Authors: Miles Cameron
‘What is it?’ he asked, fumbling for the hooks and eyes that would open the flap.
‘No idea. But you had better see it.’ Guilbert’s urgency was carried fluently.
Random was out of the tent in another few heartbeats.
They were camped in a narrow meadow on the banks of the Albin, and the great river was in full flood, running fast and deep and almost silent, the black water sullen in the damp night air.
They’d been hit by rain squalls again and again all day, and men and animals were still as wet and as sullen as the water.
Far off, north-east, the first crags of the mountains should have been visible, but low clouds drifted right over them, obscuring them for minutes at a time and then clearing just as rapidly,
keeping the grass and the trees full of water.
As the next low cloud passed by, the Adnacrag Mountains loomed even in the darkness. Random thought that they might make the fortress town of Albinkirk in four more days. It was not the distance
but the condition of the road at this time of year which delayed them. The river road, with its stone bridges and deep stone foundations built by the Archaics, was the only one a sane man would
travel with heavy wagons. Every other road was fetlock deep in mud. But all the same, it was not easy.
There was an orange glow to the north.
‘Just watch,’ Guilbert said.
After six days on the road Random had the warrant-man’s measure – careful, cautious, and thorough. Perhaps not the man for a deed of daring, but just the sort of man to work a
convoy. The guard posts were always manned and constantly checked.
Whatever he was trying to show the merchant, it was important.
Random watched a flicker – was it more than that? North-west, towards the fair. Perhaps – but they were too far for the fair to be visible. It was fifty leagues away or more –
they were not yet to Albinkirk.
‘There!’ said the mercenary.
There was, just for a moment, a pinpoint of light that burned like a star above the glow of Albinkirk.
Random shrugged. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.
Guilbert nodded, clearly unhappy about it.
‘I’m for bed, then,’ Random said. ‘Wake me if we’re attacked,’ he added. He wished, later, that he hadn’t been quite so snappish.
Lissen Carak – Mag the Seamstress
Mag the seamstress sat on a barrel, staying out of the way. The day had passed well enough – she’d helped Lis wash shirts and been paid in solid coin for her work;
had remembered her skills at avoiding pinching fingers, or delivering a slap where it was needed. The mercenaries were like nothing she’d ever seen – aggressive beyond anything a town
of peasants had to offer.
She knew that, had the circumstances differed, they’d have killed her sheep, taken her chickens, her silver, and probably raped and killed her as well. These were hard men – bad
men.
But they shared their wine and danced in the evening, and she had a hard time seeing them for what they probably were. Thieves and murderers. Because the Abbess said the Wild was going to attack
them, and these men were all they had as defenders, and Mag thought . . .
Whatever she thought, she must have drifted off after the flashes in the sky. And suddenly they came out of the darkness in blackened armour, led by Thomas, who she now knew was Ser Thomas,
riding hard on a destrier covered in sweat; six men-at-arms, twenty archers and some armed valets, all galloping up the twisting road and through the gate almost at her feet.
Bad Tom was the first off his horse, and he bent his knee to the captain. ‘Just as you said,’ he panted. ‘We
fucked
’em.’ He rose stiffly.
The captain embraced the bigger man. ‘Go get your harness off and get a drink,’ he said. ‘With my thanks, Tom. Well done.’
‘And who’s gonna take the lamp-black off my mail?’ complained one of the archers – the one with dead eyes. He looked up, and his terrifying eyes found her unerringly with
their promise of violence.
He grinned at her. The other men called him Will, and she’d learned it stood for Wilful Murder, of which he had apparently been convicted.
She flinched.
‘How was it?’ asked the captain.
Thomas laughed his huge laugh. ‘Gorgeous, Cap’n!’ he said, and swung down.
The other men laughed, a little wildly, as Mag knew men she knew that Thomas was really laughing, and the others had endured something sharp and horrible.
They’d survived it, and triumphed.
The captain embraced the big man again, and shook his hand. He went among the archers, helping them dismount and giving each his hand, and Mag saw the Abbess was right next to him and that she
was
blessing
them.
She clapped her hands and just managed not to laugh.
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
As evening fell, Desiderata watched the foreign knight with the pleasure of a connoisseur for a true artist. He was tall – a head taller than every other man in the great
hall – and he moved with a grace that God only bestowed on women and exceptional athletes. His face was like that of a saint – bright gold hair and sculpted features that were not
quite
too fine for a man. His red jupon fitted to perfection, his white hose were silk, not wool, and the wide belt of gold plaques on his slim hips was a mute testament to riches,
privilege, and bodily power.
He bowed deeply before the king, sinking all the way to one knee with graceful courtesy.
‘My lord King, may I present the noble Jean de Vrailley, Captal de Ruth, and his cousin Gaston D’Albret, Sieur D’Eu.’ The herald proceeded to name their coats of arms and
their heraldic achievements.
Desiderata already knew the foreign knight’s achievements.
She watched his eyes, and he watched the king.
The king scratched his beard. ‘It is a long way from the
Grand Pays
,’ he said. ‘Is all of Galle at peace, that you can bring so many knights to my lands?’ He said
the words easily, and yet his eyes were hard and his face blank.
De Vrailly remained on one knee. ‘An angel commanded me to come and serve you,’ he said.
His sponsor, the Earl of Towbray, turned sharply.
Desiderata extended her sense – her warmth, as she thought of it – towards him, and the foreign knight burned like the sun.
She inhaled, as if to inhale his warmth, and the king glanced at her.
‘An angel of God?’ the king asked. He leaned forward.
‘Is there another kind?’ de Vrailly asked.
Desiderata had never heard a man speak with such simple arrogance. It
hurt
her, like a physical blemish on a beautiful flower. And yet, like many blemishes, it had its own
fascination.
The king nodded. ‘How do you intend to serve me, Ser Knight?’ he asked.
‘By fighting,’ de Vrailly said. ‘By making unrelenting war upon your enemies. The Wild. Or any men who oppose you.’
The king scratched his beard.
‘An angel of God told you to come and kill my enemies?’ he asked. Desiderata thought the knight spoke with irony but she couldn’t be sure. De Vrailly blinded her in some
strange way. He filled the room.
She closed her eyes and she could still sense him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
The king shook his head. ‘Then who am I to deny you,’ he said. ‘And yet I sense that you, in turn, desire something of me?’
De Vrailly laughed, and the sweet musical sound of it filled the room. ‘Of course! I would be your heir in exchange, and this kingdom shall, after you, be my own.’
The earl staggered as if he had been struck.
The king shook his head. ‘Then, angel or no, I think it would be best if you went back to Galle,’ he said. ‘My wife will bear me an heir of my body, or I will appoint my own
choice.’
‘Of course!’ de Vrailly said. ‘But of course, my king!’ He nodded, his eyes shining. ‘But I will prove myself and become your choice. I will serve you, and you will
see that there is no one like me.’
‘And you know this because an angel told you.’
‘Yes,’ said Jean de Vrailly. ‘And I offer to prove it on the body of any man you send against me, on horse or foot, with any weapon you care to name.’
His challenge, delivered in his sweet angelic voice from the bended knee of the suppliant, had all the authority of a decree. Men flinched from it.
The king nodded, as if satisfied.
‘Then I look forward to placing my lance against yours,’ he said. ‘But not as a challenge to your angel. Merely for the pleasure of the thing.’
Desiderata saw the perfect knight exchange a glance with his cousin. And she had no idea what thought they shared, but they were pleased. Pleased with themselves, and perhaps pleased with the
king. It warmed her, so she smiled.
Gaston, the Sieur D’Eu, smiled back at her, but the golden de Vrailly, never took his eyes from the king. ‘I should love to match lances with you, sire,’ he said.
‘Well, not tonight. It’s too dark. Perhaps tomorrow.’ The king looked at the Earl of Towbray and nodded. ‘I thank you for bringing me this splendid man. I hope I have the
revenue to keep him and his army!’
The earl chewed his moustache for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘My pleasure, your Majesty,’ he replied.
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
‘God be with you,’ The Abbess said quietly, laying her hands on Wilful Murder’s head, and he flinched.
She caught the captain’s eye as the narrow gateway began to clear.
‘Any pursuit?’ he asked Ser George Brewes, the rear file leader – a man ready to be a corporal. One of Jehannes’ cronies, not one of Tom’s. Still waiting in the
gate, aware it was open, eyes on the darkness outside.
Brewes shrugged. ‘How would I know?’ he asked. But he relented. ‘I wouldn’t think it.’ He shook his head. ‘We lit ten farms’ worth of the woods, and
sent the fire downwind right at their camp.’
‘How many Jacks?’ the captain asked.
‘At least a hundred. Maybe thrice that – there’s no proper counting in the dark, ser.’ Brewes shrugged. ‘M’lord,’ he added, as an afterthought.
A pair of valets and an archer came up and began to winch the main gate shut.
‘Ware!’ shouted a voice from the highest tower, the one over the nuns’ dormitory, and the captain heard the unmistakable sound of a crossbow snapping off a shot.
Something passed over the moon.
Thankfully every man was on the walls and alert, or it might have been worse when the wyvern came down into the courtyard on wings a dozen ells wide, and its claws wreaked ruin among the
unarmoured dancers and singers and merry-makers, but before the screams started it sprouted a dozen bolts, and it raised its head and screeched a long cry of anger and pain, and leapt back into the
air.
The captain saw Michael, unarmoured, hurdle a pair of corpses and draw his heavy dagger, flinging himself at the wyvern’s back as it lifted into the air. Its tail flicked – and
slammed full force into the squire’s hip. Michael screamed in pain and was thrown a horse’s length to the stone.
The Red Knight didn’t waste the time provided by his squire. He was down from the gatehouse, sword in gloved hand, before Michael’s scream had echoed off the stable walls and the
chapel.
The wyvern whirled to finish the squire, and Bad Tom stepped between the monster and its prey. The big man had a long, heavy spear in hand, and he attacked, thrusting for the thing’s head.
It was fast – but its sinuous neck served the creature as a man’s torso serves a man, and when it flicked its head to avoid the spear, it could neither strike nor rise into the air
until it had its balance back.
Bad Tom stepped in closer, shortened his grip on the spear and struck hard, thrusting the spear brutally into the thing’s chest where the neck met its underbelly.
Long shafts began to feather the thing’s wings and abdomen.
It screamed and leaped into the air, wings beating hard, slamming its tail at Tom, but the big man jumped high and cleared the lashing tail by a fraction. But he missed the flicker of a wing in
the dark, and the wingtip creased his backplate and slammed him to the ground.
The archers on the walls loosed shaft after shaft. Wilful Murder stood a horse’s length away, drawing shafts from the quiver at his hip and loosing carefully – aiming for any
vulnerable part.
The bonfire in the courtyard illuminated their target, and the wickedly forged arrowheads cut into the beast’s hide like chisels through wood as the sparks from the courtyard fires rose
like fireflies in the weakening wingbeats.
The captain was behind and above it when it leaped for the air, and he leaped too. He hit its neck and his sword whipped around its throat. His left hand grabbed the sword at the other side and
he let himself drop, his sword become a vicious fulcrum, dragging the wyvern’s head down. It lost height and crashed on the steps of the chapel, his sword deep in the soft underside the neck,
its jaws unable to reach him, the wyvern injuring itself as its head slammed into the steps again and again in fury and panic.
A lone crossbowman ran along the parapet, leaped down to the courtyard, stumbled, righted himself, and loosed his heavy weapon into the wyvern’s head from a distance of a few feet. The
power of the bolt snapped its head back, and the captain rolled to his left, loosed his left hand, and got to his feet, his heavy blade already lashing out for the neck – again, and again,
and then, when the head came up, he caught the blade in his left hand again, and slashed down into the creature’s head, his blade sliding down its armoured scales to slice softer flesh. He
made ten strokes in as many heart beats, and the head suddenly snapped back, the whole beast rolled like a man and the brave crossbowman died when the mighty claws took him round the waist and tore
him in half.
‘There’s another!’ shouted Tom, off to his left.
The tip of the thrashing tail caught his right ankle and ripped his feet from under him, and the captain cursed that he was not in armour.
He hit his head on a chapel step and lost an instant.