The Red Knight

At the top of the hill, the figure of horror stepped out where they could all see him, and raised his arms-

He still functioned through the panic because he’d been afraid so damned often he was used to it now.

The captain touched Prudentia’s hand. Above his head, the three great levels of his palace spun like gaming wheels.

Don’t open the door! Prudentia said. He’s right there!

Faced with imminent immolation, the captain opened the door.

There was an entity of the Wild. Right outside the door to his mind.

He made a long, sharp dagger of his will and punched it into the entity, leaning out through the door to do so.

Prudentia caught him.

The door slammed shut.

‘You’re insane,’ she said

In the world the great figure stumbled. It didn’t fall, but the intensity of its gathered power stumbled with it. And dissipated.

‘To horse!’ he captain roared. Behind the monstrous figure on the ridge he could see thrashing tentacles approaching and fresh hordes of monsters.

The massive thing, like two twin trees, reared up and a flash of green fire covered the hillside. It fell shorter than it might have, or more men might have died, but archers were reduced to bones – a page burned green like a hideous barn-lamp for three heartbeats before vanishing – and dozens of wounded creastures on the ground were immolated as well.

Behind him, men were mounting – pages and archers hurried horses to their riders. This was their most practised movement; escape.

But the captain’s sense of the enemy was that he’d get one more gout of fire in.

He got a leg over Grendel’s saddle and

Passed back into the palace.

‘Shield, Pru!’ he called. He pulled raw power from the sack hanging on her arm as the sigils turned above them – Xenophon, St George, Ares.

The first spell any magister learned. The measure of an adept’s power.

He made a buckler, small and nimble, and threw it far forward, into his adversary’s face.

Behind him, the corporals ordered men into motion, but they needed no urging, and the company moved away, down the hill.

The captain turned Grendel and rode, running as fast as the heavy horse would allow-

The two-horned thing in the woods reached out with his staff-

The captain’s shield – his very strongest, smallest, neatest casting – vanished like a moth in a forge fire.

The captain felt his shield go – felt it vanish – had a taste of the sheer power of his adversary – but training told.

Quick as a cat pouncing, the captain spun his horse to face the foe and

reached in and cast again – a wider arc to cover horse and rider

The green fire ran across the ground like a rising tide, immolating everything that lay in its path – scarring trees, reaping grass and flowers, boiling squirrels in their own skin. It struck the air in front of Grendel’s chamfron-

It was like watching a sand-castle give way under the power of the waves.

His second shield was weaker, but the green fire had crossed hundreds of paces of ground and its puissance was ebbing – and still it eroded the shield – slowly, and then more quickly as Grendel half-reared in panic, alone in a sea of incandescent green.

He put everything he had – every shred of stored power

He could smell burning leather, and he could see – trees. Upright and black.

Grendel screamed and bolted.

All he wanted to do was sleep, but Cuddy needed reassurance. ‘You was in full harness-’ said the Master Archer.

‘It was the right decision,’ the captain agreed.

‘I can’t believe we hit you so many times,’ Cuddy said, shaking his head. Even as he spoke, Carlus, the armourer and company trumpeter, was working with heat and main strength to get the dents out of the captain’s beautiful helmet.

‘I’ll be more careful to whom I give extra work details in future,’ the captain agreed.

Cuddy left the tent, still muttering.

Michael got his captain out of the rest of his armour. The breast plate was badly dented in two places. The arm harnesses were untouched.

‘Wipe my blade first,’ muttered the captain. ‘Boglins; I’ve heard their blood is caustic.’

‘Boglins,’ Michael said. He shook his head. ‘Irks. Magic.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Did we win?’

‘Ask me that in a month, young Michael. How many did we lose?’