The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (12 page)

When he returned to his senses, he found himself on horseback, wounded, and holding the reins with the same hand that gripped his bloodied sword. His mount reared with a whinny, panic-stricken, before the gate in the outer wall. Had he forgotten that the mercenaries had closed it after the coach’s arrival? Or had he simply not thought about it at all, caught up in a frenzy?

Whatever the case, the gate still stood tall and shut tight before him, and the walls meant to protect him had become a deadly trap.

Unless …

‘Surrender!’ Elana called. ‘It’s over!’

His mouth dry and his eyes sore, dazed by the migraine boring into his temples, Lorn tried to take stock of the situation.

Elana and her warriors had him cornered. Fighting had ceased in the corpse-strewn courtyard. The inn’s clientele had taken refuge in the buildings and were peeping fearfully from the windows.

Lorn sheathed his sword …

Before spurring his horse with his heels.

Determined to risk all, he knocked over one warrior, forced several others to dive to one side. Continuing to gather speed he crossed the courtyard at a gallop, charging towards the new building under construction.

Elana understood what he intended to do.

‘
NO!
’ she cried. ‘
YOU’RE GOING TO—
’

But she did not finish her sentence.

The workers had built a ramp in order to haul their materials up to the first floor, which was still a platform sprouting sections of wall and cluttered with tools, sacks, boards and piled bricks.

Lorn charged up the ramp without slowing.

It groaned, creaked and split with a crack, before finally collapsing in a cloud of dust. The horse leapt when the structure gave way beneath it and traversed the first floor like a cannon ball, following what would one day be a hallway ending at a window.

Frightened, foaming at the mouth, the steed launched itself into space and jumped over the compound’s outer wall.

Lorn disappeared into the night.

19

Lorn woke in the morning and stretched in the grass, his horse’s reins held in his left fist as the beast grazed peaceably nearby. He had difficulty moving, his body aching and a trickle of black bile staining his mouth and chin. He sat up, wiped his face clean and gradually pulled himself together.

Having escaped from the fortified inn, he had travelled as far and as fast as possible. Then, when his mount could no longer maintain this pace, he continued at a walk, struggling to remain conscious and wobbling in his saddle, before finally fainting and falling off like a sack. The fury of combat and his survival instinct had allowed him to hold on, but the Dark had finally got the better of him.

How could it have ended otherwise?

Lorn sighed.

He was still alive and he was free. That was something, at least.

But Irelice’s men had no doubt been on his trail since first light. Lorn sincerely doubted Elana would abandon the hunt now, after all her previous efforts.

He had already wasted enough time.

Lorn stood up with a grimace, discovering a minor wound to his arm, and got back on his horse.

Taking several detours along rocky paths or streams to cover his tracks, Lorn continued southwards. He proceeded cautiously but was still trying to reach Brenvost on the Captive Sea. It was a big city. Besides, the other options open to him were unpromising. To the east, wild mountains blocked the horizon. If he gave up on reaching the coast, he was left with a choice between turning back towards the Free Cities or heading west, into the Deadlands.

Lorn rode for three days and thought he had shaken off his pursuers when, one evening, he noticed three horsemen upon a ridge. So they had picked up his trail. Or at least they were searching in the right direction. But how? The hypothesis of an expert tracker was sufficient explanation, but Lorn thought he found the true answer when, the following day, he spotted winged shapes flying beneath the clouds and barely had time to take cover.

Wyverns.

Wyverners were criss-crossing the sky and combing the region below. Had Irelice tasked them to assist Elana and her men in their search? Lorn had trouble believing it, but was forced to acknowledge the facts: whoever was seeking him was employing considerable means to find him.

He had a decision to make.

When evening came, Lorn looked after his horse and dined on a heel of bread and some dried meat. Then, at the edge of a copse of fir trees in which he had been forced to take refuge to escape detection by the wyverners, he sat facing the sunset. His gaze distant, he thought while he absently rubbed the palm and the back of his marked hand wrapped in its leather strap.

From now on, he would have to keep an eye on the sky as well as the horizon and travel by night as much as possible. But even so, the risk of being seen and captured was too great if he continued south. The riders had probably guessed that he was trying to reach Brenvost. If he wanted to escape them he would have to set out in another direction, but which one? There was no question of returning to the Free Cities: even if he managed it, they would be waiting for him there. East? The wyverners might spot him before he reached the mountains. So what to do?

Head into the Deadlands?

The region that spread to the west as far as the eye could see had been subjected to the Dark’s corruption during the Shadows. For a long time, nothing had survived on its poisoned water, air and soil. But nature had little by little regained its hold there, but without truly prevailing and sometimes giving rise to monstrosities. Now the Deadlands were an immense moorland, wild and austere. And these days, the Dark represented a real danger only in the most remote parts.

At least, Lorn hoped so.

Because the idea of venturing into the Deadlands was more and more tempting. Of course, it would not be free of risk. All the same, did he have a choice? He was convinced that a wyverner or a rider would find him sooner or later if he did not do something to catch his pursuers off guard. Moreover, it was not a question of journeying deep into the Deadlands, but simply of making a slight detour through them, in order to reach the Captive Sea unhindered. Perhaps he would make it to Brenvost, after all.

Furthermore …

Furthermore, he had a hunch that he should go into the Deadlands. Without being able to explain it he felt that the journey he had undertaken was supposed to take that route. Something was waiting there for him, perhaps. Or someone. He sensed a need, together with a vague promise that he would find some comfort there.

Sitting still, with the fading dusk reflecting off the dark glasses of his spectacles, Lorn gave himself time to think matters over. He weighed up the pros and cons, and then looked at his horse. It was not the same mount on which he had arrived at the inn. He had probably stolen it from one of the riders who had been escorting the coach. This horse had rendered him good service. It had saved his life, but Lorn had nevertheless lost out in the exchange. This beast had neither the stamina nor the speed of the steed he had been forced to leave behind. The way they had been travelling, it would not last much longer.

His mind was soon made up.

Lorn checked his equipment one last time and took an inventory of his supplies. When night fell, he climbed back onto his weary horse. He rode off beneath the pale light of the Great Nebula, towards the distant horizon of a windy, desolate moor, where, beneath an immense sky, big bluish rocks broke through expanses of rust-coloured lichen.

20

Lorn encountered the Dark on the third night.

He was surprised at first, but it was indeed a Dark mist that had risen and was spreading across the moor. Cautiously, he moved to a rocky hillock and stood in his stirrups to observe. The mist formed a red, vaporous sea before him. It seemed to pour from the entrails of the world and unfurled on either side of the old paved road along which he was travelling.

Lorn turned in his saddle.

The Dark stretched across the horizon behind him and was advancing, immense and unstoppable, covering the road. If he lingered too long, he would find himself isolated on this outcrop. And now there was no question of his turning back.

Perplexed, Lorn rubbed his marked hand, which prickled. He knew he should feel afraid, be terrified of the Dark that threatened to engulf him. And he was not merely seeing it. He could sense it. He felt its strength in his flesh. It was as if a slow shudder ran beneath his skin and formed a ball in his gut. But the arrival of the Dark aroused neither fear nor distress in him. On the contrary, it was a familiar, reassuring presence. It only sought to find him again, to envelope him, to gather him in as it had done at Dalroth.

It would be so easy.

All he had to do was abandon himself to it …

Lorn shivered when he realised what was happening to him. Father Domnis was right: Lorn had once again heard the Call. Yet the Dark was right there before him; this time it had not manifested as a painful fit, but in an attempt at seduction, an attraction, a bewitching that had taken on the appearance of a sensible decision.

Entering the Deadlands to escape his pursuers had been sheer folly. Lorn realised this now, but nevertheless, had he really ventured as far as all that?

It was impossible.

He could not have crossed the dozens of leagues that separated him from the regions where the Dark was likely to emerge with such virulence. Moreover, he was heading south, not west. Therefore, either the Dark’s influence was stronger throughout the Deadlands than he had been led to believe, or something very unusual was taking place.

Lorn then raised his eyes to the night sky and swore at himself. Dark red spots were spreading over the grey moon like seas of blood, while the Nebula was turning purple and scarlet.

It was a Dark Night.

A night when the Dark gained added strength wherever it might be. Long ago, during the Shadows, all nights were Dark Nights and they still happened occasionally and unpredictably. As sinister and ominous as they were, they proved almost harmless where the Dark did not hold sway. But in places and beings where the Dark had already impregnated itself …

Suddenly nervous, his mount grew restless.

Lorn soon discovered why: creatures had appeared. They were still distant but approaching rapidly in the mist. Wolves. Large, dark and powerful. As tall and as heavy as wild boars, and they were hunting as a pack.

Lorn returned to the road and took off at a gallop.

Seeing their prey escaping, the wolves immediately changed course to cut across the moor. Out of the corner of his eye, Lorn saw the pack closing on him by taking the shortest route. Nevertheless, he did not want to risk leaving the road. Even if it meant exhausting his horse too quickly, he urged it on with his heels, forcing it to redouble its efforts and pass ahead of the wolves just as they reached the old paved road. One of them leapt and was cut down in the air by a sword stroke which gutted it. It failed to dissuade the others. With exposed fangs and glistening chops, their paws trailing diaphanous scarlet tatters, they did not slow and raced along the road in pursuit of the rider. Behind them, the closing mist swallowed the dying wolf.

Lorn rode flat out, his horse’s shod hooves hammering upon the paving stones at a frantic rate. He knew it would weaken before the wolves did. He knew they would catch up in the end and bring it down, if it did not stumble first out of sheer exhaustion. These were no ordinary wolves. Their size and mass were enough to convince him of that and their gleaming eyes betrayed the Dark’s hold over them. Had it perverted them or had they been born this way? It mattered little. Driven by a bloodthirsty rage, they would never give up.

So there was no salvation except to take flight.

But for how long?

Lorn felt his horse falter while the pack continued to gain ground. Two wolves were running level with him to either side of the road. They were no doubt waiting for another member of the pack to attack from behind and tumble both horse and rider. Lorn had not resheathed his sword, but it served no purpose. Now the wolves were careful to keep their distance.

Untiring.

Relentless.

Lorn was now merely waiting for his horse, mad with terror, to collapse beneath him; it would happen at any moment now. And he was not even hoping for a miracle when he saw the mound.

There were mounds scattered throughout the Deadlands. They housed ancient tombs. Always crowned by three sacred stones, they kept the Dark at bay. Lorn didn’t know how or why. He did not even know if it was true and it scarcely mattered at this point. The mound was standing before him, at a slight remove from the road, and seemed to be destined for him. Like an island, it stood all alone, bathed in the red mist.

Lorn remained on the road for as long as he could. Then, when he saw that a wolf was catching up with him and threatening to leap upon the rump of his horse at any second, he abruptly turned off in the direction of the mound. Taken unawares, the pack had to turn before it could resume the pursuit. Lorn was already racing across the moor, cleaving through a thick mist that clung to the flanks of his foaming mount and tore away in shreds.

The wolves were just drawing level with him again when he reached the mound and discovered it was surrounded by a ring of bristling stakes. Charging at full gallop, his mount leapt. It was an impossible jump. The horse tore its belly open on a stake and fell as it landed. Thrown from the saddle, Lorn rolled over a short distance. His sword still in his fist, he stood up while his horse, unable to regain its feet, struggled on the ground, sliding over its own entrails at the bottom of the mound and breaking several stakes as it whinnied in pain and distress. Lorn had no time to worry about its fate. The wolves were already leaping out of the mist, over the ring. There were six of them. One of them impaled itself on a stake. Three others rushed forward to finish off the gutted horse. Two attacked Lorn.

He severed the throat of the first, spun round and struck the second at the very instant when it launched itself at him. He struck its shoulder, which failed to discourage the animal. It immediately repeated its assault. But Lorn dodged and delivered a terrible blow to the back of its neck, almost decapitating it. The beast fell, stone dead.

Lorn then turned towards the three wolves that had already finished with the horse and were now approaching him, growling. Lorn prepared himself, holding his sword in both hands, standing firmly planted on his legs. His gaze was steady and his breathing regular. Yet he doubted whether he could win this battle. His heart was beating furiously. But he was a warrior and warriors died in combat.

Seeing that the wolves, still as threatening as ever, were deploying themselves to encircle him, Lorn slowly retreated. One step after another, without ever taking his eyes off his adversaries, he climbed backwards up the mound … until he reached the great standing stones.

And there, with his back to the steles, he waited …

Snarling louder than ever, crouching down, the wolves hesitated, displaying their fangs, snapping at Lorn as he tried to keep all three in sight.

Suddenly, one of them bounded forward, signalling the attack.

Lorn managed to dispatch the quickest of the three. He broke its jaw with a kick of his boot, before bringing his sword down between its eyes and splitting its skull. Then he grabbed the throat of a second wolf that had risen up on its hind legs to attack him and drove his blade into its belly, up to the hilt. He got away with no more than a shoulder mauled by sharp claws, before breaking clear and raising his sword as the last wolf leapt at him. The beast impaled itself upon the steel blade. But despite the weapon planted in its chest, it succeeded in toppling Lorn as it fell heavily upon him and tried to bite his neck. His face speckled with bloody slaver, Lorn was forced to release his sword in order to seize the animal’s maw with both hands and keep it at a distance. The two opponents struggled for a moment until the wolf finally weakened and Lorn was able to rise to his knees, straddling its body. With one forearm trapped by the monster’s fangs, he fumbled around until he found the dagger tucked inside his boot and desperately stabbed at the wolf’s flank, striking again and again.

At last, the wolf grew still …

Lorn rolled onto his back, exhausted and winded. He had lost a lot of blood and was at the end of his strength. After a moment, he managed to drag himself to the top of the mound and sat with his back against one of the standing stones. He needed to catch his breath. After which, grimacing with pain, he removed his doublet and tore off the sleeves of his shirt. He knotted one of them around his bloodied forearm and made a bandage with the other, which he pressed against his lacerated shoulder.

Dawn was near.

The mist was dissipating upon the moor.

Alone, wounded and now without a mount, Lorn fainted, just as it occurred to him that he would never find the strength to get up again.

Soon, the first carrion-eaters would arrive.