by Damien Black
The handsome knight fixed him with keen green eyes. Vaskrian felt there was no hiding the complete truth from his shrewd prospective new master.
‘All right, what you say is true enough, sire,’ he blurted. ‘It’s just that, well, begging your knightly pardon, but you are a Thraxian. I’d always thought I’d finish my squirehood in service to a fellow countryman.’
To his surprise Braxus laughed.
‘So that’s what really troubles you!’ he chuckled. ‘Well, I could ask to have you flogged for such impertinence – but don’t worry, I won’t! As for your concerns about king and country, be at ease – it’s not unheard of for knights to take foreign squires on. All that is required is the usual – a leave of pardon granted by your liege lord.’
Vaskrian bit his lip. ‘Yes, that’s the other thing I suppose – I’m not sure if Fenrig will...’
Grasping the squire by the shoulders Braxus looked him square in the eye. ‘Listen to me, Vaskrian,’ he said seriously. ‘I may not stand on ceremony very often, but I am still a lord’s son in my own right. One day I shall be a lord of men and command my own armies in the field. When that day comes, if you have served me as well as I think you will, I may be moved to grant you what you most desire.’
Vaskrian stared back at him, beautiful hope kindling his spirit. ‘You mean...’
‘I can’t make men knights now, as you well know,’ said Sir Braxus. ‘But when I inherit my father’s lands and title, I will be able to. And frankly I see no reason why common birth should preclude a doughty fighter with promise from being elevated to knighthood. I told you already, we Thraxians are not so stiff, so formal, as you Northlendings. We recognise merit when we see it.’
Vaskrian nodded, making up his mind quickly. Neither Branas nor Ulfstan had given him so much as a hint that he would ever have such reward for his hard work. And neither of those men had been heir to a jarldom – or whatever the Thraxian equivalent was.
Taking a knee in the mud, he laid his sword at the Thraxian’s feet and said: ‘Then I am yours to command, sir knight – take me where you will.’
Braxus laughed again. ‘Get up! You Northlendings, so earnest all the time – no wonder you never produce any decent poets! First we must tie up a few loose ends with your soon-to-be erstwhile liege lord. Then we’ll have oath-swearings aplenty, mark my words! Just leave me to do the talking...’
Lord Fenrig’s camp was a bustle of flesh and steel and leather. It was a cloudy morning but even so the men were in high spirits despite their hangovers. There would be ample opportunity to work off the revels of the previous night – word had been given that the King’s Army would strike camp and march at noon, after the executions. Scouts had come in with early reports suggesting that Thule was falling back towards Salmor as expected.
Fenrig was conferring with his marshal in the midst of the tents being dismantled when they approached him. About them knights and soldiers were putting on their armour and preparing to leave.
‘Sir Braxus of Gaellen, knight of Thraxia and heir to the Ward of High Dréuth, at your service!’ he declared with a florid bow.
Lord Fenrig raised a bushy eyebrow at this, his marshal favouring the knight with a flat stare. Clearly they were both unimpressed.
Unabashed, Braxus continued: ‘I am come to present to you a squire of your land, formerly in service to Sir Branas of Veerholt.’
Fenrig frowned at this. ‘Formerly, you say? That doesn’t bode well – yon squire is known to me. I elevated him above his station in return for a favour his father did me.’
That seemed an underwhelming way to describe having your life saved from a Wolding axe, but Vaskrian knew better than to make the point. Bluebloods – they hated to acknowledge their debts. Especially when that debt meant you owed everything to a mere commoner.
‘As for Sir Branas, what of him?’ demanded the Jarl sternly. ‘He went missing some weeks ago – set out for a tourney at Harrang but never got there. Hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Yes, well I’m afraid you won’t be seeing him again,’ replied the Thraxian candidly. ‘He perished in the wilderness.’
‘I see,’ replied Fenrig. ‘How?’
‘He perished in the wilderness,’ repeated Braxus. ‘In the forest you Northlendings call Tintagael, to be precise.’
Both men gaped. They looked impressed now.
‘Tintagael?’ exclaimed the marshal, a lean man of sixty winters with a shock of white hair. ‘What madness possessed him to venture there?’
‘It would appear,’ continued Braxus as though he were telling a tale of ordinary events, ‘from the account that young Vaskrian here has given me, that during the course of his journey to this Harrang you speak of, Sir Branas fell in with two friars of the Argolian Order.’
The two nobles exchanged uncertain glances.
‘The monks appear to have gotten themselves into a spot of bother and were being chased by brigands for some unknown reason,’ said Braxus. ‘The old knight, valiant worthy that he was, swore an oath to protect them on their journey to Strongholm. During said journey they were pursued by said brigands, who greatly overmatched them. Branas – and it must be said his no less valiant squire here – were for facing them nonetheless, but the cowardly monks chose instead to seek uncertain refuge in Tintagael.’
Vaskrian was about to say something when he felt Braxus’ foot kick his own sharply. He bit his tongue.
‘During their sojourn there,’ continued the knight, ‘they were bewitched by the faerie folk, so that the poor lad cannot remember what passed. But suffice to say, when they awoke from their ensorcelled nightmare the three of them were free of the forest – but of Sir Branas there was no trace.’
The two knights made the sign, their faces pale. Braxus returned the pious gesture with all the sincerity of a disgruntled peasant tugging his forelock at a sozzled and inept lord of the manor.
‘Yon squire would have sought you out to tell you this awful tale – which I could barely extract from him, such a horrible ordeal as it clearly was – but upon arriving at Strongholm he was immediately seconded to one of the King’s knights, Sir Ulfstan of Alfheim. That worthy, I am sad to report, was killed in the first charge at yesterday’s battle. As such the youth is without a knightly master once again.’
‘And how does this concern you?’ asked Lord Fenrig coldly.
‘I lost my own squire to Northland reavers during the journey to your fair country, and am too far from home to requisition another of my kinsfolk. As such, I would fain take Vaskrian of Hroghar into my service, by your leave… and with all due courtesy.’
The Northlending noblemen frowned at each other as they considered the request. Fixing Vaskrian with steely eyes, Lord Fenrig said: ‘Thus far it is the foreigner who has spoken for you. Do you solemnly swear that he is telling the truth as you told it to him?’
‘I do,’ said Vaskrian bashfully.
‘And do you solemnly swear that you have told him the truth?’
‘I do,’ the squire repeated.
Drawing himself up and puffing out his burly chest Fenrig turned to look at Braxus again.
‘And you can vouch that you will provide for this young man, and keep him as a squire ought to be kept?’
Vaskrian winced inwardly. The question was pointed: it certainly would not have been asked of any Northlending heir to a lord.
‘I can so vouch, my lord,’ replied the Thraxian, taking the slight on the chin. ‘In fact I shall keep him as well as any future lord of men can.’
Fenrig considered for a few more moments. Then he said: ‘Very well, in that case I do formally release Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar, from my service. From henceforth you shall be Vaskrian, esquire of High Dréuth, for as long as this worthy knight sees fit to keep you in his service. I trust you shall not forsake the noble ways of your countrymen in foreign company.’
‘No my lord!’ gushed Vaskrian, bowing low. ‘I swear to thee I shall not.’ He was too elated by his sudd
en change in fortunes to notice the second slight aimed at his new master.
‘Rise,’ said Fenrig peremptorily. ‘I shall not trouble to ask what a Thraxian is doing fighting in the King’s Army – I can only suppose that in these desperate times His Majesty has need of all the help he can get.’
Braxus looked as if he was about to answer this third slight when a familiar voice called out: ‘Vaskrian! Churl of Hroghar!’
The voice was thick with anger and contempt. Though he had come far since he last heard it, it was unmistakeable.
Sir Rutgar was clad in full armour, carrying his helm under his arm as he strode over towards them. His head was swathed in a bloody bandage, but otherwise he appeared to be in rude health. Or rude at least.
‘Well, well – fancy seeing you here,’ he sneered as he drew level with Vaskrian. ‘Still scrubbing pots for the real fighters, I hope?’
Vaskrian stood rigid, his face flushed scarlet. His moment of joy had been turned to ashes by the sudden reappearance of his arch rival. He wished with all his heart he could break Rutgar’s smug face open, or cut his throat as he had done Derrick’s.
Braxus eyed the newcomer coldly as he continued to pour scorn on his squire. When he was done the Thraxian spoke calmly. ‘I do not believe we have met before...’
‘Sir Rutgar,’ replied the other knight haughtily. ‘And who are you? A dirty foreigner by the looks – and sounds – of it.’
‘Rutgar!’ barked Fenrig. ‘Guard your tongue! Chastising a low-born squire is one thing, but this is a lord’s heir you now speak to – foreigner or no.’
Typical noble, Vaskrian reflected ruefully: Fenrig didn’t permit his vassals the same liberties he was happy to take himself.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ said Rutgar, favouring Braxus with a curt bow. ‘I did not realise who you were.’
‘Sir Braxus will do,’ replied the Thraxian coldly. ‘Where I come from we don’t use lordly titles until we’re actually lords ourselves. But I accept your apology for the insult offered to my person. Now I will accept likewise for the insult offered to my squire.’
Rutgar looked confusedly from Lord Fenrig to the unsmiling Thraxian and back again.
‘It is as the Thraxian says it is,’ confirmed Fenrig. ‘I have just now released Vaskrian from my service. He serves Sir Braxus of Gaellen now.’
Rutgar stared at Vaskrian and Braxus. ‘You surely don’t expect me to apologise for insulting this common churl?’ he spluttered.
‘No,’ replied Braxus evenly. ‘I expect you to apologise to this common churl.’
‘Steady now,’ warned Lord Fenrig. ‘This man is a knight in my service – he is of noble blood and will do no such thing.’
‘Very well,’ Braxus allowed. ‘In that case I will be content with an apology made to myself on my squire’s behalf.’
Rutgar turned red with rage. ‘Fie on that! I’ll not apologise! You have your answer, sir!’
‘Then here is mine,’ replied Braxus, still unsmiling. ‘For the insult you have thus offered me, I have no choice but to seek satisfaction. When this war is done – if we are both still alive and able – I will seek that satisfaction in sight of man and deity. Think on your harsh and hasty words, sir knight, and ask about the camp for word of my deeds in the field. You shall find them worthy of consideration – I hope you are as skilled with lance and sword as you are with that sharp tongue of yours.’
The Thraxian motioned for Vaskrian to follow him, bidding a courteous farewell to the Jarl and his marshal. Rutgar simply stood and stared, a stupid expression printed across his stupid face.
‘Well, that was a satisfactory piece of business,’ breezed the knight as they walked back to their part of the camp. ‘I knew that when Hroghar heard of your misadventures in Tintagael he would be loath to keep you on – that forest is dreadfully feared in these lands and he probably thinks you’re cursed.’
But the horrors of Tintagael were the last thing on Vaskrian’s mind.
‘What about Rutgar? Do you really mean to fight him?’
‘Well seeing as you are forbidden by chivalrous law from doing so, I hardly see any alternative,’ replied Braxus casually. ‘So, can you tell me anything about this Rutgar? Does he fight as well as he talks?’
‘Why no!’ said Vaskrian, grinning. And he told his new master of their mock fight the previous summer.
‘Oh ho, now I see why he bears you such a grudge!’ laughed Braxus. ‘And of course now he is a knight and you are not, he too is bound by custom not to seek redress! What a merry bind! In truth, such a consideration should be beneath him now, but clearly his pride rankles him.’
‘I wish I could fight him again,’ muttered Vaskrian disconsolately, thinking of the unfair drubbing he’d gotten at Hroghar. That was weeks ago now, but the recollection still pained him far more than the bruises he’d received.
‘You’ll get plenty of worthier opponents before your life is done,’ Braxus assured him, ‘so rest easy! I’ll take care of this Rutgar – assuming the next battle doesn’t.’
That of course was a strong possibility. The coming conflict might take care of many of them.
‘Why are we here, Master Horskram?’
Adelko felt sick. Last night’s joyous reunion with his brother was already a distant memory, cruelly pushed aside by the horrible spectacle he was now forced to witness. And he’d thought watching a battle was bad enough.
Horskram’s face was unrelenting beneath his cowl. ‘For your edification,’ he replied flatly. ‘This is what comes of war. Perhaps if you see it with your own eyes you will understand better what I was trying to tell you at Strongholm just before we marched.’
The executions had begun at dawn. Johan and two hundred knights were to meet the noose on the fields, in sight of the devastation they had helped to wreak. It was the last thing they would see with mortal eyes.
Most of the loyalists who had turned up to watch thought this a fitting punishment, although Adelko had heard one or two knights mutter that it was ill fitting a nobleman should be hanged, whilst a foreigner met a warrior’s death – the surviving reavers and the seacarls commanding them were to be beheaded.
‘The King insists that they are not technically traitors,’ Horskram had explained. ‘And so he will give them their due, barbarians or no. But then our King is an honourable man.’
Adelko felt his gorge rise as the next clutch of prisoners was shoved towards the row of gallows. They were hanging them a dozen at a time. The fresh corpses were piled in a mound beside the rest of the enemy dead. When the executions were done this would be set alight in accordance with custom. The loyalist dead would be given a proper burial by the surviving townsfolk of Linden.
Adelko winced as he caught the face of the second condemned noble from the right. Presumably a squire, he couldn’t have been much older than he was. His arm was in a bloodied sling; his dirt-streaked face looked petrified in the wan light. Even at this range it was obvious he was weeping.
‘Some of them… they’re so young,’ said Adelko hoarsely. He felt like crying himself.
‘As were many of Thule’s innocent victims,’ answered Horskram. ‘Blood must answer for blood – this is the King’s justice. The last time he deviated from that tradition, he set in place the chain of events that led to this very uprising. Hard choices, and sacrifices regardless of which one you make – this is the way of the sword, Adelko. Mark it well.’
The twelve captives had their heads placed in nooses. The perfects said prayers for their souls, although Adelko had heard more than one spectator voice doubt as to whether the Almighty would allow traitors into His halls.
More than half the assembled spectators were commoners. Ordinary men and women: soldiers, victuallers, smiths and folk from Lindentown. All here to see the blood-soaked fields play host to yet more killings. And they seemed to be enjoying it. The King had forbidden drinking among his army ahead of the midday march, but the drunken townsfolk were making a proper celebration
of it. As they had done when they lynched collaborators among their own the previous evening, after Thule’s forces fled Lindentown.
Freidheim himself presided over the executions. He sat in a makeshift chair on the same knoll from where they had watched the battle unfold. In his hand was a featureless black rod carved of ebony – the royal staff of execution. He held it aloft, his face implacable and unsmiling. Then he lowered it firmly.
The herald watching him from beside the gallows called out the command.
‘Release!’
Adelko heard the squire scream. Was it ‘no don’t’ or ‘mother’ he cried before the hangman’s rope broke his neck? He would never know.
At least the next batch were all seasoned campaigners. Twelve of Thule’s knights, disarmed and clad only in hose and undertunics, were shoved towards the makeshift podium. Most of them were injured, and one or two had lost limbs. Not that they would be missing them for much longer.
The soldiers conducting the executions were about to place the nooses when one of the condemned knights cried out.
‘This is an outrage!’ the nobleman yelled. He was a young man in his early twenties. He looked well-made and handsome: he wouldn’t have seemed out of place among the knights Adelko had met on his adventures.
‘What kind of King executes men of noble blood, hanging them as common criminals?’ spluttered the knight as a burly serjeant forced a noose around his neck. ‘My family can pay my ransom – all captured fighters of noble blood should be ransomed! This goes against the Code of Chivalry!’
The assembled crowd started booing and jeering the knight, but Lord Visigard turned to look at the King.
‘He raises a fair point, Your Majesty,’ said the old raven. ‘This is in breach of all protocol. Are you sure you wish to proceed?’
The King turned to stare at the whiskered knight. Visigard swallowed hard. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty,’ he stuttered. ‘I spoke out of turn.’
