by Damien Black
The Silverwater men called it, for the glossy sheen that coated its surface in high summer – although some said the real reason was bound up in the legend of the White Valravyn itself, some creature of fable that had given the Order its name.
Men-at-arms and archers lined the outer walls. Each of the four turrets sported a mangonel, with another two positioned on the gatehouse battlements. Atop the keep a mighty standard proclaimed the Order’s coat of arms; another great cloth slung across the gatehouse bore the same device.
It wasn’t the most beautiful castle Vaskrian had seen, but it was undoubtedly the tallest and strongest. Even the walls of Linden would have looked somewhat mean next to the impregnable seat of the White Valravyn.
Just before the approach to the gatehouse a fast-flowing river sluiced through the gnarled ranges, pouring its waters into the lake. A small sturdy bridge of white stone traversed this, so narrow that it could only be crossed single file. It was guarded at either end by two smaller gatehouses. Between the bridge and the castle and lake lay only a narrow strip of uneven, rocky ground – a besieging army would have its work cut out for it.
Staerkvit certainly lived up to its reputation – it enjoyed peerless defences. That meant no chance of their being rescued. Not that anyone would try anyway.
Thinking on this, Vaskrian bit his lip in a rare moment of doubt – just what had he gotten them into?
Glancing over at his blade where it was tethered to Cirod’s saddle he felt a twinge – he’d hated to surrender his father’s sword, especially after being so unexpectedly reunited with it... but even he knew better than to resist the best knights in the land when they outnumbered him a dozen to one.
Besides, he didn’t really want to fight them – on the contrary, he wanted to be one of them. Surely their commander, the King’s brother no less, would hear them out when they got to the castle. They couldn’t really think they were witches or enemy spies – could they?
The bridge was guarded by a squadron of footsoldiers dressed in mail and the chequered livery worn by common serjeants of the Order – only knights were permitted to wear the symbol of the Valravyn on their surcoats.
The serjeants were led by a single knight, who hailed his fellows: ‘Sir Tarlquist, well met! What news from the south?’
‘Grim news,’ replied Tarlquist curtly. ‘We are all that remains of the sortie sent to relieve Salmor. The castle is as good as lost. Now step aside, we must speak with His Royal Highness at once!’
The crestfallen knight complied at once, motioning for the oak door guarding the bridge to be opened. The sentries blew a series of sharp notes to signal their approach, and soon they were beneath the walls of Staerkvit, waiting for the drawbridge to open and the portcullis to be raised.
Vaskrian’s head was awhirl with frantic thoughts. Castle Salmor all but taken: that meant Thule’s forces would be able to sweep north into the King’s Dominions. If everything they’d heard about the size of his army was true, it would encounter no stiff resistance before Linden.
The words of Arro the wool merchant came back to him: Once they take Rookhammer and Salmor there’ll be no stopping them...
Salmor was more than a hundred miles away, so even riding at full tilt their captors must have spent at least two days on the road – from what he’d heard, Rookhammer was a good deal smaller than Linden and Salmor, and wouldn’t resist an army for long.
The thought made him angry – what were they doing, stuck up here in the ranges? They should all be riding south, to show the rebels who was really in charge! He’d love to be down there right now, cutting southrons to pieces and covering his name in glory… well, future glory at any rate.
His thoughts were interrupted by the screeching of the portcullis grinding to a halt. Riding over the drawbridge and under the massive gateway the knights and their captives emerged into a great courtyard.
Though it was a hive of activity, there were none of the usual signs of civilian castle life: no artisans or traders with their stalls, no troubadours tuning their lutes or practising for a feast performance.The castle had a thoroughly military air about it: dozens of knights practised their swordsmanship and tilted at targets, their martial sounds mingling cacophonously with that of the overworked blacksmiths, armourers and bladesmiths as they all prepared for the coming war. Drovers and draymen were busy preparing food supplies for the impending march, loading horses and carts with kegs of ale and wine and barrels of cured meats and hard cheeses.
All in all, Vaskrian liked what he saw.
Noticing the new arrivals after they had reined in their horses and waited patiently for several minutes, a bald bull-necked knight of about fifty winters strode over to greet Tarlquist.
‘What news?’ he inquired bluntly. His face darkened as the Commander told him.
‘Those are ill tidings – the High Commander will want to know directly,’ he replied. ‘And who are these?’
‘Prisoners,’ replied Tarlquist. ‘The friar is from Ulfang – says he and his novice have been fleeing some great evil, but he won’t say what. And this young tough says he’s a squire – claims he lost his knightly master in Tintagael Forest, of all places, and that he’s sworn to accompany the Argolians as far as the capital.’
‘Protect,’ corrected Vaskrian. ‘I’ve sworn to protect them, not accompany them.’ His impromptu visit to the Valravyn’s legendary headquarters was doing a good job of raising his spirits, captive or no. He went to lay a hand on the pommel of his sword for emphasis, before remembering he didn’t have it.
Tarlquist narrowed his eyes at the squire and shook his head. Horskram gave him a look to curdle manna from heaven. The old monk took everything far too seriously – he certainly wasn’t much fun. Or very grateful, come to think of it.
Tarlquist continued: ‘The older friar wants an audience with the Arch Perfect in Strongholm – some supernatural business he won’t explain.’
The bald knight fixed the trio with an inscrutable stare. He wasn’t pleased to see them – Vaskrian could tell that much at least.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And what are your names, pray tell?’
‘I am Horskram of Vilno, adept of the Argolian Order at Ulfang monastery,’ replied the adept. ‘My companions are Adelko of Narvik and Vaskrian of Hroghar. Our Order has ever been a friend to yours, in times of peace and war alike, but I regret I cannot divulge the nature of our business save to say that it is grievous perilous.’
‘Really?’ replied the knight, glaring now. ‘I am Sir Toric of Runstadt, Deputy High Commander of the Order – will you divulge details now?’
Horskram shook his head regretfully. ‘With all due respect, my lord, secrecy is of paramount importance, the fewer that know of our mission, the safer – ’
‘They are in league with dark forces, as I’ve been saying all along!’ interrupted Sir Wolmar. ‘How else could any man venture beneath the eaves of accursed Tintagael and live to tell the tale?’
Vaskrian shot the knight a black glance – he had been wondering when he’d stick his lance in where it wasn’t wanted again.
Fortunately the Deputy High Commander didn’t seem much more impressed by Sir Wolmar, judging by the look he gave him. But he spoke courteously enough as he replied: ‘Doubtless their tale is a strange one, Sir Wolmar, yet still it remains to be seen whether they’re in league with dark forces... or if their frightful tale even be true.’
Turning back to face Horskram the deputy marshal of Staerkvit squinted at him, his ugly face pinching up in a manner that didn’t bode well.
‘Secrecy ill becomes a friend to our Order,’ he said. ‘If you will have it so then I must refer the matter to the High Commander. Prince Freidhoff will decide what to do with you – but I should warn you that he is a busy man these days, as no doubt you will have fathomed.’
Turning, he barked an order at a group of soldiers dressed in chequered tabards: ‘Take these three to the dungeons, upper level – they’re to be well treated and
fed properly. Stabling shall be found for their horses – such fine-looking mounts should not go wanting either. Tarlquist – you, Torgun, Aronn and Wolmar come with me. The High Commander will want to hear your news right away, bad as it is. The rest of you are free to seek victuals and rest – see that any wounds among you are treated as well, I’ll have no chivalrous heroics of fortitude in times of war. Dismissed.’
The three of them were marched across the courtyard in the fading light towards the huge keep, through an iron postern gate and down a winding flight of stairs into a dank torchlit chamber. At a table in one corner sat three more guards in chequered livery. They looked every bit as upright as the soldiers escorting them and a far cry from the slovenly gaolers at Hroghar, which Vaskrian supposed was something to be thankful for.
The serjeant in charge of their escort approached the gaolers and muttered: ‘Three prisoners. Upper floor, full victualling. No chastisement. Well,’ he added, favouring the three captives with a cold-eyed stare, ‘not yet, at any rate. They’re to stay here until the High Commander calls for them.’
The escort stayed only long enough to see the captives safely manacled, before leaving them to be escorted to the cells.
These were located in a long corridor just off the gaolers’ room. Many were occupied. From what Vaskrian knew of the Order these would be lesser criminals awaiting trial or serving out their sentences. Most of them looked seedy enough. Some leered at them as they walked past; one or two even called out, mocking the friars’ habits. But most barely even acknowledged them. The lower dungeons would be where the more serious criminals were kept, though not for very long – the King’s justice was known for its impartiality, but heinous crimes were usually punished as harshly in the Dominions as they were anywhere else.
Horskram’s face was grave and unyielding in the flickering torchlight as they trudged down the corridor. He had not said a word to either of them since they had been taken by the ravens, and Vaskrian wasn’t keen to risk the testy old monk’s wrath. Adelko looked nervous and afraid – but then he had not seen fifteen summers, and he was a monk to boot.
Vaskrian felt more frustrated than anything else – why should they be held prisoner just because they’d fallen victim to some nameless power of darkness?
Thinking on this as the gaoler ushered them into a cell with nothing in it but straw, a long wooden bench and a chamber pot, he felt a sudden shiver run down his spine. Something told him that power wasn’t done with them by a long stretch.
Settling down on to the bench with his fellow captives, Vaskrian pushed the thought away and resigned himself to waiting for the King’s justice.
CHAPTER X
A Marriage Contested
Hettie sat very still, trying to absorb everything she had just heard. Her mistress was standing by the south window, stock still but for a hand that fingered her strawberry tresses idly, gazing across the fields and orchards of the land she had sworn to leave forever.
Presently her oldest friend turned to look at her with a wan smile.
‘Well, dearest Hettie, what say you?’ she asked gently. ‘I make the declaration of my life, and you repay it with silence.’
The voice was sad yet playful, but also expectant – Hettie knew her mistress wanted her to say something.
That was fair enough, but what did you say to a revelation such as this? Come to think of it, Hettie knew exactly what one should say.
‘My lady, it’s... madness.’
It was the closest she could get to summing up her thoughts on the spot. In fact, perhaps that said it all.
Adhelina smiled sardonically, seeming unperturbed by her lady-in-waiting’s frank answer.
‘I’d thought you’d say as much,’ she returned, walking slowly from the window to sit opposite Hettie at an old walnut table. On it rested two earthenware cups of the herbal tea her mistress was fond of preparing – the heiress of Dulsinor preferred not to drink wine during the day, although truth to tell Hettie could have done with a stiff drink right then and there.
The table itself was a lovely old antique – the two women had shared many a silly adventure over it as girls, playing at dice and pretending to be idling soldiers, experimenting with some of Adhelina’s less orthodox concoctions, strange poultices that had made them giddy and light-headed and had them in fits of laughter for hours.
But they had never shared anything potentially as explosive as this over it. Taking a deep breath, Hettie prepared to remonstrate as best she could as Adhelina poured them a refill from the earthenware pot resting by the two wooden cups and an old map of the country next to it. Her mistress disliked drinking her tea from silver chalices – said it interfered with the flavour.
‘It’s madness, Adhelina,’ she repeated, doing her best to sound calm and making a point of using her mistress’ given name. ‘Even if you get to Meerborg, what will you do then?’
Adhelina sighed exasperatedly. ‘I told you already – I’ll take a ship. Meerborg is the greatest of the Vorstlending ports, it services many destinations. From there I’ll be able to get to the Empire.’
‘The Empire!’ Hettie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What ever will you do there? Full of strange people, that place – the perfects say they’re in league with the Archfiend himself, what with all their clever contraptions and such... it isn’t natural. And anyway, they’re heretics – they don’t worship the Redeemer in the way that good Palomedians ought to.’
Hettie made the sign of the Wheel. She wasn’t usually that pious, but right now these commonplace objections to Imperials seemed as sensible a way as any of getting her beloved mistress to reconsider her sheer folly.
‘Yes, well, that is indeed what our goodly Father Tobias says,’ Adhelina replied wryly, her mouth curling with distaste. Her dislike of the sanctimonious perfect was well known, to Hettie at least. ‘But I’ve read different things about them – they’re, well, a bit more civilised than we are. They have more respect for women too. Oh Hettie, don’t you see, with all the jewels and plate father has lavished on me since I came of age, I’ve enough to live modestly but well, at least for the foreseeable future!
‘In the Empire ‘tis said a woman can live independently, so long as she has the means to do so, with no questions asked. I could take up residence in one of their great cities – perhaps even Ilyrium itself! I could study the great philosophers and poets... who knows, perhaps even become a true sage!’
Hettie frowned as she tried to think of another way to put her high-spirited mistress off the foolish idea. Then she had it.
‘But they’ve no knights,’ she opined cautiously. ‘The Code of Chivalry doesn’t exist over there – they have a, oh what do you call it, a standing army, of professionals. Legions they call them – I remember my father used to say they don’t fight for honour, or a liege lord, they just fight for pay, like any common mercenary, only they call it serving their Mother Empire, or something ridiculous like that! Why, my lady, imagine that, serving something so big and, well... remote as that – with your life! You’re a Vorstlending, and we don’t hold with grand empires – why, we couldn’t even abide a king! Everything I hear tells me they’re queer folk out east – you’ve no business taking up with their sort.’
Her mistress pursed her lips, deep in thought. Hettie’s heart began to lift – was she getting through to her?
Adhelina took another sip of tea and said: ‘Well, perhaps you may be right, Hettie, though to tell the truth at times I’m not sure the Code of Chivalry exists over here anymore… oftentimes I wonder if our household knights are any better than mercenaries themselves.’
Hettie’s eyes widened. She was genuinely shocked. ‘My lady! How can you say such a thing! And my poor father...’
Adhelina’s face softened. ‘Oh Hettie, I don’t mean all of them! And certainly not your father – why Sir Gunther was as humble and loyal a bachelor as any lord could ask for! If only all my father’s knights had his virtues! But alas, they do not – most of th
em fight for little more than land, glory or spoil. I sometimes wonder if the courtly knights of King Vasirius ever existed... perhaps I should go to Pangonia and find out.’
‘Yes, why don’t you?’ Hettie couldn’t resist putting in. ‘At least that would be better than going to the Empire!’
Adhelina shook her head decisively. ‘No, it wouldn’t do, Hettie – to make good my escape I shall need to put out to sea as soon as possible. The longer I journey on land the more chance I have of being caught. And it’s precisely because the Imperials are deemed so queer, as you put it, that going to the Empire makes the most sense! The Great White Mountains separate them from us – the only contact the Free Kingdoms have with them is through trade, via the northern ports. They guard their borders jealously, and are strong enough to resist any summons from a western lord – anywhere else in the Free Kingdoms and there’s always the risk that someone might find out who I am and have me sent back, for a fee or a favour.’
Hettie remained unmoved. ‘Yes, well I’ve also heard that the Imperials guard their secrets as jealously as their borders. How do you know you won’t be arrested as a spy?’
‘I don’t,’ admitted Adhelina. ‘But I have to try. Oh Hettie, it wouldn’t be forever, don’t you see? I’ve enough jewels and finery in this chamber to live modestly for years if I spend wisely – if I stay away long enough, my father will give me up for dead and entail Graukolos and all its desmesnes to someone else, a more worthy heir than I. Why, Hettie, Dulsinor will always endure – and I was never meant to bear its burdens!’
Faced with her mistress’s flashing eyes and the determined set of her handsome face, Hettie felt her resolve begin to crumble. She had known her dear friend too long not to tell when her adamantine will was set on something. But she had to keep trying.