The Red Knight

The captain nodded. Overhead, the trebuchet disgorged another load of small stones. Cast from a height, it smashed into the oncoming tide and ripped a hole in the enemy line.

The hole closed almost at once.

‘It’s so stupid, the captain said petulantly. ‘When he burned the farms, he did all the damage he needed to do.’ He turned his head to where the king’s Royal Guard was pouring into the trench, led by two hundred purple- and yellow-clad crossbowman from Lorica. ‘And his attack – whether it carries this trench or not – won’t take the fortress.’

The endless wave of boglins, and larger, worse things, swept across the burned plain towards the black line of his trench.

The reinforcements were not going to make the near end of the trench in time.

The farmers and the guildsmen were spread too thin, and they knew it. And the inexperienced purple and gold Loricans were halting, only a third of the way along the trench, and loosing bolts. Like militia.

Of course, they were militia.

‘The farmers will hold,’ Tom said. He was chewing on the stem of a flower. It was an oddly disconcerting sight. ‘The guildsmen will break. They’ve broken before.’

The captain looked at the Prior. ‘Messire, you are so much my senior – in years, in experience, and in this place – guide me. Or command me.’

The Prior let his horse put his head down to munch grass around the heavy bit. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. You have led this force to this point – you think I’m going to change commanders now?’

The captain shrugged. ‘I wish you would,’ he said.

Tom was watching the oncoming line. ‘You know we have to charge that line,’ he said. ‘If we charge the line, we should buy – hmm – ten minutes or so.’ He was wearing a grin that made him look like a small boy. ‘A hundred knights – ten thousand boglins – and trolls, and daemons, irks . . .’ He looked at his captain. ‘You know we have to.’

The Prior looked at Tom, and then back at the captain. ‘Is he always like this?’ he asked.

‘Pretty much,’ the captain said to the older man. ‘Will you come? I’m not at all sure any of us will come back.’

The Prior shrugged. ‘You are lucky,’ he said. ‘And luck is better than any amount of skill or genius. I can feel the power in you, young man. And I think your presence here is God’s will, and God is telling me to go where you go.’

The captain rolled his eyes. ‘You’re making this up,’ he said.

‘Did you speak so to the Abbess?’ the Prior said.

For once abashed, the captain looked away.

‘We will follow you,’ the Prior continued. ‘If this fortress falls our order will have lost everything.’

The captain nodded. ‘Have it your way, then. Tom; we’ll file across the trench on the two bridges and form line on the far side in open order.’ He looked around – to see Sauce, Michael, Francis Atcourt, Lyliard all looking pale with exhaustion.

‘Kill whatever comes under your sword,’ the captain said with an edge of sarcasm. ‘Follow me.’

The king entered the Bridge Castle’s courtyard to find his Magus, Harmodius, kneeling by the Queen. He was examining a wound in her back, and Lady Almspend put a hand on the king’s shoulder and kept him from approaching any closer.

‘Give him a moment, my lord,’ she breathed quietly.

‘Here they come!’ called a voice on the walls.

Crossbows began to release in a series of flat snaps.

The king didn’t know what to do. ‘I must see her!’ he said to Lady Almspend.

Lady Mary came up. ‘Please, my lord. A moment!’

‘The battle is about to be won or lost,’ the king moaned.

‘Fast as you can, lads! The captain is depending on us!’ called the voice on the walls.

‘My love?’ Desiderata called.

Harmodius stepped back, face pale, and the king came forwards.

Desiderata reached out and took his hand. ‘You must go and win this battle,’ she said.

‘I love you. You make me a better king – a better man. A better knight. I can’t lose you,’ the king said.

She smiled. ‘I know. Now go and win this battle for me.’

He bent and kissed her, mindless of the thread of blood that ran from the corner of her lip.

As he pulled himself away, Harmodius followed him.

‘I might ask you what you are doing here, but we’re in haste,’ the king said.

Harmodius narrowed his eye. ‘This battle is a closer run thing than I would ever have imagined, and even now, our enemy has increased his power to a degree I could never match,’ he said. ‘If I work to heal her he will know me, and he will assail me here. And I will be destroyed. This is as much a fact as the rising of the sun.’

The king paused. ‘What can we do?’ he asked.

Harmodius shook his head. ‘There are protections in the fortress – especially in the chapel.’ He shrugged. ‘But even if I could get her there, my saving her would deprive the army of my protection, and when he starts to kill, he will devastate us.’

The king frowned. ‘Save her,’ he commanded. ‘Save her. I will form up my knights and guard her to the fortress on a litter, and you can take her to the chapel, though all the enemies in the world stand between us and them.’

Harmodius considered his king, who was willing to sacrifice the army for the love of his queen.

But his feelings were very much engaged as well. ‘Very well,’ he said.

Lissen Carak – Father Henry

He didn’t like what he had to do. He didn’t like that they all hated him, now, and he wanted to argue with them. To show them what they were going to become.

Like her. Like the witches.

Gnawing the ropes was easy. But the archers had hurt him, and his back was flayed raw. It took time, and pain. He paused and rested. Paused and slept.

Awoke when he heard voices coming into the cellars. From below.

He gnawd his bonds again, mad with fury like a trapped animal. When he exhausted his muscles, he made himself pray. He overcame the pain.

He was good at pain.

After hours and more hours, he had the ropes off. And then he got through the scuttle – a trap door to the next cellar room. He moved carefully, and he only passed out once and woke again minutes or hours later.

He made it to the base of the main cellar ramp – where he could hear a pair of archers on duty.

He prayed . . . and God showed him the way. Whoever had come up into the cellar had left a door open. He dragged himself to the portal, and looked down.

Scrambled and found a lantern with a candle and a tinderbox. It was God’s will.

He dragged himself down the steps into the dark.

The mercenaries, efficient as always, had left arrows painted on the rock. He began to follow them.

Lissen Carak – Thorn

Thorn watched his great assault sally forth from the edge of the woods, and knew fear.

He had lost many, many creatures in the weeks of siege and now he feared he lacked the resources to survive.

His fear hadn’t started there, though.

As his assault began, something whose level of manifested power was to Thorn as Thorn was to a boglin shaman, had appeared on the other side of the river. It had cast a single phantasm of such complexity and power that it beggared the very strongest sending Thorn had ever cast. And then it had vanished.

A Power. A great Power of the Wild.