The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (18 page)

‘My lords, tomorrow we leave on an expedition from which not all of us shall return. Choose your best blades, your best men and your best horses. Go! You know what to do.’

Everyone nodded and, with a clatter of armour and ironclad heels, they went off to issue their orders. Lorn remained alone with the Count of Argor and Orwain. Evening was approaching and night would fall quickly, as it always did in the mountains. A north wind rose, cold and sharp.

Without saying a word, Teogen held out his hand.

Lorn gave him the High King’s letter and waited. The count broke open the seal before perusing it. Then he refolded it carefully and slipped it into his sleeve with slow gestures, giving himself time for thought.

Then he gave Lorn a long searching look as if he hoped to find in him all the answers he was seeking. His gaze lingered particularly on the hand wrapped in leather, which was also the one on which Lorn wore an onyx ring adorned with a silver wolf’s head set against two crossed swords. Teogen wore one that was almost identical, except that it did not bear a royal crown. As far as he knew, there was only one of its kind, and he had always seen it on the High King’s ring finger.

‘The king has made you First Knight of the Realm,’ he said in a cold matter-of-fact tone.

‘Yes,’ Lorn replied.

‘Do you know the content of this letter?’

Lorn shook his head.

He did not know what the count was trying to learn, what questions the royal missive had aroused in him. He had no idea what it said, but he guessed that it posed a problem for the count and that he, Lorn, was somehow involved in it.

Teogen stood up abruptly and, as he started to walk away with a brisk step, said in a firm tone:

‘You will dine at my table this evening, knight. You will then remain for as long as you desire beneath my roof. Unfortunately, as you know, it will be impossible for me to keep you company.’

‘I’m not staying,’ said Lorn.

Teogen halted.

‘You’ve made a long journey from the Citadel. You should rest.’

‘I’m riding out with you tomorrow.’

The count hesitated.

‘I know your history,’ he said, thinking of Dalroth, the Dark and the ordeals Lorn had endured.

‘Then you know I have fought the Ghelts before and that my help could be precious to you. Besides, can you really afford to turn down an extra sword? Are you hoping that reinforcements will come from the High Kingdom? You made a jest about it just now, but as far as reinforcements are concerned, it’s just me. And it was the High King who sent me.’

4

‘Erklant’s first feat of glory was to liberate the provinces of the High Kingdom that had been invaded by Yrgaard. The second was to avenge his father whose life had been stolen by the Dragon’s Sword. The third was the conquest of the Free Cities, for the High King did not content himself with retaking the lands that were his. He captured the Cities, driving out the armies of the Black Hydra who returned to Yrgaard, beyond the Sea of Mists and its bleak shores.’

Chronicles (The Book of Kings)

That morning, the High King had not found the strength to rise. He kept to his bed in his chamber draped in black and grey, refusing all food, wanting only to wet his lips with a glass of honeyed wine. The servants washed him as they would have washed a dead man.

In the evening, he called for Norfold.

‘Any news of Lorn?’ he asked.

The air was heavy with scents meant to mask the morbid odour of his dying body.

‘None,’ replied the captain of the royal guard.

He was dressed in armour. His sword at his side, he wore the famous grey breastplate and carried his crested helmet under his arm.

‘Do you think he’s already arrived in Argor?’

If he had indeed taken the road to Argor, thought Norfold.

‘No doubt,’ he replied.

‘Then he has met the count. And given him the letter.’

The High King grew thoughtful and added:

‘Good. Yes, good … Good …’

And then gathering his wits, he said:

‘When he opens the letter, Teogen will understand. I know him. He will understand. And he will do what needs to be done …’

Looking even graver than usual, Norfold said nothing. He was a soldier. He knew when to remain silent and keep his feelings to himself.

But the old king knew him well enough to read his thoughts.

‘You don’t approve of my choice, Norfold.’

‘Sire, it is not for me to—’

‘I know what you’re thinking!’

And as the High King seemed to be waiting for him to explain, the captain hesitated, and then said:

‘You have made him First Knight of the Realm, sire.’

‘You don’t believe him worthy of it? Yet I remember when you wanted him to succeed you one day at the head of the Grey Guard …’

Norfold nodded and said in a vibrant voice:

‘He committed treason. He abandoned all honour and duty.’

‘He was unjustly accused. It was a plot. He was innocent.’

Norfold made no reply, wondering which of the two of them the High King was trying to convince.

‘You did not like Lorn. You never liked him. And now … And now, you’re jealous of him …’

‘I assure you that’s not so, sire.’

‘It is,’ insisted the old king in a slurring voice. ‘Jealous. Jealous …’

‘But you have made him your representative,’ continued Norfold. ‘And with that signet ring on his finger, he is … He is you! He speaks and acts in your name.’

‘I know.’

‘And what if he decides to disobey you, sire? What if he abuses the power you have entrusted him with, and—?’

‘I know!’

The High King resembled a mummified corpse: wrinkled skin, withered limbs, bony chest, hollow cheeks, prominent cheekbones, sunken eyes and invisible lips. But it was like a fire had been lit within him.

Growing excited, he declared:

‘I need a champion, Norfold! A knight who will be my arm, my eyes and my voice! One who can save the High Kingdom. Protect it from its enemies. From Yrgaard! From the queen! Who can even protect it from the Dark!’

In his passionate outburst, he had sat up in his bed, eyes ablaze. Now, abruptly drained of energy, he fell back against his pillows and said:

‘Lorn is the one! He … He always has been.’

A fit of coughing overcame him.

Norfold called out and did his best to help him before the servants took charge, plumping the High King’s pillows, making him drink a little water and wiping his mouth.

The captain stepped back.

He felt out of place and underfoot here. He hated seeing the suffering of this king whom he loved and towards whom he was unable to show his affection other than in the rough manner of an old soldier. He had confronted death several times, but faced with illness and inexorable decline he felt completely at a loss, both hesitant and clumsy.

‘You’ll see,’ said the High King, shaking a skeletal finger at him. ‘Lorn will prove himself worthy of my confidence. But above all, he will prove himself worthy of his destiny.’

This was said with such hope that Norfold could not help but nod and give a falsely reassuring smile. At that instant he wanted nothing but the well-being and tranquillity of his king, even at the price of a white lie.

‘And then, he’s of my own blood,’ added the High King as his strength left him and he began to sink into sleep. ‘That counts for something, doesn’t it? Of my own blood … That … counts for … something …’

5

‘Led by Count Teogen, they rode for days, nights, and still more days. Their hunt took them far into mountains, through wild valleys and lofty passes, towards the high ridges where the wyverns nested. Their supplies ran out but they were driven by a fierce determination and their horses were tough beasts accustomed to the rigours of the Argor Mountains. They did not falter, despite their aches, despite their fatigue, despite the threatening sky.’

Chronicles (The Book of the Knight with the Sword)

They had set up their bivouac on a mountainside, at the entrance to a wide cavern that would shelter them, and, above all, hide their fires. The danger was not so much the light being seen by the Ghelts they were pursuing, but by the wyverns that hunted at night. It was, in the heart of summer, the moment of the year when the young attempted their first flights. In the day, the mothers watched over their fledglings that constituted easy prey for the large solitary males. As a result they couldn’t go off in search of food until night fell, and then, both famished and anxious, they were particularly aggressive. This season of First Flight was moreover the reason why Teogen could not make use of his wyverners to locate and pursue the Ghelts who were pillaging his lands. Between the males lying in wait and the females that attacked on sight, flying over the high valleys of the Argor was suicidal.

Sword in his fist, Lorn had been charged with exploring the rear of the cavern at the head of a few men. They came back without having flushed out any bears or mountain lions, while the rest of the troop was finishing taking care of the horses and erecting the camp. Like all the members of the expedition, Lorn was exhausted but did not allow it to show. Teogen’s resolve had overcome all weakness: tireless, he was a force that nothing deterred and one could only follow his example. Even so, Lorn wondered if they would catch the Ghelts before they regained their territory. Doubt was starting to show on faces and the other men were certainly asking themselves the same question. But like Lorn, they said nothing.

He was counting on enjoying a moment of rest when Dorian of Leister said curtly:

‘The count is asking for you.’

There had been immediate enmity between the two men and they had almost crossed swords at their very first encounter. Since then, Leister had obviously been keeping a close eye on Lorn, who for his part pretended to ignore him. They did not speak more than was necessary, but their mutual hostility required only glances and silences to express itself. Besides, Teogen would not have tolerated anything more.

‘What does he want?’

Leister did not reply.

Lorn turned towards the count who was sitting at the entrance to the cavern, facing the dusk, apart from the sentries who were studying the sky and the winged silhouettes in the distance. Lorn went to join him, feeling Leister’s gaze on the back of his neck, and paused for an instant before announcing his presence.

‘Count?’

His drawn features and the dark circles under his eyes betraying his weariness, Teogen made no response, lost in his thoughts. It had already been several days since they had lost sight of the fires in the towers guarding Argor. Yet, every evening, the count still looked out in their direction, as if his eyes could see through the mountains separating him from his castle.

And from his wife’s grave.

‘Do you think this expedition makes any sense?’ asked Teogen, his gaze fixed on the setting sun.

Lorn was not given time to think of a reply.

‘We all know the women these Ghelts have abducted are probably dead by now,’ the count continued. ‘Killing them will not bring back those they have slaughtered and will not erase the evil they have done. And in order to make them pay for the crimes, more of us – you, me, Orwain, who knows? – will die …’ He turned towards Lorn. ‘So I ask you, knight. Does all this make any sense to you?’

In his turn, Lorn contemplated the dusk whose fires were reflected on his dark spectacles, and said:

‘You have failed to protect your province, your subjects and your vassals, count. What choice remains to you, but to bring back some heads?’

His eyes full of fury, Teogen gazed at Lorn’s expressionless profile for a long moment. Then his anger faded. Lorn was right. As cynical and disillusioned as his judgement might seem, he was right and Teogen was forced to admit it.

‘You told me you were unaware of the contents of the letter you brought me, didn’t you?’ the count remarked.

‘It’s the truth,’ said Lorn.

‘Here.’

The count handed him the letter from the High King. Lorn recognised the black seal and took it without understanding.

‘Open it,’ the count urged him.

‘Count, I don’t know if …’

‘Open it, knight.’

Lorn hesitated. Then he opened the letter and immediately thought it was a jest whose meaning escaped him.

It was blank.

He raised his eyes and addressed a silent question at Teogen. The latter gave him an amused and derisive little smile. Lorn then remembered how calmly the count himself had opened and looked over the High King’s letter. At the time, he had not shown the slightest surprise or sign of ill humour, although he was said to be irritable and readily angered. No doubt he was. But no doubt he also knew how to hide his feelings.

‘What does—?’ Lorn started to ask.

‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand.’

Teogen smiled.

‘You don’t understand? Well, I see two possible explanations. The first is that the king has lost his mind, as some claim. That he has gone mad, to the point of sending blank pages to his last allies. Or to the point of naming you First Knight of the Realm,’ he added.

The barb sank home.

A gleam lit up in Lorn’s eyes. He clenched his jaw but said nothing. The hand on which he bore the signet ring with the wolf’s head was also the one, wrapped in leather, which bore the mark of the Dark.

‘Here they are,’ announced Teogen, rising to his feet.

His train of thought interrupted, Lorn followed the count’s gaze and saw who he was referring to: the scouts were returning at last. Armed with bows and long daggers, they wore light armour and approached at a walk upon tired mounts.

Orwain was at their head.

‘They bear news,’ surmised Teogen, going out to meet them.

‘The Ghelts are going to split up,’ announced Orwain.

The Count of Argor had gathered his knights around a fire, away from the rest of the troop. They numbered less than a dozen, including Lorn, and were listening to Orwain. Of all of them, this veteran was the one most familiar with the remote areas in the mountains into which they were heading, and the one whom Teogen trusted most.

‘We followed their tracks as far as here,’ he said, pointing to a spot on the map he had drawn roughly upon the ground with his dagger. ‘They turned off here and took this valley eastward.’

‘Eastward?’ asked Leister in surprise. ‘They’re going east now?’

‘How much of a lead do they have on us?’ asked Teogen.

‘A day,’ replied Orwain. ‘A day and a half, perhaps. But not much more than that.’

‘We’ll catch them. Good.’

‘But why are they going east?’ insisted Leister. ‘It’s absurd!’

‘Since we’re gaining ground, perhaps they hope to shake us off,’ suggested Guilhem.

‘Or draw us into a trap,’ said Ortand. ‘It’s been three days now that the Ghelts have been travelling north. Three days that they’ve been heading towards the Savage Mountains and their territories. So why this change in direction? Lester’s right. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Orwain.

‘Have you guessed what they’re up to?’ asked the count.

‘I think so. My lord Guilhem has made a good point: the Ghelts know we’ll catch up with them and that worries them.’

Flattered, the young man gave an embarrassed smile. He was not yet twenty years old and was the son of a powerful vassal and friend of the Count of Argor. Upon the sudden death of his father, a few months earlier, he had succeeded to his title without being truly prepared for it. Since then, he tried to demonstrate that he was equal to the task and he had been one of the first to respond to Teogen’s call to arms. Despite everything, his youth and inexperience meant that he had to struggle to assert himself and he hesitated at times to express his views.

‘But the Ghelts aren’t seeking to shake us off,’ the old knight continued. ‘In my opinion, they’re going here.’

His dagger pointed to a new place on the map traced in the dirt.

‘To Erm’s Fork?’

‘Yes, count. And there, they will split up.’

‘Why?’ asked Ortand.

‘To oblige us to divide our own forces,’ said Lorn. ‘Or else give up the chance to catch half of them.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Leister.

Lorn gave him a black look.

‘I fought the Ghelts for a year in the border regions of Valmir. I know them.’

‘Besides,’ intervened Orwain, ‘two small groups of riders will travel more quickly than one big one.’

Teogen spoke up:

‘If you’re not mistaken about their intentions and they have about a day’s advance on us, it means they’ll camp at the Fork this evening. And split up tomorrow.’

‘One group will go north and the other will continue eastwards,’ confirmed Orwain.

‘But we won’t know for certain until tomorrow evening, when we arrive at the Fork,’ remarked Ortand.

‘In fact,’ said Teogen, squinting at the map drawn on the ground, ‘we’ll perhaps know a little sooner than that.’

He was looking at a little pass which, despite seeming insignificant, his old companion in arms had taken care to include in his sketch. And now he realised why.

‘This pass,’ explained Orwain, ‘the Ghelts did not take. Either because they were unaware it exists, or because they had already passed it when they decided to head for Erm’s Fork. But we still have time. And it will gain us a few precious hours.’

The Count of Argor straightened up with a wide grin on his face.

‘My lords,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘we have the upper hand at last.’

Later, despite his fatigue, Lorn had difficulty finding sleep. He’d left Yssaris behind at Argor castle and, since the beginning of the expedition, it had been clear each evening how much the animal’s presence had soothed him. It was as if the ginger cat drove away his anxieties and his demons. Without it, the nightmares, the cold sweats, the doubts and the remorse all returned as soon as he fell asleep.

When he managed to sleep at all.

He was drowsing when the crackle of a log in the fire awoke in him the echo of a lightning bolt ripping the sky above Dalroth. Lorn started and, his breath cut short, he remained sitting up in his bedding for a moment, as if in a daze, before becoming alert. His marked hand was painful and he was worried someone might find him in this state. But fortunately, everyone in the cavern seemed to be asleep.

But Lorn realised he would not be rejoining them in slumber. He sighed and got up, grimacing due to the back pains from days of hard riding. Taking his sword, he signalled discreetly to the sentries on duty and went outside.

Standing in front of the entrance to the cavern, Lorn granted himself a moment to enjoy the surrounding quiet and – the summer days being hot – the coolness of the wind at this altitude. The night was clear and the moon was high. The pale constellations of the Great Nebula spread towards a horizon of black ridges. Visibility was good and it was a relief for Lorn not to have to protect his eyes from the bite of the sun.

He let himself be filled by the calmness of the wild Argor Mountains and smiled …

… before spotting two men standing a short distance from the cavern and conversing in low voices, so that no one could hear what they were saying.

Lorn had no trouble distinguishing the count’s massive silhouette. But he had to wait until the other man turned his face before recognising Guilhem. He hesitated an instant about whether he should approach noiselessly, but preferred to observe them from a distance.

Teogen displayed affectionate, paternal gestures towards the young man. No doubt he had watched him grow up since his earliest childhood, and was advising him and reassuring him before the forthcoming combat with the Ghelts they had been tracking for days. Guilhem was listening, nodding, visibly trying to make a good impression, wanting to demonstrate his valour.

After a moment, Teogen gave him a hug intended to dissipate his remaining doubts and buck up his courage. After that, they separated. Plunged into his dark thoughts, Guilhem returned towards the cavern without seeing Lorn, who was seated on a large flat rock. The count, however, spotted him and came over to sit down next to him, heaving a tired sigh.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘No, but I understood.’

‘He’s afraid.’

‘What could be more normal? We’re increasingly vulnerable the further we travel into these mountains. Our horses are worn out and our supplies will soon be running out. The men are starting to have doubts. And tomorrow we’ll have to divide our forces to continue the hunt.’

‘We’ll catch up with the Ghelts soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after.’

‘And then men will die. Guilhem is right to be afraid.’

‘He’s not frightened of dying.’

‘Then he’s mistaken.’

Intrigued, Teogen turned towards Lorn.

What could this man have in common with the young knight he had once been? Lorn had been Guilhem’s age when the count had met him for the first time at the court of the High Kingdom. Several years later, he had come back covered in glory from the border conflicts in Valmir, had joined the Grey Guard and was going to marry the splendid Alissia de Laurens, daughter of the powerful Duke of Sarme and Vallence. Fortune seemed to be smiling upon him. Like his happiness, his success was insolent.

‘You’re not sleeping, either,’ observed Teogen.

Lorn smiled resignedly.

‘But I’m not afraid. My fears died at Dalroth.’

‘They died there? Or do they remain imprisoned there? If that’s the case, I don’t envy you. And man is never more than the sum of his fears and his courage, knight. If your fears are still there, that means you’ve lost a part of yourself. I won’t commit the insult of feeling sorry for you, however.’