The Red Knight

At the western edge of the meadows and burned-out farms that had marked the demesne of the Abbess, thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – of creatures swarmed like ants from a recently kicked hive.

As he watched, the long arm of a trebuchet mounted high in the fortress swung. It appeared to swing slowly, but its payload – invisible at this distance – flew at the sudden whip-crack release of the counterweight. The count looked for the fall of the shot, but he couldn’t see it.

The Count of the Borders waved. ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘You command the vanguard?’

‘I do. My cousin is wounded,’ Gaston said. ‘I have fewer than two hundred lances, and many of my younger knights are spent.’

‘Despite which, the king begs that you will use every effort to get your men across the river – dismount and occupy the line of works prepared for you.’ The count pointed at the black slash that ran from the fortress’s ridge to the bridge.

‘I see it,’ Gaston said. ‘But I lack the force to occupy that length.’

‘You shall be with the Royal Guard and all our archers,’ the Count of the Borders added. ‘All dispatch, my lord!’

Gaston could see creatures from the swarm now venturing farther and farther into the fields beyond the wood’s edge.

‘A moi!’ he ordered. ‘En avant!’

Lissen Carak – Thorn

Thorn watched the Royal Army begin to deploy across the river. His blow was ready – a single hammer strike to win Alba.

The Royal Army appeared singularly unharmed by a morning-long ambush. That was unexpected. The Qwethenethogs alone should have done great damage amongst their ranks.

He felt a ripple of power – identified it, and cursed again. Both the dark sun and his former apprentice had survived. He acknowledged his own hubris in imagining them dealt with. It was the very curse of his existence. Why did he constantly think things would go his way?

Because they should.

He felt another use of power – closer to him, and it smelled like Qwethnethog. Like Thurkan.

He nodded and drew power to himself. The Qwethenethogs’ presence on this side of the river was very revealing.

The great daemon was coming for a trial of power. Thorn rocked his stone head.

Idiot. Traitor. I undertook this for you.

Turquoise fire began to play along the edges of his stick-like tree limbs and his beard of grey-green moss oozed power, and the faeries flitting through the clearing, excited by the overflow of his vast resources, he now drained of power in a single sip, leaving their fragile bodies to flutter to the ground.

The magnificent daemon entered the clearing from the south. His hide was still wet from swimming the river, but green and brown lightning played along the sides of his head, down to his long, scythed arms and over his richly inlaid beak and armour.

Thorn let him come.

When they were a few horse lengths apart, Thorn raised one hoary arm. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘If you mean me harm, save it for the defeat of our enemies.’

Thurkan stopped but he shook his mighty head. ‘Greater Powers than you or I contend here today,’ he said. ‘You are a pawn in the plans of a greater Power.’

Those were not the words Thorn expected, and they stung – stung with the peculiar power of words that carry their own truth.

‘It cannot be,’ Thorn said.

‘Why else do the humans have every advantage when we have none? That thing you call fortune; we have none. Every turn we make favours the enemy. Let us withdraw from this field.’ Thurkan held up an axe. ‘Or we must be rid of you.’

Thorn needed time to test the hypothesis that he had been used. He was the one who used others – the enmity of the Outwallers for the Albans, the needs of the boglins for new ground to live, the hunting instincts of the wyverns and the trolls.

He was not, in turn, used.

‘We have been used!’ Thurkan insisted. ‘Order the retreat, and we will fight another day!’

Thorn considered it.

And he considered the great mass of his infantry – the wights in their magnificent armour, the five thousand irk archers, the squadrons of trolls ready to engage the enemy’s knights. The Outwallers and the wyverns and the other daemons.

‘Even if what you say is true,’ Thorn said, ‘we are about to win a great victory. We will scour the kingdom of Alba from the face of the continent. We will rule here.’

Thurkan shook his great head. ‘You delude yourself,’ he said. ‘There is no number of boglins who can match this number of armoured men in combat. And Thorn – I call you by name – I call you three times to attend my words. A battle, says my grandsire, is the result of a situation wherein both sides imagine they can win a conclusive fight with one throw of the knucklebones. And only one side is right. Today, the King of Alba believes he can defeat us. You believe that you can defeat him, despite everything. I say we will lose on this field. Withdraw and I am your loyal ally. Order this attack and I will fall on you with fire and talon.’