by Damien Black
Øren fell silent, allowing his words to sink in. Angry cries dwindled into disconsolate muttering, but the commander-in-chief’s point had been hammered home. Tarlquist felt a sense of relief – the last thing they needed was the younger hotheads breaking ranks. Admittedly that was unlikely among the disciplined knights of the Order, but still he knew only too well that war did strange things to men.
Øren must have been thinking along similar lines, for then he said: ‘All right, men of the White Valravyn! We’ve had our supper, and we’ve heard our report! Time to post watch and turn in – Salmor is still another couple of days’ hard ride away, so we’ve leagues to cover. Dismissed!’
The rest of the journey passed without any engagements. By now spies would have been sent ahead with the necessary disinformation: the King was mustering a full contingent of knights, complete with supplies and footsoldiers, to meet Thule’s forces at Rookhammer. The Pretender wouldn’t expect a bold sortie of a hundred unaccompanied knights riding hard cross country to attack his forces at Salmor, which by now was virtually behind enemy lines.
The journey was harrowing nonetheless. Tarlquist gritted his teeth as they came upon the third ravaged village that afternoon, on their fourth day out of Staerkvit. The huts had been burned down. The livestock had been taken to feed the rebel armies. The villagers had been slaughtered without regard to age or gender.
Their corpses hung from makeshift gibbets, their crow-pecked cadavers twisting in the breeze. They had not even been tarred, which made for an even worse spectacle in the grey afternoon light.
Tarlquist clutched his reins tightly as he gazed at pulped eyes and mangled limbs. Loyal yeomen, whose only crime had been to serve the rightful King that Thule sought to supplant.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. They were not far from Salmor now. Soon there would be a reckoning, a reckoning of steel. War could be dreadful, but it had its rewards too.
It was dusk when they reached the castle environs. Naturally the rebel army had posted scouts, but the White Valravyn anticipated this and sent some of their own to pick them off. Most were quickly slain. Two survivors were dragged back to camp beyond the foothills overlooking the castle. Sir Øren pronounced them traitors and hanged them both from a lone yew tree.
But not before he questioned them. Men terrified at the prospect of imminent death had little to say that was coherent, but one daunting piece of information they did glean from the scouts before they died: the waiting rebel army was not commanded by any lord of the southlands. The Sea Wizard was in charge, a Northland pagan priest whom they seemed to fear as much as death itself. As the two rebel scouts danced the mad dance of death upon their makeshift gallows, the knights exchanged grim glances. Men of arms they knew how to fight. A warlock was another matter entirely.
The hills ringing Salmor Castle were an advantage long factored into their plans. Another advance party of knights was dispatched on foot to climb them and spy on the rebel army before the light failed altogether.
They soon returned. The news they brought came as little surprise. The Sea Wizard’s army outnumbered them more than ten to one. But less than half of them were knights. And they would catch them unawares. Even now they were settling down to their cookfires and whoring – as was usual in times of war, a sizeable number of hangers-on had attached themselves to the marching army.
Sir Øren gathered the men about him for one last briefing.
‘All right, you know the plan,’ he began. ‘We’ll lead our horses on foot to the summit of the hills and gather at the marker left by our scouts. Then we mount and ride like the wind down into the valley. Target their knights – it’s important we kill or wound as many as we can before they have a chance to take the saddle. After that it’s the serjeants and footsoldiers. Don’t bother about the archers – by the time they know what’s happening we’ll be in amongst their ranks and they’ll be next to useless.’
He paused and looked around at the grim faces of the armoured men about him.
‘There’s a lot of civilians attached to the main army – washerwomen, whores, peddlers and the like,’ he added. ‘On no account are they to be attacked – we’ve a precious advantage and I don’t want it squandered on unchivalrous and pointless slayings.’
As he said this Tarlquist was sure the barrel-chested commander fixed a squint-eyed glare at Wolmar.
‘So this is it!’ said Sir Øren. ‘We’ve done well to get this far, but now we go to war in earnest! Strike hard, strike fast, and be worthy of the White Valravyn!’
Muted cheers answered him. They were a league away from the castle, but it was best not to risk drawing any attention. Their success depended on the element of surprise.
Their battle plan worked like a charm. Reaching the short white flag planted by their scouts the White Valravyn took to the saddle. With a roar they swept down the foothills, couching lances as they did.
The enemy knights were easy to spot in their heraldic surcoats. Before they had time to realise they were being attacked dozens lay dying about their campfires, spitted like wild boar. Spinning their Farovian destriers around with well-drilled precision, the ravens drew swords and began to lay about them at the remainder. They slew on the left hand and the right; knights and serjeants fell screaming as their comrades began to muster a desperate counter attack.
Several dozen had by now managed to mount their steeds. Sir Tarlquist closed with one of them amidst the screaming and clamour. Camp followers were running about pell-mell, trying to avoid being trampled in the melee. Footsoldiers had availed themselves of spears and were trying to knock ravens off their horses, but many of their serjeants had been killed or wounded in the first onslaught, and their efforts were ill disciplined.
Tarlquist parried his adversary’s first blow. Bringing his sword back he slashed fiercely downwards at the young knight’s head. He hadn’t had time to put on a helm and was clearly not used to defending strikes above the shoulder. Tarlquist’s blade bit deep into his skull; the young knight shrieked pitifully, his own sword slipping from dying fingers. Tarlquist wrenched his weapon free, and the knight slipped off his horse in a shower of blood and brains.
Glancing to his left at the castle, which was surrounded with siege engines and catapults, Tarlquist hoped Lord Kelmor would realise the plan and muster his own forces to sally forth and join them.
That was the second crucial part of the plan: now the element of surprise was over, it depended on allied reinforcements from the castle. Even with the dreadful casualties they had inflicted on Thule’s best men, they still outnumbered them more than five to one. Kelmor was known to be a cautious general, but when he witnessed the desperate and brave effort to relieve him, surely he would come to their aid...
A footsoldier lunged at him with a spear. Reacting quickly, Tarlquist brought his blade down in a powerful sideswipe, knocking the polearm from his hands. Before he had a chance to rearm, the knight spurred his charger straight at him. With a great whinny it reared up, catching the soldier in the face with a lashing hoof. Spraying rotten teeth, the man went down with a cry.
Suddenly a great horn blast shook the hills to either side of the castle approach where they were fighting. It was their herald Sir Albared, sounding the call for help. Tarlquist hoped Kelmor would get the message.
Doric and Cirod, the twin knights, were nearest to him. They fought as one, their swords flashing in the firelight as they staunchly fended off the three knights harrying them. Charging into the fray, Tarlquist evened up the odds. He exchanged several fierce strokes with his new adversary, a battle-scarred veteran of the southlands who had probably squired in the last uprising. He swung his sword at Tarlquist’s forehead – but unlike the young knight he’d just killed he was well used to fighting without a helm. Turning the lethal blow aside at the last second he countered with a thrusting riposte, catching the knight through a chink in his armour. He gave a low groan as Tarlquist’s blade sank into his bowels. As he finished him off with
a cut to the throat the twins simultaneously despatched their foemen.
It was then that he heard it. A strange chanting in a peculiar tongue, one that immediately sent shivers down his spine. Glancing up from the combat he could see its source. Perched atop a high hill overlooking the scene of battle was a tall man dressed in flowing robes the colour of the sea. In his hand was a strange weapon; it looked like a trident and matched the colour of his robes. His arms were aloft and he was bellowing the strange words at the top of his lungs. Somehow they managed to cut across the raging war-song that filled the castle approach.
Once again Tarlquist glanced towards Salmor, stood impassively behind its protective moat. Its grey flanks bore the scars of siege, though it was still far from falling. Again Sir Albared’s horn sounded, mingling oddly with the Northland wizard’s strange chanting.
Come on Kelmor, for Palom’s sake, thought Tarlquist desperately as he wheeled his horse around to face yet another attack. We’re risking our lives to bring you succour – repay us in kind, dammit!
The battle raged on. By now most of the surviving rebel knights had managed to mount their horses. The remaining serjeants had finally succeeded in ordering their men, and even archers and sappers were being pressed into hand combat. Doughty as they were, even the white ravens were sore pressed by such odds.
Gradually the rebel forces began to surround them and push them back towards the moat. As Albared blew his horn again and again, the pagan priest continued his chanting, his eldritch words assaulting the night skies with the monotonous persistence of a battering ram...
It’s now or never, thought Tarlquist as he fended off two knights. If Kelmor doesn’t ride out soon, we’re done for. Where in Reus’ name is he?
The press of men and horses and steel was too thick for him to risk a glance backwards in the direction of the castle. One of his foeman swiped at him with an axe; Tarlquist took it on his shield, but was prevented from counter-attacking by his second opponent. He took his blade on his own before riposting, but the knight was quick and dodged the hurried blow. As both knights renewed their offensive Tarlquist pulled his horse back towards the moat.
They’re hemming us in, he thought desperately. They’re going to pin us against the moat of the castle we’ve come to save and crush us like flies. The bitter irony was not lost on him even in the midst of battle.
All about him his comrades were beginning to feel the effects of superior numbers. Many ravens had been knocked off their horses. Some were able to continue the fight on foot. They made light work of the footsoldiers, but were easy prey for mounted enemy knights.
By the time they had been pushed back to within a stone’s throw of the moat Tarlquist estimated that less than half their number remained. The rest had been captured, slain or incapacitated.
At least they won’t be able to surround us with the moat at our backs, he thought with grim triumph. We’ll make a brave last stand, worthy of bard’s song.
A great cry suddenly went up amidst the throng of fighters. It wasn’t coming from their own men, but from the enemy soldiers facing the castle.
‘The Sea Wizard has spoken! The Sea Wizard has spoken and his words are doom!’ The words of a rebel footsoldier sounded as much horrified as they did triumphant.
The rebel fighters had fallen back momentarily. Taking advantage of this to risk a glance over his shoulder, Tarlquist gaped.
Now he understood Kelmor’s hesitation to act. There would be no succour from Salmor.
Where a short while before he had glimpsed the still waters of the moat, there now raged and roiled a tidal wave, one that circled the castle unnaturally like a cartwheel spinning on its side. Staring at it with eyes he scarcely believed, Tarlquist registered the ethereal forms of galloping knights within its roaring depths, their watery blades held high as they rode round and round Salmor in a devilish elemental parody of a carousel. Each one was the size of small tower; they seemed to undulate and merge with the rest of the ensorcelled waters at will, hooves of surf lashing the ground by the moat with the force of a hundred rainstorms.
At that moment he heard Albared’s trumpet again. It wasn’t summoning a sally-forth anymore – it was signalling retreat. Turning to gaze in its direction, Sir Tarlquist saw the battle standard go down. Sir Øren and his men usually rode with the standard bearer and herald – Tarlquist couldn’t pick him out in the press, but rebel fighters were swarming thick and fast around his company. It didn’t look good.
The knights and soldiers harassing Tarlquist’s own men had meanwhile recovered from the shock of witnessing the Sea Wizard’s sorcery to renew their attack.
Hurriedly he barked orders at the remainder of his company. ‘Close ranks and prepare to charge! We’re getting out of here if we can!’
Drawing his neighing Farovian up beside him Sir Wolmar looked at him askance. ‘But, Salmor Castle, we can’t abandon it...’
‘Salmor’s lost!’ snarled Sir Tarlquist through gritted teeth. ‘Look behind you if you haven’t already! No mortal can get through that – neither them nor us! We’ve no choice but to flee!’
Some dozen white ravens still ahorse had gathered about him and the princeling, Torgun, the chequered twins and Aaron among them. The enemy was coming thick and fast from several directions now, menacing them with a bristling rash of swords and spears. This would not be easy.
Raising his blade high in the air, Sir Tarlquist bellowed the words he had prayed he would not have to utter.
‘Knights of the White Valravyn, charge the enemy and cut yourselves out if you can! The battle is lost – the Sea Wizard has won! Damn his pagan hide, but he’s won!’
CHAPTER III
In the Footsteps of Vanished Heroes
Adelko had no idea how long they had been in the forest. One moment it seemed only seconds since the four of them had plunged into its forbidding depths, the war-cries of the brigands sounding loud in their ears. The next it felt like years... and he struggled to remember the events that had brought them there in the first place.
All around them, the thick boles of strange trees stretched in all directions. From the outside they had looked like oaks, but in here they deceived the eye continually. Their shapes would shift and bend subtly, come tantalisingly close to resembling a recognisable species... before shifting again and becoming something altogether alien. Occasionally he would look back at a cluster of trees he had just passed – each time he could swear they had changed positions.
He repeated this experiment several times, until Horskram told him in a quiet but firm voice to stop – playing such tricks on his own mind would only increase the likelihood of turning to madness.
Whatever power it was that caused the trees to metamorphose had sealed their fate the instant they passed beneath the dark eaves of Tintagael: the boles behind them had snapped back into place, abruptly cutting off the whelps of the brigands. A slab to seal their tomb.
Reining in their panicky horses they had turned to see the trees stretching back behind them seemingly without end, as though there had never been a world beyond them: of the sparse plains of the wilderness not a single blade of grass could be seen.
Horskram had told them all to stay calm, and above all not to raise their voices unless absolutely necessary. He seemed outwardly composed, but Adelko could sense his master was deeply uncertain about the choice of path he had led them on.
But the time for making decisions was over. The trees parted to reveal a trail that snaked maddeningly as they proceeded along it. Adelko was quite sure it led exactly where the forest – or whatever unseen force controlled it – wanted it to.
Regardless of the form they took the trees always rose high above them, their snaking branches intertwining grotesquely to form a tangled web of foliage, dense and impenetrable, that blocked out the skies entirely. Yet they had no need of Horskram’s lamp, for the forest was suffused in a peculiar silvery-green light, an unnatural hue that seemed to mock the colours of a normal wood.
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The leaves of the trees were a rotten dead brown colour, and put the novice in mind of autumn; but instead of falling they clung to the menacing branches with a horrible tenacity. After a while he noticed that they were the only part of the trees that never changed.
Their way was not easy, for the undergrowth of Tintagael had a malign intent all of its own, and more than once their horses’ hooves became inexplicably caught in its tangled briars, until eventually they had no choice but to dismount and lead their reluctant steeds.
Perhaps worst of all were the noises. Tintagael sounded like no earthly forest Adelko had ever set foot in: no sounds of wildlife could be discerned, just the sussurant rustling of leaves and ominous creaking of the trees as they shimmered and altered about them.
But there was something else too, behind those sounds; a faint whispering of countless voices, always just on the edge of human hearing. A thousand tiny pinpricks, poking relentlessly at the blurred threshold between the soul and senses...
‘Do you hear them, Master Horskram?’ the novice asked furtively as he walked beside the old monk. ‘Voices... or at least I think they are, but I’m not sure. I think I heard them just before we entered the forest. What are they?’
Horskram’s face was a mask as he replied flatly: ‘If you can hear those, it means your sixth sense is as attuned as mine is. The Fay Folk are the masters of Tintagael – most like it is their voices you can hear, though you would not understand their tongue even if you could do so clearly.’
The novice glanced back behind their horses to where Branas and Vaskrian were bringing up the rear, both looking pale and unusually frightened. ‘Can... can they hear them too?’
