The Red Knight

He reached out, and summoned the nearest creatures of the Wild to serve him, the way his witch of a mother had taught him to. He’d sworn never to do it. But this was his last stand. Now, for everything, the oaths of an angry boy were thrust aside . . .

Lissen Carak – Thorn

The dark sun’s challenge was contemptuous.

He was forcing the boglins to his will, on the other side of the trench.

Thorn shrieked with rage, as if he’d been struck. He threw caution to the wind, and leaped the trench of fire.

Lissen Carak – The Red Knight

The captain was surrounded by boglins – a crush of them, and their acrid scent filled his helmet.

He had never been so close to the creatures, and despite his revulsion for them, he found it impossible not to notice things about them – how their soft shells seemed to be formed like armour, their human arms emerging from breastplates.

He waited for the coup de grâce . . . But he was holding them, and all their thoughts were his.

This was what he had been made to do. Created. Honed. Polished for it.

And he began to work on them.

He was in the room of his palace, and Prudentia was off her pedestal, standing by the iron-bound door. She had her stone arms locked against it, and it trembled on its hinges despite her efforts.

‘He is coming for you,’ Prudentia said.

‘Open the door,’ he said, trying to master his terror.

‘He wants you to face him in the Aetherial! He will eat your power, you arrogant child!’

Prudentia said. ‘Can’t you hear him?’

The captain could hear his bellows of victory, all through the Aether. ‘I could use some advice here,’ he said.

‘Don’t stand against the powers of the world until you are much, much more powerful,’ Prudentia said in a matter of fact tone. She shrugged. ‘But when brute force will not suffice, consider artifice. Recall, dear boy, that he will not know the limits of your power. He calls you the dark sun.’

Good advice. But he couldn’t think of anything he could do with it. He reached for Harmodius and opened the door.

Thorn was there.

He had crossed the trench of fire, and now he stood, smouldering, the acrid smoke of his wounds rising in wisps, and he was backlit by the fire in the trench.

The captain coughed.

Thorn towered over him and even from a horse length away, the captain could see that the sudden shock of lances had hurt him. Something dark and watery oozed form a deep pit in his breast.

You thought yourself my peer, you little thing.

The captain was fighting the wave of nausea that came with the fear. Whatever Thorn was, his coming brought terror, revulsion, a deep, sick feeling of oppression and violation. The captain struggled with it. For a long, long moment, all he saw was his mother, promising him-

You dared to oppose me. Do you know who I am?

Deep in the grip of the horror, the captain writhed. His conscious, rational mind registered that only the most unstable beings asked such questions.

And he had a lifetime’s experience of pretending courage when all he wanted to do was roll in a ball and weep. It was like arguing with his mother.

He cast – not an attack, but a subtle reinforcement of his armour.

He raised his sword. ‘Well,’ he said. His attempt at a drawl actually sounded somewhat hysterical. ‘Well,’ he said again, and his voice was better. He used to goad his mother this way. ‘I understand you used to be the King’s Magus.’

Thorn leaned down and one giant, hot hand slapped the captain to the ground. He saw the blow coming, his wrists answered his will, his sword swept up, and the blade shattered as it touched the sorcerer’s skeletal hand. The power of Thorn’s blow hurt the captain right through the steel harness he wore. Even through the power supporting it.

I am infinitely greater than the mere man who was the King’s Magus.