by Damien Black
Put not glory before love!
Make peace ye knights and ladies
Forsake the eagle for the dove!
The lead knight began the next verse alone again, plucking the strings more quietly than before, muting them with his palm so they carried a hint of underlying menace:
Out across the plains
The battle-wounded wailed
The sad knight fought for shame
Of the lady love he’d failed
On the left and right he slew
Till corpses piled in mounds
Though glory was his due
Ease of heart he never found
Now from her silver tower
His tearful mistress croaked:
‘Gwinian come to my bower,
Forget the words I spoke!’
But her words had cut too deep
The wound could not be healed
Except by gift of sleep
Earned in slaughter on the field
Once again the other Thraxians joined in with the chorus:
So be wary ye knights and ladies
Put not glory before love!
Make peace ye knights and ladies
Forsake the eagle for the dove!
This time, when the lead knight resumed solo, he plucked the strings and let them resonate, so that each note seemed to hang in the air in defiance of the billowing wind that swirled about the citadel summit. He raised his voice another octave; it cut across the keening gusts like lightning piercing thunderous clouds:
At last he met his end
A spear shaft pierced his breast
He fell dying to the ground
Gasping: ‘Now I’ll have my rest!
‘When Rowena you next see
‘Will you tell her of my valour
‘Will you tell her I was worthy
‘To be her paramour!’
He brought his voice low again, the strings barely audible now as he delivered the last verse in chilling tones:
They brought Sir Gwinian home
Wrapped in cloth of white
People wept high and low
As candles flared by night
Rowena fled in sorrow
Back up to her high room
And stepping from her window
She embraced her lover’s doom
Again the other Thraxians joined in on the final chorus with an even greater gusto than before. This time Adelko felt confident enough of knowing the words to do the same:
So be wary ye knights and ladies
Put not glory before love!
Make peace ye knights and ladies
Forsake the eagle for the dove!
The lead knight finished the last phrase with a grand flourish, drawing slender fingers across the strings, plucking extra notes to add resonance. The final chord seemed to hang in the air for an interminable length of time, before being swallowed up by the wind.
Without knowing quite what else to do, Vaskrian and Adelko filled the silence with enthusiastic applause.
The foreign men smiled at this, none more broadly than their leader, who ran his fingers gently across his harp again as he said in accented but fluent Northlending: ‘Oh ho! It seems we have garnered ourselves an audience, and a right mismatched one too by the looks of it – a monk and a man of arms, unless I’m very much mistaken!’
His accent carried the singsong lilt of the Thraxians, whose tongue was almost as melodious as their legendary music-making.
‘I’m Adelko of Narvik, a novice of the Order of St Argo,’ replied the novice. He felt clumsy of speech, even though they were speaking his native language.
‘And my name is Vaskrian of Hroghar,’ put in the squire, ‘in service to Sir Ulfstan of Alfheim, lately squire to Sir Branas of Veerholt, Reus rest his soul.’
The knight’s cheerful countenance darkened momentarily. ‘It sounds – and looks – as if you’ve had yourselves a dangerous journey to get here,’ he said. ‘Strangely comforting to learn we aren’t the only ones who got into a scrape on the way to Strongholm!’
With a florid sweep of his arm he motioned them to sit beside him.
‘Come!’ he said. ‘You’ve been lured up here by our sweet tune, now linger a while and tell me your story. Apart from Sir Vertrix here,’ he indicated the grey-haired knight, ‘my countrymen speak little of your tongue, but I would fain hear more of your travels and what brings you here. I am Sir Braxus of Gaellen, knight of Thraxia and son of Lord Braun of Gaellentir, a fair land of fairer folk that lies across the Hyrkrainian Mountains.’
The flamboyant knight inclined his head courteously. Vaskrian and Adelko bowed low. They were in the presence of a high-ranking nobleman, albeit a foreign one.
Sitting next to Braxus, Adelko gazed over the rampart overlooking the harbour. Since they had arrived many of the ships had put out to sea – even now the roiling blue dunes of the Wyvern would be stained red with the hues of war, as the loyalist fleet led by Prince Thorsvald clashed with the mighty flotilla assembled by Krulheim. No sign of that aquatic struggle yet besmirched the Strang Estuary, whose peaceful waters were for the moment troubled only by the mustering North Wind.
Sir Braxus handed his harp to the raven-haired knight.
‘Here, look after this would you, Regan – only don’t try playing it! I still haven’t forgotten the time you murdered the Ballad of Curulaîn and Magwyn at the last Feast of Palom’s Ascension!’
Sir Regan flashed his leader a rakish and unabashed grin. ‘Well it’s a murder ballad after all, so I only thought it fitting!’ he chuckled in Thrax. Adelko couldn’t help but smile. He had to admit, Thraxian knights were a lot less stiff than Northlending ones. Vaskrian, completely ignorant of their tongue, stared blankly.
Turning back to look at the youths Sir Braxus shook his head and smiled wryly. ‘Grand fellow, Regan – a trusty sword and a passable tenor,’ he said in Northlending. ‘Couldn’t play the strings to save his own mother though, bless him!’
Vaskrian could join in on that joke. The butt of it seemed oblivious, and had turned back to speak with Vertrix and the fourth knight. The other three Thraxians, presumably squires, were already talking amongst themselves.
‘Now,’ Braxus continued, fixing the pair with keen eyes. ‘Tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine. We’ve been all but ignored since we got here, and it’s nice to meet some fellow outsiders who aren’t complete strangers to this country like us.’
Adelko and Vaskrian exchanged uneasy glances. The young knight was friendly and charismatic, but on their first night at the palace Horskram had given them strict instructions to keep their mission secret.
And you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Horskram, especially not lately. He was even crabbier than usual. Several times that week the adept had thumped his tanned fist down hard on the table when Adelko had made a few forgivable errors at the lectern.
Licking his lips nervously he did his best to dissemble. Leaving out the details of the Headstone fragment, and skirting around their more diabolical encounters, he told their story as best he could to Sir Braxus, who scrutinised them both and stroked his well-kept beard and moustache thoughtfully throughout.
When he reached the final part about their audience with the King, Adelko waxed lyrical to make up for his previous reticence.
That wasn’t too difficult – the memory was a powerful one, and still fresh in his young mind.
The royal guards had pulled back the doors to split old Thorsvald’s head asunder, revealing a large rectangular chamber. To one side a row of tall windows looked onto the harbour, while a great tapestry ran the length of the opposite wall.
It depicted great victories won by the House of Ingwin: the Hero King’s crushing defeats of the Woldings and the Highlanders, Adelko’s ancestors; the successive struggles against the Thraxians in what would later become known as the Border Wars, culminating in Freidheim’s triumph at Corne Hill nearly half a hundred years ago; and last of all his defeat of
Kanga, father to the present pretender, at the Battle of Aumric Fields.
Beyond that a stretch of canvas lay blank and bare, inviting future history to stitch its deeds across its waiting surface – deeds soon to be wrought, for good or ill. Above them the rafters of the high hall were strewn with banners bearing the royal coat of arms; a riot of dancing unicorns seemed to swirl about the oaken beams in the brisk sea breeze.
Before them a thick carpet of horsehair stretched to the foot of the dais where the King sat flanked by his advisers on the Pine Throne.
That had been built by Manfred the Ready, when he succeeded the unfortunate Olav Iron-Hand. After destroying the cursed throne that had brought such ruin on his predecessor, he had decided a more humble perch for his regal buttocks might be wise. Manfred had ordered wood from the longship that had brought him over the Sea of Valhalla used to forge a seat that would last – and not destroy its owner.
But it wasn’t the Pine Throne – nor even its royal occupant – that drew the eye as they trudged up the horsehair carpet, flanked on either side by a throng of curious knights.
Looming over the royal seat was the most impressive – and grisliest – hanging Adelko had ever seen.
A macabre collection of giant femurs, tibias, ribs and other skeletal parts was arranged in a crude sunburst pattern centring on a huge skull the size of a man. Adelko felt his spine tingle as its yellowed teeth parted in a silent rictus of welcome, its cavernous eye sockets staring hollowly at the new arrivals.
The Giantslayer’s Gift, they called it. He’d read about it in Ulfang’s library – the macabre hanging was fashioned from the remains of the Gigant, Horg, who had descended from the mountains during Thorsvald’s reign to wreak havoc on the lowlands.
Legend told how Sir Valkryn, greatest of the Thirteen Knights, had put an end to Horg’s rampaging. On the foothills of the Hyrkrainians he had driven his dagger beneath the giant’s big toenail, inflicting a tiny but agonising wound and causing Horg to topple and strike himself senseless against a hill. As Horg lay out of his wits, Sir Valkryn had driven his sword deep into the corner of his eye, piercing the monstrous creature’s dull brain and killing him.
Not the most chivalrous way of despatching an opponent – but then one had to make some allowances when faced with an opponent many times one’s size with concrete for skin, and few thought Valkryn any less a hero for his cunning tactics.
Braxus nodded enthusiastically, caught up in Adelko’s skilful interweaving of history into his story.
‘Aye, that tale is well known in our country too,’ he mused. ‘Other tales say the cause of Horg’s rampaging was the elementalist Yabra, a descendent of the White Blood Witch who troubled Pangonia during its own age of heroes. You are well informed, it would seem – but then I should expect no less from an Argolian novice.’
Adelko suppressed his un-Palomedian feelings of pride as the knight continued: ‘I know several songs in our tongue that tell of your Thirteen Knights and their exploits. After Sir Valkryn killed Horg, he gathered together Sir Damrod of Linden, Sir Wolfram of Salmor and Sir Kalla of Thule, and they braved the mountains in the dead of winter to seek Yabra in his eyrie. They slew him after defeating his guardians, demons conjured from ice – they say that since then no giant has ever descended to trouble the dwellings of men on either side of the Hyrkrainians. So despite all our differences, we can at least be thankful to the Northlendings for that!’
Adelko’s sixth sense registered a deep-seated tension in the knight at the mention of mountains. And when he had mentioned his highland upbringing the handsome face had briefly contorted in an ugly scowl. He had better tread carefully – charming or not, Braxus didn’t seem like a man you wanted to cross.
‘Most loremasters agree there are probably less than a dozen Gigants left in the entire range,’ Adelko said nervously, before deciding to get off the subject of mountains. ‘They learned to fear us long ago, thanks to the Elder Wizards. The sages say they enslaved the Gigants, and used them to build their palaces and watchtowers.’
Braxus raised an eyebrow at this. ‘The Priest-Kings of Ancient Varya, you mean? I certainly don’t know any songs about those times – a race of devil-worshipping warlocks, I’ve heard, half demon, half man! They nearly brought the entire world to ruin if the legends be true.’
Adelko faltered – he hadn’t meant to get on to this subject at all.
‘Accounts vary,’ he stammered, before changing tack again. ‘Anyway, you’ll know that Valkryn brought back Horg’s corpse and had his bones stripped clean. Then King Thorsvald had them mounted in the Hall of Kings, so everyone could see his greatest triumph.’
Braxus grunted noncommittally. ‘See it, you say? Be awed by it, more like,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Few kings have ever boasted a giantslayer among their knights – Sir Lancelyn of the Pale Mountain who served King Vasirius of Pangonia is the only other I know of.’
Vaskrian’s eyes lit up at the mention of the legendary knight, still believed by most to be the greatest that ever lived. He was about to say something but Braxus cut him off.
‘But come, you were talking of your audience with the King, the very man we’ve come here to speak with ourselves. I’d hear more of what he had to say. Pray continue!’
Adelko nodded and went on with his story.
Their ceremonial entrance done, another herald next to the throne had bellowed: ‘Freidheim II, Lord Protector of the Realm, First Scion of the Kingdom of Northalde, Seventh King of the Lineage of Ingwin, bids thee all rise!’
Adelko got to his feet. In keeping with the first herald’s instructions, he kept his eyes on the horsehair carpet as his King addressed them: ‘Welcome, travellers, to my hall. All of you are known to me save yon youths. What are your names?’
Adelko raised his eyes, glancing sidelong at Vaskrian as he did. The squire seemed momentarily lost for words, before answering haltingly. Adelko did likewise, though he suddenly felt very small and struggled to keep his composure. He hadn’t expected the King to take any interest in him. He was peripherally aware of the knights of the court staring at him, but the scrutiny of the man before him was far more arresting.
He certainly dressed like the King of a realm founded by sea princes. His electrum crown had been fashioned to resemble a flotilla of longships and warlike mariners, the details picked out with aquamarines; his robes of office were the colour of the waves and decorated with stylised ships of mother-of-pearl.
But King Freidheim would have been a presence without his regal paraphernalia.
Like Horskram, he was robust for a man of his winters, his brawny arms knotted with muscles that had not yielded to time. His kingly beard was an iron-grey colour that matched his keen eyes and shrouded a broad, perfectly proportioned face. To call him handsome would have been to miss the mark: well wrought was nearer the truth.
Adelko knew some clerical scholars argued that kings who ruled over Palomedian realms were divinely inspired; Reus touched such fortunates in the womb, endowing them with gifts. Many of the Palomedian rulers he had read about seemed hardly to warrant such a contention, but in Freidheim II he found the argument convincing.
‘And how was your journey to my city, Adelko of Narvik?’ the King pressed. ‘How smooth the way, in this grievous time of war?’
His voice was manly without being harsh, but it resonated with the manifest confidence of one who expects to be obeyed. Adelko could sense a lingering sadness too. He didn’t have time to puzzle that over – he was far more baffled as to why his King was taking such an interest in him. Along with Vaskrian he was the least important person in their retinue.
It took him a few painful seconds to gather his wits and answer.
‘It… was not without its hardships, Your Majesty,’ he stammered, struggling to meet his monarch’s eye. ‘We ran into some dangers… but we’re very pleased to be here now…’ His voice trailed off. He knew he shouldn’t divulge too many details about their mission – but how did you refuse
to answer your King?
Some of the knights and ladies tittered, amused by his meek attempts at politesse. Adelko felt his ears burning.
‘Silence!’ boomed the King, raising his voice and sweeping the hall with an iron glare. He got it instantly; Adelko fancied he could hear the roaring waves of the Strang Estuary grow louder as Freidheim’s voice crashed through the chamber with an elemental force.
‘I’ll not have an honest man mocked in my hall!’ he roared. ‘Yes indeed, you can always count on a youthful tongue for an honest answer! I daresay your response, when you give it Master Horskram, will be considerably more guarded than your novice’s – though you are a welcome guest. You are all welcome guests!’
The King was the soul of affability now; Adelko was stunned by how quickly he seemed able carry his voice from one intense emotion to another with the utmost conviction.
‘And now,’ continued Freidheim, his voice suddenly becoming flatly neutral, ‘Sir Tarlquist, the latest news of the war. Horskram, I shall want to hear what brings you to Strongholm afterwards – in private, as I’m sure you will prefer. I don’t doubt you’ll have strange and unsettling tidings, as usual. Not lightly do you visit my halls.’
Horskram acquiesced with a courteous nod, saying nothing. Sir Tarlquist did all the talking after that, omitting the demonic attack on Staerkvit by prior agreement – the last thing needed now was a superstitious panic sweeping the capital on the eve of war. Sir Torgun kept his counsel, managing to look even meeker than Adelko felt. The novice wondered if the knight was happiest saying nothing. As for Sir Wolmar, even he seemed to know to keep quiet in the presence of his uncle the King.
The hall erupted with cries of anger when Sir Tarlquist recounted the fall of Salmor and Rookhammer: the White Valravyn’s attempt to save the former foiled by sorcery, the latter’s entire garrison put to the sword.
‘And so does the traitor of Thule repay my kindness in sparing his life seasons ago, when all my advisers, kith and kin counselled me otherwise!’ the King thundered after Tarlquist had finished, his rage waxing dark and terrible. ‘Thus does the Almighty punish proud fools who refuse to besmirch their precious honour for the greater good! Alas, that I should be played a gull to the better angels of my conscience!’