Authors: Miles Cameron
The Red Knight sat on his charger, surveying the end. He had only just discovered that Ser Jehan was dead. And John le Bailli.
Ser Gavin caught his stirrup. ‘There goes the bastard,’ he said, pointing at a golden helm and a white horse, vanishing to the south.
The Red Knight let a moment’s rage guide him. ‘Let’s get him,’ he said.
‘I’m your man,’ Gavin said. He hobbled back into the press of horses and pages behind the fighting line.
To the left and right, the beaten Moreans had slumped down. Most simply sat in the mud and blood. The company weren’t doing much better. Half of them were on one knee, or bent double.
Ser Alcaeus dragged himself from the right of the line. ‘You
must
finish Demetrius,’ he said. ‘This isn’t done until that imp is dead.’ He looked around. ‘Thrakians are stubborn, brave men. And we need them.’
The Red Knight looked down at the Morean knight. ‘I know,’ he said.
Better than you.
Alcaeus grabbed his horse, and Dmitry, his squire, mounted his. Their horses were fresh; it was the men who were exhausted from forty minutes of fighting.
The Red Knight bent low in the saddle to Ser Michael, who was insisting he would come.
‘Shut up,’ the Duke said. ‘I need you to stay right here and prevent a massacre. We need every one of these stiff-necked bastards. Right? Don’t let Wilful and Long Paw decide to “make anything right” for Bent. Got me?’
Michael nodded.
‘And get a messenger to Gelfred and the scouts and tell them to get their arses back here.’ The Red Knight looked at his brother. Father Arnaud was there, getting a leg over his own jet-black charger.
‘Father, fetch Mag. And Father—’
‘I know,’ Arnaud said heavily.
‘She has to be told.’ For once, the Red Knight looked young; very young, and not very happy. ‘Why does your God allow all this shit, Father?’
The priest’s eyes travelled over the line of dead that marked the high-water mark of the Thrakian charge. ‘Because we have free will,’ he said. ‘The shit is ours, not His. I’ll tell Mag.’
The Red Knight raised an eyebrow. His mouth opened but his brother leaned over and smacked him in the side with the pommel of his dagger. His mouth closed, and then he reached out to the priest, steel gauntlet to steel gauntlet. ‘Thanks. I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
There were a dozen of them when they rode. Ser Alcaeus and his squire Dmitry, Ser Gavin, Toby, Long Paw, Nell, Ser Milus, Ser Besancon, Kelvin Ewald and three pages who had their horses handy and were fresh. Plus one of the Lanthorn boys, and two Morean recruits.
It was a very small army.
Every one of them took two horses, and they took the time to fetch water and food, and most of them were eating cheese or sausage when they trotted out of the battle line, headed south.
They alternated between a fast trot and a canter while the sun set. No one said anything.
Ten miles south of the battlefield, they dismounted while Long Paw looked at a dead horse in the road. It wasn’t dark; March in Morea was almost like late spring in Alba, and the red sun threw long shadows. To the west, they could see the broken remnants of the Thrakian left wing being pursued by the Vardariotes, who clearly had not received an order to stop killing.
The Red Knight watched wearily, and sent Ser Bescanon with the two Morean pages as interpreters.
‘I would rather go with you, my lord,’ Bescanon said.
‘Well. I’d rather go drink with the Vardariotes and stop the killing, so we’re even,’ said the Duke.
Long Paw scratched under his chin. ‘They’re an hour ahead of us, and riding harder. Galloping, I’d say.’
Ser Gavin nodded. ‘If he makes Eves, he’ll be a tough nut to crack, and we don’t have the men.’
The Red Knight nodded. ‘Nothing for it,’ he said. And pressed his horse to a heavy gallop.
They changed horses with nothing left of daylight but a red streak in the western sky, so that the spikes and peaks of the highest Adnacrags showed black against it. They galloped on. They could see the acropolis of Eves rising ahead of them, and they could see the black spots of a dozen horsemen riding along the road.
They dashed on, thundering down the road, until the very last light was leaching out of the sky and it was clear that Demetrius’s party would make Eves.
And then the Duke reined in.
He rose in his stirrups, and his left hand flashed out. ‘
Ignem veni mittere in terram
,’ he shouted, and a line of fire rose a mile away.
‘Jesu!’ Gavin said.
‘Not exactly,’ his brother responded. And pressed his spurs to his horse’s side.
They galloped over the darkening fields, and the men they were chasing, trapped on the road by the high walls and the tower of flame, finally turned at bay. There were twenty of them, all professional soldiers. They were in a mix of armour, although they all wore the golden leopard badge of Demetrius. They had ridden away from the flame, which burned like hell come to earth.
Demetrius, in his golden helmet, mounted on his white charger, looked like an angel. But the fire burned too red, and it made him a fallen angel – a rebel. He was in front, and he halted his horse fifty yards from the Red Knight’s horse, which was breathing like it was about to founder.
‘Warhorse,’ the Red Knight said, softly.
Nell brought his horse forward.
He dismounted. ‘Single combat,’ he shouted. ‘You and I can fight for this, Demetrius.’
‘I think I’ll just surrender and see what my cousin Irene decides,’ Demetrius said. ‘Or perhaps my guards will take you and your friends. Wouldn’t that be a nice reversal of fortune?’
The Red Knight got a foot into the stirrup of his great black charger and pushed with all his might to get himself into the saddle. He failed, and almost fell. But his horse stayed still.
He sighed. ‘Look at the pillar of fire that burns at your back, Demetrius. And ask yourself if you can take me – me and my friends?’
‘I accept your point,’ Demetrius said, his cultured voice light, like a comic actor’s. ‘I’ll render myself your prisoner.’
The Red Knight tried to mount again. His left thigh apparently wasn’t doing the job. His armour weighed down like the world on the shoulders of Atlas.
Demetrius laughed. ‘Maybe I should fight. I hear you are very good, but you look tired.’
Suddenly, he slammed his visor down, put his lance into its rest and his horse leaped into a gallop. From fifty yards away. A warhorse takes ten seconds to run fifty yards.
The Red Knight leaped, and Nell shoved her shoulder under his left cuisse and pushed. He almost fell, but he righted himself.
Eight.
He got his feet into the stirrups.
Six.
Slammed his spurs into his charger’s sides and reached for his sword.
Five.
Grasped the sword as the warhorse exploded into motion—
Three.
Demetrius’s lance tip danced in the firelight, but the man was backlit, wearing golden armour, glowing like a creature of hell or one of the old gods, and the Red Knight’s draw flicked out—
One—
He cut up into the lance, his sword arm lifting, point dropping so that the lance tip slipped past his shieldless side. Then he reversed the blade, with the full power of his right shoulder, and backhanded the red-enamelled pommel into Demetrius’s visor, hooking the pommel on the other man’s neck and lifting him over the back of his saddle so that he crashed to earth.
He reined in, only a few paces from Demetrius’s men. It was hard to see their faces in the unsealy light, so he backed his horse before turning. But none of them came for him.
He trotted down the road until he came to Demetrius, who was on his hands and knees. He dismounted and walked over to the young man, who was pulling at his aventail, trying desperately to take a full breath through a partially crushed larynx.
The young Count got his helmet free and gasped in a lungful of air. And saw the Red Knight.
‘I yield,’ he whined, and held out his blade.
The Red Knight had his sword point down, a relaxed grip called
Tutta porta di ferro.
‘No,’ he said, and cut.
Demetrius’s head hit the ground at the same moment as his body, but they were no longer together.
Far to the north, the Black Knight stood with two of his squires and Master de Marche under the flapping hearts and lilies of Galle. By careful pre-arrangement, they stood on an island in the midst of the Great River. There was still snow on the grass, and the late winter sun shone fitfully on it.
‘He won’t come,’ de Marche said. He regretted that he had become the Black Knight’s naysayer. It wasn’t a role he relished.
Ser Hartmut Li Orguelleus nodded. ‘It was worth a trip here to find out.’
He raised a gauntleted hand. ‘Ah! But there he is, messires.’
On the northern shore, a company came into view. They carried four slim boats, and in moments they had them in the water.
It took them the better part of an hour to paddle across. The Great River was feeling the first of the thaws. She was great with water.
De Marche watched Ser Hartmut. The man did move – but it was glacial, and he never seemed to lock a joint. Or tire. De Marche felt the weight of his harness everywhere – his ankles hurt the more he thought about them.
Ser Hartmut merely stood.
Eventually, three of the boats landed, disgorging a hand of slovenly warriors in rusted maille and a handsome young man in what appeared to be hand-me-down armour. His bow was courtly.
Ser Hartmut opened his visor. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
The young man rose from his bow. ‘You are the Black Knight, I wager. My master has sent me to ask you if you wish to take Ticondaga.’
‘I will take it,’ Ser Hartmut said.
Suddenly, Speaker was there – cloaked in black, with a tree branch through his midsection and a smell of rot. His once-handsome features were now unmoving. In fact, the body was dead.
Under the body, Thorn was not dead.
‘This young man is the rightful heir of the Earldom of the Northwall,’ Thorn said. He meant the voice to sound pleasant, but he was out of practice and his puppet’s lungs were dead. Flies emerged when he spoke. His puppet emitted a foul reek and a croak.
De Marche retched. And translated.
Ser Hartmut shrugged. ‘You are a necromancer,’ he said.
Thorn’s corpse made no movement.
‘What do you want?’ Ser Hartmut asked. It was like dealing with Satan himself and a host of his fallen angels, but Ser Hartmut had not come to be called the Knight of Ill Renown without supping with various devils. He’d even allied with other necromancers. He knew the smell.
He knew other things that made a slight smile cross his lips.
Thorn was not, and had never been, a fool. He watched the reactions of the men to his puppet – and cast it aside. He’d been careless, and let the body die. He dropped it, seized one of the slovenly warriors and took him.
The new host was tall and thin. He had never been handsome – his face was too ferret-like – but everything worked.
‘There, that will be better,’ Thorn said. ‘I want an ally in the north. I want the Wild left unmolested by men – all men. Immediately, I will aid in the capture of Ticondaga in exchange for free passage south past its defences and the use of its deep cellars as a source of supply for my army.’
‘Your army?’ Ser Hartmut asked.
‘I will summon the Wild, and it will come. A host of boggles like this world has never seen. An ocean of silkies on the water. Wyverns and Wardens and irks and trolls and things no man can yet imagine.’ Thorn spread his arms. ‘I will bring down fire from on high.’
Ser Hartmut rubbed the ends of his moustache with his fingers. ‘How will you transport this army?’
Thorn shrugged and enjoyed the act of shrugging. ‘My captain will take care of the details.’ He indicated the young man.
Ser Hartmut nodded. ‘On what will you swear?’
Thorn massaged his memory until his puppet produced a lopsided grin. ‘My name.’
‘On these terms, I am willing to make alliance.’ Ser Hartmut turned to de Marche, who was doing his best to maintain a blank expression.
‘One last thing,’ Thorn said. Ser Hartmut reminded him of all the things he disliked about men, especially fighting men.
Ser Hartmut raised an eyebrow. Inside a bassinet, it was still an expressive gesture.
‘I get Ghause. And all the Murienses are to be killed, without exception.’ Thorn’s voice was like adamant.
Hartmut bowed. ‘It pleases me to say I don’t even know who Ghause is. And the Murienses—’ He snapped his fingers.
More than two hundred leagues as the eagle flies, to the east, Mag was
working.
So was Morgon Mortirmir, and the Red Knight, and every other man or woman who could harness
potentia
and transmit it to those who could heal. The barn stank of shit and blood, and as soon as men were bound up, bones were reknit, or intestines closed – or as soon as their eyes closed on the pain for ever – they were carried to cleaner places.
Not all of the work was hermetical, far from it. Even with Amicia’s support from far off South Ford, even with every scrap of training and working they could muster, much of the blood was cleaned by men and women with their hands. The Yahadut, Yosef ben Mar Chiyya, worked until he fell asleep, rose, and worked again, always carefully using his medical skills to augment his hermetical mastery.
He was not the only practitioner who worked also in the real.
Father Arnaud had not stopped working for three days. And as Mortirmir shook his head over the pile of entrails that had once been a man’s digestive tract, and let the man’s soul slip away; as Mag sat like a marionette with her strings cut, beyond tears for her love or for any of the boys who were dying in desperate hope as they looked into her eye; as the Red Knight realised that he had struck an absolute wall to his
potentia
, and could do nothing more, he looked up, and saw Father Arnaud bent over Wastewater Will, a boy whose only wound was a simple slash to the leg. It was a slash that had occurred in a barn yard, gone septic, and now would cost the boy his life.