by Damien Black
‘I – I don’t think I ever got around to saying… you saved my neck from those Northland brigands, twice. If it wasn’t for you I’d probably be dead.’
The squire grinned. The morning breeze caught his long unruly hair, making him look like the rakehell he was.
‘Think nothing of it!’ he smiled. ‘I swore an oath to protect you both, didn’t I? I may not be a knight yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t act like one.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ faltered Adelko. ‘It’s just… I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to repay you.’
‘No need,’ said the squire, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Under different circumstances that might have been irritating, but as it was Adelko felt strangely touched. ‘Like I said, I swore an oath – I didn’t take coin to fight like those wretches we killed. If you want to repay me, just remember what I did. And tell everyone! Especially if they’re a blueblood!’
They shared a laugh at that. And then Vaskrian turned, mounted his courser and was gone, galloping back towards the camp.
Adelko felt his spirits lighten a little. A friendship forged on the road indeed. He wondered if he’d see that friend again.
His old guvnor would have shouted at him. Upbraided him for being late. Told him to get a move on. Sir Ulfstan did none of those things.
As Vaskrian pulled up before his master’s pavilion, the knight sat back from the breakfast he had prepared for him before going to meet Adelko and sighed contentedly.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said languidly. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’ Looking around him at the fast dwindling tents of the encampment, he said flatly: ‘I think we should be leaving now. Something about a war to fight. We’re to ride in the vanguard I believe.’
Hurriedly Vaskrian dismounted and bustled over to the tent, proffering excuses as he did.
Ulfstan silenced him with a wave of the hand. ‘Don’t bother explaining. I don’t need an explanation. You’re a commoner, after all – can’t be expected to be timely. Especially not an Efrilunder. Really, the things a war drives a man to. A northern toerag for a squire, I’ll never live this down!’
He gave a snort of dismissive laughter. Vaskrian felt himself flush to the ears as he began pulling the tent down. Such remarks were typical of his new master. Somehow the knight’s offhand manner made them even harder to bear than Rutgar’s coarse jibes, or any of the other blueblood taunts he’d had to put up with back home.
That lot said things with intent – you knew they wanted to rile you. That meant they cared about what you thought, one way or another.
But Ulfstan didn’t give a fallen angel’s damnation about what Vaskrian thought. When he said things like that, he wasn’t saying them to hurt or taunt. He was simply stating things as he saw them.
Sir Ulfstan stood and stretched his arms, yawning. He looked for all the world as if he’d just awoken from a heavy night of carousing, not to the first war in fifteen years of his kingdom’s history.
There was absolutely nothing striking about his appearance. He was of average height, medium build, neither comely nor ugly. His mousy hair was receding slightly with the advance of early middle age. Everything about him screamed ordinary.
Everything except his family name that is. He could trace his noble ancestry back for generations – apparently one of his forebears had been the younger son of some forgotten lord or other. Sir Ulfstan had inherited the family estate that age-old scion had managed to carve out for himself, a good-sized plot of land some twenty miles out of Strongholm.
And of course that meant Sir Ulfstan of Alfheim was anything but ordinary.
Swallowing his bitterness Vaskrian went about his duties. The camp had thinned to virtually nothing about them: the vanguard was nearly entirely drawn up. Just waiting on lackadaisical knights and their disobedient squires.
But it was the rear that caught Vaskrian’s eye. That was composed of the Efrilunders. He caught Lord Fenrig’s standard shivering in the breeze. It was a customary shield motif, the field divided horizontally into two variations. The upper half was tinctured pale blue and bore a device depicting a pair of intertwining roses, one red, the other white; the lower half was a chequered design picked out in the same colours. The sight of it made him anxious and a little homesick at the same time. Next to it were those of Lord Vymar of Harrang, whose tourney he’d missed a seeming lifetime ago, and Lord Aesgir of Sjorvard, who had disembarked his troops in Strongholm harbour a tenday ago.
The Woldings were to ride in the middle section. They had arrived maddeningly late, just the day before yesterday, hauling their beefy carcasses to the fight on stout nags. They had brought trained footsoldiers and a pressed levy with them too – the latter were the sorriest-looking bunch of peasants Vaskrian had ever seen.
He shook his head as he watched them being bullied into line by the serjeants in charge of the middle army formation. Wolding conscripts. Perhaps the one benefit those ragged serfs could be said to bring was a complete indifference to death. For death would be a blessing for such miserable folk.
Returning to work, the squire packed the tent away and loaded it on to his master’s sumpter. He’d taken care of most of the preparations before meeting Adelko. He was fully accoutred himself; his swaddled ribs still ached beneath his mail shirt but he was young and strong and on the mend nicely. All he needed to do was arm Sir Ulfstan and they were ready.
‘I hope you’ve not neglected my armour,’ said the knight as Vaskrian began helping him into his boiled leather undertunic and leggings. ‘I want those links mirror bright, my boy – if I’ve to fight this wretched war then I mean to do it in style. The sooner we send those rebel traitors packing, the sooner I can get back to my life.’
This is supposed to be your life you idiot, thought Vaskrian as he fastened the straps. The whole point of being a knight is to fight, not whore and drink and play at dice.
Fetching his master’s hauberk he helped him into it. Sir Branas had never particularly cared for polishing: as long as his armour had no chinks or dints and functioned properly he wasn’t fussed. Sir Ulfstan had insisted to the contrary however, and Vaskrian had spent hours buffing up every link. That wasn’t the least of the grudges he bore the haughty knight.
He missed Sir Branas more by the day. But thinking on the old veteran had his mind going to strange places. A hunched figure leered at him from the darkest corner of his consciousness, strange voices whispered to him in forgotten tongues…
Shaking his head to clear it, he pulled suddenly on one of the fastenings binding the hauberk in place.
‘Not so hard!’ snapped Sir Ulfstan. ‘What in Reus’ name do they teach you up in the provinces?’
‘Sorry, sire,’ muttered Vaskrian, scowling. The knight’s back was to him, so at least he didn’t have to dissemble completely.
Sir Ulfstan shook his head. ‘An Efrilund commoner for a squire, this really is the worst,’ he sighed. ‘Be assured that I’ll be handing you back to Lord Fenrig after the war. I shall just have to do without a squire until my other nephew comes of age this autumn.’
Another deadpan rebuke. This one didn’t rile him – it made his heart sink. A pity he couldn’t stab Sir Ulfstan as he had Derrick. But then what good would that do even if he could?
And his hopes had been so high. When Lord Visigard had singled him out to be squired off to a landed vassal of the King, he’d thought his future made. A prestigious position and a war on the way.
But now he knew there’d be no glory for him no matter what he did. Sir Branas had been quick to put him back in his place, but he’d given credit where he thought it due. Sir Ulfstan would never even countenance the idea of a common squire’s worth in the field.
At least he’d been spared having to approach Lord Fenrig and explain what had happened. But once the war was over Ulfstan would dismiss him and the King’s injunction would no longer stand – his loyalty would default back to the Jarl of Hroghar, and he’d have to make a full disclos
ure of events.
And how exactly would he explain poor Branas’s death anyway? He could barely remember their frightful adventure in the forest. And then there was the matter of Sir Anrod and Derrick. Word would be getting around by now. Before, under the auspices of his old guvnor, he’d been self-assured: if anyone wanted to make anything of that, they’d have to seek out Sir Branas first.
But with the old knight gone it would be left to Fenrig to decide what to do with him. He might decide Vaskrian was too much trouble and release him from service.
What would he do then? He wasn’t worried about Anrod or Derrick’s family – they could come looking for him for all he cared. He wouldn’t back down now, not even for a blueblood.
But his chances of getting another position as a squire would be minimal. Knights in other jarldoms would require a letter of introduction, even the Woldings were picky about that sort of thing.
Never mind a knighthood – his very squirehood was in jeopardy.
With a heavy heart he finished buckling on Sir Ulfstan’s armour and fetched his tabard. It sported a light grey field with a red turret device blazoned on top. Even his coat of arms was dull.
Sword, shield and dagger came next and then they were done. Without another word the two of them took to the saddle and rode to join the vanguard.
They were the last ones to take their place, but that didn’t seem to bother Sir Ulfstan. It didn’t bother Vaskrian much either – what did it matter what people thought of him now?
Adelko gazed at the bristling forest of spears, their tips glinting in the rising sun. The three army formations were bolstered by the usual host of ancillaries: wayns bearing food supplies, craftsmen, washerwomen and other necessaries for the march to war.
Next to him his mentor sat still in the saddle, his cowl drawn up as though he did not wish to be seen. A sidelong glance at the old monk’s face beneath his hood told him nothing of his feelings; but his sixth sense said enough. Beside an Argolian’s customary disapproval of violence he felt a sense of shame: he guessed Horskram’s past as a knight was playing on his mind. Sir Horskram – it sounded all wrong. If it seemed so to Adelko, he could imagine what it felt like to the adept.
Nearby the King was saying farewell to his family and closest advisers. Princess Hjala’s face looked wan and sad as she embraced her father. They were said to be unusually close for a monarch and daughter, all the more so since the Queen had died of the ague two years ago. Freidheim still mourned her deeply, though his Northlending stoicism prevented him from showing it.
Adelko had been at court long enough to learn the princess had had her own share of tragedy too. Her husband and three children had been carried off to a watery grave ten years ago, when the former baron of Saltcaste’s ship was wrecked during a voyage from Port Urring to Strongholm. She had been too ill to travel with them at the time; by a cruel twist of fate she survived her malady only to be faced with the lifelong pain of loss. Her sandy-brown hair was tied back in a severe braid, and though tall and handsome like her father she wore little ornamentation.
Lady Walsa approached them, riding on a sleek black palfrey. She had insisted on praying with Horskram every sunset during their stay at the palace. If Adelko had not known better, he could almost have sworn the crinkly old dame was in love with his mentor.
Horskram inclined his head as she drew level with them, though he did not remove his hood.
‘May the blessings of the Almighty go with you on your journey, Brother Horskram,’ she said seriously. ‘Your doings will far exceed this dreadful civil war, I trow.’
Looking somewhat abashed Horskram cleared his throat and replied: ‘As to that, Your Highness, only He can say. But the Redeemer has heard our prayers, and lent us his flesh that we might strive in his name.’
Lady Walsa stared deep into the old monk’s eyes. Her leathery face looked intent and serious.
‘You have been chosen to carry out the Almighty’s will,’ she intoned. ‘How else could it be that you now bear what has not been born for more than a hundred years? I shall pray for you, Brother Horskram, though I fear the prayers of a humble wretch like me will be as naught next to yours.’
Adelko blinked in surprise. Had he really just heard the fierce old matriarch refer to herself as ‘a humble wretch’? Perhaps she was in love with his mentor after all.
‘We are all humble in the Almighty’s eyes,’ was all Horskram had to say to that. ‘Pray for me, Your Highness, and for all of us.’
The old monk inclined his head again. Lady Walsa gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head, then turned her steed away to rejoin the royal entourage. Horskram resumed staring at the assembled army with blank eyes, and held his peace.
Lord Ulnor was talking quietly with the King as Walsa rejoined them. The seneschal hailed from a high house of his own, being a blood relative of Walsa’s demented husband the Jarl of Stromlund. Perhaps now was a good time to be mad, Adelko reflected grimly – it felt as though the whole realm had gone insane, tearing itself apart for the sake of vanity and greed.
Next to them Lord Toros, Jarl of Vandheim and elder brother to Sir Torgun, was embracing his wife, a plain-looking girl of about eighteen summers. He was of similar stature to his celebrated younger brother, with the same mane of blond hair. Somewhat less powerfully built, his face was older and wiser, though he had not seen thirty summers.
Torgun was there also, exchanging quiet words with their sister, Princess Aeselif. A beautiful damsel, she strongly resembled her brothers, but her comely face was riven with anxiety. She was married to Prince Wolfram, who even now struggled to hold Linden. Their son Prince Freidhrim, a boy of eight summers, stood at her side, clutching her pale hand with an innocence Adelko envied. He would one day inherit the throne, if he lived.
The boy might inherit sooner rather than later if things went ill at Linden. Then again, if that happened, he might inherit nothing more than a trip to the axeman’s block. The word about court was that Thule was not expected to be merciful in victory.
Torgun stepped over to embrace Princess Hjala. Adelko’s sixth sense flared: their two houses were linked by Aeselif’s marriage to Wolfram, but there was something stronger than mere kinship by proxy between those two. He sensed a lingering bitterness too – and it wasn’t coming from Sir Torgun.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of horses approaching. Turning he saw Sir Braxus and his six compatriots come riding up, fully armoured and ready for war.
The Thraxian knight called out a cheery greeting as he pulled up his charger before them.
‘Good morning, monks, and a high morning it is!’ he cried, gesturing towards the army with an extravagant sweep of the arm. ‘A fine day to go riding off to war and glory, no?’
Horskram said nothing, and continued to stare at the men drawn up in the field, some waiting more patiently than others for their King to address them before signalling the march to Linden.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Adelko. ‘This isn’t even your fight!’
Sir Braxus frowned. The knight next to him, the older one Sir Vertrix, looked for all the world as if he agreed with that statement. He shook his head and muttered something unintelligible.
‘Well, it is now,’ replied Sir Braxus, somewhat lamely Adelko thought. ‘Your King won’t listen to our petition while he has a war of his own to fight – but I reckon he might just listen when he’s sitting on the field of victory. He might listen especially to a lord’s son who helped him to that victory.’
Horskram broke his silence then. A short stab of contemptuous laughter escaped the cowl.
Braxus stared at him, a returning smile freezing on his lips. ‘Something amuses you, master adept?’
Horskram met his gaze. ‘No, not really,’ he replied flatly. ‘I don’t find anything about this situation amusing. Your folly however, does furnish me with a momentary light relief.’
The Thraxian knight’s face darkened. Sir Vertrix looked troubled and confl
icted. The other knights and their squires, who could not understand the exchange, exchanged bemused glances. It was then Adelko noticed that a squire was missing – Sir Braxus rode to war without a second. But then he supposed that was what the knights of the White Valravyn did all the time. Perhaps he was trying to prove a point, something about a lord’s son being self-sufficient.
‘Folly is it?’ replied Braxus unsmiling. ‘So you say, but you may find that my kingdom’s problems are not so different from your own… your novice here is as reticent as you are, Brother Horskram, but it’s clear there’s some devilry at work in your realm just as there is in mine. Why else would an Argolian be joining the march to war?’
‘Why indeed?’ returned Horskram laconically, turning to stare at the army again. He did not meet the knight’s gaze again.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Braxus, shrugging his mailed shoulders. ‘Adelko, it is at any rate pleasant to see you again – where is your young friend?’
Adelko nodded towards the vanguard. ‘With the Royal Knights – he’s been squired off to a vassal of the King.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now,’ said Braxus. ‘Well I may not see much of him during the march – but we shall see plenty of each other, Adelko! We’ll be riding with the King’s entourage as guests of honour – Thraxians part of the King of Northalde’s honour guard, who’d have thought it?’
Sir Vertrix’s expression looked sour as the Thraxians rode off to join the king’s personal contingent of knights. Adelko guessed the old veteran remembered Corne Hill well. Braxus had reminded him of something though.
‘I met Vaskrian at dawn,’ he told his mentor. ‘He said to give you his best wishes.’
Horskram turned cold eyes on him. ‘Did he now? How very thoughtful of him.’
Something in his sarcastic tone grated on the novice.
‘I… I thanked him too,’ he pressed. ‘For saving my life. Twice.’
Horskram mulled over his words. ‘He saved you from the sword, by the sword,’ was all he said.
‘Well… he can’t be that bad then,’ persisted Adelko. ‘I mean, he swore an oath to protect us, and he kept to it. I know he’s headstrong and foolish but – ’