The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (17 page)

2

‘Northern rampart of the High Kingdom, the feet of the Argor range are bathed by the Sea of Mists. It is a province of tall mountains, beautiful valleys and high pastures, blue granite, cloudy ridges, elevated peaks and eternal snows. The air is crisp there and the water clear, the nights are often cool and winter is never far away.’

Chronicles (The Book of the High Kingdom)

Lorn did not see the first man die.

But he’d heard the Gheltish war cries and knew what he would discover when he arrived at the crest of the ridge. He had prudently left his horse behind, tethered to a dead tree. Lying flat on his belly, he observed the soldiers taking refuge behind some rocks in the bed of a dried-up river below. Caught in a trap, they were being harassed by riders with dark brown skin and long black hair, wearing leather and bone armour, who circled them at a gallop, firing volleys of arrows.

Ghelts.

Lorn counted twenty to twenty-five of them, against only ten soldiers. Already wounded for the most part, the soldiers did not stand a chance of winning the fight and were preparing for a heroic final stand. Did they know this engagement would be their last? Did they know they could expect no mercy? Lorn was familiar with Ghelts, having fought them for a year in Dalatia. They were brave warriors, formidable and often honourable, but they gave no quarter. If no one came to rescue them, these soldiers were doomed.

Lorn studied the valley, the flanks of the surrounding mountains and the road that snaked its way into the distance and climbed towards a pass.

No one.

Having emptied their quivers, the Ghelts assembled into a mass and charged, screaming. Only a few of the soldiers were in any shape to fight. Covered in blood, exhausted, they confronted the riders who bore down on them before jumping from their saddles to engage their opponents in furious close quarters combat. The doomed soldiers fought with desperate energy, trying to protect their wounded comrades. It was a savage and murderous business. A massacre. Heads flew through the air. Opened bellies spilled their steaming guts. Blood spurted in great sprays of sticky crimson, accompanied by cries of agony and rage.

Lorn watched the soldiers fall one after another without feeling any real emotion. The last, staggering, bearing wounds all over his body, did not even have the strength to raise his weapon against the fatal blow.

The wide blade of a scimitar decapitated him.

The Ghelts looted the soldiers’ bodies and took their horses. Lorn watched them ride away at a gallop, whooping victory cries.

Without hurry, he walked back to find his horse. His ginger cat – who he had finally named Yssaris – was sitting on the saddle, waiting for him. Lorn rubbed its head and allowed it to climb onto his shoulder while he mounted. Then he went over to the site of the carnage.

The bodies lay on the ground, mutilated and grimacing, while the air reeked with a warm odour of blood and guts. Lorn had not thought for a second of coming to the rescue of these men during the attack and he felt no remorse because of it. Their hour had come, and that was all.

Besides, he had a mission to fulfil.

He heard a moan.

Lorn dismounted again while Yssaris jumped from his shoulder, and he turned over a soldier he had believed dead like the others.

He practically was.

The man had a terrible wound to the skull and another, more grievous still, in his side. With a mere glance, Lorn could tell he would die soon. The instants remaining to the man could only be used to find a certain peace.

Lorn gave a resigned look to Yssaris who was watching him, quietly seated a short distance away. After that, he wiped away the dust, the sweat and the blood staining the soldier’s face. Then he lifted the man’s head gently and brought the mouth of a water flask to his dried lips.

The soldier managed to drink a little.

He opened his eyes and gave thanks with a nod of the head.

‘The Ghelts …’ he murmured in a broken voice. ‘We … We found them but they …’

‘I know,’ Lorn interrupted him. ‘I saw.’

‘Saw? You … were there? And … And you did … nothing?’

‘It would have been just one more death.’

The soldier tried to rise but was so weak that Lorn merely had to place a hand on his shoulder to prevent him.

‘We must … We must warn the castle!’

‘No,’ said Lorn. ‘You’ll be going nowhere.’

The man looked at him, and then understood.

The features of his face sagged and he let his head fall backwards. He was not yet thirty years old. No doubt he was a husband and a father.

‘I’m going to die,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I … I’m not in much pain. Perhaps …’

‘No. It’s over.’

Lorn had accompanied enough dying men in their final moments to know that it was useless to either lie to them or say too much. The best thing was to be there, to be present. Nothing was worse than solitude in the last moments. Lorn waited until the soldier’s breathing became regular and said:

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sares.’

‘Are you a believer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then this is the moment to pray, Sares.’

With tears in his eyes, the soldier nodded weakly. He brought a filthy hand encrusted with blood to his chest and seized a pendant in the likeness of the Dragon-King: a crowned dragon with an upright body, its wings deployed horizontally.

Expressionless, Lorn took the dying man’s other hand.

He stayed with him until the end.

When the soldier was dead, Lorn stood up. He looked for a long while at the contorted bodies lying all around him, which, in the heat, were starting to attract insects. Then he raised his eyes towards the ridge from which he had watched the battle.

A rider was there.

A Ghelt sitting straight and motionless in his saddle, pointedly watching Lorn, his silhouette clearly outlined in the raw sunlight.

A lookout. Or a straggler, thought Lorn.

Eyes squinting behind his dark glasses, he observed the warrior in turn, as Yssaris leapt into his arms. A long moment went by before the other man turned away and disappeared behind the ridge.

Lorn then climbed atop his own mount and left in the opposite direction.

3

Lorn found Calaryn in an uproar. Once he crossed the drawbridge and double portcullis, he had to dismount in the courtyard and hold his horse by the reins.

Count Teogen’s castle was in a state of full alert.

Soldiers came and went, marching in ranks or jostling past one another in a disorderly fashion, archers, crossbowmen and pikemen all mixed together. Their faces looked tense and worried. Horses were champing at their bits. Hooves rang on the sonorous paving. Beneath an archway, men were struggling to hold on to the chains of a snorting wyvern. One needed to shout to be heard and use one’s elbows to advance in the mob. Standing apart, a group of arquebusiers practised their manoeuvres. They charged, shouldered their weapons and aimed at mannequins swinging from poles in front of the ramparts. They opened fire without startling very many in the general racket, the salvo frightening only a murder of crows, who cawed as they flew off.

Lorn knew this fervour: it was the one that preceded battle.

Spotting a steward to whom everyone seemed to be directing their enquiries, he hitched his horse, leaving it under Yssaris’s guard, and went to plant himself in front of the man. As he continued to deal with various matters, the steward glanced over several times at the stranger wearing a hood and dark glasses, who did not say a word.

Finally, he asked:

‘What do you want? Be brief!’

‘I have a letter. For the count.’

‘Give it to me. I’ll have it brought to him as soon as possible.’

‘No. I must deliver it in person.’

The steward, busy consulting a register that had just been presented to him, grew impatient.

‘Listen, I don’t have time to waste. We’re at war! The Ghelts have attacked three villages and taken captives. So either you give me the letter, or you—’

He interrupted himself when he raised his nose, because the stranger was already walking away.

He shrugged and returned to work as Lorn climbed a staircase leading to the ramparts.

Count Teogen of Argor had assembled the inner circle of his barons and knights at the top of a wide crenellated tower. Crowded around a table covered with maps, all of them were wearing armour, with swords at their side and gauntlets in their belts, their helmets tucked under their arms. Adjoining the main keep, the tower was used for launching wyverns. Scarlet banners flapping in the winds at the four corners of its wall walk, it loomed over the castle, its approaches and even the surrounding area, allowing one to see over considerable distances. From this position, it seemed that the entire province could be viewed, as far as the snowy peaks under a never-ending sky.

Teogen was holding a war council.

Placed upon the table, his famous fighting mace prevented the maps from rolling up while he discussed urgent measures to be carried out and pointed out a road to be taken, a bridge to be guarded, a mountain pass to be closed. It was a question of locating the Gheltish riders who had organised an incursion into the province and managed to pillage several villages and farms only a few leagues from the castle. The task was an arduous one because Argor was spread across countless valleys, hollows and glens. A maze. A maze protected by fortified towers, gates and bridges, to be sure. But any armour has its weakness and the Ghelts, who had been threatening the north-eastern border for months, had struck at the heart of the province. And they were elusive, vanishing immediately after each raid and appearing elsewhere unexpectedly.

The latest attack, however, had been one too many. It had taken place just when Teogen was calling up his cavalry and assembling an army. The army was still not up to full strength, but the count now had enough horsemen to comb the northern part of his province, hunt down the Gheltish marauders and – with the help of the Red Dragon – run them through with steel.

‘Time is of essence,’ said Teogen of Argor.

Bent over his maps, he studied them with a baleful eye.

‘The Ghelts have taken female captives,’ he continued. ‘If they haven’t already had their way and killed them, it means that they are intending to cross back over the border soon, along with their prizes.’

‘The Ghelts will escape us if they regain their territory,’ said a knight with a gaunt face, white hair and leathery skin.

‘That’s true,’ confirmed Teogen. ‘We’d be unable to execute them for their crimes and we’d never see their prisoners again.’

‘Why not cross the border? Why not pursue these Ghelts into their own territory?’ asked a young baron. ‘They have no scruples about doing the same to us!’

‘Because it would be suicide,’ replied Orwain. ‘Even at the head of an army.’

‘And it would start a war,’ added Teogen.

‘A war?’ objected the young knight. ‘But isn’t that what we already have—?’

‘No, Guilhem,’ the count interrupted. ‘If we were at war with the Ghelts, we would know it. And we would have greater worries than a band of marauders. All Argor would be a bloody battlefield.’ His face darkened at the thought of another Gheltish war. ‘I would rather believe we’re dealing with warriors who, for one reason or another, have decided they no longer respect the treaties. Perhaps they belong to a clan that has splintered off. If they’ve just crowned a young king who’s a little too ambitious …’

The Count of Argor, sighed, straightened up and looked round at his vassals with a grave face. Despite his years, he remained a formidable man and still wore the same breastplate that had protected him during Erklant II’s early campaigns.

‘I won’t take the risk of starting a war,’ he added. ‘But there’s no question of allowing these Ghelts’ crimes to go unpunished. We’ll catch them before they regain their territory and we’ll put them to the sword.’

Everyone nodded except Orwain, who said in a low voice, as if to himself:

‘Executing these warriors may provoke the clans’ anger. It would be better to capture them and hand them over to be judged and sentenced by their own kind.’

There were murmurs of disapproval in response to this, but he took no offence. He knew he was right, but he also knew that the voice of wisdom was rarely heeded in difficult times.

The Baron of Ortand spoke up.

His features drawn by fatigue and anger, he had been one of the first to answer the Count of Argor’s call to arms. Some of the pillaging perpetrated by the Ghelts had taken place on his estate. He had witnessed impotent, tortured bodies hanging from the trees or burned in the still smoking ruins of buildings.

‘These barbarians have looted, raped and killed. They have shed Argorian blood. They should pay the price on the end of an Argorian blade or rope.’

The others expressed their agreement.

Orwain exchanged a look with Teogen and realised that Teogen would have to satisfy his vassals on this point. Besides, it was not just a question of vengeance; no doubt they needed to teach the Ghelts that Argor’s borders could not be violated with impunity and that the count would fight back.

‘Have no fear, Ortand,’ Teogen replied. ‘Their heads will end up on our pikes.’

The baron nodded, mollified.

‘But we still need to find them before we can eliminate them,’ said a knight whose armour was decorated with black and scarlet patterns. ‘These Ghelts did not come on a whim. They waited for the season when our wyverners cannot take to the skies and they seem to be familiar with the valleys they’re passing through. Even with an army, hunting them down will be no easy task.’

Tall, slender, dark-eyed and sporting a well-trimmed beard, Dorian of Leister cut an imposing figure. At his side hung a sword whose pommel was adorned with a red opal. He would soon be thirty years old and seemed rich and cultivated, even refined. Needless to say, he stood out among the other rustic lords of Argor, even Teogen himself.

But he was nevertheless treated with respect.

And heeded.

‘True,’ said the count. ‘But if the Ghelts are returning to their lands as I believe, then we can concentrate our searches in these regions.’ He pointed with his index finger to three places on the largest and most detailed of the maps spread across the table. ‘Because they will need to cross one or another of these passes, won’t they?’

Orwain shared his opinion.

However, he did not need to study the map closely before raising an objection:

‘Seven passes. Nine, if the Ghelts take the risk of crossing the Dark Vale or the Steel Falls. That’s too many. Even if we left now, we could not watch them all.’

The count nodded in reluctant agreement.

‘I’m well aware of that.’

‘Some of our patrols haven’t returned yet,’ said Leister. ‘The last should be back by tomorrow evening, let’s wait for them. Perhaps they will bring us the intelligence we’re still lacking.’

Teogen knew that this was the wisest course. Yet he fumed at the idea of delaying longer.

And longer …

‘One of those patrols will not be returning,’ announced Lorn.

All eyes turned towards him.

Lorn had resolved to find the Count of Argor by his own means and had succeeded without much difficulty. It had been enough to show the signet ring on his finger to each sentry he met. His confidence and natural air of authority did the rest. He was not one of those who found his way blocked for long.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked the Count of Argor.

‘The High King sent me.’

‘So, that’s it, then? I’m finally being sent the help I’ve been demanding for months now, to guard the border?’ he asked ironically, raising several smiles from the other lords. ‘You’ve arrived in the nick of time, knight. But I was expecting more than one sword.’ He looked down at Lorn’s weapon. ‘A Skandish blade, if I’m not mistaken …’

Staring at Lorn as he removed his hood but kept on his dark glasses, Teogen declared:

‘I know you. You’re Lorn, aren’t you? The son of the master-of-arms.’

‘That’s me. Lorn Askarian.’

Fist over his heart, Lorn bowed to salute the Count of Argor. The latter was now recalling other details and, despite his outward lack of expression, Lorn read in the other man’s eyes what he was thinking at that precise instant:

Dalroth.

Lorn drew a letter from his sleeve and stepped closer.

The High King has charged me—’ he began to say.

But Leister interposed himself between Lorn and the table. Lorn challenged him wordlessly. A silent contest then ensued before the vassals, most of whom had placed their hands upon their swords. Orwain advanced prudently, with the intention of preventing an open quarrel.

It was Teogen, however, who disarmed the situation.

‘You said that one of our patrols would not return. What do you know of that?’ he asked.

Lorn turned towards him.

‘They were massacred by the Ghelts,’ he announced, provoking stunned silence. ‘I watched the battle.’

‘Watched, hmm?’ said Leister.

Lorn ignored him. He reckoned he owed no accounting to anyone, unless it were the count.

‘I kept a soldier company during his final instants,’ he said. ‘His name was Sares.’

Teogen consulted Orwain with a glance.

The old knight nodded gravely: Sares was indeed the name of a soldier who had left on patrol that very morning.

‘When did this happen?’ Orwain asked.

‘A few hours ago.’

‘Where?’ demanded Teogen. ‘Show me.’

Lorn waited for Leister to step aside and advanced to the table, bent over the map presented to him, hunted … and pointed to a valley.

‘Here,’ he said.

The count and his vassals seemed puzzled.

‘Are you sure?’ asked one of them.

‘Yes.’

‘That can’t be,’ said another.

‘I know how to read a map,’ said Lorn in an unfriendly tone.

Looking worried and perplexed, Teogen pored over the map, thinking aloud:

‘That makes no sense at all …’

‘Why?’ asked Lorn without addressing anyone in particular. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘If you’re not mistaken …’ Orwain began to explain.

‘I’m not.’

‘If you’re not mistaken, then the Ghelts aren’t returning to their territory as we believed. It makes no sense because they’ve taken captives who can only be slowing them down … How many of them were there attacking the patrol?’

‘A little more than twenty riders.’

‘Then they weren’t all there.’

‘More than twenty Gheltish warriors against a patrol!’ protested Guilhem, the youngest knight present. ‘And you did nothing?’

‘There was nothing a single man could do,’ retorted Orwain, pre-empting any response by Lorn.

And turning to Lorn again, he asked:

‘Did you see any prisoners?’

‘None.’

‘Then they were with the other Ghelts …’

‘Or they were already dead.’

Orwain stared at Lorn.

He reminded the old knight of certain veterans in whom the experience of war had erased any trace of humanity. They made excellent fighters. But although such men could win victories and change destinies, although they made formidable adversaries and precious allies on the battlefield, they were lost souls who would founder sooner or later.

‘Unless …’

Teogen did not finish his sentence.

Hurriedly, he pushed aside his mace to retrieve a packet of maps which he pawed through roughly, until he found one – the oldest and most ragged of the lot – showing some ridges, passes and valleys in detail. Having unfolded it, he consulted it briefly and displayed a smile.

‘That’s it!’ he said.

‘What?’ asked Orwain.

‘Don’t you see?’

The landless knight studied the map, but it was Leister who found the solution first.

‘The Twin Passes!’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said the count, straightening up his massive body. ‘The Twin Passes. The Ghelts are trying to return to their territory, but they’re not taking the shortest route.’

‘Or the most obvious one,’ observed Orwain. ‘We would never have gone looking for them out there. Or only too late, after finding that patrol …’

Teogen turned towards Lorn with a grateful look.

‘Thank you, knight. Your help has been invaluable.’

And addressing his vassals, he declared: