by Damien Black
‘What is your point?’ he asked, risking raising his voice slightly to be heard above the din.
‘My point, darling Wolmar, is that we of the Silver Age still lag far behind our Golden Age forebears. Save perhaps for our imperial cousins beyond the Great White Mountains, we lack consolidation. At its peak the Thalamian Empire comprised half the Free Kingdoms, much of northern Sassania, and the lower half of the Urovian New Empire… Now that is consolidation!’
Ivon slammed his fist into his hand to demonstrate his point. They were walking two abreast so no one else saw him do it.
‘And you’re saying we need to consolidate, to get to where our ancestors were?’
‘My dear Wolmar, I am saying we need to get to where our ancestors were and beyond. You have heard tales no doubt of a Platinum Age, when the sorcerer-kings of Seneca ruled the Known World?’
‘I’ve heard enough to know that they were blasphemous and rightly punished for their iniquity.’ As you will be, he added silently.
The Margrave laughed. ‘You are so righteous today! But yes, you are correct in a manner of speaking… Though some have foretold a second coming, when the true master of the world shall return to rule his birthright.’
Wolmar felt a chill go down his spine. It contrasted oddly with the sweltering heat as they pushed from Trader’s Circle back on to the Way of Kings.
‘You really mean to do it, don’t you?’ he asked, looking beyond the knights and soldiers at the common townsfolk and envying their ignorance. ‘You think the entire Known World can be ruled under one banner.’
‘Why not?’ said Ivon. ‘It has been done before. And we shall have plenty of aid, never fear!’
The Margrave patted him gently on the shoulder as they began to ascend the hill towards the palace. A sharp sound suddenly rang out above the hubbub. Glancing back at Trader’s Circle, Wolmar caught sight of an ironmonger loudly clattering pots together as he tried to make a sale.
And that was when the idea hit him.
CHAPTER XVI
When Houses Clash
‘I’ve put another dose of Linfrick’s Node on and mixed it with some Vella’s Kiss,’ said Adhelina as she finished winding on the fresh bandage. ‘You’re young and strong and you’re healing up nicely. Your shoulder and your ribs have fully mended too – you should be thankful, Vaskrian. I’ve seen good knights die of less.’
The squire felt a pang of youthful longing as the heiress of Dulsinor caught him in her green eyes. He suppressed the desire immediately. That was the last thing the present situation needed – a lusty squire in the mix. But then, what red-blooded male wouldn’t conceive a liking for the gorgeous Vorstlending noblewoman? Not that she’d ever look at him that way, he reflected bitterly.
‘Thank you ma’am,’ he managed to mumble. Despite the poultice his arm still ached as he awkwardly pulled on his jerkin. A Marionite lay brother helped him; the monks in the tent were busy tending the latest raft of injured knights. Sir Carlus was still groaning pitifully after they had been forced to amputate his nose. At least Wrackwulf’s blow had left him alive: the Thalamian’s bascinet must have caught part of the axe blade, reducing the impact and saving his life.
‘You didn’t have to help me,’ Vaskrian added, doing his best to sound gallant. ‘I mean, with all your troubles recently…’ His voice trailed off and he flushed, suddenly feeling foolish.
Adhelina smiled. ‘Think nothing of it, Vaskrian of Gaellen,’ she said, refastening the sling around his arm. ‘It does me good to get out of the castle confines. And besides, I have my chaperon right here to keep an eye on me.’
She motioned ruefully towards where Sir Ruttgur stood at the entrance to the tent, ready to escort her back to the castle. ‘Though no doubt I’ll be needed back here before long – the melee is by far the most injury-laden event of a tourney.’
‘No need to remind me of that!’ grinned Vaskrian. ‘At least they’ll be fighting for love, though a blunted blade can still do a tidy bit of damage.’
‘Now you’re telling me something I already know,’ said Adhelina, grinning back at him. ‘Well, you’d better get back to your master.’
‘Of course,’ said Vaskrian, getting off the wooden bench. ‘What shall I tell him…?’ His voice trailed off again.
Adhelina frowned, gazing out of the tent at the light drizzle. The squall of two days ago had not cleared the skies, and the camp now sweltered in a muggy heat as it went about its business.
‘Just tell him to take care of himself for now,’ she said after a few moments. ‘I understand why he did what he did… I just need some time, that’s all.’
She shook her head as if to clear it, then looked at the squire with sad eyes. ‘Oh Vaskrian, why fool ourselves?’ she said. ‘After the melee is finished three days hence my father will send all of you packing.’ She sighed. ‘It was never meant to be, I’m just a pawn in a Jedrez game.’
Darting forwards she impulsively kissed him on his unburnt cheek, making it flush even deeper. ‘Give him that, from me. I doubt we’ll see much of each other after the tourney’s over.’
Lifting her skirts she turned and left with Sir Ruttgur.
Vaskrian watched her go with mixed emotions. Was she more relieved than anything else? Perhaps having three brave knights for paramours was too much to handle.
What did it concern him one way or another, he wondered as he stepped out into the rain. He was just a squire to a dejected liege, his fate fixed by the words of a woods witch.
His dejected liege hadn’t budged an inch. He was sat in the porch of their pavilion, moodily swigging from the wineskin Vaskrian had purchased for him that morning.
‘Adhelina sends you… a kiss,’ he began awkwardly. He thought he knew what Adhelina wanted him to say, but how to say it?
‘That’s nice,’ Braxus deadpanned, staring into the hardening rain. ‘The heiress of Dulsinor and Stornelund is kind-hearted to take pity on dishonoured knights.’
‘It’s not as bad as all that,’ ventured the squire, stepping into the porch and sitting down next to his guvnor. ‘You’re still champion of the joust, no one can take that away from you.’ It’s an honour I’d give anything for you ungrateful sot, he added mentally.
‘Ah but in the chivalry game, you’re only as good as your last result,’ said the Thraxian bitterly. ‘Anyway, it’s all irrelevant isn’t it? That’s what she wants you to tell me.’
Vaskrian’s eyes found the grass. ‘More or less I think, sire. Her marriage is inevitable. The Eorl’s keeping us here only out of courtesy, if I’m any judge. Once the melee’s done he means to banish us. Torgun and Agravine too.’
Braxus nodded and took another slug. ‘I thought as much. Well let’s not linger any longer than we have to! When does Friar Horskram leave? We’ll go with him as far as Port Westerburg. From there we’ll take ship back to Thraxia.’
Vaskrian nodded. He had been expecting this. ‘I spoke to Adelko last night, sire – he says Horskram will wait till the end of the tourney. The Eorl’s promised him an honour guard as far as the border of Westenlund – the lands between here and there aren’t too safe.’
Time was when that would have thrilled him – the prospect of more skirmishing. As it was he just felt flat and weary. Not that he could fight worth a tinker’s damn with his arm all trussed up anyway, Adhelina had said to give it another fortnight of rest before using it again.
Braxus must have read his thoughts. ‘Very well, we’ll wait it out until the tournament’s done,’ he said glumly. ‘I don’t reckon on our chances against roving robber knights or brigands with you crippled and no one else besides Horskram and myself who can fight. Anyway, another few days will give me time to recover.’
Vaskrian stared after him quizzically as the knight rose and stumbled back into the tent. ‘But you don’t have any recent injuries apart from the cut to your head, and that’s not too serious.’
Braxus laughed bitterly as he threw himself down on his pallet. ‘Tha
t isn’t the kind of recovery I was talking about.’ He waved his squire away with the wineskin. ‘Go and find something else to do,’ he said. ‘I release you from your duties today. I want to drink, alone.’
That was all the encouragement Vaskrian needed. Seizing up his cloak, he threw it around himself and stepped back out into the rain. Let his guvnor sulk into his wine, if that was his will. The ale tent for the commoners should be open – that would have to do for now. Trudging through the muddy camp, he reflected that perhaps the Earth Witch’s prophecy wasn’t such a terrible blow after all. It seemed that all the knights he knew ended up dead or miserable.
The sun was peering out from behind the clouds as Adelko made his way down from Graukolos towards Merkstaed. His limbs ached. Horskram had finished their morning lessons in Panglian with the surprise and unwelcome announcement that they would spend the afternoon working on combat technique.
The novice could understand why. Leagues of lawless terrain lay between them and Westerburg, it made sense to focus on his fighting skills. At least training with Horskram wasn’t as torturous as it had been under Udo back at Ulfang – the adept seemed far more patient with him, saving his jibes for their more cerebral exercises.
‘Your quarterstaff technique is passable, but you’ll really need to develop your footwork at Rima,’ was all he had said after an exhausting two hours in the middle ward. No knights were in the training ground with them, having deserted the castle for the battlefield marked out for the melee.
Adelko could see it as he followed the path into town. Each camp to either side of it centred on a ring of trestle tables: feasting and plotting seemed to happen concurrently. Perhaps strong ale helped one dream up more devilish battle tactics, Adelko reflected wryly. Looking at the rival swarms of armoured knights and their squires, smiths and cooks, he wondered at the ways of mortal men. He still couldn’t get his head around it. A mock battle, fought for fun. Or to keep one’s skills sharp, if Vaskrian was to be believed… Adelko just hoped it wouldn’t be as horrid as a real war. At least they’d be fighting with blunted weapons, or so the squire had assured him.
It was Vaskrian he hoped to find. He’d probably be at the ale tent in the main camp with the commoners – outlanders wouldn’t be allowed into the melee field as they weren’t taking part. As he skirted the bustling town towards the bridge crossing the Graufluss he wondered about his sparring bout with Horskram. He had half expected to see the adept pull off the same series of dazzling moves he had used against Andragorix, but no: the older monk’s fighting had been sure and steady, nothing to dismiss but nothing like what he had seen. Adelko had felt his confidence growing during their practice – curious, considering he’d improved very little during their journey. But for all his amateurishness, he had felt an assurance that hadn’t been there before. As though progress were possible.
A gaggle of commoners was already thronging the green before the ale tent when he arrived. Pushing himself through the reeking crowd, he spied Vaskrian and was just making his way over to him when he felt a hand tugging at his sleeve.
He whirled, mentally cursing the lazy impulse that had impelled him to leave his quarterstaff in his room when he’d gone to eat in the castle kitchens. He tensed – then relaxed as he recognised the tanned foreign face peering at him beneath a hood.
‘Anupe!’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? I thought I saw you in the crowd two days ago – but shouldn’t you be…?’
The Harijan grinned, raising a finger to her lips as she drew him gently to one side, away from the throng. ‘Banished? Yes, this is true. I think soon I will not be the only one, yes?’ She glanced sidelong at where Vaskrian was gesticulating with his tankard and talking animatedly to a serving wench. He seemed well in his cups.
‘I think the Eorl means to send us all far away once the melee’s done,’ Adelko confessed. ‘But why are you still here?’
‘Ah, why indeed?’ replied Anupe, shaking her head as if baffled by that herself. ‘In my land we are not used to seeing women treated so… I think Adhelina of Dulsinor deserves a better fate.’
Adelko’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t seriously mean…?’
‘Listen,’ persisted Anupe. ‘She is the closest thing to a strong woman I have seen in this cursed country. I will not see her married to that… buffoon. You are friendly with the squire. Get him to talk to his master. And talk to the other knight. They both love her, and will do anything to help. We must arrange to meet, all of us, to make a plan to rescue her.’
‘Why me?’ asked Adelko. ‘Why not ask them yourself?’
Anupe paused to look at him, a twinkle in her eye. ‘People like you, Adelko of Narvik,’ she said. ‘I am not sure why, but they do. They will listen to you. Now, go and talk to the squire, and find the other knight. Meet me here at sunset and tell me what you have arranged.’
‘Why should I help you?’ asked Adelko uncertainly. ‘The business of the Markwards is none of ours and Master Horskram is already furious enough with you as it is. If he finds out I’ve been – ’
‘You will do it because you are good, Adelko of Narvik. Kyra said she sensed much goodness in you…’ A spasm of pain crossed the Harijan’s face. ‘You will do the right thing, of this I am sure.’
Without another word Anupe loped off between the tents, leaving Adelko to ponder her words. Suppressing a sigh he turned back towards Vaskrian, who seemed to be making headway with his wench despite being crippled and scarred.
The squire was going to absolutely love this one.
‘It might just work.’ Sir Braxus frowned at the makeshift plan of attack they had mocked up in his tent. ‘With most of the Eorl’s knights in the field or watching and the rest off tourneying elsewhere, he should only have a few soldiers standing guard. If we act swiftly we can overpower them and be gone with the damsels right soon. They won’t have a chance to react.’
Sir Torgun frowned. His rugged face looked deeply troubled. ‘I like not this plan,’ he said. ‘It smacks of dishonour to whisk a high lord’s daughter away like this.’
‘And yet here you are, in my pavilion, discussing it,’ said Braxus. ‘I note my squire did not spend over long persuading you join us.’
Vaskrian winced inwardly as Torgun favoured his guvnor with a sour sneer. ‘After your conduct in the lists, I wouldn’t expect you to have any scruples,’ he said. ‘I fought by your side in the Argael and beyond, but now I see you and I are cut from different cloths.’
Anupe glanced quizzically at Adelko, who quickly translated from Northlending to Vorstlending so she could understand. Braxus and Torgun fell to bickering in Decorlangue as he did.
It made the squire’s head hurt. This was degenerating into a babbling mess and no mistake. But that’s what came of taking up with foreigners and going abroad, he supposed.
The Harijan shouted them all down, pointing at the crude map of the area she had sketched on a scrap of vellum. Adelko translated for her so everyone could understand.
‘She says she’s done a scout of the perimeter. The battlefield is actually a series of wooded dells that slope down to form a natural basin of open fields. The Lanraks are camped over the far side, but the Markwards are at the near end here… That’s where the Eorl and his daughter will be. Anupe saw servants putting up a large awning this afternoon so they can watch the fight in the shade.’
Anupe pointed to the edge of the fields and went on speaking. ‘If we hide our horses ready and saddled here beyond this copse of trees,’ said Adelko, translating, ‘that’s only a short distance from where the Eorl and his retinue will be. Ride swiftly and you’ll be on them before they know what’s hit them.’
‘I’m not killing the guards,’ said Torgun. ‘Loyal men don’t deserve to be butchered.’
‘You don’t have to kill them,’ translated Adelko. ‘Just ride them down or incapacitate them. The main thing is to get Adhelina and Hettie back to the copse. Vaskrian will have horses ready for them to mount and you can all beat a
retreat.’
‘This plan may just about be feasible, but it’s still insane,’ said Braxus. ‘We’ll have two companies of knights on our backs from here to Westenlund.’
‘I doubt they’ll pursue us far into Upper Thulia,’ put in Torgun. ‘An armed escort is one thing, but the Eorl of those lands would consider two armies crossing into his territory as an act of war.’
‘Good point,’ allowed Braxus grudgingly. ‘Well I still think it’s madness, but a brave knight will do anything for love!’
A fey light was in his eyes. Vaskrian knew all too well how desperate his master was to redeem himself in Adhelina’s eyes. Not to mention creating a chance for those same eyes to see him again after the melee was done.
But Torgun shook his head. ‘I love Adhelina as much as you, but to do this to a nobleman who has treated us as honoured guests…’
Vaskrian had to feel for his hero. Despite his loyalty to Sir Braxus, he couldn’t deny Sir Torgun was the better knight. But love was love, as the troubadours liked to sing.
The Northlending stepped away towards the tent entrance, peering out into the balmy night. Sounds of revelry filtered through the turgid air. The celebrations were at their most frenzied in the run-up to the melee, and Vorstlendings drank copiously by anyone’s standards.
‘All right,’ said Torgun, turning around at last. Vaskrian could see anguish written across his face in an ugly hand. ‘But only on condition that none of the Eorl’s men or his retinue are seriously harmed.’
‘Agreed,’ said Braxus. Anupe nodded at Adelko to indicate her assent.
‘Well I’d better be getting back,’ said the novice nervously. ‘Horskram will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Here,’ said Braxus, tossing him his wineskin. ‘Take a few mouthfuls, flush that fresh face of yours. That way he won’t get suspicious.’
