The Red Knight (25 page)

The Marshall cleared his throat, “On my mark…”

Alyda took a step back. She was sure he’d go for a quick strike and try to finish her before wielding the beast of a weapon took its toll on his strength. The Marshal raised his baton. After a last check to make sure they were both ready, he brought his arm down and backed out of the arena.

As she expected, the Guthlander rushed her the moment the baton dropped. Yelling a battle cry, he brought the axe over his shoulder in a gleaming arc. Alyda easily dodged the blow, but with unexpected speed, Thorgulsen swept it up and back round. The huge axe wasn’t a weapon to block, it was one to avoid. She leapt back. The fine edge of the blade kissed the keel of her breastplate, striking sparks from the metal.

The near-miss focused her attention; she circled the Thane, edging back and sideways, careful to avoid the spinning blades. Mud squelched underfoot. One slip, one misplaced step and it would be over.

Ignoring the mocking taunts of the Guthlanders and mercenaries, Alyda made no attempt to attack, but continued to dodge around the arena until she’d turned the Thane so that his baying supporters were behind her. She let their insults wash over her as she bided her time, waiting for the right moment to strike. She didn’t have to wait long. Something behind her caught Thorgulsen’s attention, just for a second. It was enough. The moment he looked away, she hurled the mace at his head.

The Thane reacted quickly, and batted it away with the axe, just as she’d hoped he would. Alyda took a single, long stride towards him, swinging the warhammer underhand as she closed. The Thane had blocked his own line of sight with his axe, and wasn’t quick enough to parry the lighter warhammer with his unwieldy weapon.

She could have driven the warhammer’s lethal, rear spike through his jaw, and into what passed for a brain. But she chose instead to clip his chin with the flat hammerhead of the weapon. She’d already decided that she wasn’t going to kill him if it could be avoided, she didn’t want to mar the tournament with his death. His head snapped back, he staggered. She pressed her advantage and side-stepped right, pivoting on her right foot, which put her almost directly behind him.
You’re mine.
She swung the warhammer against his unarmoured knee. The Thane howled. Alyda stamped on his calf. He dropped.

“Do you yield?” she growled, hammer raised, ready to deliver the killing blow.

The Thane rolled over and tore off his helm. His face and beard were streaked with blood that was welling from a deep gash on his jaw. A tense silence fell over the crowd as they waited for him to answer.

“I yield,” he snarled through bloodied teeth.

Alyda lowered her weapon and stalked over to the Antian side of the arena.

Lorhine turned to the squires. “Observe and take note.” The youngsters, who had been screaming themselves hoarse cheering her on, fell silent. “Size and brute strength are not enough to win out against an intelligent and skilled opponent. I hope you were paying attention. We’ll be discussing this lesson in more detail on the ‘morrow. Dismissed!”

It was over, just like that. A sudden flurry of blows and the duel—if it could be called such—was over and, Twins be praised, Alyda had won. It was not what Talin had expected, nothing like the practiced rituals that took place in the Royal Gardens and training yards of the 5th. Back home, the knights and nobles with honour to defend would posture with whip-thin blades and dance about until a hit was scored, or honour was satisfied by a particularly dazzling display of blade work. Fatalities happened occasionally, but were usually accidents and considered bad form. What he’d just witnessed was an entirely different beast. It was so… unashamedly violent.

At some point in the future Talin might be able to put into words the tremendous sense of relief he’d felt when Alyda walked out of the arena unscathed. Right at that moment, all he could do was stand there and catch his breath while she and her knights headed off to the Arth to celebrate.

He’d wanted to end the fight a dozen times, but Bear had begged him not to interfere, insisting every time that Alyda knew what she was doing. His friend had been right, although he could never tell her because he’d never hear the end of it.

“See? I told you there was nothing to worry about.” Bear grinned, and tucked a bulging pouch into her doublet.

“Don’t get all smug—you once thought that mare’s piss was an aphrodisiac.”

“At least
I
didn’t drink it…”

They both laughed.

“I promise you this, Iris, when I’m king; I’m going to outlaw duelling—no matter how skilled my wife is.”

The poppy juice Bethanglyn had given him took the edge off the pain, but it still took his breath away when she straightened his leg and eased his kneecap back into the socket. The pain lessened immediately, but his knee was swollen and didn’t feel like it wanted to stay where she’d put it.

She pressed her fingers against his foot. “I can feel your heartbeat, the leg hasn’t died.”

“That’s fascinating. Now splint it, and before you say I should rest it—don’t.”

“As you wish, but don’t blame me if you cripple yourself.”

He grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and dragged her towards him until her face was inches from his. “Why would I blame you for that, when I have so many other things to choose from?”

She glared, but held her tongue. Tempted as he was to wring her neck, he let her go.

“You got off lightly, Thane.” Telvier purred.

Thorgulsen shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit he’d come to the same conclusion. “What did you expect? Stenna hits like a girl.”

“And yet she showed a remarkable…” Telvier began, and then caught the look on Thorgulsen’s face. “Yes. Quite. She hits like a girl…who got lucky.”

Thorgulsen laughed. He’d give Telvier his due; the man had the survival instincts of a cockroach. “That’s what I thought, but I’m still going to kill her.”

Hot water lapped around her ears. Alyda rolled the stem of the wine glass between her fingers and drowsily watched steam rise off the skin of the bathwater. Alone at last, she let herself wallow in the warm afterglow of victory. She still had no idea why the Guthlander had picked the fight, but she was sure she’d find out, this stank of unfinished business.

She took a sip of wine. The deep oak tones and hint of summer fruits washed over her tongue and filled her mouth with rich, velvety sweetness. The door creaked softly. Her eyes snapped open and locked on the hand curling around the edge of the door. Instantly awake, she reached for her sword… and then stopped when she saw the familiar ruby ring flash scarlet in the lamp light.

You must tell him to go!
The voice of reason ordered. Talin came over to the tub.
No good will come of this…
She reached out, pulled him down to her, and kissed him.

Water boiled from the tub. The voice of reason drowned in the torrent. Without regret, Alyda acknowledged that this was one battle she was happy to lose.

Chapter Eight

W
eyhithe Forest was burning. At least that was what its autumnal livery looked like to the King’s Councillor. Everything is burning. Acid bile scourged Hyram’s throat and his stomach cramped as he thought about the storm that was brewing. He stared hard at the flaming hues of autumn, tried to see the beauty, but all he could see was fire.

It was the end of September; the Autumn Council was in full session. The King, the Governors of Cathlan and Tamalan, and the kingdom’s most influential nobles were gathered for the third and final time before Midwinter. Hyram hated every excruciating minute of every Council meeting. This one was no exception, but this time it was for other, more important reasons than his general loathing of the squabbling and back-biting that invariably attended these gatherings of sycophants and dullards.

Familiar footsteps echoed across the polished floor. He casually turned away from the window. Neither the master nor his apprentice showed the slightest flicker of recognition when their eyes met for the briefest of moments. Garian was helping an aged Duchess to her seat. Hyram was impressed with the boy’s performance; he looked completely ordinary, utterly bereft of personality and invisible to the noble company. None of them would suspect what a sharp mind lurked behind those lustreless eyes.
Just as it should be.

Hyram let his gaze slide across the chamber. He wondered who could be trusted, who was a true supporter of the King, and who he would have to kill, blackmail, or imprison. He could make a good guess, he knew these rogues of old, but he had to be sure before he acted. A good surgeon did more than guess when they had to cut out a diseased organ, and he was a good surgeon. He and the boy would observe the honourable Council members and wait for the masks to slip, which they surely would. If he knew one thing, it was that few people had the wit to keep secrets. Knowledge was currency and most people were spendthrifts. He on the other hand had always been a miser.

Feigning boredom, he gazed at the ceiling. His mind was awhirl with the schemes of kings and princes, but he couldn’t deny the magnificence of the Council Chamber.

As a child, he was awed by its beauty and believed absolutely in the legend that the hall had been created using Fey magic. The only concessions to practicality were the seats that had been cut into the white marble walls and the magnificent rainbow-hued window. The ring of seats was broken by the King’s dais and the massive Wildwood doors that were opposite the throne.

Hyram thought the doors must have been an afterthought; beautiful though they were, they marred the smooth perfection of the walls that rose to form the graceful vault a hundred feet above them.

In recent years the pale walls had begun to blur into indistinct, grey fuzziness long before they reached the ceiling. These days he was forced to rely on memory to conjure the detail of the roof, rather than his failing eyesight.

The room humbled him, which was rare. Humans failed, but this room with its doors that burst into bloom every spring, and the Rainbow Window that flowed like water would endure long after he was dust. It was small comfort, but growing old had taught him to be grateful for the little things.

The Governor of Tamalan was sitting beside the King, huddled in furs. Lady Tula was the very image of a kindly grandmother, except for the sword poking out from under her cloak. The seat on the other side of Daris, where the Governor of Cathlan should have been sitting, was empty.

Jerim’s messenger had arrived bearing an apology from his Lord, but not the taxes that were due from Cathlan. They’d anticipated such a move and had planned for it, but as the time approached Hyram found his mouth was dry and his hands clammy. He never used to feel like this before indulging in a little play-acting. When had anticipation and excitement turned into weariness and dread?

“When you got old…” he muttered under his breath.

The King beckoned the nervous messenger over. “Tell my brother that because he is ill, I shall give him one month’s grace to gather the taxes and deliver them here, in person. However; and this is most important, so listen well, sirrah. Tell him that my patience is not infinite. If he cannot cope with the responsibility of being our Governor of Cathlan, I will appoint someone who can.”

Hyram saw several of the Cathlan nobles exchange knowing looks and smug, pursed-lipped smiles. The chamber fell silent; the messenger shuffled uncomfortably. Hyram marshalled his strength and hauled himself to his feet.
On with the motley.

“Your Majesty, I must protest!” he barked.

A shocked murmur followed the echo of his words around the chamber.

Daris gave him a dead-eyed stare. “What about, Lord Costaine?”

“He’s gone too far, Majesty! How many more times will you allow the Governor of Cathlan to flout your authority, and the authority of this Council? He makes fools of us all—”

The King leapt to his feet, fists clenched. “How dare you question me? If I choose to give my brother the benefit of my patience, it is none of your concern!”

Hyram felt the blood pumping through the veins in his neck as the eyes of everyone in the room bored into him. “Your Majesty, I must—”

“One more word, Costaine, and I swear I will banish you to the Northern Wastes. I have said all I wish to say on the matter; let that be an end to it.” Daris turned to the messenger. “Take my words back to Prince Jerim with all haste.”

The pale-faced messenger bowed and backed from the chamber.

“Does anyone else have anything they wish to say about the Governor of Cathlan?” Daris demanded. No one spoke. “Council adjourned.” The King strode from the chamber, before anyone had time to rise and bow, leaving Hyram to endure the censure of his peers.

Hyram was unrepentant and argued his point vociferously, even though he felt that his labouring heart was about to burst at any moment. All the while, he was taking note of which way the blades were falling as was his apprentice who was standing mutely in the background, watching his master’s performance. Later, when they got the chance to compare notes, they would compile a list of who merited further investigation, who could probably be trusted, and who was going to have an unfortunate accident.