The Ruby Knight

by David Eddings

  ‘God and I aren’t on the best of terms,’ Talen said glibly. ‘He’s busy, and so am I. We try not to interfere with each other.’

  ‘The boy is pert,’ Bevier observed disapprovingly. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘it is not proper to speak so of the Lord of the universe.’

  ‘You are an honoured Knight of the Church, Sir Bevier,’ Talen pointed out. ‘I am but a thief of the streets. Different rules apply to us. God’s great flower-garden needs a few weeds to offset the splendour of the roses. I’m a weed. I’m sure God forgives me for that, since I’m a part of his grand design.’

  Bevier looked at him helplessly, and then began to laugh.

  They rode warily across south-eastern Pelosia for the next several days, taking turns scouting on ahead and riding to hilltops to survey the surrounding countryside. The sky remained dreary as they pushed on to the east. They saw peasants – serfs actually – labouring in the fields with the crudest of implements. There were birds nesting in the hedges, and occasionally they saw deer grazing among herds of scrubby cattle.

  While there were people about, Sparhawk and his friends saw no more church soldiers or Zemochs. They remained cautious, however, avoiding people when possible and continuing their scouting, since they all knew the black-robed Seeker could enlist even normally timid serfs to do its bidding.

  As they came closer to the border of Lamorkand, they received increasingly disturbing reports concerning turmoil in that kingdom. Lamorks were not the most stable people in the world. The King of Lamorkand ruled only at the sufferance of the largely independent barons, who retreated in times of trouble to positions behind the walls of massive castles. Blood-feuds dating back a hundred years or more were common, and rogue barons looted and pillaged at will. For the most part, Lamorkand existed in a state of perpetual civil war.

  They made camp one night perhaps three leagues from the border of that most troubled of western kingdoms, and Sparhawk stood up directly after a supper of the last of Kalten’s hindquarter of beef. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what are we walking into? What’s stirring things up in Lamorkand? Any ideas?’

  ‘I spent the last eight or nine years in Lamorkand,’ Kalten said seriously. ‘They’re strange people. A Lamork will sacrifice anything he owns for the sake of revenge – and the women are even worse than the men. A good Lamork girl will spend her whole life – and all her father’s wealth – for the chance to sink a spear into somebody who refused her invitation to the dance at some midwinter party. I spent all those years there, and in all that time, I never heard anyone laugh or saw anyone smile. It’s the bleakest place on earth. The sun is forbidden to shine in Lamorkand.’

  ‘Is this universal warfare we’ve been hearing about from the Pelosians a common thing?’ Sparhawk asked.

  ‘Pelosians are not the best judges of Lamork peculiarities,’ Tynian replied thoughtfully. ‘It’s only the influence of the Church – and the presence of the Church Knights – that’s kept Pelosia and Lamorkand from blithely embarking on a war of mutual extinction. They despise each other with a passion that’s almost holy in its mindless ferocity.’

  Sephrenia sighed. ‘Elenes,’ she said.

  ‘We have our faults, little mother,’ Sparhawk conceded. ‘We’re going to run into trouble when we cross the border then, aren’t we?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Tynian said, rubbing his chin. ‘Are you open to another suggestion, maybe?’

  ‘I’m always open to suggestions.’

  ‘Why don’t we put on our formal armour? Not even the most wild-eyed Lamork baron will willingly cross the Church, and the Church Knights could grind western Lamorkand into powder if they felt like it.’

  ‘What if somebody calls our bluff?’ Kalten asked. ‘There are only five of us, after all.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d have any reason to,’ Tynian said. ‘The neutrality of the Church Knights in these local disputes is legendary. Formal armour might be just the thing to avoid misunderstandings. Our purpose is to get to Lake Randera, not to engage in random disputes with hotheads.’

  ‘It might work, Sparhawk,’ Ulath said. ‘It’s worth a try anyway.’

  ‘All right, let’s do it then,’ Sparhawk decided.

  When they arose the following morning, the five knights unpacked their formal armour and began to put it on with the help of Kurik and Berit. Sparhawk and Kalten wore Pandion black with silver surcoats and formal black capes. Bevier’s armour was burnished to a silvery sheen, and his surcoat and cape were pristine white. Tynian’s armour was simply massive steel, but his surcoat and cape were a brilliant sky blue. Ulath put aside the utilitarian mail-shirt he had worn on the trail and replaced it with chain-mail trousers and a mail-coat that reached to mid-thigh. He stowed away his simple conical helmet and green traveller’s cloak and put on instead a green surcoat and a very grand-looking helmet surmounted by a pair of the curled and twisted horns he had identified as having come from an Ogre.

  ‘Well?’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia when they had finished putting on their finery, ‘how do we look?’

  ‘Very impressive,’ she complimented them.

  Talen, however, eyed them critically. ‘They look sort of like an iron-works that sprouted legs, don’t they?’ he observed to Berit.

  ‘Be polite,’ Berit said, concealing a smile behind one hand.

  ‘That’s depressing,’ Kalten sighed to Sparhawk. ‘Do you think we really look that ridiculous to the common people?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Kurik and Berit cut lances from a nearby yew-grove and affixed steel points to them.

  ‘Pennons?’ Kurik asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ Sparhawk asked Tynian.

  ‘It couldn’t hurt. Let’s try to look as impressive as we can, I suppose.’

  They mounted with some difficulty, adjusted their shields and moved their pennon-flagged lances into positions where they were prominently displayed and rode out. Faran immediately began to prance. ‘Oh, stop that,’ Sparhawk told him disgustedly.

  They crossed into Lamorkand not much past noon. The border guards looked suspicious, but automatically gave way to the Knights of the Church dressed in their formal armour and wearing expressions of inexorable resolve.

  The Lamork city of Kadach stood on the far side of a river. There was a bridge, but Sparhawk decided against going through that bleak, ugly place. Instead, he checked his map and turned north. ‘The river branches upstream,’ he told the others. ‘We’ll be able to ford it up there. We’re going more or less in that direction anyway, and towns are filled with people who just might want to talk to alien strangers asking questions about us.’

  They rode on north to the series of small streams that fed into the main channel. It was when they were crossing one of these shallow streams that afternoon that they saw a large body of Lamork warriors on the far bank.

  ‘Spread out,’ Sparhawk commanded tersely. ‘Sephrenia, take Talen and Flute to the rear.’

  ‘You think they might belong to the Seeker?’ Kalten asked, moving his hand up the shaft of his lance.

  ‘We’ll find out in a minute. Don’t do anything rash, but be ready for trouble.’

  The leader of the group of warriors was a burly fellow wearing a chain-coat, a steel helmet with a protruding, pig-faced visor and stout leather boots. He advanced into the stream alone and raised his visor to show that he had no hostile intentions.

  ‘I think he’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said quietly. ‘He doesn’t have that blank look on his face that the men we killed back in Elenia had.’

  ‘Well met, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork said.

  Sparhawk nudged Faran forward a bit through the swirling current. ‘Well met indeed, My Lord,’ he replied.

  ‘This is a fortunate encounter,’ the Lamork continued. ‘It seemed me that we might have ridden even so far as Elenia ere we had encountered Church Knights.’

  ‘And what is your business with the Knights of the Church, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked poli
tely.

  ‘We require a service of you, Sir Knight – a service that bears directly on the well-being of the Church.’

  ‘We live but to serve her,’ Sparhawk said, struggling to conceal his irritation. ‘Speak further concerning this necessary service.’

  ‘As all the world knows, the Patriarch of the city of Kadach is the paramount choice for the Archprelate’s throne in Chyrellos,’ the helmeted Lamork stated.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that,’ Kalten said quietly from behind.

  ‘Hush,’ Sparhawk muttered over his shoulder. ‘Say on, My Lord,’ he said to the Lamork.

  ‘Misfortunately, civil turmoil mars western Lamorkand presently,’ the Lamork continued.

  ‘I like “misfortunately”,’ Tynian murmured to Kalten. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it.’

  ‘Will you two be quiet?’ Sparhawk snapped. Then he looked back at the man in the chain-coat. ‘Rumour has advised us of this discord, My Lord,’ he replied. ‘But surely this is a local matter, and does not involve the Church.’

  ‘I will speak to the point, Sir Knight. The Patriarch Ortzel of Kadach has been forced by the turmoil I but recently mentioned to seek shelter in the stronghold of his brother, the Baron Alstrom, whom I have the honour to serve. Rude civil discord rears its head here in Lamorkand, and we anticipate with some certainty that the foes of My Lord Alstrom will shortly besiege his fortress.’

  ‘We are but five, My Lord,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘Surely our aid would be of little use in a protracted siege.’

  ‘Ah, no, Sir Knight,’ the Lamork said with a disdainful smile. ‘We can sustain ourselves and my Lord Alstrom’s castle without the aid of the invincible Knights of the Church. My Lord Alstrom’s castle is impregnable, and his foes may freely dash themselves to pieces against its walls for a generation or more without causing us alarm. As I have said, however, the Patriarch Ortzel is the paramount choice for the Archprelacy – in the event of the demise of the revered Cluvonus, which, please God, may be delayed for a time. Thus I charge you and your noble companions, Sir Knight, to convey his Grace safe and whole to the sacred city of Chyrellos so that he may stand for election, should that mournful necessity come to pass. With that end in view, I will forthwith convey you and your knightly companions to the stronghold of My Lord of Alstrom so that you may undertake this noble task. Let us then proceed.’

  Chapter 4

  The castle of Baron Alstrom was situated on a rocky promontory on the east bank of the river. The promontory jutted out into the main channel a few leagues above the town of Kadach. It was a bleak, ugly fortress, squatting toad-like under a cheerless sky. Its walls were thick and high, seeming to reflect the stiff, unyielding arrogance of its owner.

  ‘Impregnable?’ Bevier murmured derisively to Sparhawk as the knight in the chain-coat led them along the short causeway that led out to the castle gate. ‘I could reduce these walls within the space of two years. No Arcian noble would feel secure within such flimsy fortifications.’

  ‘Arcians have more time to build their castles,’ Sparhawk pointed out to the white-caped knight. ‘It takes longer to start a war in Arcium than it does here in Lamorkand. You can start a war here in about five minutes, and it’s likely to go on for generations.’

  ‘Truly,’ Bevier agreed. He smiled faintly. ‘In my youth I gave some time to the study of military history. When I turned to the volumes dealing with Lamorkand, I threw up my hands in despair. No rational man could sort out all the alliances, betrayals and blood feuds that seethe just below the surface of this unhappy kingdom.’

  The drawbridge boomed down, and they clattered on across it into the castle’s main court. ‘And it please you, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork knight said, dismounting, ‘I will convey you directly into the presence of the Baron Alstrom and His Grace, the Patriarch Ortzel. Time is pressing, and we must see His Grace safely out of the castle ere the forces of Count Gerrich mount their siege.’

  ‘Lead on, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk said, clanking down from Faran’s back. He leaned his lance against the wall of the stable, hung his silver-embossed black shield on his saddle and handed his reins to a waiting groom.

  They went up a broad stone staircase and through the pair of massive doors at its top. The hallway beyond was torchlit, and the stones of its walls were massive. ‘Did you warn that groom?’ Kalten asked, falling in beside Sparhawk, his long black cape swirling about his ankles.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Your horse’s disposition.’

  ‘I forgot,’ Sparhawk confessed. ‘He’ll find out on his own, I imagine.’

  ‘He probably already has.’

  The room to which the Lamork knight led them was bleak. In many respects it was more like an armoury than living quarters. Swords and axes hung on the walls, and pikes in clusters of a dozen or so leaned in the corners. A fire burned in a huge, vaulted fireplace, and the few chairs were heavy and unpadded. There was no carpeting on the floor, and a number of huge wolf-hounds dozed here and there.

  Baron Alstrom was a grim-faced, melancholy-looking man. His black hair and beard were shot with grey. He wore a mail-coat and had a broadsword at his waist. His surcoat was black and elaborately embroidered in red, and like the knight in the pig-faced helmet, he wore boots.

  Their escort bowed stiffly. ‘By good fortune, My Lord, I encountered these Knights of the Church no more than a league from your walls. They were gracious enough to accompany me here.’

  ‘Did we have any choice?’ Kalten muttered.

  The Baron rose from his chair with a movement made clumsy by the encumbrance of armour and sword. ‘Greetings, Sir Knights,’ he said, in a voice without much warmth. ‘It was indeed fortuitous that Sir Enmann encountered you so near this stronghold. The forces of mine enemy will presently besiege me here, and my brother must be safely away before they come.’

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ Sparhawk replied, removing his black helmet and looking after the departing Lamork in the chain-coat. ‘Sir Enmann advised us of the circumstances. Might it not have been more prudent, however, to have sent your brother on his way with an escort of your own troops? It was only a chance meeting that brought us to your gate ahead of your enemies.’

  Alstrom shook his head. ‘The warriors of Count Gerrich would certainly attack my men on sight. Only under escort of the Knights of the Church will my brother be safe, Sir – ?’

  ‘Sparhawk.’

  Alstrom looked briefly surprised. ‘The name is not unknown to us,’ he said. He looked inquiringly at the others, and Sparhawk made the introductions.

  ‘An oddly assorted party, Sir Sparhawk,’ Alstrom observed after he had bowed perfunctorily to Sephrenia. ‘But is it wise to take the lady and the two children on a journey that might involve danger?’

  ‘The lady is essential to our purpose,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘The little girl is under her care, and the boy is her page. She would not leave them behind.’

  ‘Page?’ he heard Talen whisper to Berit. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s a new one.’

  ‘Hush,’ Berit whispered back.

  ‘What astonishes me even more, however,’ Alstrom continued, ‘is the fact that all four of the militant orders are represented here. Relations between the orders have not been cordial of late, I’ve been told.’

  ‘We are embarked upon a quest which directly involves the Church,’ Sparhawk explained, taking off his gauntlets. ‘It is of such pressing urgency that our Preceptors brought us together that we might by our unity prevail.’

  ‘The unity of the Church Knights, like that of the Church herself, is long overdue,’ a harsh voice said from the far side of the room. A Churchman stepped out of the shadows. His black cassock was plain, even severe, and his hollow-cheeked face was bleakly ascetic. His hair was pale blond, streaked with grey, and it fell straight to his shoulders, appearing to have been hacked off at that point with the blade of a knife.

  ‘My brother,’ Alstrom introduced him, ‘the Patriarch Ortzel of Kada
ch.’

  Sparhawk bowed, his armour creaking slightly. ‘Your Grace,’ he said.

  ‘This Church matter you mentioned interests me,’ Ortzel said, coming forward into the light. ‘What can it be that is of such urgency that it impels the Preceptors of the four orders to set aside old enmities and to send their champions forth as one?’

  Sparhawk thought only a moment, then gambled. ‘Is Your Grace perhaps acquainted with Annias, Primate of Cimmura?’ he asked, depositing his gauntlets in his helmet.

  Ortzel’s face hardened. ‘We’ve met,’ he said flatly.

  ‘We’ve also had that pleasure,’ Kalten said drily, ‘often enough to more than satisfy me, at least.’

  Ortzel smiled briefly. ‘I gather that our opinions of the good Primate more or less coincide,’ he suggested.

  ‘Your Grace is perceptive,’ Sparhawk noted smoothly. ‘The Primate of Cimmura aspires to a position in the Church for which our Preceptors feel he is unqualified.’

  ‘I have heard of his aspirations in that direction.’

  ‘This is the main thrust of our quest, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘The Primate of Cimmura is deeply involved in the politics of Elenia. The lawful queen of that realm is Ehlana, daughter to the late King Aldreas. She is, however, gravely ill, and Primate Annias controls the royal council – which means, of course, that he also controls the royal treasury. It is his access to that treasury that fuels his hopes to ascend the throne of the Archprelacy. He has more or less unlimited funds at his disposal, and certain members of the Hierocracy have proved to be susceptible to his blandishments. It is our mission to restore the queen to health so that she might once again take the rulership of her kingdom into her own hands.’

  ‘An unseemly state of affairs,’ Baron Alstrom observed disapprovingly. ‘No kingdom should be ruled by a woman.’

  ‘I have the honour to be the queen’s champion, My Lord,’ Sparhawk declared, ‘and, I hope, her friend as well. I have known her since she was a child, and I assure you that Ehlana is no ordinary woman. She has more steel in her than almost any other monarch in all of Eosia. Once she is restored to health, she will be more than a match for the Primate of Cimmura. She will cut off his access to the treasury as easily as she would snip off a stray lock of hair, and without that money, the Primate’s hopes die.’