The Red Knight

Their retreat had become a rout. Most of the men had ridden back to camp almost blind with terror, as more and more monsters crested the ridge and entered the field, following that fire-raining figure of terror.

‘Well.’ The captain allowed his eyes to close for a moment and then jolted awake. ‘Son of a bitch. I have to tell the Abbess.’

‘They might attack us again, any moment,’ Michael said.

The captain gave him a hard look. ‘Whatever they are, they aren’t so different from us. They know fear. They do not want to die. We hurt them today.’ They hurt us, too. I was too rash. Damn it all.

‘So now what happens?’ Michael asked.

‘We scurry into the fortress. And that thing comes and lays siege to us.’ The captain got slowly to his feet. For a moment, absent the weight of his harness, he felt as if he could fly. Then the fatigue settled again like an old and evil friend.

‘Attend me,’ he said.

The Abbess received him immediately.

‘It seems you were correct. Your men look badly beaten.’ She averted her eyes. ‘That was unworthy,’ she allowed.

He managed a smile. ‘My lady, you should see the state they’re in.’

She laughed. ‘Is that cockiness or truth?’

‘I think we killed a hundred boglin and fifty irks. Perhaps even a few Jacks. And we kicked the hornet’s nest.’ He frowned. ‘I saw their leader – a great horned creature. Like a living tree, but malevolent.’ He shrugged, trying to forget his panic. Tried to keep his voice light. ‘It was huge.’

She nodded.

He put that nod away for future consideration. Even in his fatigue, he caught that she knew something.

She went to the mantel of her chimney and picked up her curious ivory box. This time, she opened it and took the slip of bark between her hands. It turned jet-black. He felt her casting. Then she threw it in the fire.

‘What shall I do now?’ the captain asked. He was too tired to think.

She pursed her lips. ‘You tell me, Captain,’ she said. ‘You are in command.’

Lissen Carak – Father Henry

Father Henry watched the mercenary come down the steps of the Great Hall with the Abbess on his arm, and his skin crawled to watch that spawn of Satan touch her. The man was young and pretty, for all his bruises and the dark circles under his eyes, and he had an air about him that Father Henry knew in his soul was all pretence; the sham of concern and the worm of falsity.

The big mercenary barked a laugh. And then the sergeant at arms and the master warder both appeared from the donjon tower.

Father Henry knew his duty – knew that he could not allow major decisions to be made without him. He walked forward to join them.

The Abbess gave him a look that he suspected was meant to drive him away, but he schooled his face to hide his feelings and bowed to the loathsome killer and his minion.

The master warder rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing for you here, Father,’ he said.

The old soldier had never liked him, had never made a confession.

The mercenary returned his bow pleasantly enough, but the Abbess didn’t introduce him or let any one else do so. She indicated the mercenary. ‘The captain is now the Commander of this fortress. I expect all of you to give him your ready obedience.’

The master warder nodded and the sergeant at arms, who commanded the tiny garrison, merely bowed. A possible ally, then.

‘My lady!’ Father Henry rallied his arguments. His thoughts were a riot of confused images and conflicting motives, but they were united by the knowledge that this man must not be given command of the fortress. ‘My lady! This man is an apostate, an unrepentant sinner, a bastard child of an unknown mother by his own admission.’

The mercenary now looked at him with reptilian hate.

Good.

‘I’ve never suggested my mother was unknown,’ he said with mild condescension.

‘You cannot allow this piece of scum into our fortress,’ the priest said.

He was too vehement, he could see them closing their minds against him. ‘As your spiritual adviser-’

‘Father, let us continue this conversation at a more seemly time and place,’ the Abbess said.

Oh, how he hated her tone. She spoke to him – him, a man, a priest – as if he was a errant child and just for a moment the quality of his rage must have shown through, because all of them – except the mercenary – took a step back.

The mercenary, on the other hand, looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and gave a sharp nod.

‘I feel you are making a grave error, my lady,’ the priest began again, but she turned on him with a speed that belied her years and put her hand on the pectoral cross he wore.

‘I understand that you disagree with my decision, Father Henry. Now please desist.’ Her tone of ice froze him in place.

‘I will not stop while the power of the Lord-’

‘Me Dikeou!’ she hissed at him.

The bitch was using arcane powers on him. And he found himself unable to speak. It was as if his tongue had gone to sleep. He couldn’t even form a word in his mind.

He staggered back, scarred hands over his mouth, all of his suspicions confirmed and all of his petty errors transformed into acts of courage. She had used witchcraft against him. She was a witch – an ally of Satan. Whereas he-

She turned to him. ‘This is an emergency, Father, and you were warned. Return to your chapel and do penance for your disobedience.’

He fled.

North of Lissen Carak – Thorn

Thorn strode east as fast as his long legs would carry him, a swarm of faeries around his head like insects, feeding on the power that clung to him like moss to stone. ‘We continue,’ he said to the daemon at his side.

The daemon surveyed the wreckage of tents and the scatter of corpses. ‘How many did you lose?’ he asked. His crest moved with agitation.

‘Lose? Only a handful. The boglins are young and unprepared for war.’ The great figure shook like a tree in the wind.

‘You took a wound yourself,’ Thurkan said.

Thorn stopped. ‘Is this one of your dominance games? One of them distracted me. He had a little magic and I was slow to respond. It will not happen again. Their attack had no real affect on us.’

The great figure turned and shambled east. Around him, irks and boglins and men packed their belongings and prepared to march.

Thurkan loped alongside, easily keeping pace with the giant sorcerer. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why Albinkirk?’

Thorn stopped. He despised being questioned, especially by a troublemaker like Thurkan, who saw himself – a mere daemon – as his peer. He longed to say, ‘Because I will it so.’

But this was not the moment.

‘Power summons power,’ he said.

Thurkan’s head-crest trembled in agreement. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘The irks and boglin hordes are restless. They have come here – was that at your bidding, daemon?’ Thorn leaned at the waist. ‘Well?’

‘Violence summons violence,’ Thurkan said. ‘Men killed creatures of the Wild. A golden bear was enslaved by men. It cannot be borne. My cousin was murdered; so was a wyvern. We are the guardians. We must act.’