The Red Knight

Chapter Eighteen

The King

The North Road – The Red Knight

The column rolled east at a good pace and within hours, the captain’s precautions were justified by huntsmen flushing creatures of the Wild – a pair of boglins, and a lone irk.

They made camp early, dug a trench, and stood watches.

The captain lay awake most of the night.

In the morning they moved with the dawn, and his heart began to lift. The process of camping, of moving camp, and the sounds of the horses and the wagons – the sounds of people and animals – it all raised his spirits.

It took them three days to come to the Southford of the Albin. Albinkirk still smouldered, on its hill. The Royal Standard still flew from the castle, and the captain and his officers rode to the town gate, were admitted, and dined with Ser John Crayford.

Ser Alcaeus, who was falling into the company as if he had always been there, walked them around the walls. ‘This is where we held their first rush,’ he said at the ruined west wall. ‘Here’s where a dozen of us held the gate.’ And again, with a wry look, ‘Here’s where we almost lost the wall.’

Crayford shook his head. ‘You’re the very King of Sell-Swords, now, I reckon,’ he said. He leered at the captain. ‘My squire’s older than you, boy! How’d you do it?’

The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Clean living.’

Crayford shook his head. ‘Good on you, lad. I’m a jealous old man. If I had another battle in me, I’d follow you.’

The captain smiled. ‘Even though two of your men are leaving you for my company?’ he asked.

The old man managed to nod with a good grace. ‘Even then, you scapegrace.’

He let them go with a fine meal and a hogshead of wine.

‘No one left here to drink it,’ he muttered.

People were trickling back into the town. The captain bought bread for the whole company from a young woman with haunted eyes. Haunted, but practical.

‘Burned the house,’ she said, eyes on the west. ‘Couldn’t burn the ovens, though, could they? Little fucks.’

They rode north on the east side of the Albin in the morning, and Ranald told them of having met the Queen at the ford as her boats rowed past.

Past Albinkirk the huntsmen ranged wider, over the hills on either side. Summer was coming and the abandoned farms seemed sinister in their wrappings of verdant life. Grains stood tall and ripe and there wasn’t going to be a soul to harvest it.

The captain watched it go by.

Ser Alcaeus rode by his side. ‘There were men and women in these farms when I came through in late winter.’

The captain shook his head. ‘I wonder if men will ever farm here again,’ he said.

Two days north of Albinkirk, they came to the crossroads and made camp. The East Road ran up over the passes and down into the Vale of Delf, and on into the Morea.

The North Road ran into the Hills, past the Inn of Dorling and eventually to the Lakes and the Wall.

That night, over dinner in his tent, the captain put a map on the table. ‘Jehannes, you’ll take the company east to Morea. Find us a secure camp. I’ll join you in a ten-day.’

Jehannes made a face. He looked at Tom Lachlan. ‘If this is so important, why don’t we all go?’

Tom laughed. ‘We’re going to see the Wyrm, Jehannes. Not pay a call on a lady, nor smoke out a company of brigands.’

The captain leaned over the table. ‘The Wyrm is a creature of the Wild. A Power like Thorn. And the company won’t impress it. Him.’

Not like Thorn, Harmodius said in the captain’s head.

Jehannes shook his head. ‘I mislike it.’

‘Reservation noted,’ the captain said.

Tom sat back, his booted feet on one of the captain’s stools. ‘Ahh. I can smell the hills already.’

Ranald nodded. ‘At some point,’ he said, ‘we need to talk about the drove.’

Tom nodded.

The captain looked at Ser Alcaeus. ‘We won’t be gone long,’ he said. ‘And Jehannes can deal with any emergency.’

The Morean knight raised an eyebrow. ‘I never thought otherwise, messire,’ he said. ‘But I will be with you.’

Ranald shook his head. ‘No offence. But why?’

The Morean shrugged. Twirled his moustaches. ‘It is a Deed,’ he said. ‘I wish to see a dragon.’

The captain smiled.

When the company’s wagons rolled, the captain sat his elegant riding horse under the shade of a great oak tree and watched them go by. Men saluted him. It made him want to cry.

There was Bent, riding with Long Paw; behind him rode No Head and Jack Kaves and Cuddy. They were laughing as they passed, but they all gave him a smile and a nod. Behind them were younger men – Tippit arguing with Ben Carter and Kanny about something. They stopped when they saw him, and saluted – Ben Carter drew his sword to salute, and then looked sheepish about it.

Dan Favor rode by with Ser Milus and Francis Atcourt, who was explaining a jousting technique using a walking-stick tucked under his arm.

And more, and more. Men-at-arms, valets, squires, archers. Wagoners and tailors, prostitutes and seamstresses.

Sauce – Ser Alison Graves, now – made her horse rear a little, and flicked him a showy salute. And near the back of the column, Mag the seamstress hugged her man and rode her donkey clear of the column’s dust to join the captain. ‘If it please m’lord,’ she said.

‘Your downcast eyes are wasted on me,’ he said.

‘I would like to accompany you,’ she said.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘A few days of sleeping on the ground and bad food?’

In his mind Harmodius said, Excellent.

So when the column was gone, headed up the long ridge to the east, Ranald turned his horse’s head north. ‘I don’t know where you are sleeping tonight, Captain,’ he said. ‘But I’m for the Inn of Dorling.’ To Mag, he said, ‘It’s a little more comfortable than the cold, hard ground.’

The Inn of Dorling – The Red Knight

The Keeper came into the yard with eyes as wide as new-minted pennies. His people were on the walls, and the gate was open to receive them.

His eyes went right past Ranald – wearing armour like a knight, and a red tabard. He nodded to the captain. ‘You are welcome here, messire. The best of everything, the most reasonable prices.’

‘Don’t you know your own kin?’ Ranald drawled.

Tom kicked free of his stirrups and dismounted in a clash of plate and mail. ‘I hear my brother married your Sarah,’ he said.

The Keeper looked back and forth. ‘By God!’ he said.

Tom took him in a bear hug.

‘We all thought you were dead,’ said the Keeper.

Tom growled. ‘Not yet, ye bastard.’

He looked past the Keeper at the young woman on the porch. ‘Hello, spark. You’ll be Sarah. Last I saw you, you was smaller than a pig.’

‘Now I’m big enough to carry your brother’s seed,’ she said.

He left the Keeper’s embrace and gave her a hug.

The captain hadn’t seen Bad Tom as a man who embraced people. It shook him a little.

‘Hillmen,’ Ser Alcaeus said. ‘I’m quite fond of them.’

‘Your sound like you are talking about dogs,’ Mag said.

Alcaeus snorted. ‘Touche, madame. But they are more like us than you Albans. They burn hot.’

Ranald dismounted and kissed Sarah first. Then hugged the Keeper. He went to his malle, slung across the back of his horse, and took out a slim leather envelope, the size of a letter.

He tossed it to the Keeper.

The Keeper looked at it, frowning.

‘Six hundred silver leopards,’ Ranald said. ‘In a note of hand on a bank in Etrusca. That’s yours. And another twelve hundred for Sarah.’ He gave the girl a lop-sided grin. ‘I sold the herd.’

She clapped her hands together.

Men in the courtyard grinned. There were two dozen hillmen – local herdsmen, small farmers, and the like – and every one of them knew in that instant that his money wasn’t lost.

They grinned. Embraced. Gathered round Ranald and slapped his back, shook his hand.

The Red Knight laughed, to find himself so far from the centre of attention.

But the Keeper disentangled himself from the celebrations shaping in his courtyard and came forward. ‘I’m the Keeper,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing you’re the Red Knight.’

The captain nodded. ‘Men call me the captain,’ he said. ‘Friends do, anyway.’

The Keeper nodded. ‘Ay – Red Knight’s a heavy handle to carry and no mistake. Come off your horses, now, and my people will see to you. Leave your cares here, and come and be easy.’

Easy it was. The captain shucked off his riding armour and left it in a heap for Toby and went down the steps to the common room, where he found his brother and Ser Alcaeus sampling the ale.

Mag came and sat by herself, but the captain wasn’t having any of it. He walked to her table, and offered his hand. ‘Ma dame,’ he said. ‘Come and sit with us.’

‘Mag the seamstress with three belted knights?’ she asked. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes, but the words seemed sincere.

‘Play piquet, mistress?’ asked Gawin.

She let her eyes drop. ‘I know the rules,’ she said, ill-at-ease.

‘We’ll play for small stakes,’ Ser Gawin said.

‘Couldn’t we play for love?’ she asked.

Gawin gave her an odd look. ‘I haven’t felt cards in my hands for a month,’ he said. ‘They need a little fire.’

Mag looked down. ‘If he takes all my money-’

‘Then I’ll order a dozen more of your caps,’ the captain said.

Looking at the seamstress, the captain smiled inwardly. How powerful is she, Magus?

Hard to say, young man. Untrained talent. She had to learn everything for herself, from first principles.

Ah.

Possibly the greatest of us all, though. She was never trained. She has no chains.

The captain sat watching Gawin deal the cards. Something about the hawkish expression on Mag’s face gave her away.

But a very limited repertoire . . .

Harmodius spluttered in the captain’s palace. Drink some wine, so I can taste it. She may have had a limited grimmoire, but not any more – eh, young man? She has your phantasms, and mine, and all of the Abbess’s. And Amicia’s. too

As do I. As does-

Yes.

Mag sorted her cards. A boy brought an armload of sawn oak and started to lay a fire. The smell of lamb filled the common room.

Gawin sat back. ‘Captain? I need to borrow some money.’

The captain looked at him.

Mag was grinning.

‘Doubled and rebated,’ Maggie said.

‘I’ll never be wed at this rate,’ Gawin said.

‘Wed?’ asked the captain.

Ser Alcaeus smiled politely into his ale. ‘To the Queen’s Lady Mary, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said politely.

The captain laughed and laughed, remembering her. ‘A most beautiful lady,’ he said.

‘Eldest daughter of Lord Bain.’ Gawin looked off into the distance. ‘She loves me,’ he said suddenly. He choked on the words. ‘I – I’m not worthy of her regard.’

The captain reached out to his brother tentatively but Gawin didn’t seem to notice.

Youth. It’s wasted on the young.

Alcaeus barked a laugh. ‘Listen, messire. I have known a few knights. You cede worthiness to none.’

Gawin said nothing. He drank off the rest of his jack, and raised his cup to the tap-boy. ‘Wine, boy. And in truth-’ He rose. ‘I need to piss.’

Alcaeus cleared his throat when Gawin was gone. ‘I can’t help but note,’ he said with some diffidence, and paused. ‘He calls you brother.’

The captain laughed. ‘He does me that honour.’ Here we go.

‘I had thought – pardon me, messire-’ Ser Alcaeus sat back.

‘You thought I was some man’s bastard. And here’s the great Duke of Strathnith’s son, calling me brother.’ The captain leaned forward.

Alcaeus met his eye steadily. ‘Yes.’

The captain nodded. ‘I had thought – pardon me, messire – I had thought that you were a free lance, a knight on errantry, joining my company. And yet-’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes, I might be tempted to a thought. And that thought . . .’ He sat back.

Mag looked back and forth. ‘Men,’ she said quietly.

‘What thought would that be?’ Ser Alcaeus whispered.

The captain drank some excellent ale. ‘Sometimes it seems anything I say to you will go straight to the Emperor.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean no insult. You are his liege man.’

‘Yes,’ Ser Alcaeus admitted.

‘And his cousin,’ the captain went on.

‘Ah? You know this?’ Ser Alcaeus sighed.

‘I guessed. So as to my own parentage-’

Ser Alcaeus leaned forward. ‘Yes?’

‘It is not your business, messire. Am I clear?’ he said leaning forward.

Ser Alcaeus didn’t flinch. ‘Men will speculate,’ he said.

‘Let them,’ the captain said.

Mag put a hand on the table and picked up the cards – large squares, beautifully painted. ‘People are watching you, my lords. You look like two men about to draw daggers.’

Alcaeus finished his ale. ‘Beer makes men melancholy,’ he said. ‘Let’s have wine, and I’ll think no more about it.’

The captain nodded. ‘I don’t mean to be a touchy bastard. But I am.’

Alcaeus nodded and extended his hand. ‘For what it is worth, so am I. A bastard.’

The captain’s eyes widened. He reached out and took the hand. ‘Thanks for that.’

Alcaeus laughed. ‘No one has ever thanked me for being a by-blow before.’ He turned to Mag. ‘Would you like me to shuffle?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You rich boys,’ she said. ‘You think bastardy matters? Look at yourselves – gold rings, fine swords, wool cotes worth fifty leopards. Fine horses. By the Gentle Jesu, m’lords. Do you know what a poor man has?’

‘Parents?’ Ser Alcaeus said.

‘Hunger,’ Mag answered.

‘God’s blessing,’ the captain said.

Gawin came back. He had a glow on, a brittle humour. His eyes sparkled. ‘A fine inn. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen. Look at that lass – red hair. Red! I’ve never seen so much red hair in all my life.’ He looked around. ‘Their fires burn hotter, or so men say.’

Maggie smiled, reached under her cap and teased out the end of her braids. Her hair was bright red. ‘Really, ser knight?’ she said.

Gawin sat back and laughed. The captain laughed harder, and Alcaeus caught it too. It was infectious.

As if his laughter was a signal, the Inn burst into life. Tom and Ranald came in, and joined their table, and men and women came pouring in. Local farmers and shepherds from the hills arrived as the word spread, and the mercenaries who served the Keeper, and a tinker and his apprentices – the smith, and his apprentices too.

The common room could hold them all, well enough.

Men called for music, and Tom sang surprisingly well. Gawin turned to the captain amidst the uproar. ‘You used to play the harp,’ he said.

The captain frowned. ‘Not in years. And not here.’

But the Keeper had heard him. He took a harp down from the wall and put it in the captain’s arms. He shushed the room – something he did as easily as a magus might cast a spell.

‘There’s a man here as may be a harper,’ said the Keeper.

The captain cursed Gawin under his breath.

‘Give me some time,’ he said, when it was clear to him they wouldn’t let him off. He took the harp and his second cup of wine and walked out into the summer night of the yard.

It was quiet out there.

Sheep baaed, and cattle lowed, and the sounds of men in the Inn were muted, like the babble of a distant brook.

He started to tune the harp. There was a plectrum in the base-board, just where he would have expected it, and a clever mechanical key for the strings.

Let me, said Harmodius. It’s just mathematica.

He drew power, and cast – and his power manifested in the strings.

The rule of eight, rendered in sinew, said the dead Magus.

Thanks, said the captain. I always hated tuning.

He walked about the yard, plucked out a simple tune – the first he’d learned – and walked back into the Inn.

They fell quiet when he appeared, and he sat down with Gawin and played some simple stuff. He played There Was a Squire of Great Renown and everyone sang, and he played Green Sleeves and Lovely On the Water. He made mistakes, but the audience was forgiving.

‘Play for dancing!’ the young widow called.

The captain was about to admit he didn’t know any dances, but Harmodius forestalled him.

Allow me.

His fingers plucked the strings slowly, and a jig peeled out – slowly at first, and then faster and faster, and then it was a reel and then it was a hillman dance tune, sad and wild and high-

The captain watched his fingers fly over the strings, and wasn’t altogether pleased. But the music swept on, higher and higher, and the men fell out of the dance, and the women danced, skirts kirtled up, legs flashing, heads turning and Mag jumped up and leapt into the circle.

The harp grew warm under his hands.

Sarah Lachlan leaped and flashed like a salmon. Mag gave a turn and one of the Inn’s servants twirled in billow of skirts. The men applauded wildly as the hands on the harp fell still, and the captain seized control again.

Ahh, said Harmodius. I had forgotten.

Please don’t do that again, old man. The captain went to steady his own breathing. People were crowding around him, slapping his back.

‘I swear,’ said the Keeper. ‘You play like a man possessed.’

Later when men and women had paired off, when Mag had gone, bright eyed, to her room, and Ranald had been congratulated by every man and woman there, and when Ser Alcaeus had the Inn’s prettiest serving girl in his lap – he went back outside.

He stood under the stars, and listened to the cattle.

He played Green Grow the Rushes to them.

Harmodius snorted.

In the morning, they mounted for the ride north. None of the captain’s companions seemed to have a hard head and he was surprised to see the Keeper mount a fine riding horse, as eastern in its blood as the captain’s own.

The Keeper nodded to the captain. ‘You’re a fair harper and no mistake, m’lord. And a good sport.’

The captain bowed. ‘Your house is one of the finest I’ve ever visited,’ he said. ‘I could live here.’

‘You’d need to learn some more tunes first,’ Gawin said.

‘Coming to see the Wyrm?’ Ranald asked the Keeper.

He nodded. ‘This is my business as well as yours an’ Tom’s.

They rode.

There was a good path, the width of two horsemen, and it ran like a snake between the hills, and the bottoms of valleys were damp and the heights were rocky. They didn’t go fast.

Crossing the Irkill River took half a day, because the bridge was out. The Keeper begged a favour of the captain and sent Toby back to the Inn with the news.

‘This is my business,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like it.’ The bridge looked as if a battering ram had struck it – it was beaten to flinders, heavy oak beams now splinters.

That night they slept in a cot by a quiet burn. The farmer and his family moved out into a stone barn so that the gentles could use the beds.

In the morning, the captain left a silver penny and they were away with the sun, full to bursting with fresh yogurt and honey and walnuts.

They rode higher and higher into the hills, and passed a pair of heavy wagons loaded to the tall seat with whole, straight trees – oak, maple, and walnuts, trunks bigger around than a tall man might reach, and straight as giant arrow-shafts. The wagoners allowed as there were lumbermen working in the vales.

Gawin sneered. ‘It must be all they can do to move these monsters.’

The wagoners shrugged. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

Ser Alcaeus waited until they were past. ‘They float the larger logs on the water.’

The Keeper nodded grimly. ‘That’s what happened to my bridge.’ He led them down into the dale and they found the foresters hard at work – not local men, but easterners.

They had cut a swath through the dale, and a dam on the big stream that fed the Irkill. The leader of the woodsman stood in the new clearing, obvious in his long cloak. He had a heavy axe in his hand, gull winged and long hafted, and his wood-cutters were tall and strong, with long beards.

The Keeper rode up to him. ‘Good day to you,’ he said.

The man nodded. His eyes were wary. He watched the troop of horsemen – more armoured power than anyone liked to see, especially far from home.

‘What can I do for you?’ he said. His accent was thick.

The Keeper smiled pleasantly enough. ‘Pack and leave. Let the water off your dam slowly.’

The woodsman’s eyes widened and then narrowed. ‘Who are you, then?’

His men were gathering, and horns were blowing.

The Keeper didn’t touch his weapons. ‘I’m the Keeper of Dorling,’ he said. ‘You owe me the cost of a bridge, and more. No one logs these dales without my leave – and the time to cut was early spring, when the last snow lies on the ground.’

The captain swatted a black fly.

The woodsman frowned. ‘The woods are any man’s, or no man’s. This is Wild Land.’

‘No. These Hills are in the Circle of the Wyrm,’ the Keeper said.

The woodsmen began to gather. Many had spears, and every man had an axe. They were forming.

Gawin dismounted and, as fast as a dancer, remounted on his war horse. He drew his great sword.

The Keeper raised his hand. ‘Peace, ser knight.’ He looked back at them. ‘No need for arms.’

‘You have wisdom, old man,’ called the leader of the woodsmen.

‘You have been warned,’ said the Keeper.

The woodsman spat. ‘I laugh at your warning. What business is it of yours? And if one of your bridges is swept away by my logs-’ He shrugged. ‘There is wood everywhere. Build another.’

The Keeper looked around at the crowd of woodsmen. ‘If you remain here, every one of you will die,’ he said.

They looked unimpressed.

The Keeper wheeled his horse. ‘Let’s ride,’ he said.

The Keeper led the way, and they rode at a trot until they were out of the dale and up the next green ridge.

‘I feel as if I just ran away,’ Gawin said.

The captain grimaced. ‘Me, too.’

The Keeper turned in the saddle. ‘If the Wyrm is of a mind, he’ll kill them all for this, and us, too, by association.’

That night, for the first time, they camped. There was little grass for the horses, and they had to put nosebags on them and use the oats that the pack animals carried. Mag watched Gawin start dinner and then pushed him out of the way.

‘By the good and sweet Christ,’ she said. ‘At least use a clean knife.’

Alcaeus laughed and took the cook knives to the stream and washed them, scouring them with sand.

The Keeper rode out with the hillmen and came back with two big turkeys.

Gawin greeted them with a pair of big trout. ‘I take it there’s not much in the way of angling in these parts,’ he said. ‘Glad I brought a line.’

Mag looked at the birds and the fish. ‘What you catch, you clean,’ she said. ‘I’m a cook, not a servant.’

That made the captain laugh. He’d spent the late afternoon building a shelter and digging her a fire pit and now he helped clean the fish with a good grace. They drank the last of the wine by firelight.

‘Tomorrow,’ said the Keeper.

They rode with the dawn.

The next range of hills was bare of trees, as if a horde of sheep had clipped them clean – green grass rippled in the wind like a green sea, and the hills rolled away like a greater sea – from the height of their ridge, they could see twenty more ridges spread out like pleats in green wool.

Mag raised a hand. ‘Is that an eagle?’ she asked.

Far to the north-east, a great bird rode the air over the hills.

The Keeper looked under his hand.

The captain looked too. The great creature was farther away than he had imagined, and he looked and looked until he appreciated what he was seeing, and then his heart beat in pure fear.

‘Good Christ,’ said Mag.

‘My God,’ said Gawin.

‘That’s the Wyrm of Erch,’ said the Keeper.

It was flying. It was larger than a castle, and it was flying over the hills to the north. Even as they watched, the titanic dragon turned – for a moment its immense and spiky tail was clearly silhouetted against the northern sky, and its huge wings swept out on either side.

‘Good Christ,’ Mag said again.

It was faster too.

The captain couldn’t take his eyes off it.

So, Harmodius said in his mind. So. The dead Magus sounded, if anything, more awestruck than the living captain.

The wind-storm of its wing beats began to echo across the hills. The only sound the captain could imagine like it was the beat of the great mills in Galle – he’d heard them in the low country.

Whoosh.

Whoosh.

It was as big as the hills.

His riding horse began to panic. Mag’s threw her with a sudden twist and bolted, and all the horses went wild. The captain dismounted, hauled his horse’s head down, and knelt by the seamstress.

‘Nothing hurt but my pride,’ she snapped. ‘And nothing much there to bruise.’

The Wyrm was coming right at them.

Its wings swept up, their tips almost touching, and then down, and the power of their passage left a swath of matted grass far below as the Wyrm passed over them. It was enormous. The captain was able to count to ten while the immense thing passed over him. His riding horse stood frozen in terror and the dragon’s shadow covered the ground for a hundred paces in all directions – more. It covered the sun.

He blinked his eyes and looked again.

Look in the Aether, said Harmodius.

The captain raised his sight and staggered in renewed awe. If Thorn had been a pillar of green, the Wyrm was – was the sun.

The captain shook his head.

Gawin threw his head back and whooped.

Bad Tom laughed aloud.

‘Now that, my friends,’ he said, ‘Is a Power of the Wild, and no mistake.’

They rode down into the next valley as the rain clouds came on, building to the north over the loch. A series of lochs fell away for leagues – larger and larger, until they merged into a sheet of water twenty leagues or more away. It was a superb view. In front of them, just short of the first loch, was a ford over a burn. They got cloaks off their saddles as they came to the stream. No one spoke much.

The rain came down like a curtain, sweeping from the north end of the valley, cutting off the view of the lochs.

Beyond was only rain, and black cloud.

‘It’s like the end of the world,’ Mag said.

The captain nodded. Ser Alcaeus crossed himself.

They crossed the stream quickly at a cairn. The captain rode off to the side, and then rejoined them. ‘Let’s move,’ he said. ‘The water here rises very quickly and very high.’

Gawin watched the water. ‘Salmon in that loch,’ he said wistfully.

On the far side was a narrow track that rose on the hillside. It was just wide enough for a horse, and they picked their way in single file, with the Keeper at the head and Bad Tom last.

It took them an hour to climb the ridge, and the rain caught them in the open again. It was cold, and they were soaked through despite heavy cloaks and hoods.

Up, and up they went.

At the top of the ridge was a seat of stone facing west.

The captain looked at it. So did Mag. It held the residue of power.

The Keeper didn’t stop. He rode down the far side.

From the very top, just beyond the High Seat, the captain could see the ghostly impression of crags to the north – far away, and gleaming white. Almost everything else was lost in the rain, although they were above it for a few hundred paces, and then they rode back into it.

Down and down, and trusting his horse. His light saddle was soaked, and he worried for his clothes. For summer, this was cold rain.

His brain was running wild.

‘We’re going to visit that?’ he asked, sounding more like Michael than he would have liked.

Ranald turned and looked back. ‘Aye.’

It was afternoon by the time they came out of the bottom of the clouds and could see, through gaps in the rain curtain, another valley of lochs. It was oriented differently – in this one the lochs grew smaller as the valley rose to the east and north, into high crags.

The Keeper reached the first ford, marked again with a cairn of stones that leaped to the eye in the naked, empty landscape of green grass and rock and water.

‘Water’s high,’ he shouted.

The captain leaned out and watched it for a long minute. They could hear rocks being rolled under the water.

The stream rushed down a narrow gorge above them, gathered power between two enormous rocks, and shot into the loch on their right – a sheet of water perhaps three hundred paces long and very deep.

Bad Tom laughed. He roared, ‘Follow me,’ and turned his horse’s head south. He seemed to ride straight out into the loch, yet his horse was virtually dry-shod as he rode a half circle a few paces out from the shoreline.

The captain followed, as did Ranald. Looking down into the water, he could see a bank of rocks and pebbles just under the water.

‘In the spring run-off,’ Ranald said, ‘the force of water pushes all the rock out of the mouth of the stream. Makes a bank – like yon.’ He laughed. ‘Any hillman knows.’

Tom looked back at the Keeper. ‘Aye. Any true hillman.’

The Keeper shot him a look, but Tom was immune to looks.

They started up the valley, wet and feeling surly.

The trail followed the stream past a magnificent waterfall, and then they climbed the cliff – the trail was just wide enough for an experienced rider to stay mounted, and it cut back and back – nine switchbacks to climb a few hundred feet. Ser Alcaeus’s war horse balked, and would not climb until Ser Alcaeus dismounted, walked back, and fetched him.

Mag dismounted at a switchback and looked at the captain.

He understood. She was not going to ask for help. He took her horse by the reins.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

She began to walk up the track.

He led her horse.

At the top of the cliff there was another loch. It was smaller, deeper, trapped in narrow cleft and dammed off by the ridge of rock that made the cliff. Above the loch was a long, grassy ridge that rose and rose. Above it all towered a mighty crag, covered in snow – but the snow line was still as far above them as they had come in two days.

The trail ran along the banks of the loch, in deep grass.

There were sheep high on the hillsides.

The only sound was the muted roar of the waterfall coming off the loch behind them, and the distant babble of the stream off the glaciers running into the top of the loch.

There was a gravel beach at the top of the loch. The captain caught the Keeper and pointed to it. ‘Camp?’ he said.

The Keeper shook his head. ‘He’s telling us to go away. This weather’s unnatural.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re in for a bad night.’

The captain was looking through the rain at the distant beach. ‘I see wood there.’

Mag nodded. ‘I saw rowans up in the highest valleys,’ she said.

‘Rowan, alder, and older things,’ agreed the Keeper. ‘We can’t have a fire, this close to the Wyrm.’

‘Why not?’ the captain asked.

‘The Wyrm has rules.’ The Keeper shrugged.

The captain shook his head. ‘Taking living wood might incur the wrath of a Power,’ he said. ‘Dead wood on a beach, however-’ He managed a smile and shrugged off the rain. ‘There’s an overhang there. Gather all the horses against it to break the wind.’

The Keeper shrugged. ‘On your head be it. If we turn back now, we can have better weather before sunset.’

Gawin rubbed water out of his moustache. ‘Tell me why we didn’t camp by a loch with fish?’ he asked.

The captain looked out over the rain-swept sheet of water. ‘I’d bet a golden leopard to a copper there’s salmon in this water,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t be the man to catch one.’

Gawin smiled. ‘You don’t know much about salmon, brother, if you think they can climb a hundred foot of falls.’

‘My bet stands,’ the captain said. ‘But to catch one would be a deadly insult to our host, and as the Keeper has noted, he’s not in love with us at the moment.’

Mag cackled. ‘So worried about a bit of wet. I’m twice the age of most of you, and I can roll up in a wet cloak and sleep. My joints will cry in the morning, but what of it? I saw a dragon fly in the dawn.’ She looked at them. ‘I’m not turning back, gentles.’

They constructed a shelter from spear poles and heavy wool blankets, pinned down with the biggest rocks on the beach. The wind tested it for a while, but didn’t seem interested in a real contest.

The captain rode off with Ser Alcaeus, and together they roamed the long beach and picked up every stick on it – it made a respectable woodpile.

‘And where’d it come from, I’d like to know?’ asked the Keeper.

The captain shrugged. ‘Our host put it out for us to find, I expect.’

Gawin, a practised hunter, took a fire kit from his pack and looked at his brother across the fire pit. ‘Like being boys again,’ he said.

‘We never tried to light a fire in a storm like this,’ the captain said.

‘We did, too,’ said Gawin. ‘I couldn’t get it lit, you used power, and Pater cursed you.’

‘You’re making this up,’ the captain said, shaking his head.

Gawin gave him the oddest look. ‘No,’ he said. He used his body and his soaking cloak to cover the fire pit, and the captain’s quick hands laid a bed of twigs – damp, but dry as drift wood ever is. Gawin put a bed of dry tow from his fire kit inside a nest of birch bark.

‘Bark from home,’ he said.

The captain shrugged.

Gawin laid charred linen deep in the tow, and then struck his fire steel against a small shard of flint until spark flew. The char-cloth lit, he dropped it into the nest in his hand, and blew. Smoke billowed out. He blew a second time, a long, slow breath, and more smoke came.

The captain leaned over and blew.

Before his breath was out, Gawin blew, and the whole nest burst into flame. Gawin dropped it onto the waiting twigs, and both men added more, and more – speed and accuracy embodied.

In two cracks of lightning, they had a fire.

Maggie laughed. ‘You could have just magicked it,’ she said. ‘Instead of showing off with your woodcraft.’

Gawin frowned.

The captain smiled. ‘I avoided the use of power for many years.’ He shrugged. ‘Why waste it?’

She nodded, understanding.

They made tea from the water of the loch, ate cold meat, and curled up to sleep. The stones of the beach were cold and wet, but the wool tent and the warmth of the horses won out in the end.

They took watches in turns. The captain took the mid watch, and he sat high above the beach on a rock. The wind was gone, and with it the rain, and he watched a thousand thousand stars and the moon.

May we talk?

No.

You’ve closed your door and you aren’t responding to Mag and she’s confused. You are linked to her. The courtesy of mages requires you-

No. The captain looked out over the loch. Go away. Not at home.

His head hurt.

In the morning, they drank hot tea, ate fresh Johnny cake made in ashes on a flat rock by Mag, and rode on. The horses were tired and cold, but by a miracle none of them were lame or sick despite a cold night on a mountainside. They followed the trail up over the green ridge at the north end of the loch, down into a shallow, high valley of green turf with the stream ripping through, full of rain water. From there down a rocky course at the centre, and then they cut back twice, riding up another ridge. The green of the hills was deceiving – what looked like one endless ridge proved to be a succession of them, one merging to another in the grey light.

The Keeper shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like this the last time,’ he said.

Ranald laughed. ‘Never the same twice, is it, Keeper?’

The Keeper shrugged. ‘This is only my second trip, Ranald.’

Bad Tom grunted. ‘Never been, meself. But Hector said it was different every time.’

Up and up.

They climbed the next ridge as the sun struggled through the curtain of cloud, and at the top of the next ridge, in a fold of the earth, sat a shepherd’s cot with a curl of peat-smoke coming out of a low chimney.

Sheepfolds extended right out from the walls of the stone house, as if the whole place were built for sheep.

The trail led from their ridge to the door of the shepherd’s cot, straight as a lance.

‘Biggest sheep I’ve ever seen.’ Alcaeus was rubbing the water out of his hair.

They rode down the track. The stone wall by the cot had a gate with richly worked iron hinges and the captain leaned over and opened it.

On the far side, hidden by the crest of the hill, was a brick horse barn. It had eleven stalls.

The captain grinned. ‘I’ll take this as a sign we’re welcome,’ he said.

The brick horse barn looked very out of place.

‘I know this barn,’ Gawin said. ‘This is Diccon Pyle’s barn.’ He looked at Ranulf, who nodded.

‘From Harndon,’ Ranulf said. ‘I was just thinking of it. Warm, snug-’ He blew out a breath.

They took the horses into the barn. Their hooves rang on the brick floor, louder than the captain would have thought possible. There were oats in every manger, fresh straw on the floors, clean water in the buckets.

They unsaddled the horses, and took the gear off the pack animals. The captain curried his new destrier and put a blanket – ready to hand – over him. Gawin and Alcaeus did the same, as did the Keeper and Ranald. Bad Tom stood in the doorway, a sword in his hand.

‘I don’t like this. It’s fey.’ Tom thumbed the edge of the blade.

‘Not a problem you can solve with a sharp blade,’ said the captain. He got the tack off Tom’s big gelding. ‘Relax.’

Tom didn’t leave the doorway. ‘I want to get this over,’ he said.

Ranald went and took his arm. ‘Not the way to go, Tom. Be easy.’

Mag smiled at Ser Alcaeus. ‘Would you be so kind as to have the saddle off my horse, ser knight? I’m a poor weak woman.’

Ser Alcaeus grinned.

Mag gathered her cloak, pushed past Bad Tom, and walked to the door. She knocked politely.

The knock sounded as loud as the crack of a trebuchet in the silence.

The door opened.

Mag went in. The Keeper paused at his currying and dropped the brush. ‘Damn,’ he said. And ran for the door, but it was already closed. He knocked, and the door opened, and he was gone.

‘I think the rest of us might as well go in together,’ the captain said. He wiped his hands on straw. He walked up to the door. ‘You, too, Tom.’

Tom was breathing hard. ‘It’s all magick.’

The captain nodded and spoke carefully, as he would to a skittish horse or a scared child. ‘It is, that. We’re in his hands, Tom. But we knew that.’

Tom stood straight. ‘You think I’m afraid.’

Ranald made a motion of negation.

The captain nodded. ‘Yes, Tom. You are afraid. If you weren’t, to be honest, you’d be some sort of madman.’

‘Which you may be, anyway,’ Ranald said.

Tom managed a smile. ‘I’m ready.’

The captain rapped at the door.

And it opened.

The croft was low and close yet surprisingly spacious. The rooftrees were just above the captain’s head height, too low for Tom, and the building had a roof-end hearth, not a proper fireplace at all. The fire in it was enormous, filling it like a furnace, so that individual logs couldn’t be made out in the inferno – but just enough heat escaped to make the room pleasant on a cool summer evening.

Around the fireplace were heavy wooden chairs, covered in wool cloths. Some cloths were armorial, and one was an ancient tapestry, cut up and sewn to cover the chair.

The cot beams were black with age, but carving could still be seen on them.

Over the fireplace, a pair of swords were crossed and, on the main beam, a spear was carefully set on a long row of iron nails.

Mag sat with the Keeper, her legs crossed. And beyond her sat a small man smoking a long pipe.

He was so very ordinary that their eyes passed over him, at first. He wore a plain wool cote of coarse wool, and leggings of the same, and his weather-beaten face was neither handsome nor ugly, old or young. His eyes were black.

He opened them, and they were instantly arresting.

‘Welcome,’ said the Wyrm.

The captain bowed. He looked around, and none of his companions was moving – except that the men behind him in the doorway were suddenly sitting in chairs, hands on their knees.

He hung his cloak with theirs, and went to a seat.

‘Why is no one speaking?’ he asked.

‘You are all speaking,’ the Wyrm said. ‘It is easier for all of us if I deal with each in turn, in privacy.’

‘Ah,’ said the captain. ‘I’ll wait my turn.’

The Wyrm smiled. ‘I can talk to you all at once,’ he said. ‘It is you who needs the feeling that there is structure, not me.’ He took a pull on his pipe.

The captain nodded.

Of course time means nothing to them, Harmodius said.

‘Are the two of you together?’ the Wyrm asked.

‘There’s just one of me,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t speak for Harmodius.’

The Wyrm smiled again. ‘Very wise of you to see that. You know that if you do not rid yourself of him, he will, in time, demand control. He cannot help himself. I offer this information free of obligation.’

The captain nodded. A cup of mulled wine appeared at his elbow. He picked it up and drank it gratefully.

‘Why have you come?’ asked the Wyrm. ‘You, at least, had to know what I was.’

The captain nodded. ‘I guessed.’ He looked around. ‘Are there rules? Do I have three questions? Fifty?’

The Wyrm shrugged. ‘I don’t want visitors. I try never to look into the future. All that is for my busy, busy kin. They plot, and strive. I live. I seek truth.’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes I grow lonely, and a lucky traveller is brought in for entertainment.’ His smile became a feral grin.

The captain drank more wine. ‘What of the Lachlans?’

The Wyrm pulled on his pipe, and smoke wound to the ceiling and up into the draught of the roaring fire. ‘That is your question?’

The captain shook his head. ‘No, but they are my sworn men and I need to know they are being well served.’

The Wyrm smiled. ‘The concept of fealty comes so naturally to men and I am having a difficult time being bound by it. But I will deal fairly with Tom and Ranald. Ask your own.’

The captain swirled his wine, and clamped down on a question about Amicia. ‘Can the conflict between Man and Wild be resolved?’ he asked.

‘Is that your question?’ asked the Wyrm.

‘Yes,’ said the captain.

The seated figure smoked. ‘How delightful.’ He walked to the mantelpiece and opened a stone jar, took out a handful of old leaves and tamped them into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Do you believe in free will, prince?’

The captain was growing hot, and he stood up and took off his cote and hung it by the mantel to dry with a muttered ‘beg your pardon’ to his host. He sat again.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked the Wyrm.

The captain shrugged. ‘Either I have free will, or there’s no point in playing.’

The Wyrm rocked its head back and forth. ‘What if I were to tell you that you only had free will in some things, and not in others?’

The captain found he was chewing one of his riding gloves. He stopped. ‘I’d suggest that my power to affect the universe is about the same whether I have free will in every action or only in one.’

‘Interesting,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Man and the Wild are merely concepts. Philosophical constructs. If they were created to represent – to symbolize – opposition, then could they ever be reconciled? Can alpha and omega switch places in the alphabet?’

‘Next you will tell me there is no Wild. And there is no Man.’ The captain smiled.

The Wyrm laughed. ‘You’ve taken this class before, I take it.’

‘I sat at the feet of some philosophers in the East,’ the captain said. ‘I had no idea they were dragons, although, now that I think of it-’

The Wyrm laughed again. ‘You please me. So I will answer your question. Man and the Wild, while being two sides of a coin, can live together – just as the coin lives perfectly well in the purse.’

‘Separate?’ the captain asked.

The Wyrm shrugged. ‘Nothing about a coin is separate, is it?’ he asked.

The captain leaned back in his very comfortable chair.

‘My brother died,’ Tom said. ‘He was your liege man, and he died. Tell us who killed him?’

The Wyrm shrugged. ‘He died outside my circle,’ he said. ‘I concede that I wasn’t paying very much attention. I further concede that while my mind was taken with other affairs, some of the Wild peoples crossed my lands without my leave. But in truth, Tom, and Ranald, my circle is a creation for my own convenience. I scarcely trouble men, in or out of it, and you two are the first to demand some sort of action of me in a long enough amount of time to be meaningless.’

‘So you won’t avenge him,’ Tom said. ‘Just tell me who killed him?’ he asked.

‘Are you telling me what I’m doing, or asking?’ the Wyrm asked politely. ‘Is this your question?’

Ranald leaned forward. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It sounds odd but it isn’t the Sossag I’m after, though they slayed Hector and me, too. It’s Thorn. Thorn sent them – he summoned them. Drove them to war.’

The Wyrm threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you simple, Ranald Lachlan? The Wild Peoples do exactly as they please. They are not children. If they raided your brother, they did so apurpose.’

‘They’d never ha’ been at the fords if it hadn’t been for Thorn.’ Tom was insistent.

The Wyrm put his chin in his right hand. ‘How much of the truth would you like, hillman? Shall I tell you enough to spark an epic revenge? Or shall I tell you enough to render you incapable of action? Which would you prefer?’

Ranald chewed the end of his moustache. ‘What could you tell us that would make us unable to act?’ he asked.

Tom glowered.

The Wyrm sat back and put his pipe down, put his hands behind his head. ‘The Sossag who killed Hector is called Ota Qwan. He is a worthy enemy for you, Tom – driven, passionate, highly skilled. Your riddle is that, in time, your captain will want him as an ally.’ The Wyrm smiled.

‘And so you render Tom incapable of action?’ Ranald asked. ‘You don’t know Tom.’

The Wyrm shook his head. ‘No. Because behind Ota Qwan was Skadai, who made the decision to risk my wrath and raid the hillmen and the drove. He’s already dead, though. Behind Skadai is Thorn, who was pushed into war-’ the Wyrm was smiling, ‘-by one of my kind, to whom you and your brother are less than ants, and who wishes to encompass not just the end of your brother, but the death of every man and woman in the entire circle of the world. I should offer you my thanks – I have just realised that I have slept through a cycle of drama. Things are moving out in the world. Damn the lot of you.’

‘His name?’ Tom said.

‘Tom Lachlan, you are a name of fear among men from East to West. Daemons and wyverns wet themselves in fear at the mere mention of your name.’ The Wyrm gazed at Tom with affection. ‘But my kind – nothing in your arsenal can harm us.’

‘His name?’ asked Tom.

The Wyrm leaned forward. ‘I would like to deal with this myself.’

Tom slapped his thigh. ‘Now you’re talking, Wyrm. A good lord stands up for his man. But I’ll help ye. Tell me his name, and together we’ll put him down in the dust.’

The Wyrm shook his head. ‘Are you to be drover, Tom?’

Tom shook his head. ‘I doubt I could. I’d kill every loon as bade me nay.’

The Wyrm nodded. ‘Ranald?’

‘I’d be proud to be drover. But I seek to be knighted by the king – to have a little treasure – so I may wed a lady.’ Ranald felt like a small boy confessing to stealing apples.

‘None of these things is my concern,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Although the two of you are a pleasure to converse with.’

‘He’s the man of reason,’ Tom said. ‘I’m the man of war. Two sides of a coin.’

‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.

Mag sat with her hands folded in her lap.

‘And how may I help you?’ the Wyrm asked her.

‘I’d like to defeat and destroy the sorcerer known as Thorn,’ she said.

‘Revenge?’ asked the Wyrm.

She shrugged. ‘A dog bit one of my children some years ago. He’d bitten other children. My husband went out with his crossbow and put the dog down.’ She met the Wyrm’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that there was some revenge involved.’

‘But it was, in the main, it was about the other children?’ asked the Wyrm.

She nodded.

‘You are a very modest woman,’ said the Wyrm. ‘You allow men to speak their minds, and you keep yours to yourself.’

She smiled and looked at her hands in her lap.

‘But you, the Goodwife of Abbington, intend to encompass the destruction of Thorn, who has put himself on the path to be a Power.’ His black eyes sought hers.

She wouldn’t let him in. ‘That’s right,’ she said easily.

The Wyrm whistled soundlessly. ‘This war that you have all just experienced has enhanced your powers to a wonderful degree. Indeed, I was able to see you – really see you – as far away as Albinkirk.’

Mag gave way to a satisfied chuckle. ‘I always knew I had the talent,’ she said. ‘But thanks to the old magister and the Abbess I know things, now.’ She looked up. ‘Terrifying things.’

‘Do you doubt God?’ asked the Wyrm.

Mag turned her head away. ‘Who are you to ask that? Satan?’

The Wyrm laughed. ‘Not hardly, Mistress. Satan’s idle young cousin, perhaps.’

‘Will you answer my question?’ she asked.

‘You haven’t asked one,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve implied that you’d like my help in attacking Thorn, and you’ve implied that you’d like to know if there is a god.’

She straightened her back. ‘I can find my way to God without you,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said the Wyrm.

‘I’d like your help with Thorn,’ she said.

‘That’s the other side of the same coin, surely,’ said the Wyrm. ‘If you can decide for yourself about God, you scarcely need me to tackle a mortal sorcerer.’

‘It would be easy for you,’ said Mag.

‘No argument at all. In the end, that would be me putting down the dog. For my reasons.’ He put his chin in his hands.

She shook her head. ‘I understand, but I’d like you to separate the two sides of the coin.’

‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.

‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ said the Wyrm.

The captain looked around to find all his companions also blinking like people coming out of sleep.

‘It has been a great pleasure meeting you,’ he said. ‘The beds are warm, and the fire is real enough, and the food is, if I say so myself, exemplary. Please don’t stint with the wine. I’d be affronted if you didn’t try the harp on the wall.’ He smiled at them. ‘I have little interest in the affairs of the world, but I am choosing to help you, almost entirely to serve my own ends. Which, I will add, are infinitely less threatening to you and yours than any of the rest of my kin’s might be. I seek only to be left alone – I have my own ambitions, and they have nothing to do with war, conquest, pain, or hate.’ He smiled, and just for a moment, they saw an enormous head with fangs the length of warships, slitted eyes as tall as church spires. ‘You will be my allies. You will go out in the world and serve my ends with your own plans and your free will.’ He smiled. ‘I doubt that we will succeed, but if we do we’ll have the satisfaction of having been vastly the underdogs.’ He nodded, as if to himself. ‘Ah – the party-favours. I’ve made certain artefacts – or gathered them – for this. To each, her own. And in parting-’ The Wyrm smiled at all of them. ‘May I leave you with some genuine wisdom, in place of all the humdrum claptrap? Do well. Act with honour and dignity. Not because there is some promised reward, but because it is the only way to live. And that is as true for my kind as for yours.’

The captain was still pondering a smart remark when he realised that the Wyrm was no longer among them.

That was amazing, Harmodius said.

They lingered over breakfast.

‘The marmalade is like-’ Mag giggled, her mouth full of warm, crusty bread with rich new butter.

‘Like God-made marmalade?’ asked Ser Alcaeus.

‘I feel like a thief,’ Ranald said. He’d taken one of the swords from over the fireplace.

Tom took down the other. He grinned. ‘God,’ he said, flicking his thumb over the blade. He gave a moan of pleasure as the blade he’d chosen swept through the air.

The Keeper shook his head. He had a box in his lap. ‘I’m afraid to open it.’

Ser Alcaeus rose and took down the sword hanging behind the main roof beam – with a belt and scabbard. It matched his arms – a surprisingly short sword with a heavy wheel pommel. ‘These are things left for us. Indeed, unless I miss my guess, the whole cot is made for us.’

‘I’m not leaving until the marmalade is finished,’ Mag said, and laughed. She picked up her napkin to get the stickiness out of the corners of her mouth, and there was a chatelaine on the table beneath it – gold and silver and enamel, with sharp steel scissors, a needle case full of needles, and a dozen other objects suspended on chains – including a pair of keys.

‘Oh,’ she said, and flushed, her hand to her bosom. ‘Oh, par dieu. It is magnificent.’

Gawin tried some of the marmalade. ‘I had the most remarkable dream,’ he said. ‘I wore a green belt-’ He stumbled to silence. There was a green belt around his hips, worked in green enamel with gold plaques, and from it hung a heavy dagger in green and gold.

The captain stood under the roof beam, looking up at the spear.

‘Just take it, man!’ said Tom.

The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m not sure I want it,’ he said.

Take it! Take it! Harmodius couldn’t control himself.

Five feet of ancient blackthorn, knotty and yet straight as an arrow. And at the top, a long, heavy blade gleamed.

‘Someone has taken the magister’s staff, and fitted it like a glaive,’ the captain said.

Take it, you fool.

The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m going to see to the horses.’

So much of my power. Please? He wouldn’t have brought it here unless he trusted us to use it.

‘I can’t help but notice that his gifts either bind, are pointed, or are double edged,’ said the captain. ‘Belts and blades.’

Don’t be a fool.

Am I a fool to be slow to make use of tools I do not understand? asked the captain. The stakes are very high. I will probably take it in the end. But not right now-

He took his time currying the horses. They looked fat and happy. It had been a way of hiding from his father when he was young.

When they were all gleaming like the sun on the water of the high loch outside, he went back into the cot – so much bigger on the inside than the outside – and took the spear down from its nails.

It was a heavy blackthorn shaft, but the butt was spiked in bronze and inlaid in gold, and the head was magnificently worked – folded steel, carefully chiselled.

Oh. Empty. Harmodius lost all interest in it. Not mine at all.

The captain hefted it for a long time.

Then he frowned and tucked it under his arm.

One by one they filed out of the cot. Mag left last, and closed the door behind her.

She looked puzzled. ‘I thought it would . . . vanish’ she said.

‘He’s not showy,’ the captain responded.

They all mounted, and rode over the ridges. In two ridges, the cot was gone, hidden in the folds of earth.

‘If I ride back, will there be aught there?’ Tom asked.

The captain shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘You know what?’ Tom said. ‘He reminded me of you. Only – more so.’

He laughed.

The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I’m flattered, Tom,’ he said.

Tom patted the sword at his side. ‘I have a magic sword,’ he said happily. ‘I want to go try it on something.’

Ranald shook his head. ‘Tom, you hate magic.’

Tom grinned. ‘Och. You can teach an old dog a new trick, if ye are patient.’

Gawin shook his head. ‘Why us?’

The captain shook his head.

They rode on.

The woodsmen were gone. There was no pile of bodies, no line of graves, no rusting tools. Merely gone.

Over the Irkill a stone bridge stood on heavy pilings, as wide as two horsemen abreast or a single wagon, and on the other side sat a new keep – a square tower – with a small toll house.

It was solid, and smelled of new masonry. The Keeper sat in the road, looking at it.

‘Open it,’ said the captain.

The Keeper looked at him.

‘The box – open it.’ The captain crossed his arms.

There was an anticlimactic moment as the Keeper rooted in his malle and emerged with his box. He opened it.

The box held a circlet, an arm ring, and a key.

The key fitted the door of the keep.

The circlet fit on his brow. He tried it and then snatched it off.

‘Damn,’ he said.

‘He’s telling you something,’ said Ranald.

‘The arm ring is for the drover,’ said the Keeper. ‘I know it.’

Ranald looked at it. ‘Leave it lie, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back in spring, and we’ll see.’

They rode back to the inn.

Toby unpacked his master’s portmanteau and appeared at his elbow. ‘M’lord?’ he asked.

The captain was playing piquet with Maggie. He looked up.

‘What do I do with these?’ he asked. He held up two velvet bags. They all but glowed a deep, dark red.

‘Not mine,’ the captain said.

‘Begging your pardon, m’lord, but they was in your bag.’ Toby held them out again.

The captain looked in one, and laughed. ‘Why, Toby, I’ve just discovered our host was more thoughtful than I had imagined. Come here.’ He gestured to his new squire. ‘I assume these are for you.’ He handed the bag over.

In it was a pair of silver spurs. Rich squires wore such things.

Toby gasped.

The captain shook his head. ‘He knew we were coming, but we sent Toby back.’ He looked in the other bag. And frowned.

A small, and very beautiful ring, gleamed in the bottom of the bag. It said ‘IHS’. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is too much,’ he said quietly, and flung the bag across the room.

It bounced off the wall.

He went back to his cards.

In the morning, when he went to pay the Keeper, he found the ring among his coins.

Give it up said the magister. He wants her, as well. You two are not done with each other, it seems.

He embraced the Keeper. ‘Got anyone going west to Lissen Carak?’ he asked.

The Keeper grinned. ‘In the autumn, maybe, and then only with twenty swords,’ he said.

The captain wrote a brief note on parchment. ‘Send this, then.’ He wrapped the ring in the parchment. It gave him the oddest feeling.

‘Go well, Captain,’ said the Keeper. ‘Stop here when you come west for the tournament.’

The captain raised his eyebrows.

‘You are a famous knight,’ the Keeper said with his child-like delight in knowing news the others didn’t know. ‘The Queen has ordained that there will be a great tournament at Lorica, at Pentecost in the New Year.’

The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Not my kind of fight, Keeper.’

The Keeper shrugged. ‘So you say.’

They spent five days riding over the mountains to Morea. They came down the pass north of Eva and the captain took them south and then east over the hills to Delf. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Gawin and Alcaeus were of the same mind, and Tom and Ranald saw the whole trip as an adventure, riding high on the hillsides, searching out caves . . .

‘Looking for a fight,’ Mag said in disgust. ‘Can we get home?’

‘Home to our company of hired killers?’ said the captain.

Mag looked at him and shook her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you must. Aren’t you – excited? Hopeful? Interested?’

He was watching the two hillmen ranging high above them. Alcaeus had purchased a good goshawk from a peddler and was flying him at doves. Gawin was riding ahead, feet crossed over the pintle of his saddle, reading.

He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just been enlisted by one mighty Power to fight another in a war not of my making, over things I don’t understand.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I swore off being a tool when I was a child.’

‘The Wyrm is good.’ Mag put a hand on his arm. ‘I can feel it.’

The captain shook his head. ‘Mag, what do my thoughts of good and evil mean to the worms in the road? I can be the most honourable knight who ever lived, and my horse’s iron-shod hooves will crush their soft bodies every step, after a rain.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I won’t even know.’

Down in the deep valley ahead of them, he could see rows of tents; a palisade; neat circles of heavy wagons, and over all, a banner, black, with lacs d’or worked in gold.

‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just act? Why can’t we simply win?’

The captain sighed. ‘Men love war because it is simple,’ he said. ‘Winning is never simple. I can win a fight – together, we can win a battle.’ He rubbed his beard. Down in the valley, men were pointing and messengers were mounting horses. ‘But turning victory in battle into something that lasts is like building a place to live. So much more complicated than building a fortress.’

He pointed at the riders. ‘Luckily for me, those men are bringing me word of our contract. A nice little war.’ He forced a smile. ‘Something we can win.’

Harndon City – Edward

Edward finished his first rondel dagger – a fine weapon with a precise triangular blade and an armour-piercing point – and handed it to Master Pyle with trepidation. The older man looked it over, balanced it on the back of his hand, and threw it at the floor, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Hand it to Danny to be hilted. I’ll have a project for you in a few days – until then, cover the shop.’

Well – shop work was clean and dull, but Edward was courting his Anne in the long summer evenings, and shop work allowed him to dress well – fine hose, a good doublet, not shop-worn linen stained in nameless chemicals and burned with a thousand sparks.

Anne was a seamstress, and her hands were always clean.

Most evenings she would dance in the square by her house, and Edward would swagger his sword and buckler against other journeymen – he was becoming a good blade.

He was designing himself a fine buckler – sketching in a sure hand with charcoal – when the shop door opened and a small man came in. He was middling. And not very memorable.

He smiled at Edward. He had odd black eyes, and he tapped a gold coin on the heavy oak table where customers examined the wares. ‘Fetch me your master, young man,’ he said.

Edward nodded. He rang a bell for another shop boy and sent him to the yard, and Master Pyle appeared a few minutes later. The dark-eyed man had spent the time looking out the window. Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away, because the man was so very difficult to look at.

He turned just a moment before the master appeared, and met him at the counter.

‘Master Pyle,’ he said. ‘I sent you some letters.’

Master Pyle looked puzzled. Then he brightened. ‘Master Smith?’

‘The very same,’ said the odd man. ‘Did you try my powder?’

‘I did. Scary stuff, and no mistake. Shot a hole in the roof of my shed.’ Master Pyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very consistent, though.’

The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Mmm. Well, perhaps I didn’t explain entirely. Try wetting it with urine after you’ve mixed it. Dry it in the sun – far from fire, of course. And then grind it back to coarse powder, very carefully.’

‘If I was an alchemist, all this might entertain me, Master Smith. But I’m a blade smith, and I have many orders.’

Master Smith appeared confused. ‘You make weapons, though.’

‘All kinds.’ Master Pyle nodded.

‘The very best in Alba, I’ve been told,’ Master Smith said.

Master Pyle smiled. ‘I hope so.’

Master Smith rocked his head back and forth. ‘Is this a matter of more money?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Master Pyle shook his head. ‘It’s just not my trade.’

Smith let out a sigh. ‘Why not?’

Edward looked at Master Pyle very hard, willing him to turn his head.

‘I have more orders than I can manage, and this is very untested.’ Master Pyle shrugged. ‘It would take months, perhaps years, to perfect.’ Smith shrugged. ‘So?’

Edward was all but hopping up and down. Master Pyle turned his head and glared at him. But it wasn’t his hard glare.

‘This is my journeyman, Edward. He made both of the test devices. He’s very competent, and perhaps he’d be willing to do the work for you.’ Master Pyle looked at Edward. ‘Want to try, Edward? Your own commission?’

Edward beamed.

The odd, dark-eyed man rocked his head again. ‘Excellent, then.’ He put two sheets of vellum down on the shop counter. ‘Have a look at these, and see what you think,’ he said. ‘Tube, stock, powder, and match. I want you to make them all.’

‘Just one?’ Edward asked. ‘Delivered where?’

‘Oh, as to that, I’ll send you my directions. It is for some friends.’ He laughed. ‘Just one, and then you destroy all your notes. Or I will find you. Understand?’

Edward looked at the man. He didn’t seem very dangerous. And yet, he did. And just for a moment, he seemed to have scales on the backs of his hands.

‘How much?’ Edward asked carefully. ‘Do I get paid?’

‘Absolutely,’ the strange man said. ‘Fifty gold nobles in advance. Fifty more on completion.’

Edward had to struggle to breathe.

Master Pyle shook his head. ‘I’ll get a notary.’

Harndon Palace – The King

Just above them, in the great fortress of Harndon, Master Pyle’s friend the king lay with his wife. He had two new scars on his heavily muscled thighs. She had one on her back.

Neither found the other a whit less fascinating.

When the king had done his thorough worship of her, he licked her leg and bit her gently and rose. ‘Men will mock me,’ he said. ‘A king who loves only his wife.’

She laughed. Stretched like a cat, fists clenched and turned inward to the best advantage of her breasts and back. ‘I,’ she purred, ‘beg leave to doubt your Majesty.’

He laughed and threw himself back down by her like a much younger man. ‘I love you,’ he said.

She rolled atop him and kissed him. ‘And I you, my lord.’

They lay for a while in companionable silence, until royal squires in the hall started to make noises that indicated that they had royal work to do.

‘I have set the date for your tournament at Lorica,’ the king said. He knew how much she wanted it. ‘It will help – after the battle. After Pentecost next.’

She took in a deep breath, also to her advantage, and clapped her hands together.

‘And I ordered Master Pyle to build two of your military carts with the Wagoner’s Guild,’ he said. ‘To test the concept. I’ll show them at the tournament. Ask men with retinues to build to the pattern.’ He shrugged. ‘It will be a start.’

‘And the Red Knight?’ she said.

He reacted as if he’d been stung.

She shook her head. ‘His company had standard wagons, built to the purpose in Galle.’ She dimpled. ‘So I didn’t invent the idea, apparently.’

He shook his head. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

She shrugged, again to her advantage.

‘If you don’t get dressed, the new ambassador from the Emperor will find me a most tardy host.’ He reached for her.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of inviting him to the tournament,’ the Queen said. She watched the king like a hawk.

He didn’t flinch.

‘Ah,’ he said.

Morea – The Red Knight

The camp was snug on the late summer evening. And the return had been enough like a homecoming to make him cry. He smiled a great deal, and rode through the camp.

Gelfred was sitting on a wagon, feeding-

‘Goodness gracious, Gelfred! Do we have Parcival?’ The captain slid down from his riding horse and shocked his hunt master with an embrace.

The eagle bated and said squaaack.

Gelfred nodded. ‘Wonderful bird.’ He looked around. ‘Not quite right, of course. Neither you, nor, pardon me, the Abbess is a king. Or queen.’ He grimaced.

The captain gave him a quick nod. ‘We’ll ask the Emperor for a special chrysobull, shall we?’ he laughed. ‘Although, to be honest, I’m pretty sure the Abbess almost was the Queen.’

Gelfred looked shocked.

Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘I suspected the same.’

Ser Gawin looked at the captain. ‘I’ll be the slow brother. What are we talking about?’

In the captain’s head, Harmodius laughed. A nasty, gossipy laugh. So! You did see who she was.

‘The old king’s mistress, Gelfred. That’s what men called her. Sophia Rae. To whom Hawthor the Great offered marriage after the Battle of Chevin, and was refused.’ The captain smiled. ‘Imagine having been Hawthor’s lover and Richard Plangere’s at the same time.’ He shook his head. ‘And then an Abbess for thirty years.’ He reached out and smoothed the bird’s plumage. ‘Hawthor must have given her the bird. He must be quite ancient.’

The bird’s eyes were fathomless and gold, with a black centre.

‘I’ve heard of them living fifty years,’ said Gelfred.

The bird’s grumpy eyes locked with the captain’s.

‘I see,’ he said.

Mag sat with Johne the Bailli in the last of the light. He had camp stools – comfortable enough, but backless, and she wasn’t getting any younger. He was watching the stars.

‘I see a lot of unfamiliar faces,’ she said, watching two men-at-arms go by. They paused in the light of Johne’s lanterns, gave her an appraising look, and bowed.

‘We did some recruiting,’ he admitted. He ran a hand down her back. Turned his head, and smiled. ‘All right, they all but attacked us. As soon as we made camp – every younger son in the North Country. Some Moreans, too. By the Saviour I would expect we have a hundred lances.’

She sighed. ‘So many,’ she said.

He sat back. ‘Won’t he be pleased? The young captain?’

She leaned over and kissed him gently. ‘I’m a sinful old woman, and I don’t need to be seduced, if that’s what your hand is supposed to be doing.’

He stiffened, but then grinned. ‘My lady, I am out of practice.’

They didn’t talk much, for a moment.

‘Am I clumsy?’ he murmured.

‘No,’ she said. She was thinking of blowing out the lanterns and lying on the carpet shamelessly. ‘No,’ she said.

‘What then?’ he asked.

She made a dismissive gesture and went to blow out the candles.

‘You can tell me,’ he said.

‘I’m just thinking of the captain. Of him being pleased.’ She shrugged. ‘You all think he’s fine, and he is not. He’s like a horse that’s taken a wound, and keeps going. He looks fine, right up until he falls stone dead.’ She found she was leaning back into him.

He held onto her. ‘When I was young, I wanted nothing so much as to be a knight,’ he said. ‘I wanted it, and I fought for it. And I did not get it. And after more time and some bad things, I met your husband, and we survived a bad time. And then I became a decent man in a small town. I had some dark days and some good days.’ He shrugged. ‘And now – par dieu, now it seems that I may get to be a knight. And I may have you, my lady.’ He held her tight. ‘Which is by way of saying – our little captain will take many hurts. If they break him?’ he shrugged. ‘Then they do. That is the way of it.’

She nodded. And slipped a little closer to the carpet of their tent.

The captain sat with Ser Alcaeus and his brother in the last light. The great eagle sat on a perch in the shaded end of the tent, head muffled, squawking softly. The captain went and petted the bird and calmed him, and while he was doing so, Toby poured him wine. Ser Jehannes knocked at the captain’s tent poles.

‘Come,’ said the captain.

Ser Jehannes had Ser Thomas and Ser Antigone, and Toby poured them all wine. In the distance, Oak Pew slammed a fist into Wilful Murder’s head. The archer sat suddenly. The captain shook his head.

‘It’s good to be home,’ he said.

Jehannes held out a leather wallet. ‘I know this is supposed to be a night to revel,’ he said. ‘But the messengers who brought these have been like bluebottles on horse manure, m’lord. Dispatches and letters,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Most for our well-born recruit here.’ He motioned at Alcaeus. ‘Your uncle seems determined to hear from you.’

‘Your pardon,’ Alcaeus said, and broke the seal on a scroll tube of dark wood.

While he did so, Jehannes handed an ivory tube to the captain. He glanced at the seal and smiled.

‘The Queen, gentlemen.’

They all drank. Even Sauce.

He broke the seal while Alcaeus was still reading.

Alcaeus looked up. ‘M’lord,’ he said formally. ‘The situation has worsened. I must ask, in the Emperor’s name, that we ride with all dispatch.’

The captain was till reading his own. ‘Relax, gentles,’ he said. ‘We aren’t riding anywhere tonight.’

Alcaeus looked at white as a sheet. ‘The Emperor has been – taken. Hostage. A week and more ago.’

The captain looked up and fingered his beard. ‘All right. That does constitute a crisis. Tom?’

‘Ready to ride at first light it is.’ Tom grinned. ‘Never a dull moment.’

‘We live in interesting times,’ the captain said. ‘Everyone get sleep. We will be moving fast. May I assume this is part of the same – er – trouble for which your uncle is hiring us?’

Alcaeus shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He shuffled. ‘I don’t even know if he is alive, or still Emperor.’

The captain nodded. ‘Dawn, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll pick up information as we go.’

Jehannes looked at the other parchment. ‘And the Queen?’

The captain sighed. ‘An invitation to a Deed of Arms,’ he said. ‘In the spring.’ He smiled. He looked out into the darkness. He was smiling. ‘Someone has kidnapped the Emperor, and we are going to be called on to save him,’ he said quietly. ‘I think we’ll have to miss the tournament.’

He looked around the table. ‘Remember this night, friends. Breathe the air, and savour the wine. Because tonight, it’s all in the balance. I can feel it.’

‘What is?’ Sauce asked. She raised an eyebrow at Tom, as if to say Is he drunk?

‘Everything,’ the captain said. He laughed aloud. ‘Everything.’

Acknowledgements

This book is the culmination of thirty ears of study, chivalric martial arts, real life, and role-playing. To be fair to all my influences, I’d have to thank everyone I’ve ever known. There’s a Somali man who worked for me in Kenya in this book; a woman I met once in Marseille; a chivalric fighter I sparred with at a tournament a few years back – it’s like that.

But several groups of people deserve my special thanks.

First, the friends of my days in university. Joe and Regina Harley, Robert Sulentic, Robert Gallasch, Gail Morse, Celia Friedman, Steven Callahan, Jevon Garrett, and another dozen – who played in the original Alba campaign. I am an unashamed nerd. Without you people, there would be little life on these bones.

Second, the friends of my reenactment hobby – most especially those who attend our yearly historic trek, where we wander off into the Adirondacks with eighteenth century equipment – or fourteenth century equipment – to learn what it is like to live with the past. We pack it in on our backs and we go places that – in some instances – no person has been in fifty years. These experiences have helped me write this book and I owe you all a debt of thanks for putting up with me. And all the people with whom I spar, in and out of armour – here, and in Ottawa and in Finland and Greece.

Third, the craftsmen who recreate the items that make history and fantasy come alive. Leo Todeschini of www.todsstuff.co.uk deserves a visit online – his stuff is incredible. Magical, even. Ben Perkins at www.barebowarchery.co.uk makes long bows and war bows that look and behave like the originals, as far as we know. Mark Vickers at www.stgeorgearmouryshop.co.uk and Peter Fuller at www.medievalrepro.com reproduce armour that is as near exactly like originals as makes little difference. Comfortable, too. I wear it quite often. www.albion-swords.com make superb, non-nonsense swords. They are not ‘like’ the real thing. They are the real thing. Visit my website and you can see a dozen more craftsmen every bit as good.

Fourth, the teachers who taught me about history, about life and philosophy, about weapons, and about chivalry; Dick Kaeuper of the University of Rochester; Father William O’Malley, SJ, who may or may not forgive my theology; Guy Windsor, possibly the world’s finest swordsman (he runs a school!) and Ridgeley Davis who taught me to be a much better rider. And to use a spear on horseback.

Fifth, the many people who have helped me in the publishing world; my Agent, Shelley Power; my gallant publicist, Donna Nopper, and most of all on this book, Gillian Redfearn, who gets credit in every step from creation to actual editing.

And last, the other teachers – the hundreds, if not thousands, of writers who inspire me to write. Medieval fishing? Theology? Hermeticism? Memory palaces? Jousting? Singing Neanderthals? Neurology? Ancient Greek philosophy? I owe a debt to the authors of hundreds of books for filling in the gaps in experience, or just teaching me a dying or dead craft.

And, of course, there’s fantasy itself. I adore – nay, worship – J. R. R. Tolkien. For my taste, it is not just The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit, but Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, from which I have borrowed shamelessly. And C. S. Lewis and their lesser known contemporary, E. R. Eddison. I will not claim Eddison is the best of the lot, but I will confess that my idea of what fantasy ought to do owes a great deal to Eddison, and to William Morris. Does anyone still read William Morris? Have a go. The Sundering Flood is one of my favorite books, not least because I share Morris’s love for the crafts and the material culture. More recently, I love Celia Friedman, Glen Cook, Katherine Kurtz and Steven Erikson. My hat is off to Erikson – I think he did the most magnificent job of plotting in our generation. And C. J. Cherryh and Lois McMaster Bujold. I don’t think either has ever written a book that I didn’t enjoy.

I could go on. But I have to work on book two – The Fell Sword. If you want to know more, visit my website at www.traitorson.com. And if you want to wear armour in the Wild . . .

Well, we’ll see if we can accommodate you.

Miles Cameron

August, 2012

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright © Miles Cameron 2012

All rights reserved.

The right of Miles Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain 2012 by

Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

This eBook first published in 2012 by Gollancz.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 11331 2

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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