The Red Knight

And with that, each had ridden off – one north, and one south.

Who can pull stars from the sky and hurl them at castle walls? Harmodius asked himself, and worried that there was only one answer.

The last light of day had shown him smoke rising over Albinkirk, and if the town was gone then he was bereft of a plan.

His original impulse was all but gone. The evidence of the road, and Ser Alcaeus, was that a marauding army of the Wild had come down on the north of Alba, and he was afraid – to the core of his chilled and weary bones – that all the work of the old King Hawthor was undone. Worse, whatever had cast the ensorcellment on him was out there. With that army.

And yet he hadn’t pointed his horse’s head back south. When he came to the road that turned west, into the woods, and saw fresh wagon ruts on it he turned his horse’s head that way and followed them.

Part of that was pragmatic. He’d fought three bands of the Wild to win through this much of the road to Albinkirk. He wasn’t ready to fight a fourth.

Two hours later, somewhere in the darkness, a horse gave a long snort and then a soft whicker, and his horse answered.

Harmodius sat up.

He let his horse stumble forward. The horses would find each other quicker than he could, and they rode on for long minutes. He stared with unaided eyes at the darkness that pressed in on the road like a living thing.

The other horse whinnied.

His horse gave a call, almost a mule’s bray, in return.

‘Halt! You on the road – halt and dismount, or you’ll have enough crossbow bolts in you to play a porcupine in a show.’ The voice was loud, shrill, and sounded very young, which made the speaker dangerous. Harmodius slid from his horse, knowing in his bones that he was unlikely to be able to remount. His knees hurt. His calves hurt. ‘I’m off,’ he said.

A bull’s-eye lantern opened its baleful eye in front of him, the powerful oil lamp all but blinding him.

‘Who are you, then?’ asked the annoying young voice.

‘I’m the fucking King of Alba,’ Harmodius snapped. ‘I’m an old man on a done horse and I’d love to share your fire, and if I was a horde of boglins you’d already be dead.’

There were chortles from the darkness.

‘There you are, Adrian. Put that weapon down, Henry. If he’s riding a horse, he ain’t a creature of the Wild. Eh? Did you think of that, boy? What’s your name, old man?’ The new voice was authoritative without being noble. The bland accent of court was completely absent.

‘I’m Harmodius Silva, the King’s Magus.’ He walked forward into the lantern light, and his horse followed him, as eager for rest and food as his rider. ‘And that’s not a tall tale,’ he added.

‘Sounds pretty tall,’ said the new voice. ‘Come to the fire and have a cup of wine. Adrian, back to your duty, boy. Young Henry, if you point that weapon at me again I’ll break your nose.’

The man was in armour and had a heavy axe across his arms, but he stripped off a chain mitten and clasped Harmodius’ hand. ‘They call me Old Bob,’ he said. ‘Man-at-arms to the great and near great,’ he laughed. ‘You really Lord Silva?’

‘I truly am,’ said Harmodius. ‘Do you really have a safe camp and wine? I’ll pay a silver leopard to have a boy see to my horse.’

The man-at-arms laughed. ‘Long night?’

‘Three long nights. By the blood of Christ and his resurrection – I’ve been fighting for three days.’

They emerged into the circle of light from a big fire, and over the fire towered a heavy trestle that held the chains of three heavy cauldrons – and a pair of lanterns hung from the cross bar. It was the strongest light he’d seen since sundown. By the candlelight he could see a dozen men crouched over something on the ground, and the tall wheel of a heavy wagon. And beyond that, another.

‘You’ve reached Master Random’s convoy,’ the man-at-arms said. ‘Fifty wagons, or near enough, all the guilds of Harndon represented.’

Harmodius nodded. He’d never heard of Master Random, but then, as had become increasingly clear over the last three days, he’d been lost to the world for ten years or more.

‘You’re safe enough here,’ Old Bob said. ‘Boglins ambushed us today,’ he said, and shrugged, clearly unhappy about it.

‘You took losses?’ Harmodius was anxious to ask about the numbers and strength of the opposition, but his desire for information was at war with his fatigue.

‘The young knight,’ Old Bob motioned with his great axe at the group of men gathered around something on the ground. ‘He was badly wounded fighting a daemon out of the Wild.’

Harmodius sighed. ‘Make way,’ he said.

They had a candle, and the horse leech was cleaning the man’s wounds with vinegar. The young knight had lost a great deal of blood and, stripped naked, he looked pale and vulnerable. The new spring flies were feasting on him.

Harmodius cast almost without thinking, putting a small banishment on the flies.