‘That’s your name?’ asked the red giant. ‘I’m Ranald. Ranald Lachlan.’
‘You know the Royal Guard?’ the captain asked. The he paused. ‘Lachlan? Tom Lachlan’s brother?’
‘Cousin,’ the other man said. ‘You know Bad Tom?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ the captain said. ‘Let’s go find the king.’ His voice was a little shaky.
‘Amen,’ the hillman answered. ‘Do you know him? The king?’
‘What a very interesting question,’ the captain answered. ‘No. Not exactly.’
Michael followed them, and their horses’ hooves rang as they crossed the bridge. At the middle the captain reached into the purse on his sword belt and produced a key – intricate, beautiful and apparently solid gold. He leaned out – groaning at the pressure on the muscles of his back and neck –
‘Nice trick,’ muttered Ranald.
Near Lissen Carak – The King
The king was collecting his guardsmen and the knights of his vanguard – the vanguard had lost fifty men-at- arms and as many squires, the men were exhausted already, and the morning was young. Two of his leading noblemen were dead – both the Bishop of Lorica and the constable had both gone down in the first fighting. The Captal de Ruth had taken a mortal wound defending the king, and was dying.
But the valets were coming up with the horses and the machines of war were grinding along – surgeons were searching among the wounded for those who could be saved, and his huntsmen, who had swept east to guard the flank of the onslaught of the vanguard, were trickling in. They, too, had lost men fighting monsters in the woods by the river – nor had they been victorious, by all accounts. The Wild creatures had burst through them and run off east. They had lost sixty men. Good men. Trained men.
It was hardly the great victory he sought. He had been ambushed and his column had survived. That was all.
‘Messengers, Sire. From across the river,’ called a herald.
The king looked north-west, and saw them – three men crossing the bridge at a fast canter.
‘Sound the rally,’ the king said.
More and more of his Royal Huntsmen were merging from the west, moving warily.
The Count of the Borders rode up and saluted. ‘The flower of our chivalry is half an hour behind me with the main battle,’ he reported. The man slumped. ‘By Saint George, my lord, that was the hardest fighting I ever need to see.’
‘The guardsmen say there are boglins across the river,’ the king noted.
‘Boglins?’ The count shook his head. ‘I struck a blow at a wyvern this morning, sire. This is the Wild, my lord, fighting for its life.’
‘I thought the Wild was beaten,’ said the king.
The Count of the Borders shook his head. ‘Where is Murien? What has happened to the Wall Castles?’
The king’s master huntsman, Febus de Lorn, bowed respectfully. ‘This isn’t from north, my lords. This is from west. I see Gwyllch – boglins – across the river, and Bothere has huntsmen who claim to have faced trolls in the low ground west of the road. Dhag’s come from the west, my lords.’
The king looked back at the approaching messengers. They weren’t messengers – all three in were armour, two cap a pied on war horses, and the third-
‘Par Dieu, gentlemen – that’s Ranald Lachlan, or I’m a minstrel’s son.’ The king turned his horse and rode towards the approaching trio.
Lachlan waved. The king had eyes only for him, and they rode together and embraced.
‘By all the saints, Ranald – I never expected to greet you on a stricken field!’ The king laughed. ‘How fares your fortune?’
Ranald looked away. ‘Aweel,’ he said, and a shadow touched his face. ‘I’ll tell ye, when we’ve time, my lord. These gentlemen, now, they seek to parley with you. This is the captain of the company yonder, that holds Lissen Carack for the nuns. And his squire, Michael.’
The king extended a hand to the knight – a man of middling height with a black beard and blacker circles under his eyes – absurdly young to be any kind of commander, but wearing superb armour.
‘Messire?’ he said.
The man was staring at him. Then, as if remembering his manners, the man touched his hand and bowed in the saddle. ‘My lord,’ he said.
‘You hold the fortress?’ the king asked eagerly.
‘The fortress and the Bridge Castle,’ the captain replied.
The king thought there was something familiar about the young man’s face, but he couldn’t quite place it. Something-
‘My lord, if you would bring your forces across I believe we can relieve the fortress and evacuate the villagers – and leave the Enemy facing a newly victualled and garrisoned fortress they cannot hope to take, without the loss of another man.’ The captain was speaking quickly, and his eyes were on the far wood line. ‘The Enemy – your father’s magus, or so they say – has made a number of errors. Not the least of which has been his consistent underestimation of our side’s intelligence. I believe he intends one more all-out attack, to attempt to restore his fortunes through the heroic exertions of his allies.’ The young man smiled crookedly. ‘I built a trench line twenty days ago for just this moment, my lord. If you would place your archers in that trench, and gather your chivalry behind the Bridge Castle, I believe we can hand this arrogant Magus a heavy defeat.’
‘Might I have your name and style, messire?’ the king asked. The plan was solid – the lad had a head on his shoulders, and his pure Alban speech made him one of the king’s subjects, mercenary or no.
The dark-headed man drew himself up straight in his saddle. ‘Men call me the Red Knight,’ he said.
‘I thought you to be a Galle, and a good deal older,’ the king said. He turned to the Count of the Borders. ‘My lord – will you take the constable’s place? Command the Royal Guard? And where is the Count d’Eu? He must have the command of the vanguard now, eh?’
The Count of the Borders turned to the young knight. His banner bore a dozen lacs d’amour. ‘How many lances do you have, my lord?’
‘Twenty-six, my lord Count – and the Knights of Saint Thomas. And several hundred very able militiamen, in the form of a contingent of Harndonner merchants. And I have the pleasure of having the aid of the king’s own Magus – Harmodius.’ The young fellow bowed in his saddle again.
‘Harmodius is here?’ the king asked. Suddenly, his day looked considerably brighter.
The young man looked away. ‘He has been a pillar of our defence,’ he said. ‘With my lord’s leave, I must prepare to receive you.’
The king smiled – such an odd young man. ‘We’re right behind you. Go!’
The man bowed, as did his squire, and together they rode back across the bridge.
The king turned to the Count of the Borders. ‘He seems odd but able. Wouldn’t you say?’
The count shrugged. ‘He’s held this place for twenty days against Richard Plangere and his legions of Hell. Do you really care if he’s odd?’
‘He reminded me of someone,’ the king said. He glanced at Lachlan, who had stayed with the command group. ‘You have something to say about our young sell-sword?’
Lachlan shrugged. ‘No, my lord. About the Queen. She was struck – in the back – by an arrow. She is resting and doing well, in part thanks to the young fellow there. He used power. I saw it.’
‘The Queen? The Queen is hurt!?’ asked the king.
‘She’s now resting quietly – in the Bridge Castle. The young captain sent for healers.’
The king rose in his stirrups. ‘Attend me, guards. Let’s go!’
The Count of the Borders was left with the Royal Staff, sitting on their horses in the dust stirred by the king’s rapid departure.
He shook his head. ‘A great knight,’ he said, watching his king. He sighed. ‘Very well – messires, attend me. The Royal Guards will cross the river first, followed by the Huntsmen and the Household. In the second line of battle, the Chivalry-’
