The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom

by Pierre Pevel

  Without a qualm, Yeras finished off the last Yrgaardian with his dagger, while Logan pulled the lever that was supposed to release the portcullis.

  To no avail.

  Liam examined the mechanism.

  ‘It’s blocked,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing we can do,’ confirmed Logan, giving up. ‘Those bastards jammed up the works!’

  Alan swore.

  ‘We can’t break the chains,’ said Enzio. ‘They’re as thick as my arm.’

  An odour caught Yeras’s attention.

  Lorn also caught scent of it, and cried:

  ‘OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!’

  He had just seen the grey smoke seeping from beneath the double doors. The odour he and Yeras had detected was that of gunpowder.

  ‘IT’S GOING TO BLOW UP!’

  Everyone raced towards the exit. A twenty-yard dash beneath the archway, which echoed with their shouts. Some of the soldiers, further away from the outer doors, remained unaware of the danger and were slow to react. Lorn and his companions yelled at the top of their lungs as they ran.

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘Quickly!’

  ‘Everybody out!’

  Instinctively, Lorn realised that not all of them would escape the archway in time.

  ‘Down!’ he ordered, pulling Alan into the recess of a door. ‘Take cover!’

  Those who did not obey quickly enough were flattened by the blast of a deafening deflagration which shook the whole rampart and made the half-opened inner doors fly wide apart. The other set of doors had exploded behind them, converting the archway into a corridor full of incandescent debris which whirred, hissed and crackled against the walls.

  Lorn and Alan stumbled away from their shelter.

  Their ears buzzing, they groped about for the others in the dust and the chaos, making themselves understood by gestures, helping the wounded stand, and renouncing the idea of taking away their dead. Lorn caught a glimpse of Yeras and Logan carrying Liam who looked badly hurt, but he did not have time to worry about it.

  The Yrgaardians were entering Saarsgard. He could already see silhouettes cautiously advancing through the thick cloud thrown up by the detonation.

  The defenders withdrew from the archway.

  Lorn was the last to leave. Hoping they were not leaving anyone behind, he helped close the set of inner doors and spared a thought for Dwain lying in his own blood on the rampart walk. Only this death affected Lorn personally. It seemed cruel and unfair, and it was with the terrible feeling of abandoning a brother-in-arms on the field of battle that he watched the bars slide home across the twin door panels.

  Those, however, would only keep the dragon-prince’s troops pent up long enough to allow the besieged to fall back and prepare to defend the Castel. Driving Dwain’s dead body from his thoughts, Lorn quickly gave the necessary orders. He ordered Dorsian to lead the retreat and his Onyx Guards to close up the rear. But he detained both Alan and Enzio, saying to the prince:

  ‘No, Alan. Not you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have no choice. We must fall back into the Castel. And once we do that, we’ll be trapped. We will resist, but there’s no hope.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And so do you.’

  ‘Lorn’s right,’ said Enzio, keeping an eye on the gate.

  The last set of doors would not hold for long. Moreover, the Yrgaardians would soon overrun the ramparts via the stairs running up from the gate’s archway.

  ‘You must leave while there’s still time,’ Lorn urged. ‘Laedras is not yet master of this fortress. Take advantage of that. Escape.’

  ‘No. There’s no question—’

  Lorn seized Alan brusquely by the neck and shoved him against a wall.

  ‘Come to your senses, Alan!’

  ‘Let go of me, Lorn!’

  ‘Start by listening! I was mistaken, all right? I thought we could hold the ramparts for a few days, but I was wrong. Now the game’s up. Those who lock themselves away in the Castel will either be killed or taken prisoner.’

  ‘Let go of me …’ Alan said in a menacing tone.

  But Lorn wasn’t paying any heed.

  ‘You are a prince of the High Kingdom, Alan. If tomorrow we die alone, people will remember us, remember our battle here, and our deaths will not be in vain. But if you stay, if you are captured or killed, our defeat will be complete. It … It will be a catastrophe. The High King’s own son, a prisoner of the Black Dragon? Can you even imagine it?’

  Alan brutally freed himself.

  At that same moment, the sound of muffled pounding against the doors reached their ears.

  ‘Listen to Lorn,’ Enzio intervened. ‘You’re wounded. You fought for as long as you could. Now, you must think of the High Kingdom.’

  The prince hesitated.

  ‘It’s your duty, Alan,’ said Lorn. ‘Besides, perhaps you’ll have time to raise troops and return with reinforcements. You can still save us. You alone.’

  Defeated, resigned, Alan nodded.

  ‘All … All right. But I will return. With troops.’

  Lorn smiled.

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  They exchanged an embrace.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lorn glimpsed silhouettes outlined on top of the ramparts.

  ‘Get out of here, now.’

  ‘Stand fast. I promise you I’ll—’

  ‘I know.’

  Lorn turned to Enzio.

  ‘Go with him. Make sure nothing happens to him?’

  The Sarmian gentleman nodded. They too exchanged an embrace, and Enzio murmured in Lorn’s ear:

  ‘You know we won’t return in time, don’t you?’

  Lorn did not reply, but his gaze said that he knew.

  ‘Knight!’ called Logan. Despite Lorn’s orders, he had waited. ‘We must go!’

  Lorn nodded.

  After a last salute, the three friends separated and moved off quickly in different directions.

  Alan and Enzio escaped across the ramparts.

  Chance led them to the spot where the Yrgaardians had climbed the wall. They found the body of the giant lizard which had collapsed there, dead from exhaustion. They made use of the ropes left by the assailants and quickly covered a good distance in the darkness, keeping well away from the road along which the dragon-prince’s troops were marching in an orderly fashion.

  They arrived at the city’s port and knew they were out of danger when Alan turned back towards Saarsgard with a sorrowful expression. Enzio guessed what he was thinking and told him in a compassionate tone:

  ‘We can do nothing more for them, Alan. Come on.’

  22

  Lorn and Logan caught up with some stragglers whom they accompanied as far as the old tower guarding the sole bridge linking the Castel to the rest of the fortress. It was a massive structure, its thick walls pierced with arrow slits. Crossing it was the only means of reaching Saarsgard’s heart, by way of a long and narrow stone arch straddling a deep abyss. The besieged, as a last resort, could take refuge within the Castel. But a battle could still be waged from this guard tower, which a handful of men sufficed to hold.

  Lorn found Dorsian there, organising its defence.

  ‘How many men do we have left?’ the knight asked him.

  ‘Thirty or so.’

  ‘Select the fifteen most valiant among them. They will stay behind to defend the tower with me. I want you to fall back with the others into the Castel’s keep and place the most seriously wounded, the ones who can’t fight, in a safe spot. Perhaps they will be spared. I’m going up to see how the Yrgaardians are progressing.’

  Dorsian seized Lorn’s arm.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What?’

  Dorsian led Lorn slightly apart within the great hall, where men – sombre and attentive – were preparing to fight, bandaging their wounds, and awaiting orders.

  ‘Does it make sense to resist any longer?’ asked Do
rsian in a low voice.

  ‘You want to surrender?’

  ‘How much longer can we hold out? A few hours? If we only had the means to fall back and blow up the bridge …’

  ‘We’re out of powder,’ said Lorn. ‘And besides, if we did that we’d trap ourselves. And it would allow Laedras to take the rest of Saarsgard without a fight. He would not even need to raze the Sanctuary with his cannons. He would simply let us die of hunger.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dorsian. ‘We needed to put up a fight. But only as long as it had a meaning.’

  ‘It still does.’

  ‘Really? Where’s Alan?’

  Lorn realised that Dorsian already knew the answer.

  ‘I told him to flee,’ he acknowledged nonetheless.

  ‘You were right to do so. But that means the game is lost, doesn’t it?’

  Lorn gave no reply.

  ‘I’m not speaking for me,’ added Dorsian. ‘I’m speaking for them. These men have displayed great courage. They followed you when they knew this battle could not be won. They deserve not to die in vain. To not be sacrificed. And what difference does it make if Saarsgard falls now or in an hour’s time? Everyone will know what you accomplished in the High King’s name, Lorn. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Because you believe I’m doing this for glory?’

  ‘Then for what? For whom? For them?’

  Lorn turned towards the men in the hall.

  ‘Soldiers!’ he called out. ‘Soldiers!’

  The men fell silent. Some stood. All of them waited.

  ‘What we have done here will be recorded in the Chronicles,’ said Lorn to all those present. ‘It will be written that we have fought and that we have suffered and that we have resisted for an ideal: that of the High Kingdom. And for a cause: that of the High King whose banner flies above this fortress. Now we face a choice.’ He paused. ‘We can surrender now, and all will remember that we fought well. Or we can go on fighting, and people will remember that we were victorious.’ He paused again. ‘You are free to beg clemency from a dragon-prince.’ Then Lorn suddenly raised his voice. ‘But I shall not surrender! I shall not give up! I shall never lay down my sword!’ He drew forth his Skandish blade. ‘So, I ask you this: are you with me? Will you be at my side when Yrgaard charges? Will you be at my side when my blood is spilled? And will you fight so that once more, just once more, the sun shall rise at Saarsgard above the colours of the High King?’ He brandished his blood-stained sword. ‘FOR THE HIGH KING!’ he cried.

  ‘FOR THE HIGH KINGDOM!’ the soldiers roared back.

  Lorn turned to Dorsian.

  ‘You’ve just condemned these men to death,’ the latter said.

  Lorn did not blink.

  ‘Your fifteen bravest,’ he reminded the rebel leader before making his way to the stairs, with Logan at his heels.

  Liam and Yeras were at the top of the tower.

  ‘Well?’ asked Lorn.

  Instead of replying, Yeras motioned with his chin towards the torches of the column which was entering Saarsgard and advancing towards them accompanied by the slow, steady beat of war drums. A rider wearing a scarlet cape rode at their head. It could only be the dragon-prince.

  ‘Do you think they’re going to attack tonight?’ asked Liam.

  ‘I think Laedras will want to deliver the final blow, yes.’

  Lorn then noticed his lieutenant’s pallor, and recalled seeing Logan and Yeras helping him leave the archway, in the smoke and dust, after the explosion of the outer doors. Liam had his left arm in a sling and his hand wrapped up to the elbow in a bloody rag.

  ‘Show me,’ said Lorn.

  The veteran shook his head.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  Yet he was visibly suffering. His eyes shone and sweat beaded upon his brow.

  ‘Is it serious?’ asked Lorn. ‘Don’t lie to me!’

  Liam hesitated, and then nodded regretfully.

  ‘I want you to go down and get that properly bandaged,’ said Lorn firmly. ‘Then go and assist Dorsian in the keep.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s an order, Liam. We’ll hold on as long as we can here, but we’ll end up falling back towards the keep and we’ll need help then. I want to be able to count on you when the time comes. Understood?’

  Liam resigned himself to the assignment.

  ‘Yes, knight.’

  He withdrew just as fifteen men arrived.

  ‘Did Dorsian send you?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Are you all volunteers?’

  ‘Yes, knight,’ one of them answered.

  ‘Good. You five, remain with me here. The rest of you, at the arrow slits. Yeras, position them as you see best and make sure they all have enough munitions. Grab all the arrows and bolts you can.’

  ‘Yes, knight.’

  Yeras left with the men under his command.

  ‘Logan,’ said Lorn, turning towards the mercenary with the twin swords. ‘You will fight at my side.’

  The guard tower could be reached by means of a ramp which rose between two walls. It was otherwise inaccessible, backing onto thin air, the bridge spanning the abyss resting upon the upper portion of its structure.

  The drums still beat.

  Leaning on the parapet, Lorn watched the Yrgaardian troops who were now merely waiting for an order to attack. Patient and disciplined, unmoving, they were perfectly silent in the torchlight. Their numbers would favour them insofar as Laedras could launch wave upon wave of assaults, but the ramp would force them to present themselves only ten or twelve abreast at the bottom of the tower and Lorn planned to make the most of this advantage.

  His gaze moved further out, to the ramparts, and he wondered if Alan and Enzio had managed to escape. He hoped so …

  The drums beat on. Slow and steady as the pulse of a sleeping giant.

  What time was it?

  Lorn raised his eyes towards the Great Nebula, which seemed very pale and very distant to him. It would be daylight in a few hours, but Lorn did not know whether he would see the sun rise and – strangely enough – that did not seem to matter much.

  All was ready within the tower.

  The men were at their posts and waiting in a silence punctuated by the drums. An uneasy silence soaked in the sour odour of sweat exuded by fear. The silence that comes before steel, screams and bloodshed.

  Lorn reviewed the events that had led him here, to this hour. He had endured some of them and provoked others, sometimes urged on by a destructive impulse, sometimes by a desire for justice, and sometimes by a thirst for vengeance. And at times, that impulse, that desire and that thirst had all been one and the same sentiment that moved him. Lorn wondered if he really sought peace, as all those who had suffered were supposed to be seeking. He had believed that at first, but now he doubted whether it was true. Was it because he had changed so much? Only a few months had gone by since he had been liberated from Dalroth. That had been in the spring, and now it was autumn. Yet an eternity seemed to have passed between the two seasons. An eternity that was the beginning of a new life.

  For his liberation had been a rebirth.

  In pulling him out of its Dark-infested depths, Dalroth had given birth to him.

  Lorn lifted his hand wrapped in leather and looked at it carefully, as if discovering it for the first time. Slowly he unwound the strap which concealed the mark of the Dark.

  He would not wear it any longer.

  The drums suddenly fell silent, leaving behind an emptiness which filled the night.

  In the tower, each of the defenders held their breath.

  Lorn exchanged a grim glance with Logan who was positioned on his left. Then he turned to the young soldier who stood to his right and who gripped his crossbow in his damp hands.

  ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

  ‘Glenn, knight. Esko Glenn.’

  ‘Why are you here? Why didn’t you leave with the others when it was still possible?’

&n
bsp; The young man thought about it before replying. He could hear his heart beating, and his answer almost astonished him.

  ‘My father. He … He would have been proud, I think. He would have stayed, if it were him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lorn. ‘I wish you luck, Esko Glenn.’

  Horns sounded.

  The drums abruptly resumed at a mad tempo and, in one mighty warrior clamour that gripped the guts, the Yrgaardians charged.

  23

  They repelled the first assault.

  Without having even placed a single ladder against the wall, the Yrgaardians retreated, leaving behind a dozen bodies and carrying away an equal number of wounded. The defenders gave victorious hurrahs and Lorn let them, although he knew this assault had only been intended as a test of their resistance. At least they hadn’t suffered any casualties, as he confirmed by yelling down the stairs:

  ‘REPORT!’

  Yeras, who was in charge of the crossbowmen at the arrow slits on the lower floors, answered:

  ‘NO DEAD, NO WOUNDED.’

  Lorn returned to the parapet.

  ‘Here they come again,’ Logan said.

  Indeed, the Yrgaardians were already returning in greater numbers, along with two large ladders, a battering ram and broad shields to protect those who were carrying it.

  ‘Aim at the men with the battering ram,’ said Lorn, shouldering his crossbow. ‘On my command …’

  The assailants ran up the ramp screaming, backed by the frantic beat of the drums.

  ‘NOW!’

  Lorn, Logan and the five soldiers defending the parapet loosed their bolts together, almost immediately imitated by the crossbowmen below, Yeras having waited until the same moment before giving the order to fire. Fifteen bolts sped towards the soldiers carrying the forward end of the ram. Some buried themselves with a thump in the shields. A few scored hits. Two leading men collapsed and caused the others to stumble. The ram fell heavily to the ground and rolled on the paving while the charge continued.

  ‘RELOAD!’ ordered Lorn.