The Red Knight

Good. It would be a clean end in a straight fight.

Ranald sighed. ‘Your brother will never forgive himself for missing this,’ he said, and they charged.

Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Peter

When it was over, Peter sat on the ground and wept. He didn’t know why he was crying – only that his body needed the release.

Skahas Gaho came and put a hand on his shoulder. Brant was meat for the ravens. Ota Qwan had a wound across his chest that would probably kill him, inflicted when the last giant had stumbled forward, dragging three Sossag warriors, shaken them off, and landed one final cut with his great axe before Ota Qwan and Peter had managed to put him down.

The woods were full of death.

But even after a day of vicious fighting – and Peter couldn’t imagine worse fighting – there were still hundreds of Sossag unwounded, or capable of movement, and Ota Qwan had enough breath to send them to round up any cattle they could find and start them for home.

Peter sat by Ota Qwan and held his hand, watching the blood leak out of the man’s chest.

Just at sunset, the faeries came.

Peter had never seen one before but he’d known men who believed in them. He was sitting with the dying Ota Qwan. There were a hundred wounded Sossag groaning or worse, and scavengers had begun to move in on the corpses.

Peter was too tired to care.

The first one he saw looked like a butterfly, except that it was ten times the size and glowed faintly, as if sun lit. Behind it were four more, in a formation.

Peter had time to wonder whether they were predators, scavengers, or pests, and then the first one alighted on Ota Qwan’s chest.

What is he worth to you, man of iron?

Peter started, wondering if he had been dreaming.

A faerie is to a man as a hummingbird is to a bumblebee. Or so Peter thought, gazing at the jewel-like being.

What is he worth to you? A year of your life?

Peter didn’t think. Yes, he thought.

The pink shape drifted along Ota Qwan’s chest, and then reached out, oh, so gracefully, and touched Peter – and that touch was like every slaver’s iron ever forged. Something was ripped from his chest, as if red-hot pincers had entered his heart and dragged it out past his ribs, and he vomited over his lap.

And the faeries laughed. Their laughter seemed to echo in his empty head like the shouts of revellers in a cave-

And Ota Qwan coughed, spat, and sat up.

‘No!’ he said suddenly, his usually too-calm voice alight with wonder. ‘No! You didn’t!’

But Peter was crying, because now he had something to weep for – whatever it was he’d just lost.

And the faeries laughed.

So sweet, so sweet. So far away! So rare.

A bargain is a bargain.

Perhaps we’ll give you another, you were so sweet and rare.

Their laughter sounded more like a curse.

Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Ranald Lachlan

Ranald Lachlan rose from the black curse, through pain, and into the soft darkness of an April night. He sat up without a thought in his head, and the arrow that had penetrated his mail fell by his side, and he cut his hand on his own long sword lying in the bloodstained flowers by his side.

And then he knew where he was.

Never say we do not give everything we promise! So sweet, so sweet!

Peter saved you. Peter saved you!

Fair folk. And Ranald knew that he had been dead, or close enough as made no matter, and someone named Peter had given them the usual trade. A piece of your soul for the life of a friend.

And the Outwallers were all around him in the moonlit dark. Just for a moment, he thought to steal away – but they were looking at him. A hundred of them.

Cursing, he dragged himself to his feet.

Black death was behind him, and in heartbeats would be his again, and he spat.

Ah, Rebecca, I tried. I love you, he thought. He lifted the axe that Master Pyle had made for him – well tested now – and put it on his shoulder.

At the base of the little knoll where he’d made his last stand, he saw the gleam of moonlight, and one of the dark figures got to its feet, lit by four of the fair folk like some kind of ethereal bodyguard.

The man was painted black. Ranald remembered him. He came up the knoll, and Ranald awaited him, hands crossed on the haft of his axe.

‘Go,’ said the black man.

Ranald had to replay the word again. It was a shock to hear Gothic, and another to be told to go.

‘We are the Sossag people,’ the man said. ‘What the faeries return, we do not touch.’ The man’s eyes were brilliant in the darkness. ‘I am Ota Qwan of the Sossag. I offer you my hand in peace. I was dead. You were dead. Let us both walk away from here and live.’

Ranald was a brave man, veteran of fifty fights, and yet the relief that flooded him was like a mother’s kiss and the release of love, and never, ever had he felt he had so much to live for.

He looked down at the corpse of his cousin. ‘May I bargain with the faeries for him?’ he asked.

Their laughter was derisive.

Two! We gave two! And we will dine for days!

So sweet and rare.

Ranald knew what men said of the fair folk. So he bowed. ‘My thanks, fair people.’

Thank Peter!

Hee hee.

And they were gone.

Ranald reached down and took Lachlan’s great sword from his cold, dead hand. He unbuckled the scabbard from the great gold belt, and left the belt for spoil.

‘For his son,’ Ranald said to the black man, who shrugged.

‘I would meet this Peter,’ Ranald said.

They walked down the knoll together, and the Sossag all moved back.

One warrior, reeking of vomit, was weeping uncontrollably.

Ranald pulled the man to his feet, and put his arms around him. He didn’t know why himself. ‘Don’t know why you saved me,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

‘He saved me,’ Ota Qwan said, his voice thick with wonder. ‘Somehow, the fairies chose to bring you back, too.’ Ota Qwan leaned forward. ‘I think you killed me.’

Ranald nodded. ‘I think I did.’

Peter sobbed, and was still.

‘I hurt,’ he said. ‘I’m cold.’

Ranald knew the cold to which he referred. He shook the man’s hand again, shouldered his dead cousin’s sword, and walked away to the east, through a corridor of silent Sossag warriors.

Lissen Carack – The Red Knight

A league from the convent, the captain began to relax and let the feeling of victory suffuse him.