The Red Knight

The captain couldn’t muster a laugh, or even a cackle. But he got back to his feet, as he had when his brothers beat him.

Thorn raised his hand.

One finger fell away.

The captain felt a wild, foolish joy. He tossed the shards of his sword away and drew his rondel dagger instead. ‘You are just one of the many Powers of the Wild, Thorn.’ He took a deep breath against the pain in his ribs. ‘Don’t get above yourself, or someone will eat you.’

Good shot, muttered Harmodius, inside his memory palace. Almost ready.

There was a pause, as if the earth stood still. The captain tried to see Amicia’s face – to think any worthy, noble, or merely human last thought that was not born of fear and would not leave him to die the slave of this creature.

But he couldn’t.

Hold on, said Harmodius.

You are challenging me?!

The Red Knight stiffened his spine, stood as tall as he could, and said, ‘My mother made me to be the greatest Power of the Wild,’ He managed another breath. And delivered his sentence, like a sword cut. He said, ‘You are just some parvenu merchant’s son trying to ape the manners of his betters.’

He ordered the boglins to Kill Thorn and the crowd of boglins turned their weapons on their former master.

Stung – even though none of them could penetrate his glowing green armour – he clenched one gnarled fist.

Boglins died.

The sorcerer’s rage was automatic rage, unthinking rage at being challenged, at insult piled on insult. Thorn bellowed. You are nothing! Faster than the captain could parry, strike – react at all – Thorn’s fist slammed into him and knocked him to the ground again, except this time he felt bones break. Collarbone? Ribs, for sure.

Suddenly he was in his palace, and Prudentia stood with a handsome young man in black velvet embroidered with stars. So great was his fear and his confusion that he took long heartbeats to see that the stranger was Harmodius.

But he couldn’t hold the palace in his mind. He was too afraid, and even as Harmodius opened his mouth he was on his back and the pain was remarkable. His armour had probably saved him from death. But not from pain.

That was a laugh.

He used his stomach muscles to roll over, to get to his feet.

There was Thorn.

Why are you not dead? Thorn asked.

‘Good armour,’ the Red Knight said.

Aah! I can see your power. I will take it for my own. It is wasted on you. Who are you? You are no different from me.

‘I made different choices,’ the captain answered. He had trouble breathing but, just there, he started to be proud. He was holding his own.

Thorn threw a working; bright as a summer day, fast as a levin bolt.

The Red Knight parried it to the ground with a flash of silver white.

I see, now. You were made. You were constructed. Bred. Ahh. Fascinating. You are not an ugly mockery after all, dark sun. You are a clever hybrid.

‘Cursed by God. Hated by all right thinking men.’ The captain was gaining strength from sheer despair. With nothing left, he was going to beat his fear, the way he’d beaten it a thousand other times.

The time of men is over. Can you not see it? Men have failed. The Wild is going to crush men, and before ten thousand suns set, the young fawn and the bear cub will ask their mothers who wrought the stone roads, and the faerie will weep for their lost playthings. Even now, men are but a pale shadow of what they once were.

But then, you are scarcely a man. Why do you cleave to them?

Breathing was difficult, but he was achieving calm. Calm meant mastery of the Aethereal.

Hope gave rise only to more fear. But fear was the ocean in which he swam, and he reached through the fear – he used the fear.