Thorn was there.
He had crossed the trench of fire, and now he stood, smouldering, the acrid smoke of his wounds rising in wisps, and he was backlit by the fire in the trench.
The captain coughed.
Thorn towered over him and even from a horse length away, the captain could see that the sudden shock of lances had hurt him. Something dark and watery oozed form a deep pit in his breast.
The captain was fighting the wave of nausea that came with the fear. Whatever Thorn was, his coming brought terror, revulsion, a deep, sick feeling of oppression and violation. The captain struggled with it. For a long, long moment, all he saw was his mother, promising him-
Deep in the grip of the horror, the captain writhed. His conscious, rational mind registered that only the most unstable beings asked such questions.
And he had a lifetime’s experience of pretending courage when all he wanted to do was roll in a ball and weep. It was like arguing with his mother.
He raised his sword. ‘Well,’ he said. His attempt at a drawl actually sounded somewhat hysterical. ‘Well,’ he said again, and his voice was better. He used to goad his mother this way. ‘I understand you used to be the King’s Magus.’
Thorn leaned down and one giant, hot hand slapped the captain to the ground. He saw the blow coming, his wrists answered his will, his sword swept up, and the blade shattered as it touched the sorcerer’s skeletal hand. The power of Thorn’s blow hurt the captain right through the steel harness he wore. Even through the power supporting it.
The captain couldn’t muster a laugh, or even a cackle. But he got back to his feet, as he had when his brothers beat him.
Thorn raised his hand.
One finger fell away.
The captain felt a wild, foolish joy. He tossed the shards of his sword away and drew his rondel dagger instead. ‘You are just one of the many Powers of the Wild, Thorn.’ He took a deep breath against the pain in his ribs. ‘Don’t get above yourself, or someone will eat you.’
There was a pause, as if the earth stood still. The captain tried to see Amicia’s face – to think any worthy, noble, or merely human last thought that was not born of fear and would not leave him to die the slave of this creature.
But he couldn’t.
The Red Knight stiffened his spine, stood as tall as he could, and said, ‘My mother made me to be the greatest Power of the Wild,’ He managed another breath. And delivered his sentence, like a sword cut. He said, ‘You are just some parvenu merchant’s son trying to ape the manners of his betters.’
He ordered the boglins to
Stung – even though none of them could penetrate his glowing green armour – he clenched one gnarled fist.
Boglins died.
The sorcerer’s rage was automatic rage, unthinking rage at being challenged, at insult piled on insult. Thorn bellowed.
Suddenly he was
That was a laugh.
He used his stomach muscles to roll over, to get to his feet.
There was Thorn.
‘Good armour,’ the Red Knight said.
‘I made different choices,’ the captain answered. He had trouble breathing but, just there, he started to be proud. He was
Thorn threw a working; bright as a summer day, fast as a levin bolt.
The Red Knight parried it to the ground with a flash of silver white.
‘Cursed by God. Hated by all right thinking men.’ The captain was gaining strength from sheer despair. With nothing left, he was going to beat his fear, the way he’d beaten it a thousand other times.
Breathing was difficult, but he was achieving calm. Calm meant mastery of the Aethereal.