The Red Knight

The dogs were mostly in one place. He drew his sword, four feet of mirror-polished steel, and used it as a pry-bar to roll the corpse of a man with legs like tree trunks and arms like hams off the pile of dogs.

He knelt and took off a gauntlet, and picked up what looked like a scrap of wool.

Let out a breath.

He held out his sword, and called on God for aid, and gathered the divine golden power, and then made a small working.

‘Fools,’ he said aloud.

His working showed him where the priest had died, too. He found the man’s head, but left it where it lay. Found his dagger, and placed a phantasm on it.

‘You arrogant idiot,’ he said to the head.

He pulled the wagoner’s body off the mangled corpse of his daughter. Turned aside and threw up, and then knelt and prayed. And wept.

And finally, stumbled to his feet and walked back to where his squire waited, the worry plain on his face.

‘It was a golden bear,’ he said.

‘Good Christ!’ said the squire. ‘Here? Three hundred leagues from the wall?’

‘Don’t blaspheme, lad. They brought it here captive. They baited it with dogs. It had cubs, and they threw one to the dogs.’ He shrugged.

His squire crossed himself.

‘I need you to ride to Harndon and report to the king,’ the knight said. ‘I’ll track the bear.’

The squire nodded. ‘I can be in the city by nightfall, my lord.’

‘I know. Go now. It’s one bear, and men brought it here. I’ll stem these fools’ panic – although I ought to leave them to wallow in it. Tell the king that the Bishop of Jarsay is short a vicar. His headless corpse is over there. Knowing the man, I have to assume this was his fault, and the kindest thing I can say is that he got what he deserved.’

His squire paled. ‘Surely, my lord, now it is you who blaspheme.’

Ser Mark spat. He could still taste his own vomit. He took a flask of wine from the leather bag behind his saddle and drank off a third of it.

‘How long have you been my squire?’ he asked.

The young man smiled. ‘Two years, my lord.’

‘How often have we faced the Wild together?’ he asked.

The young man raised his eyebrows. ‘A dozen times.’

‘How many times has the Wild attacked men out of pure evil?’ the knight asked. ‘If a man prods a hornet’s nest with a pitchfork and gets stung, does that make the hornets evil?

His squire sighed. ‘It’s not what they teach in the schools,’ he said.

The knight took another pull at his flask of wine. The shaking in his hands was stopping. ‘It’s a mother, and she still has a cub. There’s the track. I’ll follow her.’

‘A golden bear?’ the squire asked. ‘Alone?’

‘I didn’t say I’d fight her in the lists, lad. I’ll follow her. You tell the king.’ The man leaped into his saddle with an acrobatic skill which was one of the many things that made his squire look at him with hero-worship. ‘I’ll send a phantasm to the Commandery if I’ve time and power. Now go.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The squire turned his horse and was off, straight to a gallop as he’d been taught by the Order.

Ser Mark leaned down from his tall horse and looked at the tracks, and then laid a hand on his war horse’s neck. ‘No need to hurry, Bess,’ he said.

He followed the track easily. The golden bear had made for the nearest woods, as any creature of the Wild would. He didn’t bother to follow the spoor exactly, but merely trotted along, checking the ground from time to time. He was too warm in full harness, but the alarm had caught him in the tiltyard, fully armed.

The wine sang in his veins. He wanted to drain the rest of it.

The dead child-

The scraps of the dead cub-

His own knight – when he was learning his catechism and serving his caravans as a squire – had always said War kills the innocent first.

Where the stubble of last year’s wheat ran up into a tangle of weeds, he saw the hole the bear had made in the hedge. He pulled up.

He didn’t have a lance, and a lance was the best way to face a bear.

He drew his war sword, but he didn’t push Bess though the gap in the hedge.

He rode along the lane, entered the field carefully through the gate, and rode back along the hedge at a canter.

Tracks.

But no bear.

He felt a little foolish to have drawn his sword, but he didn’t feel any inclination to put it away. The fresh tracks were less than an hour old, and the bear’s paw print was the size of a pewter plate from the Commandery’s kitchens.

Suddenly, there was crashing in the woods to his left.

He tightened the reins, and turned his horse. She was beautifully trained, pivoting on her front feet to keep her head pointed at the threat.

Then he backed her, step by step.

Crash.

Rustle.

He saw a flash of movement, turned his head and saw a jay leap into the air, flicked his eyes back-

Nothing.

‘Blessed Virgin, stand with me,’ he said aloud. Then he rose an inch in his war saddle and just touched his spurs to Bess’ sides, and she walked forward.

He turned her head and started to ride around the wood. It couldn’t be that big.

Rustle.

Rustle.

Crack.

Crash.

It was right there.