The Red Knight

angel will not dominate this king in an afternoon. Outwardly, he bowed.

And glared at Jean.

Jean bowed as well. ‘I came to fight your enemies, your Grace,’ he said in his charming accent. ‘At my own expense. This ordinance makes little difference to me.’

Gaston winced.

The king looked around him, gathering eyes, gathering the opinions men cast with their body language, in subtle facial expressions, in the fretting of their horses. He pushed his tongue against his teeth – which Gaston had already come to read as a tic of frustration.

‘That is not sufficient,’ the king said.

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘You wish me to say that I accept your law and your writ?’ he said, and contempt dripped from every word.

Here we go, Gaston thought.

The Earl of Towbray pushed his horse between the king and the captal. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is my fault.’

Both the king and de Vrailly looked at him as if he’d come between them in the lists.

‘I invited the Captal to Alba to serve me, and I failed – even after a youth spent fighting on the Continent – to understand how he would see us.’ The earl shrugged. ‘I will bear the cost, for my mistake.’

De Vrailly had the good grace to appear surprised. ‘But – no!’ he said suddenly. ‘But I insist! I must bear it.’

The king was looking at the Earl of Towbray the way a man might look at a rare flower suddenly discovered on a dung hill.

Gaston remembered to breathe.

And in moments men were chattering with relief, the convoy was forming up, and Gaston could ride to his cousin’s side.

‘This is not what the angel told me would happen,’ he said.

Gaston raised an eyebrow.

De Vrailly shrugged. ‘But it will suffice. It irks me, cousin, to hear you crawl to a creature like that sheriff. You must avoid such things, lest they form a habit.’

Gaston sat still for a moment, and then leaned forward. ‘It irks me, cousin, to hear you put on airs before the King of Alba. But I assume you cannot help yourself.’ He turned, and rode back to his own retinue, and left Jean to ride by himself.

West of Lissen Carak – Thorn

Thorn was dimly conscious of his body while he sat beneath the giant holm-oak and reached out over the sea of trees. He was aware of himself at the centre; of the fear and anger from the Jacks; the restive arrogance of the qwethnethogs; the mourning of the winged abnethogs; the distant presence that heralded the arrival of the Sossag people from the north, across the wall. He was aware of every tree past its tenth season; of the large patches of iris flowers; of the wild asparagus growing by the river where a man had built a cottage a century before; of the cattle that his raiders had taken to feed the Jacks; of the tuft-eared lynx that was both terrified and angered to have his army camped in its territory, and of the thousand other presences rolling away to the limits of his kenning.

He sympathised with the lynx. Unknowable, powerful creatures with filthy thoughts and polluted bodies, dirty with fear and hate, had come to his woods and fired his camp, terrifying his allies, destroying his trees and making him seem weak. The greater qwethnethogs would question whether he was worthy of service – the very strongest might even waste themselves and their energy on a challenge for mastery.

It was difficult for a Power of the Wild to have trusted lieutenants. But he would continue to attempt such relationships, for the good of the Wild and their cause.

He rose from beneath his tree and walked into camp, scattering lesser creatures and frightening the Jacks. He walked west, to the handful of golden bears who had allied themselves with him and had made huts of brush and leaves. He nodded to Blueberry, a huge bear with blue eyes.

The bear rose on his haunches. ‘Thorn,’ he said. The bears were afraid of nothing, not even him.

‘Blueberry,’ Thorn said. ‘I wish to recruit more of your people. Let me have the child and I will take it to the ice caves.’

Blueberry thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Better food, and females. Well thought.’ Sunset, the largest of the bears, brought the cub. She was small enough for Thorn to carry easily and mewed at him when he took her. He stroked her fur, and she bit at him, tasted his odd flesh, and sneezed.

He left the bears without another word and started north. When he stretched his legs, he moved faster than a galloping horse, and he could travel that fast for as long as he wished. He cradled the little bear and moved faster still.

Before the sun had dipped a finger’s breadth, he was too far from his camp to hear the thoughts of his allies, or to smell the fires of the men who had chosen to serve him. He crossed a series of beaver meadows, enjoying their health, feeling the trout in the streams and the otters in the banks, and he crossed a big stream flowing south from the Adnacrags. There he turned and followed the banks north, into the mountains. Leagues flew by. Thorn drew power from the hills, valleys, water, and the trees. He drew more than power.

He drew inspiration.

War was not his choice. It had been an accident. But if he had to make war now, he needed to remind himself why. He would make war for this. For the wilderness. To keep it clean.

And, of course, for himself. He was growing more powerful with every creature which chose to come and follow him.

The stream began to climb, faster and faster – up a great ridge, and then down, and then up again. He was in the foothills now, and his passage was like a strong wind in the trees. Deer looked up startled. Afraid.

Birds fled.

He knew the valley he wanted – the valley of the creek that the Sossag called the Black, that flowed from the ice caves under the mountains. It was a special place, almost as imbued with power as the Rock.

The bears ruled it.

He climbed a steep path, almost a road, from the stream to the top of the ridge, and waited. He was fifty leagues from his army. He set the bear on the ground and waited.

The sun began to set behind him and he let his mind wander, wondered if the enemy would try to raid his camp again. It occurred to him, now that he was far from the problem, that the enemy captain must have someone watching his camp. Of course. How else would he have known where to attack. He must be using animals as spies.

It was suprising how much clarity he could achieve when he was not bombarded with the chaos of other creatures.

‘Thorn.’

The speaker was old, a bear who had lived more then a century. He was called Flint, and he was acknowledged as a Power. He stood almost as tall as Thorn, and while he had white at his ears and muzzle, his body was strong and firm as a new apple in fall.

‘Flint.’

The old bear reached out and the little bear ran to him.

‘Her mother was enslaved and tortured by men,’ Thorn said. ‘To be fair, she was then rescued by other men, and brought to Blueberry at my camp.’

‘Men,’ said Flint. Thorn could feel the old bear’s anger, and his power.

‘I have burned Albinkirk,’ Thorn said, and realised what a pointless boast it was. Flint would know.

‘With stars from the sky,’ Flint said. His deep voice was like the sound of a rasp cutting into hardwood.

‘I have come to ask-’ Faced with Flint, it was suddenly difficult to explain. Bears were well known for their complete contempt for organisation. For government. Rules. War. Bears would kill when roused. But war repelled them.

‘Do not ask,’ Flint said.

‘What I do-’ Thorn began.