The Red Knight

‘Ser John!’ he shrieked. His voice was hoarse and cracked.

The old knight bounced, cut, and suddenly bounded back.

Alcaeus stumbled after him.

The gates slammed shut. Terrified sergeants slammed the timbers home into the sockets that held them, and blows rained on the outside surface of the gate from the creatures outside. One irk, braver or craftier than the rest, ran up the gate and got a leg over before one of Ser John’s archer’s spiked it to the wooden hoardings with a clothyard shaft. The professionals on the wall held – the wave failed, and died.

Ser John fell to his knees. ‘Too gods-damned old for this,’ he said, staring at the courtyard full of refugees.

But the gate held. The wall held.

Alcaeus tottered to a pillar in the colonnade and tried to open his faceplate, but he couldn’t raise his arms. He hit his head on the colonnade. He couldn’t breathe.

Strange hands flipped the catches of his visor and lifted it. Air flooded him. Sweet, wonderful air, tainted only with the harsh screams of people too maddened by fear to do anything else.

It was James the crossbowman. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Just stand still.’ The boy hauled the helmet right off his head.

He pulled off the gauntlets. And Alcaeus slumped to the ground, his back against the colonnade.

Ser John appeared in front of him. ‘I need you on the walls.’

Alcaeus groaned.

The boy stood in front of him. ‘Let him breathe! He saved everyone!’

Ser John snorted. ‘They ain’t saved until they’s saved, boy. Ser knight? To the walls.’

Alcaeus reached out a hand.

Ser John caught it, and pulled him to his feet.

Harndon City – Edward

Master Pyel’s first commission for him was the dullest project he could imagine. It was something he could have done when he was fourteen.

He was to take twenty iron bars and make staves like barrel staves, then forge-weld them into a single column with bands to keep the staves together. Bands every handspan. Inside diameter to be a constant diameter of one inch.

Dull.

Still, he was smart enough to know that Master Pyle wouldn’t have given him the work if it didn’t matter. He was careful with his measurements, and he decided to construct a mandrel to keep the insides of the staves equidistant while he forge-welded them. That took time, too. He planished the mandrel and then polished it endlessly.

He had a moment of deep satisfaction when another journeyman, Lionel, grinned. ‘You know,’ he drawled, obviously relishing the moment. ‘You can order an apprentice to do that.’

I’m a fool, he thought, happily. He left Ben the shoemaker’s boy to use pumice on his lovely mandrel while he went out into the evening to fence with his mates and show Anne his ring. Better, to show Anne’s parents. Apprentices didn’t marry – but a journeyman was a person of consequence. He was a man.

The next morning, he had the mandrel ready, thanked the apprentice like a good master, and then whipped the forge welds into shape, smoothing both inside and outside. It turned out to be more finicky than he had expected, and took him all day.

Master Pyle looked at the result and slammed it against the oak tree in the yard. The welds held. He smiled. ‘You made a mandrel,’ he said.

‘Had to,’ replied Edward.

Master Pyle made a face. ‘My design is flawed,’ he said. ‘How’re your casting skills?’

Edward shrugged. ‘Not that good, Master,’ he admitted.

The next morning when the sun rose, he was down by the river, casting bells with the Foibles – rivals, but friends.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

Hundreds of leagues to the north, the same sun rose on a fortress which was complete in every warlike respect – high wooden hoardings crowned the turrets and curtain walls, and a major engine of war stood atop every tower: the donjon tower bore the weight of a trebuchet, and smaller mangonels and ballistae decorated the smaller towers.

Aside from a dozen men on duty, the garrison, who had laboured two days and nights by torchlight, lay asleep in heaps of straw. The dormitory was full of local people and so was the hall and the stable.

Sauce awakened the captain because there was movement down by the river. He had placed a garrison of ten archers, three men-at-arms and a pair of knights in the tower at the bridge under Ser Milus’ command the evening before. They had their own food and a mirror with which to signal, and this morning they were apparently flashing away merrily.

Ser Jehannes had gone with them, as a mere man-at-arms. He had gone without comment and left no note. The captain awoke to find it still on his mind.

‘Damn him,’ he said, staring at the newly whitewashed plaster over his head. Jehannes had always disliked him because he was young and well-born.

As far as the captain saw it, Messire Jehannes could have both his birth and his youth. He lay on his bed, his breath steaming in the air, and found himself growing angrier and angrier.

‘Damn who?’ asked Sauce. She flashed him a smile that was probably meant to be winsome. She was an attractive woman, but the missing front teeth and the scar on her face tended to made her winsome look slightly savage.

Sauce and the captain went backaways. The captain considered confiding in her – but he was the captain, now. Everyone’s captain.

He got his feet on the cold stone instead. ‘Never mind. Call Toby for me, will you?’

She leered. ‘I’m sure I could dress you, mesself.’

‘Maybe you could and maybe you can’t, but neither will get me moving fast enough.’ He stood up, naked and she swatted at him with her gloves and went out calling for Toby.

Toby and Michael arrived together, Toby with clothes, Michael, sleepy to the point of clumsiness, with a cup of steaming wine.

The captain armed himself in the ruddy light of the new sun, Michael fumbling with buckles and laces so that it seemed to take twice as long as arming usually did and he almost regretted sending Sauce away. But he ran lightly down the steps to the great courtyard and patted Grendel’s nose when he was led out. He took the tall bassinet on his head, pulled steel gauntlets over his hands, and vaulted into Grendel’s war-saddle. He was giving his men a good example – he was also riding out of a fortress into the unknown.

It occurred to him as he ducked his head to pass through the narrow postern – he had ordered that the main gate be shut for the duration – that if nothing attacked them, he was going to look a ripe fool. Followed by the image of a taloned foot ripping the guts out of his riding horse, which made his stomach lurch and his throat go cold.

He rode down the steep road, leaning well back into the comforting buttress of his war-saddle, with Wilful Murder, Sauce, Michael Rankin and Gelfred all fully armed at his back. At the base of the hill he turned away from the bridge and rode west – not onto the narrow track he’d followed and fought the daemon, but around the base of the fortress.

He rode slowly around it, looking up so hard that his neck hurt, examining his hoardings from their attackers’ perspective. The fortress was a hundred feet above him, huge, imposing and very, very far away.

After he passed the donjon the first trebuchet released. He heard the crack of the wood base of the counter- weight striking its restraint and saw the rock pause at the height of its arc. Then it fell with a crash well to the west.

The captain turned to Wilful Murder. ‘Go and put an orange stake on it, Will. They won’t loose again.’