The Red Knight (25 page)

‘Becca!’ cried the Queen in delight. As the others rode up, she kissed her secretary. ‘You are riding more for your hillman?’

‘Yes,’ she said modestly.

The Queen beamed at her.

‘Are you the Queen, or has some wild hussy stolen the Queen’s horse?’ said a voice from inside the gate, and Diota emerged. ‘Put your hair up,
my lady.’
And
put some decent clothes on.’

The Queen rolled her eyes.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

The Red Knight drank off a cup of wine from the saddle. He handed the cup down to Toby.

‘Listen up, messires,’ he said. ‘Gelfred – we have to assume their camp is between us and Albinkirk.’

Gelfred looked around. ‘Because we didn’t come across it last night, you mean?’

The captain nodded. ‘Exactly. Let’s look at this for a moment. The farm that was hit was east of the fortress.’

Ser Jehannes shrugged. ‘You found the dead Jack west of here, though. And it stands to reason he was returning to camp.’

The captain looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Bad Tom leaned in. ‘Can’t be south. They can’t be across the river.’

‘West and north, I’m thinking,’ said Gelfred. ‘I’m sensing there’s a high ridge that way, that runs parallel to the ridge that the fortress is on.’

‘This could take days,’ Ser Jehannes said.

The captain seemed to glow with vitality, an impossible feat for a man who had fought two monsters in three days.

‘Messires,’ he said, ‘This is what we do. All the men-at-arms in the centre, in one group. Pages will ride ahead, ten horse lengths between men. We will stop whenever I
whistle, and dismount. And
listen.
The archers will follow well to the rear, also in a long skirmish line. In the event of a fight, the archers will close on the battle and the men-at-arms
will remain under my command. Because we are
not
going out to fight. We are going out to find evidence of a force of the Wild mustering. The only occasion to fight will be to rescue one of
our scouting parties.’ His voice was clipped, professional, and had the self-assurance of a prince. Even Jehannes had to admit his plan was correct.

‘Gelfred, when we locate their camp, we will make a brief demonstration.’ He grinned. ‘To occupy their attention.’ He winked at Cuddy, who nodded.

‘I’m thinking you mean an archery demonstration,’ he said.

The captain nodded and continued. ‘You and your men will conceal yourselves nearby and report what happens when we leave. We will withdraw due east, and come down into the Vale of the
Cohocton. If there is pursuit, they will have the sun in their eyes. ‘ The captain looked at Cuddy. ‘If we are pursued—’

‘I dismount the lads and ambush your pursuers. If I ain’t been hit myself.’ He nodded. ‘I know the game.’

The captain clapped his armoured shoulder. ‘Everyone see it?’

His squire, Michael, was pale. ‘We’re going out into the woods, looking for an army of creatures of the Wild?’ he asked.

The Red Knight smiled. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

As their leader turned his war horse and raised his baton to give an order, Jehannes turned to Tom. ‘He’s drunk.’

‘Nah. He’s a loon, like I am. He wants a fight. Give him his head.’ Tom grinned.

‘He’s drunk!’ Jehannes repeated.

Ser Milus shook his head. ‘Only on love,’ he said.

Jehannes spat. ‘Worse and worse.’

They rode west first, and the road was very familiar. As soon as they reached the edge of the woods, the pages split off, riding ahead, their skirmish line widening and
widening to the north. The men-at-arms turned into the woods behind them in a compact mass, and then came the archers. Gelfred rode with the captain, and his scouts were nowhere to be seen.

After enough time to terrify most of the pages, who rode in fear of imminent ambush by unimaginable monsters, the captain’s whistle rang out.

Every man reined in his horse and slipped to the ground.

They were still for a long time.

The captain’s whistle sounded again, two long blasts.

They mounted and rode forward. It was late afternoon. The sky had patches of blue, and a man could be warm from the sun, the weight of his harness, and his nerves.

Or cold, from the same causes.

Men tire quickly when they are scared. A patrol in hostile terrain is the most tiring thing a soldier can do short of violence. The captain blew his whistle each time he had completed a silent
count to fifteen hundred. Stopping gave his men a rest.

The sun began to slant more, and the light grew redder. The sky to the west was clear.

They began to climb Gelfred’s ridge, and the tension began to grow.

About halfway up the ridge, the captain’s whistle sounded, and the company dismounted.

The captain motioned to Michael, who stood at his shoulder.

‘Whistle: horseholders.’

Michael nodded. He took off his right gauntlet, picked up the silver whistle on the cord around his neck, and blew three long and three short notes. After a pause, he blew the same call
again.

All around them, men-at-arms handed their horses to squires. Behind them, at the base of the hill, every sixth archer took the horses of his mates and led them to the rear.

The captain watched it all, wondering if the pages, who he couldn’t see, were also obeying.

He could
feel
the enemy. He could smell the green of the Wild. He listened, and he could almost hear them. Idly, he wondered why Amicia smelled like the Wild.

There was a distant trumpeting noise, like the belling of a hart.

‘Jehannes, you have the men-at-arms. I’m going to take command of the pages. Michael, on me.’ He handed his reins to Toby and started up the hill. His harness was almost
silent, and he moved fast enough to leave Jehannes’s protests behind.

Bad Tom stepped out and followed him.

The hill was steep, and the pages were two hundred paces further up the ridge. He breathed in relief when he saw them – too clumped up, but all dismounted, and he passed a boy of fifteen
with six horses headed down the hill.

Climbing a steep ridge in armour reminded him of just how little sleep he’d had since the first fight, against the wyvern, but through his fatigue he could still feel the place on his
fingers where Amicia had touched him.

Michael and Tom had trouble keeping up with him.

He reached the pages. Jacques had them spreading out already. He smiled at the captain.

‘Nice job,’ he whispered.

‘We’re going to the top, I take it?’ asked Jacques.

The captain looked right and left. ‘Yes,’ he said. He motioned to Michael, who gave one whistle blast.

The pages were lightly armed. They weren’t woodsmen, but they slipped up the hill like ghosts, at a pace that left the captain breathless. The hill steepened and steepened as they climbed,
until the very top was almost sheer, and the pages hauled themselves up from tree to tree.

There was a scream, a wicked hiss of arrows, a boy of no more than sixteen roared, ‘For God and Saint George!’ and there was the unmistakable sound of steel on steel.

An arrow, nearly spent, rang off the captain’s helmet.

Suddenly, he had the spirit to run to the crest of the hill. The trees were dense, and branches reached for him, but a man in armour can run through a thicket of thorns and not take a scratch.
He grabbed a slim oak, pulled with all his strength, and found himself at the top.

There was a small hollow, with a fire hidden by the bulk of the hill, and a dozen men.

Not men.

Irks.

Like men, but thinner and faster, with brown-green skin like bark, almond eyes and pointed teeth like wolves. Even as the captain stopped in surprise, an arrow rang off his breastplate and a
dozen pages burst from the trees to the right of the irks around the fire and charged.

The captain lowered his head and ran at the irks, too.

They loosed arrows and fled away north, and the pages gave chase.

The captain stopped and opened his visor. Michael appeared at his side, sword out, buckler on his left hand. He could smell woodsmoke, lots of woodsmoke.

‘We’ve found them!’ Michael said.

‘No. A dozen irks is not an army of darkness,’ said the captain. He looked at the sky.

Tom came up behind him.

‘Tom? We have an hour of good light. The pages are running down their sentries.’ He looked at the veteran man-at-arms. He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know all that much
about fighting the Wild,’ he admitted. ‘My instinct is to keep going forward.’

Tom nodded. ‘It’s the Wild,’ he said. ‘They never have a reserve. Yon won’t have anything like a quarter guard.’ He shrugged.

The captain knew the decision they made now was pivotal. Any losses out here didn’t bear thinking about. Caution would dictate—

He thought of her touch on his hand. Her admiration.

He turned to Michael. ‘Tell the archers to prepare an ambush half a league back. men-at-arms to guard the horses at the base of the ridge. This is the pages only. Understand?’

Michael nodded. ‘I want to come with you.’

‘No. Give me your whistle. Now move! Tom, with me.’

They ran down the northern side of the ridge, toward the sound of screams and fighting.

Later, the captain admitted that he’d let the pages get too far ahead of him. The deep woods and fading light made it almost impossible to maintain communications.

He ran down the ridge with Tom beside him, crashing recklessly through thickets. He all but fell into a steep-sided vale; a small stream that cut deeply into the side of the ridge. It was easier
to go east, so he followed it, passing three corpses – all irks.

At the base of the ridge, with his breath coming in great shuddering gasps, there was a shallow stream and, on the far side, a path. And along the path—

Tents. But no pages.

There were fifty men, most of them stringing bows.

The captain stopped. He’d made enough noise coming down the ridge to catch their attention but with the sun at his back, despite his armour, they were easier for him to see than he was for
them.

Tom and Jacques and a dozen pages who had followed them down the hill slipped in behind old trees. There were screams off to the west – screams and something else.

‘Fucking Jacks,’ Jacques said.

The men across the stream turned, almost as one. A small horde of boglins and irks bolted down the path from the west. It was odd to see the monsters of myth running.

The Jacks began to shuffle.

Several of them drew their great bows and shot west.

The captain looked around. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘Make a
lot
of noise.’

They all looked at him.

‘One. Two. Three.’ He broke cover, and bellowed ‘THE RED KNIGHT!’ The effect was electric. The captain was south of and slightly behind the line of Jacks, and they had to
look over their shoulders to see him. Immediately, men began to flee with the boglins and the irks.

The pages behind him roared his battlecry, and Bad Tom roared his – ‘Lachlan for Aa!’

There are different types of soldier. Some men are trained to stand under fire, waiting for their turn to inflict death. Others are like hunters, slipping from cover to cover.

The Jacks were not of a mind to stand and fight. It wasn’t their way. One arrow, launched from a mighty bow, slammed into the captain’s scarlet surcote, punched through it, and left
a dent a finger deep and bruised him like a kick from a mule. And then the Jacks were gone.

The captain grabbed Bad Tom by the shoulder. ‘Stop!’ he roared.

Tom’s eyes were wild. ‘I have nae’ wet my sword!’ he shouted.

The captain kept a hand on him, like a man calming a favourite dog. He blew the recall on the whistle – three long blasts, and then three more, and then three more.

The pages stopped. Many wiped their swords on dead things, and all of them drank from their water bottles.

From the east came a long scream. It was an alien sound, and it sobered them.

‘Up and over the ridge. Straight back the way we came, tight and orderly. Now.’ The captain pointed his sword up the ridge. ‘Stay by the stream!’ he called.

Now there was a baying and roaring in the woods to the east. Roaring, infernal screams, and something else, something that was huge and terrible and fell, and as tall as the trees.

He turned to run up the ridge.

Tom was still at his shoulder. ‘I have nae killed a one!’ he said. ‘Just let me kill one!’

Suiting action to word, Tom turned as a gout of green fire smashed into the ground, not two horselengths from Tom’s outstretched sword. It exploded with a roar and suddenly the very stones
seemed to be on fire.

Tom smiled and raised his sword.

‘Tom!’ the captain screamed. ‘This is not the time!’

Boglins and irks were crossing the stream at the foot of the ridge, led by a golden bear, as tall as a war horse and shining gold like the sun. When it roared, its voice filled the woods like a
storm wind.

‘What the
fuck
is that?’ asked Tom. ‘By god, I want a cut at that!’

The captain pulled hard at the hillman’s arm. ‘With me!’ he ordered, and ran.

Grudgingly, Tom turned and followed him.

They made the top of the ridge. The bear was not charging them, it seemed content to lead the boglins and the irks. But behind them came something far worse. And much larger.

The pages had waited for the captain a little way down the ridge, in itself an act of fine discipline and bravery. But as soon as he caught them up, they turned and ran for the base and their
horses.

The captain could barely move his steel clad feet, and never had leg armour seemed so pointless, so heavy, as it did when the first of the enemy began to crest the hill behind him. They were
close.

West of Lissen Carak – Thorn

Thorn’s initial reaction to the assault on his camp was panic. It took him long minutes to recover from the shock and when he did, the sheer effrontery of it filled him
with an irrational rage. As he reached out through his creatures, he was shocked to find how pitiful and few were his human attackers. A few dozen of them, and they had sent his Jacks running down
the path, broken fifty irks, and killed an outpost of boglins who were caught napping after a feed.