by Damien Black
‘Adelko and I didn’t lose any of our food and I still have my lantern,’ said Horskram. ‘We should have enough supplies to last a while but one thing we do lack is money.’
‘Have no fear there,’ replied the old knight, patting a small saddle bag on his charger. ‘I’d know better than to keep mine anywhere else but handy – provide for us now and I’ll see to it that we amply repay the compliment when we reach the next market town.’
‘That may be later than you think,’ said Horskram. ‘We should try to avoid the main road for a while.’
‘But what about all these poor people?’ interjected Adelko. ‘We can’t just leave them here unburied!’
The adept placed a hand on Adelko’s shoulder and shook his head sadly. ‘We have no choice, I’m afraid. Our mission is of paramount importance and we’ve already taken a risk in returning here. But let us intone a blessing for their souls now – this spot is often used by wayfarers, it won’t be long before word is sent to the nearest village, especially if some of those poor fellows managed to escape. Lord Vymar of Harrang will send men to bury them, so have no fear!’
Vaskrian stared distractedly across the lake as Horskram led his novice in a prayer for the souls of the departed. Its glossy sheen underpinned the ridges south of the marshlands with a stark beauty. It certainly made for a contrast with the scene of carnage in the clearing. Against the cloudy skies a flock of birds wheeled and carped across the still waters. He hoped they weren’t ravens, he’d heard they were meant to be bad luck.
Thinking on the horror that had come at them from that direction, he suppressed a shudder and turned back to face the corpse-strewn clearing. Corpses he didn’t mind – workaday butchery he could understand.
Returning to the main road they retraced their steps, passing the dell where they had spent a sleepless night made even more uncomfortable by the returning cries of the demon as it searched for them relentlessly.
They spent the rest of the day following the south road through the forest. Although its verdant depths seemed pleasant enough, Adelko began to wonder if they would be forced to spend the rest of their lives hiding under trees, and a longing for the open country of his highland home grew steadily within him.
Towards dusk they veered off in a south-westerly direction, Horskram’s intention being to break cover of the woods the following day and rejoin the highway south of Harrang.
The sun was low in the skies when they heard the sound of coarse singing filtering through the leaves. Horskram and Branas exchanged glances.
‘That’ll be forest folk,’ said the old knight. ‘The Jarl of Harrang is a generous liege, and permits them to hunt deer on certain days of the week. No doubt they’ll be cooking up a fine feast in yonder clearing – we should go and join them!’
The adept shook his head firmly. ‘No, we must stay under cover. I’ve already brought enough ruin on innocent people, though Reus knows it wasn’t my intention! Let’s get off the path – I’m sure we can find another overgrown nook in which to enjoy a good night’s rest.’
Horskram’s irony brought little cheer to the weary travellers, who complied with heavy hearts.
‘I don’t know about you, but this business of errantry isn’t all it’s made out to be!’ Vaskrian muttered to Adelko as they dismounted and led their steeds deeper into the hoary bosom of the forest. ‘I don’t remember hearing the troubadours singing about cramped forest floors and wormy biscuit for supper in the Lays of King Vasirius!’
‘Me neither!’ replied the novice in a low voice so their masters couldn’t hear. ‘Then again, I’ve read most of them, and they do mention a lot of stuff about “enduring the privations of a harsh wilderness” and so on.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Vaskrian. ‘Enduring hardship is a knightly virtue, it’s true – it’s just not nearly as much fun as the others, like fighting and feasting!’
‘I don’t know that I care much for the first one,’ said Adelko, ‘but I certainly miss the latter! I’d give anything to be sitting down to supper in the refectory at Ulfang!’
‘Mmm, Lord Fenrig’s feasting hall at Hroghar would be a nice place to be right now too!’ grinned the squire.
The two of them spent the evening swapping tales of home and the places they had seen. It lightened their hearts a little. Presently a fire could be discerned in the clearing occupied by the huntsmen, who went on singing till well after dark before retiring. Uncomfortable as they were amid the tangled undergrowth of the forest, the weary companions soon drifted off to sleep.
Mercifully, that night it was untroubled. Emerging from the forest at around noon the next day they found themselves gazing upon lush countryside. Striking up a gallop they passed through meadows and fields dotted with well-kept hamlets and manor houses: Lord Vymar was loyal to the King’s Law and ruled his prosperous domains with a firm but even hand.
Seeking shelter for the night at a priory known to him, Horskram was forced to lie again about their real reason for travelling. Thankfully the old perfect who presided over that parish was a gentle soul, sympathetic to the Argolian Order and clearly too in awe of the adept’s reputation to ask many questions.
They rejoined the highway around mid-morning of the following day. Taking this south they soon encountered other wayfarers travelling in both directions. Vaskrian sighed regretfully every time they passed a haughty knight heading north to the tournament at Harrang, riding at leisure before a liveried squire.
Occasionally Sir Branas would exclaim: ‘See that knight there, that we just passed? I bested him in the lists, some years ago – I’d do it again this week if I had the chance!’
‘I can’t help but notice that he never seems to point out any knights who’ve beaten him,’ muttered Adelko to Vaskrian as they slowed their horses to navigate a rough patch of road.
The squire glanced over his shoulder at Adelko with a wry grin. ‘Oh no,’ he answered. ‘That would never do! Haven’t I taught you anything of the ways of chivalry by now?’
The two youths chuckled as they picked up the pace again. High spirits seemed to be in short supply, and it felt good to share a joke.
A few hours later they stopped to eat and rest their horses. The water they had taken from the lake was nearly spent, so they replenished their skins from a nearby stream.
‘We should reach the River Rymold in an hour,’ said Horskram, gazing across the meadowed plains. ‘When we cross over, we’ll be in the King’s Dominions. That should afford us better protection against the brigands that pursue us, for those lands are guarded closely by the Knights of the White Valravyn.’
Vaskrian felt his heart skip a beat as Horskram mentioned the doughty warriors sworn to uphold the King’s Justice. He had only laid eyes on them once before, when his master had gone tourneying across the Rymold last summer. Linden was the greatest tournament he had been to, and more than five hundred brave knights had competed there for the castellan’s daughter’s hand in marriage and a hundred gold sovereigns.
Needless to say, Sir Branas hadn’t won first prize, although he’d secured his fair share of booty in the melee. Vaskrian hadn’t done too badly either, unhorsing a couple of squires and claiming his modest share of prize money. Since that time he had dreamed endlessly of one day winning the grand event.
The actual victor, Sir Torgun of Vandheim, had caused some controversy by graciously but firmly refusing the castellan’s daughter, explaining that he was beholden to another lady for whose love he had entered the joust. He had donated the prize money to the White Valravyn, according to the rules of the Order.
When Vaskrian related all this breathlessly to Adelko, the novice nodded slowly before asking: ‘So... who’s Torgun of Vandheim?’
Honestly – these monks, didn’t they know anything about the real world?
‘Only the greatest knight in the realm!’ he spluttered. ‘Don’t you get any news up north? He’s been making a real stir at court – some even say he’s the mightiest warrior in the wh
ole of the Free Kingdoms, except maybe Sir Azelin of Valacia – you do know who he is, don’t you?’
Adelko rolled his eyes. ‘Of course – he’s the Pangonian knight who slew the last of the Wyrms and went off to the Pilgrim Wars, even I know that! He joined the Knights Bethler and donated all his lands to the Holy Order, didn’t he?’
Vaskrian frowned. They were getting off the subject and away from his story. ‘Yes, well never mind him,’ he said, ‘no one in the Free Kingdoms has seen or heard from him since he left for the Blessed Realm years ago. But I tell you, Sir Torgun is a true hero – he’d never forsake his country to fight some foreign crusade! That’s why he joined the Order of the White Valravyn – they’ve all sworn an oath to protect the Kings’ Dominions, no brigands will be a match for them, you’ll see!’
The novice didn’t look entirely convinced. How naïve was he?
‘They say Torgun’s never been knocked off his horse,’ persisted Vaskrian, trying to inspire some courage in his new companion. ‘He’s jousted against hundreds of knights, and no one’s ever beaten him! I watched all his matches when I was at Linden – he was amazing! When he beat Sir Brogun of Dantor in the final I was right up at the front of the crowd, cheering with the rest of them – he looked over, and I swear he caught my eye and smiled! I took that as an omen, right then and there – some day I’d be a true knight and famous, just like him!’
The young monk simply stared at him. Vaskrian rolled his eyes and shook his head as Horskram and Branas called for them to remount and continue their journey. There was no talking to these Argolians about anything interesting – it was all spirits and scripture with them.
Presently they reached the Rymold. It was a mighty river, twice as broad as the Warryn. Further east beyond their view barges would be plying their trade to and fro, carrying goods brought across the sea from the Empire and Vorstlund to the bustling riverside towns of the northern reaches of the King’s Dominions. The river was forded by a triple-arched bridge of grey stone, built during the reign of King Wulfraed I, founder of the ruling House of Ingwin. On the north side was a small guard tower manned by sentries dressed in mail hauberks and armed with spears and shields. From the roof of the tower the King’s standard stood as it had done for nearly two hundred years, proudly displaying the white unicorns of the Ruling House.
Approaching the sentries at a canter the four travellers pulled up before them as Horskram declared their names.
‘And what business brings you to the King’s land, may I enquire?’ asked the serjeant-at-arms, clearly noting their unusually dishevelled appearance.
‘Our travelling party was attacked by brigands three nights ago up in the Laegawood,’ replied Horskram. ‘Many were slain, and we were lucky to escape with our lives. We have sent word to the Jarl of Harrang that his lands are despoiled by depredators, and now hope to seek safety in His Majesty’s demesnes.’
‘Brigands, you say?’ replied the serjeant in an unruffled tone of voice. ‘Well that’s the upperlands for you – though you may not find the safety you seek down south. Where are you travelling to, if you don’t mind my asking, sire?’
‘My novice and I are travelling to the Blessed Realm – this worthy knight and his squire have elected to accompany us as far as Linden Castle, where he plans to visit an old friend in the castellan’s service.’
Horskram broke off and held his peace. The serjeant turned a squint-eyed glance expectantly in the old knight’s direction.
‘Ahem, that’s right,’ said the latter somewhat awkwardly. ‘Might well have a word with the castellan about sending a few of his men across the Rymold too, while I’m there – the northern roads are clearly not safe!’
The serjeant smiled crookedly at this. ‘I doubt you’ll succeed in persuading him, sire – the way things are looking he’ll soon be needing all the men he can muster. Have you not heard there’s war brewing down south?’
Horskram and Branas exchanged bemused glances before looking at the serjeant and shaking their heads. ‘Aye, the southern provinces are at it again,’ continued the sentry. ‘They say that Kanga’s heir has been stirring up fresh talk of secession, and he’s got the rest of the southern provinces behind him. You’d think the fools would have learned their lesson last time.’
Horskram’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Krulheim?’ he exclaimed. ‘You mean Krulheim, the new Jarl of Thule? He’s leading another separatist revolt? That is ill news indeed.’
‘Pah, the King should have slaughtered him when he had the chance!’ snarled Sir Branas. ‘I always said no good would come of such a merciful deed!’
‘Every virtue has its price, as the Redeemer sayeth, and mercy is foremost among the virtues,’ replied Horskram sadly. ‘We had best be getting along – before more ill tidings catch up with us!’
They crossed the bridge in thoughtful silence. All about them sprawled the tidy farmsteads of the King’s Dominions, their abundant fields, well-kept copses and sturdy huts testifying to a land that had enjoyed years of peace and prosperity. Adelko wondered if all that would soon be reversed by the misfortunes of war. On the western horizon the Hyrkrainians sprawled languidly, their indifferent peaks wreathed in ephemeral clouds.
Presently he gave voice to his less gloomy thoughts. ‘At least we should be safe from the brigands now? After all, they won’t get past those sentries will they?’
‘Unfortunately they might,’ replied Horskram, unsmiling. ‘The Rymold Bridge guardhouse is really just a formality – the King has never had much reason to fear attack from the loyalist provinces directly to the north. There’s another bridge ten miles east – it used to be guarded many years ago, but not any more. As we’ve just established, Freidheim fears an assault from the southlands more than anything, and that’s where most of his defences are concentrated. Plus if there’s war brewing in that direction the knights of the White Valravyn will be less likely to be patrolling the northern reaches of the Dominions. So even on royal land we are not safe, it seems.’
Everyone lapsed back into silence after that. Clouds began gradually to thicken and condense across the blue skies, heightening their sense of foreboding. The highway snaked on relentlessly, and an encroaching shadow appeared on the horizon to their right, blotting out the distant mountain ranges.
As they drew nearer, Adelko noticed that the tilled and arable land dropped off sharply, the well-tended fields of wheat and barley abruptly giving way to a sparse unkempt wilderness. Presently they could see it more clearly: the dark clusters of thick oaks that now lined the western horizon seemed to suck the light from the failing skies above, intensifying the bleakness of the strangely barren lands they now found themselves in.
Adelko felt his trepidation increase as he realised it was no ordinary woodland they were skirting. The haunted eaves of Tintagael seemed every bit as spooky as his mentor had led him to believe they were.
Glancing over at its lightless depths Sir Branas made the sign and muttered: ‘Tintagael Forest! A cursed place if ever I saw one! I wouldn’t be surprised if yon fiend pursuing us was spawned in such a place!’
‘Do not speak of such things here!’ exclaimed Horskram, his voice flaring angrily.
At that moment they heard a sound they had all been half expecting. Wheeling their horses around they saw five horsemen hurtling towards them across the plains from the north-east. Their exultant war whoops seemed to hang heavy in the air.
Sir Branas drew his sword. ‘There’s only five – we can take them!’ he growled. Vaskrian unsheathed his own blade, a look of relish on his face. Horskram sat still in the saddle, clearly undecided whether to flee or fight. Adelko looked from him to the approaching brigands fearfully.
As they drew nearer they unleashed a volley, gripping their steeds with their legs whilst using both hands to fire their crossbows. Though still too far away to aim well, a couple of quarrels nearly found their mark – one bolt passed through the side of Horskram’s habit while another glanced off Branas’s ma
iled shoulder.
That seemed to galvanise the adept into action. ‘We must charge them now, before they can reload!’ he yelled.
‘Wait, there’s more!’ cried Adelko, pointing south. ‘They’re coming at us from two directions!’ Five more riders were tearing up the highway towards them.
‘In Reus’ name, how did they get so far ahead of us?’ exclaimed Sir Branas. ‘I thought they had to detour!’
‘They must have ridden through the night!’ said Horskram. ‘Those foreign devils must be as hardy as Wadwos!’
‘We can take them anyway!’ yelled Vaskrian, although even he now sounded uncertain.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ snarled Horskram. ‘We’re outnumbered more than two to one – and one of us barely knows how to fight! We must flee into the forest – they won’t dare chase us in there!’
‘Tintagael?’ Branas stared at him with bulging eyes. ‘You’re mad – no one who goes in there ever comes back! It’ll surely be the death of us!’
‘It’ll be the death of us if we don’t!’ cried Horskram, turning and spurring his horse towards the dark line of trees. ‘They’ve got us cut off – we’ve no choice! Fly! Fly for the forest!’
As if to emphasise his words, another volley of quarrels flew past them, this time fired by the second group of brigands. Cursing, Branas kicked his charger into a gallop, the two youths following suit.
As the four of them rode hell for leather towards Tintagael both parties of Northlanders converged in hot pursuit. They had abandoned their crossbows and were now brandishing swords and axes above their heads and yelling fearfully. The berserker rage of their ancestors was in them, all thoughts of reward subsumed by sheer bloodlust.
But of this Adelko registered little, for his perception was all but consumed by the growing horizon of Tintagael, which rather than see he seemed to sense as an expanding presence in his consciousness. From somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind he fancied he could hear thousands of voices whispering to him, their susurration drowning out the thundering of his panting horse’s hooves.
