rebuke of his personal character, Braxus scanned the letter while his father quaffed his mead darkly. It bore the royal seal of the High Clan Cierny; the handwriting was probably Cadwy’s, although one couldn’t be sure even of that nowadays.
At any rate, there was not much written to test the young knight’s rudimentary literacy: No troops available. The northern lords are to do their job. Any attempt to make peace with the highland rebels shall be deemed an act of treason – fight on till victory or death.
Very succinct. Glancing up from the letter he registered his father’s face in the ephemeral shadows cast by the light from the braziers. It looked eerie, and something in his dark eyes told the young knight the unpleasant audience was not finished by some way.
‘Is that all?’ asked Braxus, incredulous. Even allowing for what was now widely suspected throughout Dréuth province, the King’s curt reply seemed beyond all the boundaries of common sense. ‘You made it clear to His Majesty the terms that Slánga is demanding?’
His father gestured irritably with his horn. ‘Well of course I did! He wants all the lands north of the Cuchlain, plus the Whaelen Hills as far as Daxor and including Port Grendel, for his people. The Hyrkrainian tribes are to be allowed to settle the hill-lands, and all of Tarneogh’s people are to be relocated to make room for them. In return for which Slánga promises an end to hostilities – a likely promise indeed!’
Shaking his head he drained his horn and turned back to the jug for a refill.
‘And what about Tarneogh?’ pressed Braxus. ‘Has he sent messengers of his own?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied his father, pouring more mead for himself before handing the jug to Braxus. ‘He stands to lose most from the terms – well, imminently at any rate. And Lord Cael of Varrogh has despatched riders of his own. So Cadwy’s heard from all three lords of Dréuth by now – small difference that’ll make.’
For a while the two drank in silence. Lord Braun paced over to the central window and stood staring at the dark line of mountains, now disappearing beneath the deepening shroud of night. The absence of the hated peaks did little to allay Braxus’ discomfort. Despite his father’s low opinion of him, he was a seasoned campaigner of nearly ten years, and no stranger to battle. But the threat now facing them was the worst yet. If the King could not be persuaded to help them, all would surely be lost. It would only be a matter of time before the combined might of the mountain clans overwhelmed them, inferior arms or no.
>
Their new tactics alone were enough to make the blood run cold. As part of a reported shake-up of the Brekken clan order, Slánga had appointed Cormic Mac Brennan as his lieutenant. Cormic Death’s Head they called him, and with good reason: apart from the unusual wound that caused him to have a perpetual rictus grin, he was notorious for his bloodthirsty ways.
Braxus had seen with his own eyes what had been done to villagers and knights and other soldiers unfortunate enough to fall into his clutches. The Cormic Cravat was fast becoming a dread thing of folklore: throat slashed open ear to ear, the victim’s tongue wrenched down to hang from the gaping wound.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. If a knight or soldier fought especially bravely, it was said, the Death’s Head spared his life. Instead he put out his eyes, severed his fingers, tongue, nose and ears and punctured his eardrums. Most victims went mad within a few days.
Not all the knights in his company had been felled by lethal blows. Braxus shuddered to think what torments they would be suffering now. He prayed it would at least be quick. No wonder Sir Cadwy had been so keen to die on home soil.
Presently his father turned from the window and stared at his son again. ‘She has to go,’ he said flatly. ‘By any means necessary.’
Taking another draft of mead Braxus nodded slowly. He had been thinking much the same thing. The question was...
‘How? She’s the King’s royal concubine. He keeps her by his side day and night, they share the Royal Cot. She’s surrounded by Cadwy’s own knights at all times, and some of the rumours I’ve been hearing from down south say half of them are under her spell, same as the King himself!’
Abrexta the Prescient, they called her. A damsel of reputedly striking beauty, she hailed from the foothills of the Hyrkrainian mountains just south of Roarkil Forest. Some said she had been taught her devilish craft by air spirits high up in the ranges; others whispered she had learned it from the eidolons that haunted those cursed woods. There had already been reports some years ago of another sorcerer who had taken up residence in Roarkil, some Northlending mage who called himself Andragor, or some such. But he had apparently been driven out of his lair some years ago by an Argolian friar from Northalde and Sir Belinos of Runcymede, a knight errant from the province of Umbria famed for his piety. He hadn’t been seen or heard of since. Nor the mysterious friar, come to think of it.