by Damien Black
‘I have your leave to act then, my lord?’
‘Yes, yes, dammit – you have my leave and authority. Get the damned arrow out of him and take his helm off. Then... just do what you can.’
The surgeon nodded slowly. In the flickering lantern light of the shuttered room the castellan could see how afraid the commoner was.
Placing a hand on his thin shoulder he said firmly but gently: ‘Sandon, you have ever served Linden well – if any man can save our prince now it is you. Do your utmost to save our future king – I swear an oath before all these good knights I shall not hold you responsible if he dies. Just do what you can.’
Exhaling tremulously the chirurgeon nodded and said: ‘I shall need my tools, my assistant and a bowl of warm water.’
‘They shall be yours directly,’ answered the castellan, before turning to address the Prince’s knights. ‘I think it were better if Sandon had more space to go about his work – the rest of you get down to the courtyard and join the headcount.’
‘But, sire, we are the Prince’s own knights – we should be here with him!’ one of them protested. Wolfram’s men were mostly hot-headed youngbloods just like himself.
‘I’ll send for Father Ubo, our resident perfect,’ replied Bernal. ‘He can pray for our prince, that should be sufficient. Now, while you are in my castle you will do as I say – get back down to the courtyard, for all we know there may be more fighting to do before dark.’
Given the protracted nature of siege warfare Bernal knew this was unlikely, but he made his point. With grim and surly faces the battle-weary knights shuffled out of the chamber and left Sandon to do his work.
The process was long and painful, but Bernal watched it all as Ubo prayed silently next to him throughout. When the surgeon extracted the arrow the prince let out a great groan. Blood flowed freely from the unseen injury, staining his tabard and the bed sheets beneath it. Gingerly removing his helmet with the help of his assistant, an apprentice of thirteen summers, Sandon made a sorrowful exclamation.
For their handsome prince would never be handsome again. The bodkin had penetrated the eye slit with enough force to put out his left eye: where before had twinkled a keen blue iris now a red gouge gaped hideously.
Fortunately for the prince, the arrow had struck at such an angle that it had not entered his brain, but rather had torn through the eye and carved a great furrow across the bridge of his nose, from where the white of bone could be seen glinting in the lantern light.
Bernal shut his eyes and muttered a silent prayer of his own as Sandon went about his work, first giving the Prince an opiate to dull the pain. After he had washed the wound, cleaning out the gaping eye socket as best he could and applying a poultice to aid healing, he dressed it with clean bandages.
The castle was fortunate in its chirurgeon. Sandon had trained in Rima, where the standards of medicine were somewhat better than in the north, and studied for a while with a chapter of Marionite monks in the foothills of the Hyrkrainians. That made him a better man of his profession than many; if his skills could not make Prince Wolfram whole again, they might yet save his life.
When at last it was done Sandon turned to face his commander, his lined face grave but even. ‘I have done what I can for him,’ he said. ‘Reus willing, he will heal and survive his hurt, grievous though it is.’
Bernal let out a trembling sigh of relief. ‘Well done, Sandon, well done. If the Prince lives I shall reward thee well for this – as no doubt will the King, when he gets here.’
Sandon’s face betrayed no emotion as he replied: ‘You are over kind, my lord. Now if it please you I would suggest that we leave him to rest – though Ubo can stay to pray for him a while. Just let him do so silently.’
‘I shall pray as I see fit,’ said the fat perfect with a frown. ‘For know that it is the power of prayer that will save our prince, not the artifice of mortal men.’
Sandon said nothing, merely nodding deferentially.
‘Stay and pray for him a while by all means,’ said the castellan with a frown of his own. ‘But when the sun sets I want you with the other wounded – they too shall need the power of prayer though in the meantime I should think they’ll be more than happy to receive Sandon’s ministrations.’
Bernal pointedly met the perfect’s misgiving look with a glare. The priest bowed perfunctorily and returned to his prayer book. The castellan ushered Sandon and his assistant out of the room, scowling as he closed the door gently behind him.
Truth be told, he’d never had much use for perfects – they were all words and no action.
Back outside in the courtyard Bernal broke the news, as good as it could be under the circumstances, to the garrison, which let out a great cheer when they learned their future king might survive.
Turning to his second, he received grimmer news. Of two hundred bold knights just seventy-three had returned – the rest had either been slain, injured or captured. A few others had made it back but were seriously wounded – more work for Sandon. The inner walls had been firmly garrisoned with heavily armoured foot, and in the fading light the enemy could be seen massing its ranks in the outer ward.
‘How many do they have out there?’ growled Bernal as frightened servants began to light torches about the courtyard.
‘From what we can glean they’ve filled the precinct with archers and heavily armoured foot – several hundred of both,’ said Sir Orfius.
‘What of their horse? I saw a company of knights preparing to make the ascent not long after they broke the outer gates.’
Orfius shook his head. ‘No knights, sire, just archers and footmen. They’ve plenty of those on the outer walls too.’
Bernal frowned. ‘What about beyond the outer walls? What are their movements?’
‘It’s getting too dark to see clearly, sire, but they do not appear to be moving towards Linden in any great numbers.’
Bernal raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? That is passing strange, unless - ’
His incipient thought was confirmed suddenly by an exultant cry from a sentry on the north-east turret of the inner ward. ‘My lord! It’s the King’s army! The King’s army has arrived! We’re saved!’
From the vanguard Vaskrian felt a twinge as he looked on the white walls of Linden for a second time. Perched atop a rocky hill overlooking the Ørling tributary of the Vyborg and its once-fertile fields, it was a beautiful castle; he remembered it well from the previous summer. Back then it had just been a spectacular backdrop for the pageantry and heroics of the tourney. Now it was revealed in its true purpose: a bastion designed to stand up to the challenge of siege warfare.
Smoke rose from its white-walled battlements: the greatest castle in Northalde besides Staerkvit had been burning. The ugly scorch marks scarring the fields said more than one hamlet had shared in that fate. Vaskrian wondered briefly what had happened to the occupants, then pushed the grim thought away. Now wasn’t the time. He’d see to it personally they were avenged, anyway.
As they drew nearer they could make out the palisaded rebel encampment; men swarmed up the eastern walls like ants as cogs bearing siege engines bombarded them without respite.
Vaskrian steeled his nerves as the realisation dawned on him fully at last. This was the real thing – no more tournament melees, no more brawling, no more duels of honour, dangerous as those could be. This was war. The thought filled him with excitement tinged – maybe just a little – with fear. Once more he checked his master’s weapons, and his own.
By the time they were within parleying distance it was clear that the outer walls of the castle had been breached. Across the river the din of battle could be heard distantly.
Adelko and his mentor were encamped on a grassy knoll with Freidheim and his closest advisers.
The knoll overlooked the camp and Adelko could see cooks, armourers, bladesmiths, chirurgeons and washerwomen going about their business in the firelight. No common prostitutes would be found amidst the gaggle of camp follo
wers though: the King had expressly forbade the harlots of Strongholm to join the march to ply their usual trade, saying he would not have the battle for his throne used as an excuse for rampant whoring.
‘Well, we’d better send parleys out – naught but a formality but still decorum should be observed I suppose,’ growled the King. He was in an ill mood, having been prevailed upon not to fight personally after a heated argument with his advisers. Though a mighty warrior in his day who had aged well, he was sorely out of practice. He had not even competed in a tourney for more than a decade.
‘At least I get a ringside seat,’ he grumbled. ‘Can’t join in the slaughter because my trusted advisers would fall to pieces without me if I perished in the field, but still I can have fun watching it, eh?’
The knights and lords about him exchanged uneasy glances and wisely held their peace.
Presently a sortie of messengers led by a herald returned and informed them of Krulheim’s position: he had taken the outer ward of Linden, which was now sorely invested, and demanded that the loyalist army surrender the throne if they knew what was good for them.
‘Tell him no such terms will be agreed,’ sighed the King wearily. ‘We’ll meet him in pitched battle on the fields before Linden at dawn tomorrow, according to standard conventions of formation – assuming a traitor who consorts with pagan wizards is still capable of conventional behaviour.’
The messengers nodded and galloped off again. The wind picked up as they waited on the knoll. Adelko folded his hands in the sleeves of his habit. He felt tense and anxious. His mentor’s sombre presence next to him did nothing to ease his bleak mood.
Before long the herald returned with Thule’s final answer. ‘Thule agrees to the terms of battle,’ he said, his face unsmiling beneath his helm. ‘We engage the rebels at first light.’
The morning brought with it a cold, clear day. At the King’s orders his army drew up its ranks into three hosts: the vanguard of knights took the centre, with the Highlanders stiffening the left and right flanks of footsoldiers. The yeoman levies were also divided between these two, and behind all three hosts the archers were arranged, ready at command to shower their enemies with a lethal rain of shafts.
His heart thumping, Vaskrian gazed across the fields. Several hundred yards away, Thule had drawn up his own forces in a similar arrangement. His knights occupied the centre, with armoured footsoldiers flanking them to the left and right. These were bolstered by a great horde of peasant levies; true to earlier reports they were better equipped than usual. The Northland berserkers had also joined up with them: to either side a motley slew of battle-hungry barbarians could be seen chewing their broad shields. Above them a rude standard proclaimed the Frozen Thane Hardrada’s sigil: a silver warrior-mermaid dressed for war on a sky-blue background. Behind these Thule’s own archers would be drawn up, ready to answer like for like with a rain of ruin of their own.
‘They are almost double our number on either flank,’ said Sir Ulfstan as Vaskrian handed him his spear. ‘We must smash their centre and rally to help our comrades on foot.’
Vaskrian nodded absently. As if he hadn’t known that.
‘And don’t get carried away,’ added the knight, lowering his visor. ‘There’s been talk of telling squires to attack anyone they can because we’re outnumbered. I don’t want it heard that mine overstepped the mark – you’re to attack commoners only, understand? War or not you’re to remember your place.’
Prince Freidhoff had issued an order instructing squires to strike down any foe they could, commoner or noble. Now Ulfstan was going against that order – even though it had come from the commander of the army in the field, a man who answered only to the King.
The blueblood fool’s blinkered prejudice would have irked Vaskrian at any other time. But now he was barely listening – his mind was roaring with a berserker fury of its own. With the field of battle spread before him, all the despondency he had felt on the march to war had dropped away.
So he wouldn’t get any credit from his master. So the odds were against them. So what? It didn’t matter any more. The only thing that mattered was that they were going to fight. For real, on a scale he’d never experienced before.
He’d waited his whole life for this moment: it was time to show the bluebloods how well a common serjeant’s son could fight. Even if they didn’t sing his praises for it, they’d know. He’d know.
He drew the old man’s blade and looked it over. Was there a slight greenish tinge to it in the cold sunlight? That brought back the hint of darker memories; he could feel them pushing at the growing tide of his battle rage. But the sword felt good in his hand, very good. That feeling pushed the murky thoughts to the back of his mind.
He knew he’d been to dark places. That didn’t matter either. Today was a blood day. And blood would wash the past away.
From his place in the vanguard, Sir Tarlquist gripped his lance and prepared to lower at the High Commander’s order.
Beside him sat Sir Torgun. He looked just the same as he would have done riding to a tournament melee – calm and self-assured. If he felt afraid at the prospect of his first real war, he gave no sign. Nearest to them in the vanguard were the High Commander, his son Wolmar, the deputy chief Toric of Runstadt, Sir Aronn, Sir Redrun, and the chequered twins Doric and Cirod. Some of the best knights in the land, ready to carve up some rebel hide.
The plan of attack had been agreed at war council the previous night. The vanguard was to meet Thule’s, and smash it as quickly as it could. This was the loyalist faction’s only real hope: Krulheim’s foot vastly outnumbered theirs, and without swift aid from their victorious horse they would most likely be routed.
If that happened all was lost – there would be nothing to do but fall back beyond the Vyborg, leaving Linden unsaved, and prepare for an inevitable siege of the capital. They had made plans for one alternative strategy should this seem likely to happen, but it was very risky.
Thinking on this Tarlquist felt his gut tighten. It was not fear for his own skin that troubled him – he had put such concerns aside when he joined the Order years ago – but fear of what would befall the kingdom if Krulheim won.
Doubtless the rebel upstart would exact bloody vengeance on all the noble families who had opposed him, and his father in the last war. And when that was done, what kind of king would the pretender prove to be? Freidheim had earned his reputation as a just ruler: in peacetime he had worked hard to try and rule for the benefit of all his people, difficult as that was. Tarlquist knew that made him a rarity among kings.
He didn’t fancy the chances of a vengeful traitor proving anywhere near as benevolent. Krulheim might offer some concessions to his own; southerners who’d served the lords on his side. But he doubted that the King’s Law would survive in its present form. The Order of the White Valravyn would be broken up – commoners and lordlings alike would be left to fend for themselves and fight each other for scraps across a lawless realm.
It was loyalty to his rightful liege that impelled him to war above all. But behind that, Tarlquist knew, there was the wellbeing of an entire kingdom at stake.
A rebel victory that put Thule on the Pine Throne would be nothing short of disaster.
The thought that he might never see his wife Karlya again also troubled him. He barely saw her enough as it was: his duty was to the Order and he only got to spend time with her once a month, on conjugal visits to Staerkvit.
Thinking on that made him feel sad. He hadn’t loved her all that much when he first married her, but love had grown gradually over the years. Reus knew how, given the little time they’d had together. Absence made the heart grow fonder, he supposed. Their marriage had been a childless one: there was a time when he had been sad about that too but now, on the eve of deadly conflict, it almost seemed like a blessing in disguise.
In any case, his real family were the knights around him. He’d known that for years. The truth was, he was probably closer to his wife’
s nephew Torgun – he certainly saw more of the promising young knight than he did of his wife. But perhaps that was for the best. Men and women would come and go, but the Order would endure. If Thule didn’t win, that was.
Banishing his gloomy thoughts, Tarlquist steeled himself for a heroic effort on behalf of king and country.
The sun rose slowly, illuminating a field pregnant with the tense stillness that comes before battle. Long it lingered, the silence broken only by the hungry cawing of crows as they circled in anticipation of the coming feast, and the prayers of perfects on both sides.
And then it came: the clarion call to war.
With a great roar the vanguard of the King’s Army kicked its horses into stride as lances were lowered into nooks. This was met by an answering roar from Thule’s knights, who couched and charged, thundering across the green sward to meet their enemies.
Watching this, Adelko felt a curious sense of relief. He had half expected the Sea Wizard to suddenly rear his ugly head, casting some foul spell that would doom their chances. But of that much-reported warlock and his sorcerous ways there was no sign. Beside the young monk, his mentor stood stock still and stared across the field, his face a stony mask beneath his cowl.
Sir Torgun’s lance shattered in his hand as the two hosts met with a splintering crunch. His foe hurtled from the saddle and was dead before he hit the ground, Torgun’s broken spear transfixed through his heart. In an instant his sword was out of its scabbard. Laying about him, he downed another knight with a mighty swipe, shearing through a chink in his armour and sending him low, a fountain of red spurting from his neck.
Another knight lunged at him – Torgun took the sword on his shield before bringing his own blade down in an arc onto his head. His opponent was wearing a great helm, but the force of his blow was strong enough to crumple it. The knight shuddered and lurched back in the saddle, his sword slipping from nerveless fingers. Torgun switched to a thrust, the point of his blade piercing through surcoat and hauberk with a pitiless force and entering the man’s entrails. As the man sloughed off his horse dying, Torgun was already wheeling his charger around in search of another opponent.