The Knight of the Red Beard

by Norton, Andre

  Various barons and counts entered, seating themselves where they could find chairs or benches, otherwise standing like the others.

  “Well, most of you seem to be here,” Rohan observed, “even Earl Royance and Lady Mjaurita.”

  “I believe this concerns all of us,” Royance said.

  Rohan glanced around again; in the short time it had taken for the nobles to gather, more servants and even townspeople had filled every available out-of-the-way niche to learn the news.

  Rohan bowed. “Sir, Madame, I regret to inform you that the GorGull is no more.”

  A murmur of disbelief ran through the room.

  “The ship is gone, sunk, destroyed, and with it a sizable number of my men. We came upon the GorGull as it was under attack by Wykenigs and would have given battle but they turned and ran. We needed to save those who could be saved, and so the Wykenigs escaped.”

  “But what—” Gaurin cleared his throat. “What of Mikkel?”

  Rohan turned to his son. “Answer the NordornKing,” he said, and his voice was not gentle.

  “I—I think he is with them,” Tjórvi said, faltering. “It was very confusing, after the ship began to sink. We were within sight of land, barely. Captain Fritji put us into a small boat and told us to pull toward the shore and then hide ourselves. But then the Wykenigs caught up with us, and I went into the water—”

  Five

  Tjórvi and Mikkel searched for a way to see what was happening above-decks. But the locker that served as their quarters was tightly sealed and the door firmly closed. There seemed to be nothing for the boys to do but wait, every muscle at stretch, until they were let out again.

  Under Tjórvi’s direction, the boys put on as much of their clothing as they could and folded their blankets into flat, tight squares that they tucked next to their skins and held in place with their belts.

  “I’ve heard about this,” Tjórvi said. “Probably wasted effort, but it’s something to do.”

  They could hear what was happening, though. Beside him, in the gloom, Mikkel heard Talkin growling deep in his throat and knew that the young warkat was no less eager to fling himself into the fray than he. A ridge of fur stood up along his back and he quivered like an arrow nocked to the string.

  “Be patient, Talkin,” he told the warkat. “Our turn will surely come.”

  Talkin settled down, but only a little, licking his lips and shaking his fur back into place. He moved close to Mikkel, who put his arm around his companion.

  Topside, all seemed to be chaos, with shouts and orders being bellowed and sailors and Marines flying in all directions, forecastle and aftercastle according to their battle stations, as the two ships drew near one another.

  “I’m hearing a different rhythm from the Spirit Drum,” Tjórvi said, his head cocked. “I don’t know that one—”

  A gigantic shock ran through the ship and interrupted him, throwing boys and warkat across the weapons locker.

  “We’re rammed!” Tjórvi cried.

  The door burst open, flinging them into the galleyway. They had barely regained their feet before the ship heeled over as the attacking ship pulled free, and they fell again. GorGull righted herself, reluctantly. A grinding sound echoed from below as a gush of icy water spewed up from someplace aft, near the keel.

  “Maybe they’ll board us and we’ll be fighting for our lives.” Tjórvi’s voice had dropped to a near whisper. “Or maybe they’ll just let us sink while they watch.”

  They heard no clash of steel, no outcries of men in combat. Apparently GorGull hadn’t been boarded, at least yet. The shouting and running and preparations for combat above abruptly shifted, as men sought to save themselves. The whole vessel shuddered, not from the impact and release, but by what could only be the screaming of a ship mortally wounded.

  “What do we do?” Mikkel asked. “We can’t stay here. We’ll drown. We can’t go up there. We’d get killed instantly.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Both boys turned toward the man who had spoken. Captain Fritji had made his way down the ladder and was now wading toward them. He ducked inside the locker, opened the chest of rockets, and took one out.

  “Come on, you two. And your warkat. The Ruler of Waves is not with us this day. I’m putting you in a boat. We’re near enough to land that you could make it if you row hard. You’ve got a chance to get away unseen during the confusion. Hurry, now.”

  They followed him toward the aft ladder, floundering through shockingly cold water. The initial spout and gush of water had now been replaced by a relentlessly rising flood, mixed with splinters and other debris. Even to someone lacking in experience, it was plain that GorGull had only moments to remain afloat. Mikkel remembered the little skiff that was rigged at the rear of the ship snug against the hull, halfway between rudder and deck. It was the captain’s personal property, as he had learned, and now, apparently, was to be passed on to the stowaways.

  “Sir, sir,” he said through chattering teeth. “We can’t take your boat! What will you do?”

  “Don’t argue,” Fritji ordered.

  They gained the rear deck of the aftercastle. Fighting had begun amidships, where Wykenig warriors were now boarding the stricken vessel to engage Sea-Rovers who, presumably, had most of the fight taken out of them by now. Some Wykenigs were preparing to swing themselves over by ropes attached to lofty spars. For a short time, until it broke up, no portion of the ship would be free of combat. There was not a second to lose.

  “We’re already down at midships almost to the rails,” Fritji said. “Slide down and get in. I’ll cut the lines, and you two get clear and row for all you’re worth.”

  “But sir—” Mikkel began again.

  “I’ll hold them off. Now get going.”

  Obediently, Tjórvi and Mikkel did as they were bid. Talkin jumped into the skiff after Mikkel and had to be shoved to the bow to get him out of the way. As soon as they had gotten seated, Fritji slashed through the lines holding the little boat to its davits. They were so low in the water, the skiff scarcely splashed as it dropped.

  With their oars, the boys pushed off from the ship and then began rowing toward the rock-encrusted shore. Fritji waved, and turned back to the battle. Presently, the signal rocket roared aloft.

  “Will we ever see him again?” Mikkel asked, fearfully.

  “Who knows?”

  Mikkel stared at his friend. He was scowling, and holding onto his oar much harder than was strictly necessary. Mikkel realized that Tjórvi was just as afraid, just as horrified, as he.

  “Wait,” Tjórvi said. “Look.”

  The GorGull was breaking up under the sheer weight of the water filling her hold. Only forecastle and aftercastle were above the waves, and they were sinking rapidly. With a groan that rivaled the one the ship had made when the Wykenig ship’s ram had pierced her hull, the big mast leaned, and cracked, and broke. With another sickening wrench, the ship split in two. Forecastle and aftercastle, released from the midsection, bobbed up high but only for a moment, as both began to sink again. Already men were splashing in the frigid water, seeking bits of wreckage they could cling to, lest they drown.

  A movement on the horizon prompted Mikkel to wrench his attention from the dying ship long enough to spot another ship bearing down at top speed. “It’s Ice Princess! Ice Princess!” he cried. “They saw the rocket!”

  “That’s my da!” Tjórvi exclaimed proudly. “My da would not let us drown, and GorGull go to the bottom without a fight!”

  “I hope he’s come in time,” Mikkel said. “Look.”

  Small boats from the Wykenig vessel were now moving rapidly among the Sea-Rovers now virtually filling the sea around the foundering ship. Both boys watched, open-mouthed, as Fritji was hauled on board one of the boats despite his strong resistance. Being captain, Mikkel thought numbly, he might bring a fair ransom. The Wykenigs looked to be cheated of any other prize because of the GorGull’s demise and the Sea-Rover ship now within
arm’s reach.

  “We’d better get out of the way and not wait for Da,”Tjórvi said. He took up his oar and the skiff thunked on something unyielding.

  A Wykenig boat had cut across their bow unnoticed and the men seized the skiff to draw it alongside.

  “Too late, I think,” one of the Wykenigs said. “You’re ours now.”

  “Small fish,” another commented.

  “Yes, but Rovers don’t often have two boys on board. There’s bound to be profit with them somewhere.”

  “You’ll take us at great cost,” Mikkel said fiercely. He balled his hands into fists. Talkin took up a position directly in front of Mikkel, baring his teeth and growling.

  “Krigpus!” one of the men cried. “Be careful!”

  “We don’t have time to wrestle both of you and a krigpus into the boat,” the first Wykenig told them. “Even if it would come. I thought those things were untamable.”

  “Maybe we should kill it,” another said.

  Yet another put his hand on the hilt of a long, wicked knife.

  “No! You’ll have to kill me first! Talkin is my friend!” Mikkel shouted. “Take all of us! If you can’t, then take me, and leave Talkin and Tjórvi alone!”

  “I’m more valuable to you than Mikkel,” Tjórvi cried stoutly. “My da’s the Sea-Rover Chieftain!”

  “Likely story, that,” said the Wykenig, apparently the leader of the boat crew. He gave a short laugh. “We don’t have time to argue the point. Take the one with the krigpus. Anybody who can tame a krigpus has to have more to him than first glance shows. We’ll keep him until we decide what to do with him. Throw the other into the water.”

  Suiting words to action, one of the Wykenigs upended the skiff and tossed Tjórvi overboard. Another seized Mikkel and dragged him into the larger boat. At once, Talkin launched himself at the man, only to be knocked aside in mid-leap, splashing into the water beside Tjórvi.

  “Damn beast attacked me!” a Wykenig shouted.

  “Tjórvi! Talkin!” Mikkel cried. “Don’t drown them! Talkin only wants to be with me!”

  “Well, there he’ll stay, unless you can control him,” Mikkel’s captor growled into his ear. “Do it, and we’ll let the krigpus stay with you and the boy can climb back into the skiff if he can manage it before he freezes.”

  “Talkin,” Mikkel called through chattering teeth. “Talkin, I’m all right. I need you now. Come into the boat and stay with me. Please.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Tjórvi shouted. “I’m the one you want!”

  “Tjórvi!”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Tjórvi’s teeth, too, were chattering, and his face had grown pale with the cold. He would not last long in the frigid water. “Save yourself!”

  Mikkel’s captor loosened his grip enough so the boy could help Talkin scramble into the boat. He shook himself, and then put both front paws on Mikkel’s shoulders, looking back at their captors as if daring anybody to come close. Mikkel put his arms around the wiry, feline body and held him close.

  “Take the oars and let the Sea-Rover boat drift,” the leader said. “Is the krigpus being good and not attacking again?”

  “I think so.”

  “Back to Dragon Blood,” the leader ordered. “We have to get out of here now!”

  Mikkel stared despairingly across the water at Tjórvi as the Wykenig boat widened the gap between them. “Tell Father—tell him!” he called. “And Mother. She will worry.”

  Tjórvi waved. He had grabbed hold of the skiff and gotten one leg over the gunwale, but the distance between them was now so great that it was likely he hadn’t heard anything. Then the Wykenig boat reached the ship, and Mikkel and Talkin were drawn on board and into their new life.

  “—and that was the last I saw of him, Sir.” Tjórvi hung his head. “I am most heartily sorry. If it hadn’t been for me, we would both still be here at Cyornas Castle, hunting conies.”

  “What other losses?” Gaurin asked grimly.

  “Most of the men who went into the water were saved,” Rohan said. “Captain Fritji was taken captive and I expect that we can ransom him and Mikkel both. A few others were captured as well. There was ice in the water. Some men froze before we could get to them. Others fell in the fighting. They died well.”

  “I didn’t entirely freeze because I wasn’t in the water that long,” Tjórvi explained. “Also, I had put on extra clothes and had my—I mean the ones Mikkel gave me—the snow-thistle silk blankets under my shirt. We both did. I got back into the skiff before I could drown.”

  Gaurin turned to Ashen, who was sitting very still, her face dead white. “The boys both showed resourcefulness. They were lucky, but they saved themselves.”

  “Ransom,” Ashen murmured through stiff lips.

  “Whatever the price, we will pay it gladly,” Gaurin told Rohan. “What are your plans now?”

  Rohan turned to the most experienced seaman he knew. “Admiral-General Tordenskjold, what is the advisability of taking more than one ship back north?”

  “I think just the one,” Tordenskjold commented. “I know that country well, and also I know a little of Wykenigs and their customs. One Nordorn ship is on a mission; more than that, and it becomes an invasion.” He turned to Ashen. “Rest assured, Madame, the Chieftain and I will do everything in our power to bring your son, Rohan’s nephew, back to you.”

  “So swear I,” Rohan said. “We depart in a matter of hours. Let the wind be in our sails and the waves favoring. While we are absent, I will leave my own son Tjórvi as hostage until I fulfill my vow and bring Mikkel home once more.”

  “Not as hostage, but as our treasured guest. He is as a grandson to us,” Gaurin told him. “We will rear him as our own, if need be.”

  The Duchess Ysa was seated nearby, as befitted her rank. “Grandson!” she said, not so loud as to be an interruption but loud enough to be heard.

  “Yes, grandson,” Einaar said. “And my kinsman as well. Pray do not make a bad matter worse.”

  Ysa sniffed. Plainly, she was not impressed with the arrangements being made to ransom Mikkel. Elin, nearby, reached out and took Ysa’s hand.

  “Resupply your ship, and go at once to retrieve your people and ours,” Gaurin told Rohan. “The treasury is open to you.”

  “Sir.”

  Royance spoke up. “With regret, I must now say that your plans for my wedding to the handsome Mjaurita are for naught. We cannot have a gala celebration under such circumstances.”

  “I agree with my lord—my lord Earl,” Mjaurita said.

  “But the invitations have gone out already!” Ysa protested. “And the gowns, the flowers—”

  Royance looked at Mjaurita, and she nodded. “Let us then turn the occasion into a celebration for those already wed,” the Earl stated.

  “Yes,” Mjaurita said. She arose and swept a full curtsy to the Court. “My lord Earl is my lord husband, and has been for some time now. We had hoped to have kept our secret for the comfort and rejoicing of our friends, but the time for this pleasant game is past.”

  “The flowers,” Ysa repeated. She seemed entirely stunned at the news.

  From the chair behind Ashen Zazar muttered something under her breath. It could have been a curse, Ashen thought, but Zazar had spoken too softly for it to be clearly audible.

  “I must retire,” Ashen said, “and perhaps take to my bed for a time. This has been more than a shock. Zazar? Please come with me.”

  Once they had reached the royal apartments, Ashen dismissed her ladies. “Zazar has tended me for many years,” she told them. “I want only her with me now.”

  “You aren’t as faint as you were earlier. You have something in mind,” Zazar said when they were alone.

  “I do. I want you to perform that ritual you have spoken of before, and look into the future. It is not a frivolous request, nor an order. It is a plea. Now is the time to do it.”

  Zazar stared at her for a long moment. “Well, c
ome on then,” she said. “I’ll need you with me, and that means you have to climb some stairs, will or nill.”

  Under Zazar’s instructions, Ashen put on a dark cloak to disguise herself as best she could. Then the two of them started off toward the tower where the old Wysen-wyf’s apartment was located.

  “Don’t let Ysa see what we’re up to, or sure as the Powers she’ll recover from her shock over having her plans spoiled and want to put in her bit as well, the way she did back when we three fought the Great Foulness. We needed her then, true enough, but there’s no book-magic she could find that would help us now. Not in time, that is.” Puffing, Zazar led the way up.

  The Castle of Fire and Ice had been built for defense. Its tower staircases were constructed around a central column and wound upward from left to right. An enemy, fighting up, would be hampered in his attack as the center column would get in the way of his sword arm whereas a defender, fighting down, had a strong advantage. A single swordsman could defend successfully against a dozen or more invaders, if need be.

  “Careful here, Ashen,” Zazar cautioned. “False step.”

  This was an additional defense in every tower staircase, the step that was two or three finger-spans higher than the rest. An invader could easily trip on it, and so would have Ashen if Zazar had not warned her. There was no such false step on the staircase leading to the Great Hall. That was in the living quarters of the castle, and defenders, in case of attack, would be marshaled elsewhere. Ashen navigated the false step carefully. Then, a few more feet, and they were on a small landing where a door led to Zazar’s private quarters.

  “You have never seen this before, and you wouldn’t be seeing it now except that your youngest is involved,” the Wysen-wyf told Ashen when they were inside and the door safely shut behind them. “The last time I worked the Ritual of Asking, we had returned from battling the Mother Ice Dragon and your fate and Gaurin’s hung by a thread. The time before, I was waiting to be summoned to the battle with the Great Foulness. This time, the Web castings called to me, but—Never mind. Weyse? Get out of that chair and let the NordornQueen sit down.”