‘From Harndon,’ Ranulf said. ‘I was just thinking of it. Warm, snug—’ He blew out a breath.
They took the horses into the barn. Their hooves rang on the brick floor, louder than the captain would have thought possible. There were oats in every manger, fresh straw on the floors, clean water in the buckets.
They unsaddled the horses, and took the gear off the pack animals. The captain curried his new destrier and put a blanket – ready to hand – over him. Gawin and Alcaeus did the same, as did the Keeper and Ranald. Bad Tom stood in the doorway, a sword in his hand.
‘I don’t like this. It’s fey.’ Tom thumbed the edge of the blade.
‘Not a problem you can solve with a sharp blade,’ said the captain. He got the tack off Tom’s big gelding. ‘Relax.’
Tom didn’t leave the doorway. ‘I want to get this over,’ he said.
Ranald went and took his arm. ‘Not the way to go, Tom. Be easy.’
Mag smiled at Ser Alcaeus. ‘Would you be so kind as to have the saddle off my horse, ser knight? I’m a poor weak woman.’
Ser Alcaeus grinned.
Mag gathered her cloak, pushed past Bad Tom, and walked to the door. She knocked politely.
The knock sounded as loud as the crack of a trebuchet in the silence.
The door opened.
Mag went in. The Keeper paused at his currying and dropped the brush. ‘Damn,’ he said. And ran for the door, but it was already closed. He knocked, and the door opened, and he was gone.
‘I think the rest of us might as well go in together,’ the captain said. He wiped his hands on straw. He walked up to the door. ‘You, too, Tom.’
Tom was breathing hard. ‘It’s all magick.’
The captain nodded and spoke carefully, as he would to a skittish horse or a scared child. ‘It is, that. We’re in his hands, Tom. But we knew that.’
Tom stood straight. ‘You think I’m afraid.’
Ranald made a motion of negation.
The captain nodded. ‘Yes, Tom. You are afraid. If you weren’t, to be honest, you’d be some sort of madman.’
‘Which you may be, anyway,’ Ranald said.
Tom managed a smile. ‘I’m ready.’
The captain rapped at the door.
And it opened.
The croft was low and close yet surprisingly spacious. The rooftrees were just above the captain’s head height, too low for Tom, and the building had a roof-end hearth, not a proper fireplace at all. The fire in it was enormous, filling it like a furnace, so that individual logs couldn’t be made out in the inferno – but just enough heat escaped to make the room pleasant on a cool summer evening.
Around the fireplace were heavy wooden chairs, covered in wool cloths. Some cloths were armorial, and one was an ancient tapestry, cut up and sewn to cover the chair.
The cot beams were black with age, but carving could still be seen on them.
Over the fireplace, a pair of swords were crossed and, on the main beam, a spear was carefully set on a long row of iron nails.
Mag sat with the Keeper, her legs crossed. And beyond her sat a small man smoking a long pipe.
He was so very ordinary that their eyes passed over him, at first. He wore a plain wool cote of coarse wool, and leggings of the same, and his weather-beaten face was neither handsome nor ugly, old or young. His eyes were black.
He opened them, and they were instantly arresting.
‘Welcome,’ said the Wyrm.
The captain bowed. He looked around, and none of his companions was moving – except that the men behind him in the doorway were suddenly sitting in chairs, hands on their knees.
He hung his cloak with theirs, and went to a seat.
‘Why is no one speaking?’ he asked.
‘You are all speaking,’ the Wyrm said. ‘It is easier for all of us if I deal with each in turn, in privacy.’
‘Ah,’ said the captain. ‘I’ll wait my turn.’
The Wyrm smiled. ‘I can talk to you all at once,’ he said. ‘It is you who needs the feeling that there is structure, not me.’ He took a pull on his pipe.
The captain nodded.
Of course time means nothing to them, Harmodius said.
‘Are the two of you together?’ the Wyrm asked.
‘There’s just one of me,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t speak for Harmodius.’
The Wyrm smiled again. ‘Very wise of you to see that. You know that if you do not rid yourself of him, he will, in time, demand control. He cannot help himself. I offer this information free of obligation.’
The captain nodded. A cup of mulled wine appeared at his elbow. He picked it up and drank it gratefully.
‘Why have you come?’ asked the Wyrm. ‘You, at least, had to know what I was.’
The captain nodded. ‘I guessed.’ He looked around. ‘Are there rules? Do I have three questions? Fifty?’
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘I don’t want visitors. I try never to look into the future. All that is for my busy, busy kin. They plot, and strive. I live. I seek truth.’ He smiled. ‘Sometimes I grow lonely, and a lucky traveller is brought in for entertainment.’ His smile became a feral grin.
The captain drank more wine. ‘What of the Lachlans?’
The Wyrm pulled on his pipe, and smoke wound to the ceiling and up into the draught of the roaring fire. ‘That is your question?’
The captain shook his head. ‘No, but they are my sworn men and I need to know they are being well served.’
The Wyrm smiled. ‘The concept of fealty comes so naturally to men and I am having a difficult time being bound by it. But I will deal fairly with Tom and Ranald. Ask your own.’
The captain swirled his wine, and clamped down on a question about Amicia. ‘Can the conflict between Man and Wild be resolved?’ he asked.
‘Is that your question?’ asked the Wyrm.
‘Yes,’ said the captain.
The seated figure smoked. ‘How delightful.’ He walked to the mantelpiece and opened a stone jar, took out a handful of old leaves and tamped them into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Do you believe in free will, prince?’
The captain was growing hot, and he stood up and took off his cote and hung it by the mantel to dry with a muttered ‘beg your pardon’ to his host. He sat again.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked the Wyrm.
The captain shrugged. ‘Either I have free will, or there’s no point in playing.’
The Wyrm rocked its head back and forth. ‘What if I were to tell you that you only had free will in some things, and not in others?’
The captain found he was chewing one of his riding gloves. He stopped. ‘I’d suggest that my power to affect the universe is about the same whether I have free will in every action or only in one.’
‘Interesting,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Man and the Wild are merely concepts. Philosophical constructs. If they were created to represent – to symbolize – opposition, then could they ever be reconciled? Can alpha and omega switch places in the alphabet?’
‘Next you will tell me there is no Wild. And there is no Man.’ The captain smiled.
The Wyrm laughed. ‘You’ve taken this class before, I take it.’
‘I sat at the feet of some philosophers in the East,’ the captain said. ‘I had no idea they were dragons, although, now that I think of it—’
The Wyrm laughed again. ‘You please me. So I will answer your question. Man and the Wild, while being two sides of a coin, can live together – just as the coin lives perfectly well in the purse.’
‘Separate?’ the captain asked.
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘Nothing about a coin is separate, is it?’ he asked.
The captain leaned back in his very comfortable chair.
‘My brother died,’ Tom said. ‘He was your liege man, and he died. Tell us who killed him?’
The Wyrm shrugged. ‘He died outside my circle,’ he said. ‘I concede that I wasn’t paying very much attention. I further concede that w
hile my mind was taken with other affairs, some of the Wild peoples crossed my lands without my leave. But in truth, Tom, and Ranald, my circle is a creation for my own convenience. I scarcely trouble men, in or out of it, and you two are the first to demand some sort of action of me in a long enough amount of time to be meaningless.’
‘So you won’t avenge him,’ Tom said. ‘Just tell me who killed him?’ he asked.
‘Are you telling me what I’m doing, or asking?’ the Wyrm asked politely. ‘Is this your question?’
Ranald leaned forward. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It sounds odd but it isn’t the Sossag I’m after, though they slayed Hector and me, too. It’s Thorn. Thorn sent them – he summoned them. Drove them to war.’
The Wyrm threw back his head and laughed. ‘Are you simple, Ranald Lachlan? The Wild Peoples do exactly as they please. They are not children. If they raided your brother, they did so apurpose.’
‘They’d never ha’ been at the fords if it hadn’t been for Thorn.’ Tom was insistent.
The Wyrm put his chin in his right hand. ‘How much of the truth would you like, hillman? Shall I tell you enough to spark an epic revenge? Or shall I tell you enough to render you incapable of action? Which would you prefer?’
Ranald chewed the end of his moustache. ‘What could you tell us that would make us unable to act?’ he asked.
Tom glowered.
The Wyrm sat back and put his pipe down, put his hands behind his head. ‘The Sossag who killed Hector is called Ota Qwan. He is a worthy enemy for you, Tom – driven, passionate, highly skilled. Your riddle is that, in time, your captain will want him as an ally.’ The Wyrm smiled.
‘And so you render Tom incapable of action?’ Ranald asked. ‘You don’t know Tom.’
The Wyrm shook his head. ‘No. Because behind Ota Qwan was Skadai, who made the decision to risk my wrath and raid the hillmen and the drove. He’s already dead, though. Behind Skadai is Thorn, who was pushed into war—’ the Wyrm was smiling, ‘—by one of my kind, to whom you and your brother are less than ants, and who wishes to encompass not just the end of your brother, but the death of every man and woman in the entire circle of the world. I should offer you my thanks – I have just realised that I have slept through a cycle of drama. Things are moving out in the world. Damn the lot of you.’
‘His name?’ Tom said.
‘Tom Lachlan, you are a name of fear among men from East to West. Daemons and wyverns wet themselves in fear at the mere mention of your name.’ The Wyrm gazed at Tom with affection. ‘But my kind – nothing in your arsenal can harm us.’
‘His name?’ asked Tom.
The Wyrm leaned forward. ‘I would like to deal with this myself.’
Tom slapped his thigh. ‘Now you’re talking, Wyrm. A good lord stands up for his man. But I’ll help ye. Tell me his name, and together we’ll put him down in the dust.’
The Wyrm shook his head. ‘Are you to be drover, Tom?’
Tom shook his head. ‘I doubt I could. I’d kill every loon as bade me nay.’
The Wyrm nodded. ‘Ranald?’
‘I’d be proud to be drover. But I seek to be knighted by the king – to have a little treasure – so I may wed a lady.’ Ranald felt like a small boy confessing to stealing apples.
‘None of these things is my concern,’ said the Wyrm. ‘Although the two of you are a pleasure to converse with.’
‘He’s the man of reason,’ Tom said. ‘I’m the man of war. Two sides of a coin.’
‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.
Mag sat with her hands folded in her lap.
‘And how may I help you?’ the Wyrm asked her.
‘I’d like to defeat and destroy the sorcerer known as Thorn,’ she said.
‘Revenge?’ asked the Wyrm.
She shrugged. ‘A dog bit one of my children some years ago. He’d bitten other children. My husband went out with his crossbow and put the dog down.’ She met the Wyrm’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that there was some revenge involved.’
‘But it was, in the main, it was about the other children?’ asked the Wyrm.
She nodded.
‘You are a very modest woman,’ said the Wyrm. ‘You allow men to speak their minds, and you keep yours to yourself.’
She smiled and looked at her hands in her lap.
‘But you, the Goodwife of Abbington, intend to encompass the destruction of Thorn, who has put himself on the path to be a Power.’ His black eyes sought hers.
She wouldn’t let him in. ‘That’s right,’ she said easily.
The Wyrm whistled soundlessly. ‘This war that you have all just experienced has enhanced your powers to a wonderful degree. Indeed, I was able to see you – really see you – as far away as Albinkirk.’
Mag gave way to a satisfied chuckle. ‘I always knew I had the talent,’ she said. ‘But thanks to the old magister and the Abbess I know things, now.’ She looked up. ‘Terrifying things.’
‘Do you doubt God?’ asked the Wyrm.
Mag turned her head away. ‘Who are you to ask that? Satan?’
The Wyrm laughed. ‘Not hardly, Mistress. Satan’s idle young cousin, perhaps.’
‘Will you answer my question?’ she asked.
‘You haven’t asked one,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve implied that you’d like my help in attacking Thorn, and you’ve implied that you’d like to know if there is a god.’
She straightened her back. ‘I can find my way to God without you,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said the Wyrm.
‘I’d like your help with Thorn,’ she said.
‘That’s the other side of the same coin, surely,’ said the Wyrm. ‘If you can decide for yourself about God, you scarcely need me to tackle a mortal sorcerer.’
‘It would be easy for you,’ said Mag.
‘No argument at all. In the end, that would be me putting down the dog. For my reasons.’ He put his chin in his hands.
She shook her head. ‘I understand, but I’d like you to separate the two sides of the coin.’
‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ the Wyrm said.
‘Nothing about a coin is separate,’ said the Wyrm.
The captain looked around to find all his companions also blinking like people coming out of sleep.
‘It has been a great pleasure meeting you,’ he said. ‘The beds are warm, and the fire is real enough, and the food is, if I say so myself, exemplary. Please don’t stint with the wine. I’d be affronted if you didn’t try the harp on the wall.’ He smiled at them. ‘I have little interest in the affairs of the world, but I am choosing to help you, almost entirely to serve my own ends. Which, I will add, are infinitely less threatening to you and yours than any of the rest of my kin’s might be. I seek only to be left alone – I have my own ambitions, and they have nothing to do with war, conquest, pain, or hate.’ He smiled, and just for a moment, they saw an enormous head with fangs the length of warships, slitted eyes as tall as church spires. ‘You will be my allies. You will go out in the world and serve my ends with your own plans and your free will.’ He smiled. ‘I doubt that we will succeed, but if we do we’ll have the satisfaction of having been vastly the underdogs.’ He nodded, as if to himself. ‘Ah – the party-favours. I’ve made certain artefacts – or gathered them – for this. To each, her own. And in parting—’ The Wyrm smiled at all of them. ‘May I leave you with some genuine wisdom, in place of all the humdrum claptrap? Do well. Act with honour and dignity. Not because there is some promised reward, but because it is the only way to live. And that is as true for my kind as for yours.’
The captain was still pondering a smart remark when he realised that the Wyrm was no longer among them.
That was amazing, Harmodius said.
They lingered over breakfast.
‘The marmalade is like—’ Mag giggled, her mouth full of warm, crusty bread with rich new butter.
‘Like God-made marmalade?’ asked Ser Alcaeus.
‘I feel
like a thief,’ Ranald said. He’d taken one of the swords from over the fireplace.
Tom took down the other. He grinned. ‘God,’ he said, flicking his thumb over the blade. He gave a moan of pleasure as the blade he’d chosen swept through the air.
The Keeper shook his head. He had a box in his lap. ‘I’m afraid to open it.’
Ser Alcaeus rose and took down the sword hanging behind the main roof beam – with a belt and scabbard. It matched his arms – a surprisingly short sword with a heavy wheel pommel. ‘These are things left for us. Indeed, unless I miss my guess, the whole cot is made for us.’
‘I’m not leaving until the marmalade is finished,’ Mag said, and laughed. She picked up her napkin to get the stickiness out of the corners of her mouth, and there was a chatelaine on the table beneath it – gold and silver and enamel, with sharp steel scissors, a needle case full of needles, and a dozen other objects suspended on chains – including a pair of keys.
‘Oh,’ she said, and flushed, her hand to her bosom. ‘Oh, par dieu. It is magnificent.’
Gawin tried some of the marmalade. ‘I had the most remarkable dream,’ he said. ‘I wore a green belt—’ He stumbled to silence. There was a green belt around his hips, worked in green enamel with gold plaques, and from it hung a heavy dagger in green and gold.
The captain stood under the roof beam, looking up at the spear.
‘Just take it, man!’ said Tom.
The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m not sure I want it,’ he said.
Take it! Take it! Harmodius couldn’t control himself.
Five feet of ancient blackthorn, knotty and yet straight as an arrow. And at the top, a long, heavy blade gleamed.
‘Someone has taken the magister’s staff, and fitted it like a glaive,’ the captain said.
Take it, you fool.
The captain rubbed his chin. ‘I’m going to see to the horses.’
So much of my power. Please? He wouldn’t have brought it here unless he trusted us to use it.
‘I can’t help but notice that his gifts either bind, are pointed, or are double edged,’ said the captain. ‘Belts and blades.’
Don’t be a fool.
Am I a fool to be slow to make use of tools I do not understand? asked the captain. The stakes are very high. I will probably take it in the end. But not right now—
The Red Knight Page 88
