The Red Knight

‘Stow that, Jacques,’ the captain said. He turned his horse’s head, backed his charger a few steps, and saluted Smoke, the archer commanding the gate. ‘Open it,’ he called. ‘And the Bridge Gate.’ He turned back to Jacques. ‘Don’t forget to bring healers,’ he said.

Red Beard joined them, mounted on an old roncey that had seen better days.

‘Sorry about the horse,’ the captain said. ‘I’m the captain.’

‘That’s your name?’ asked the red giant. ‘I’m Ranald. Ranald Lachlan.’

‘You know the Royal Guard?’ the captain asked. The he paused. ‘Lachlan? Tom Lachlan’s brother?’

‘Cousin,’ the other man said. ‘You know Bad Tom?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ the captain said. ‘Let’s go find the king.’ His voice was a little shaky.

‘Amen,’ the hillman answered. ‘Do you know him? The king?’

‘What a very interesting question,’ the captain answered. ‘No. Not exactly.’

Michael followed them, and their horses’ hooves rang as they crossed the bridge. At the middle the captain reached into the purse on his sword belt and produced a key – intricate, beautiful and apparently solid gold. He leaned out – groaning at the pressure on the muscles of his back and neck – how long ago did I fight the God-damned wyvern in the woods? He fitted the key into the great gate, turned it, and the gate vanished.

‘Nice trick,’ muttered Ranald.

Near Lissen Carak – The King

The king was collecting his guardsmen and the knights of his vanguard – the vanguard had lost fifty men-at-arms and as many squires, the men were exhausted already, and the morning was young. Two of his leading noblemen were dead – both the Bishop of Lorica and the constable had both gone down in the first fighting. The Captal de Ruth had taken a mortal wound defending the king, and was dying.

But the valets were coming up with the horses and the machines of war were grinding along – surgeons were searching among the wounded for those who could be saved, and his huntsmen, who had swept east to guard the flank of the onslaught of the vanguard, were trickling in. They, too, had lost men fighting monsters in the woods by the river – nor had they been victorious, by all accounts. The Wild creatures had burst through them and run off east. They had lost sixty men. Good men. Trained men.

It was hardly the great victory he sought. He had been ambushed and his column had survived. That was all.

‘Messengers, Sire. From across the river,’ called a herald.

The king looked north-west, and saw them – three men crossing the bridge at a fast canter.

‘Sound the rally,’ the king said.

More and more of his Royal Huntsmen were merging from the west, moving warily.

The Count of the Borders rode up and saluted. ‘The flower of our chivalry is half an hour behind me with the main battle,’ he reported. The man slumped. ‘By Saint George, my lord, that was the hardest fighting I ever need to see.’

‘The guardsmen say there are boglins across the river,’ the king noted.

‘Boglins?’ The count shook his head. ‘I struck a blow at a wyvern this morning, sire. This is the Wild, my lord, fighting for its life.’

‘I thought the Wild was beaten,’ said the king.

The Count of the Borders shook his head. ‘Where is Murien? What has happened to the Wall Castles?’

The king’s master huntsman, Febus de Lorn, bowed respectfully. ‘This isn’t from north, my lords. This is from west. I see Gwyllch – boglins – across the river, and Bothere has huntsmen who claim to have faced trolls in the low ground west of the road. Dhag’s come from the west, my lords.’

The king looked back at the approaching messengers. They weren’t messengers – all three in were armour, two cap à pied on war horses, and the third-

‘Par Dieu, gentlemen – that’s Ranald Lachlan, or I’m a minstrel’s son.’ The king turned his horse and rode towards the approaching trio.

Lachlan waved. The king had eyes only for him, and they rode together and embraced.

‘By all the saints, Ranald – I never expected to greet you on a stricken field!’ The king laughed. ‘How fares your fortune?’

Ranald looked away. ‘Aweel,’ he said, and a shadow touched his face. ‘I’ll tell ye, when we’ve time, my lord. These gentlemen, now, they seek to parley with you. This is the captain of the company yonder, that holds Lissen Carack for the nuns. And his squire, Michael.’

The king extended a hand to the knight – a man of middling height with a black beard and blacker circles under his eyes – absurdly young to be any kind of commander, but wearing superb armour.

‘Messire?’ he said.

The man was staring at him. Then, as if remembering his manners, the man touched his hand and bowed in the saddle. ‘My lord,’ he said.

‘You hold the fortress?’ the king asked eagerly.

‘The fortress and the Bridge Castle,’ the captain replied.

The king thought there was something familiar about the young man’s face, but he couldn’t quite place it. Something-