by Damien Black
‘Thule! Traitor and killer of my father – turn and face me!’ he roared as he galloped towards him.
The pretender to a throne that was lost obliged him. Thule had fought with a fierce fury of his own that afternoon; his tabard was drenched and stained with the crimson tide of war.
‘And who would you be, raven knight?’ he called mockingly, his voice tinny beneath his helm as he raised his dripping blade. ‘Come! Come and die on my sword, like the rest of your brothers!’
With a war-cry that was more a scream of naked anger Wolmar launched himself at Krulheim. The two fought savagely, all thoughts of finer swordplay forgotten as they hacked at one another frenziedly. Then of a sudden Wolmar switched to a thrust; reacting quickly Krulheim turned the blow and attempted a riposte at his unprotected throat.
Dodging the counter-attack Wolmar spurred his horse in closer, bringing his shield around and smashing it into his adversary’s face. Thule’s helm protected him from injury, but the sheer force of the unexpected blow was enough to drive him back in the saddle. Pressing his advantage, Wolmar delivered a thundering overhead strike with his sword that caught Krulheim square in the chest. Again his armour saved him from serious injury, but the impact sent him crashing from his charger.
Wolmar was about to press his advantage when Krulheim’s dismounted squire, a stout lad of about eighteen summers, stabbed his horse’s flank with a spear. The point was driven hard enough to puncture the barding, and as his mount reared in agony Wolmar was forced to lurch clumsily off the saddle to avoid being thrown.
Before he could fully recover the desperate squire attacked him, lunging at him with his spear. Falling to one knee Wolmar threw his shield up just in time. Getting to his feet he cleaved the squire’s head in twain at an oblique angle, the lop-sided top flying upwards in a spurt of blood and brains.
Wolmar turned to face Krulheim, who had recovered from his fall and now awaited him in a half crouch.
Wolmar extended the point of his bloodied sword towards his foe and snarled beneath his dinted helm. No words – an animal noise of pure hatred escaped feral lips.
And then they were joined again, driving one another back and forth and circling hungrily for an opening. Gradually both men’s battle rage subsided into a coolly lethal focus, as each sought to end the other’s life. Here and there one attacked, the other parried or dodged and countered, but neither could gain the upper hand.
And then suddenly Wolmar’s sword was buried inches deep in Krulheim’s calf just below the knee. A cunning feint to the stomach had served him well, and Krulheim had taken the bait.
Pulling his blade free and taking a step back Wolmar half expected Krulheim to laugh unscathed in his face, but with a groan the pretender sank to his good knee as blood flowed freely over his mail from the cut in his leg.
‘Come then!’ spat the erstwhile lord of Thule. ‘Come finish it, if you dare!’
Wolmar did dare. Springing forwards he brought his blade down towards the side of his opponent’s head in a lightning stroke. Krulheim raised his own blade to defend himself... but his sword shattered beneath Wolmar’s furious blow, which rang loudly off his helm. Abandoning the remnant of his sword Krulheim reached for a dagger at his belt – but Wolmar kicked it from his hand as he drew it. In a last desperate gambit Krulheim tried a shield-swipe of his own. Anticipating this, Wolmar dodged it.
The failed blow with a clumsy weapon toppled Krulheim, and as he lay on his side Wolmar sat down on him hard, pinning both his arms under the weight of his own armoured body. Shrugging off his shield he began to unlace Thule’s helm, whilst holding his sword aloft. Krulheim struggled, trying desperately to throw his attacker off, but Wolmar steadied himself and would not be thrown.
Pulling off the great helm he tossed it aside contemptuously, revealing Krulheim’s mailed head. A trickle of blood ran down his face: his sword-shattering blow must have done some damage.
Not nearly enough.
Clutching the coif Wolmar yanked it back in a single swift motion. Krulheim’s long brown locks spilled out. They were surprisingly clean for a man who had just spent seven weeks on campaign, but the son of Freidhoff did not concern himself with that.
Standing up, his feet straddling Krulheim’s prone body, he raised his sword high in the air, point downwards, and prepared to deal the death blow. He half expected Thule to make some last desperate attempt to trip him, and was prepared in case he did, but the Pretender did not move. Gazing straight above him into the heavens, he mouthed a few words: ‘Oh Reus Almighty, forgive me my sins.’
Wolmar sneered at that. ‘Now you shall eat my sword,’ he said coldly, before thrusting it down through Krulheim’s mouth, pinning his head to the ground. His body shuddered and jerked, once, twice, thrice, as the vengeful knight drove the blade further down, down, deep into the dark earth...
And then Krulheim moved no more.
Slumping across Thule’s corpse, Sir Wolmar wept for his father.
Tarlquist limped across the battlefield, biting on agony. He knew he must have broken his thigh when he was sent hurtling from the saddle at the first charge. At least he had broken his spear on his opponent’s breast: that would be one less knight fetching a ransom.
He had dropped his shield, picking up a broken spear shaft to use as a crutch. Clutching his sword in his free hand he cast about for foes – he would not lie wounded or plead for mercy whilst his comrades were fighting and dying around him.
Soon he found what he was looking for – another dismounted knight. This one appeared to be injured too. His helm had been knocked off his head, which boasted an ugly gash that streamed blood.
Yelling war-cries, the two wounded warriors assailed each other. Unable to move properly, Tarlquist had no option but to stand his ground and rely solely on the strength of his right arm. Reus knew how he managed that, but he did: his opponent, half blinded by his own blood, lunged unsteadily at him, allowing Tarlquist to parry and riposte with a deadly thrust to the throat.
As his foe expired in a gurgling heap another knight who had just been knocked off his horse crashed into him, knocking him to the ground. Tarlquist felt an agonising stab of pain shoot up his thigh, and for a while he lay prone. Then, raising himself to a sitting position he found the knight, one of the King’s, lying next to him. He was bleeding profusely from where a sword or spear had pierced his mailed chest. Leaning over him Tarlquist tried to mouth a few words of comfort to ease his passing.
‘Hold me, I’m cold,’ was all he said, before his hazel eyes frosted over in death.
With a groan Tarlquist struggled to get back on his feet. It was a painful and by now exhausting effort, but again he somehow managed it. Limping along through the mud he fell again as a panicked riderless horse veered towards him. He made a desperate grasp for its spurs but clutched thin air. He was just steeling himself to get to his feet again when he heard a great cry go up around him.
‘They’re shooting at us from the castle! They’re killing their own as well!’
Several knights around him toppled from their horses as a stinging volley of deadly shafts fell among them – both Thule’s men and loyalists were among the victims.
With a curse Tarlquist heaved himself upright again, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch as he loped along. There must be someone else to fight, somewhere...
His breathing was coming in ragged gasps and he stood a moment to clear his vision. It was then that he felt something hard and thin hit him in the back.
With a stuttered cry he pitched forwards into the mud. His back exploded in pain: this wasn’t like the broken leg, it was sharper, more acute and searching. Coughing face down he saw a great gobbet of blood come spewing into the turf beneath him. He could taste it in his mouth. It was only then that he noticed he wasn’t wearing his helm any more.
Stubbornly he grasped hold of the spear shaft with both hands, using it to lever himself up from the ground and standing on his one good leg. The pain in his bac
k had grown more intense; he could feel it spreading across to his chest as he coughed up another gout of blood.
‘Ah me,’ he said to no one in particular, raising his eyes to the bright skies. ‘And so this is an end of it. Reus love me, but it could have been a more noble weapon...’
The Almighty must have heard his half prayer. A few moments later, a knight wielding a mace came galloping towards him. A mad look was in his eyes, the frenzied expression of someone who knows he is doomed to die and welcomes death.
Leaning down in the saddle as he hurtled past Tarlquist, he swung the mace in a great arc towards his head. The spiked ball of iron grew suddenly large as it rushed to meet his face –
Most of the warriors crowding the King’s tent were covered in blood, the mail links of their armour turned a rusted red colour. Adelko could smell the cloying stink of it. Surreptitiously he reached for his cloth and tried not to gag.
‘Jord’s in charge now,’ said Lord Toric. ‘Him, and that hedge wizard of theirs. We’ll see if they can be prevailed upon to see sense.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ offered Braxus lightly. ‘Seeing as you’ve made a point of killing every man of noble blood on their side that you’ve captured, they’ll know what’s waiting for them if they surrender.’
Several of the bloodstained Northlendings standing near him looked darkly at him. The Thraxian had fought once more in the vanguard, sustaining only a flesh wound to the right shoulder and slaying several more knights. Adelko felt that had it not been for this service the bull-necked High Commander might have taken his words unkindly.
As it was he said: ‘They still have the Jarl of Salmor and many other good knights prisoner. And Reus willing they won’t have heard about the executions at Linden yet. We should be able to bargain with them.’
The King frowned. He clearly did not like to be reminded that his ruthless act of retribution might have put the lives of Lord Salmor and all his retinue in danger.
‘There’ll be no more bloodshed if I can help it,’ he growled. ‘Except that warlock – I want his pagan head on a spike.’
‘We should proceed with caution where this Sea Wizard is concerned,’ said Horskram. ‘We do not yet know the full extent of his powers.’
‘Aye,’ growled the King, glancing at the adept sidelong. ‘And that is precisely why you are invited to a post-war council, master monk. You and your novice have already proved shrewd enough at unpicking his sorcerous schemes – I would not have him rob us of a just victory with his unnatural chicanery.’
Freidheim’s foremost knights and nobles were all gathered in the King’s tent whilst the army rested in the field. All agreed that the first thing to do was sue for a parley – with the war all but over there was no sense in losing more loyal men to Jord’s last clutch of archers on the walls. The corpses of the slain on both sides remained unidentified – all except the Pretender himself. That had been settled decisively when Sir Wolmar had brought his head back to camp and tossed it on the table in the middle of the tent.
A great cheer had gone up then, with knights and nobles crowding round to embrace Wolmar and clap him on the back. Even Torgun joined his voice to this praise, although Aronn hung back and scowled, a disconsolate look on his ruddy face. Adelko shared his sentiments – war hero or not, Wolmar was still an unpleasant character who would have seen him tortured beneath Staerkvit for no good reason.
It was true enough as Horskram said that all knights were killers – but some killers were clearly more malicious than others.
After he had exposed Thule’s magicked knights, victory in the Battle of Salmor had been just a matter of time. As the White Valravyn and the Royals engaged the last of Thule’s horse the other loyalist knights had smashed the last of the Pretender’s foot. There were still his archers behind the palisade to be reckoned with, but having occupied the hills overlooking it the King’s bowmen began picking them off. In the meantime the surviving Highlanders, being canny footsoldiers, had managed to skirt the foothills and outflank the rebel archers, bypassing the wooden stockades and ditches of the palisade. When this happened they lost morale and scattered: after that it was an easy matter for the King’s footsoldiers to pick them off as they tried to flee through the hills.
In a last desperate attempt to inflict casualties ahead of a possible siege of the castle, Jord had ordered the archers on the walls to fire at will on friend and foe alike. But even this had not been not enough to turn the tide, for the Wolding knights and the Efrilunders, making light work of the remnants of Thule’s foot, soon joined their efforts to bringing down the remainder of his knights. Few of the latter survived to be executed. Lord Magnus, the last of the rebel barons, perished with his knights, the former being feathered by shafts fired at Jord’s command.
The slaughter done, the King’s Army had withdrawn beyond range of the castle bowmen to take counsel.
Now it was simply a matter of deciding who to send to the parley with Jord. They were busy discussing this when a messenger burst into the tent.
‘Your Majesty, they’re waving the flag of surrender!’ he blurted, taking a knee.
The assembled worthies exchanged suspicious glances at this. Jord was known to be a staunch knight, even if he was a traitor. Surrendering before discussing terms while he still held the castle seemed unlikely.
Exiting the tent to a man they soon saw the truth of the messenger’s words. From atop the castle ramparts a broad white cloth could be seen waving.
‘Surely not without a parley first!’ exclaimed Lord Toros, raising an eyebrow. Though the war was lost, Jord could with just a few hundred men and ample provision hold a stout castle like Salmor for weeks, perhaps even months.
‘It may be a trick,’ said Visigard. ‘To lure us into range and pick us off again.’
Lord Aesgir shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Jord is no fool, this madcap business aside. He knows his future survival depends on us one way or another – he won’t survive a siege forever. Surrendering immediately is odd, however.’
‘Well we won’t learn the truth of it by standing here debating uselessly,’ rumbled the King. ‘Horskram – you shall go with the contingent of parley, in case our friend the Sea Wizard tries anything. This could be one of his ploys, methinks.’
Horskram nodded his assent. ‘You’re coming with me, Adelko,’ he said, turning to his novice. ‘Seeing as you’ve already proved to be so observant where pagan sorcery is concerned, you might prove useful again.’
Adelko swallowed and said nothing. He didn’t fancy war would improve as a spectacle within bowshot range.
They soon had the answer to their puzzle. As they moved forward cautiously they could see something else besides the white flag mounting the battlements. Two heads atop spikes. As they drew closer they saw the archers leaning on their bows. Before them stood a mail-clad warrior – no knight, but a grizzled serjeant.
‘The battle for Salmor has been won by the King,’ declared the herald in charge of the contingent. ‘We are here to accept your surrender. Where is your commander?’
‘That’d be me, sire,’ replied the serjeant, his greasy hair blowing in the wind. ‘We’ve put paid to the marshal here’ – he indicated the nearest severed head – ‘and his bastard grandson. There’s no more high-born folk left in the castle, save the ones on your side. The rest of us is just common soldiers, wot was obeying orders. We don’t want no trouble, we just want to go home to our families.’
The herald blinked. ‘You executed Jord and his grandson? That was ill done – the lad could have been no more than fourteen summers.’
‘We don’t want no more trouble,’ repeated the frightened serjeant. ‘Jord was for fighting on, y’see – said he’d sooner go down with a sword in his hand than surrender to the King. Would’ve made us all fight with ‘im – his grandson too. Said everything he’d done, he’d done it for him.’
‘I see,’ answered the herald. ‘And what are your terms of surrender?’
&nbs
p; ‘We want the King’s pledge that all common soldiers wot served Thule will be free to go. We’ll disarm of course – we just want to go home.’
‘And that is the extent of your terms?’ inquired the herald.
‘That’s right, sire,’ replied the serjeant.
The herald seemed about to accept this and go but Horskram whispered something to him. Turning back to the serjeant he asked: ‘And where is the Northland priest men call the Sea Wizard?’
‘Gone,’ replied the serjeant. ‘We tried to get ‘im too, but when we smashed down the doors to his chamber there was nothing – just his odds and sods, a load of queer-looking things that none of the men rightly wanted to touch. We searched the whole castle for him – he’s vanished, ain’t no one seen sight nor sound of him since he barred himself in his room when the battle turned against us.’
The sortie retired to relay its findings to the King. The terms were agreed – in spite of much protestation from many of the knights including Wolmar, who said it was a travesty to let the killing of two nobles by common soldiers go unpunished.
Freidheim shouted them all down. ‘A common soldier or archer kills a noble knight on the field of battle, no one bats an eyelid,’ he growled. ‘And I’d only have had to hang the pair of them as traitors anyway. No, these men have saved me another ugly job. I’ve a good mind to recruit them – we’ll be needing every sword we can get to hold the new lands of the King’s Dominions.’
Adelko and Horskram sat down to a bowl of beef stew long after dusk. The garrison had given up the castle and consented to be disarmed, Salmor and his knights freed from the dungeons. As night drew in a wave of euphoria spread through the loyalist army camp; casks of wine and ale were breached and meat was roasted over fires.
The monks had spent the rest of the day joining the perfects giving the Last Rites to the hundreds of dead and dying. Sir Tarlquist was among them. His corpse had been found, an arrow protruding from his back and the front of his skull smashed open, leaving a bloody ruin where his face had been. He was only recognisable by a signet ring he wore.