The Red Knight (47 page)

They rounded the end of the earth bank—a trail of mangled corpses behind them. Cassian’s gaze fell on the trebuchets. Despite his orders, despite Beria’s plea, his blood was up and the damn things were unguarded, just begging to be attacked. Before his horse had taken a dozen strides in their direction, he came to his senses and signalled for the company to turn back and follow the Hammer. The trebuchets were
too
tempting. As they wheeled away, he saw the trap and bellowed a warning as the mounted Guthani burst through the brush screens cunningly hidden in the tree-line.

The Guthani poured from the woods and around the trebuchets. Cassian saw one of ponies bolt and run in front of the engines. The ground gave way beneath it, and they vanished into a pit, suffering the fate that was meant for them. He thanked whatever gods had granted him the sense to pull up, and at the same time cursed his impetuous heart.

Like the Lancers, the Guthani cavalry wielded slender-bladed spears. Instead of swords they had long-handled axes strapped across their backs and painted shields hanging from their saddle bows. They were led by a warrior in shining mail and a dragon-crested helm.

The Hammer didn’t try to attack his engines, even though he’d left them wide open. Instead they’d scythed through the hirths who were waiting to cross the moat. Trenham was angry and his pride was dented. His machines weren’t as important a target as the Guthani. That mis-calculation had cost them, but it wouldn’t change the outcome.

The knights had dealt a savage blow to the warriors by the moat, but they wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy their victory. He should be pleased, it was almost over, but he wasn’t. If anything, he was ambivalent. In contrast, Thorgulsen was murderously furious. He didn’t blame him; his woman had gone missing and he’d just watched his hirths being pulverised.

“You were right about them coming out, but wrong about their choice of target,” Thorgulsen growled. “Many of my hirths will be sleeping in the Void tonight because of that mistake.”

“I told you the Antians weren’t predictable.”

“You talk out of your arse, boy. You said they would attack your fucking engines. I was looking forward to seeing them and their fat nags impaled in those pits. Now that lackwit Hanser get’s to finish the job. I’m not happy, Trenham and that is never a good thing.” The Thane gave him the dead eye and walked away.

As if I give a fuck.
The Guthlander was in danger of thinking he could bully him like he could Telvier. That could prove to be a costly mistake—for all concerned.

Trenham checked his quiver before pulling on his coif. He didn’t know what Ali Stenna was up to. It might be nothing more than a final act of defiance; a glorious suicide, but his gut told him there was more to it. Whatever her plan, it was doomed. Hirths were blocking the road ahead of the knights, and Hanser’s cavalry was closing in behind them. This whole sorry mess would soon be nothing more than a footnote in some poorly scribed history. He should be pleased, but truth was, he liked his enemies far more than he liked his employer.

A unit of hirths had formed up in their path. Alyda bellowed her orders at Della, who relayed them with a trilling blast on her horn. All the knights, including the Lancers, increased their speed. Lyco’s footfalls echoed the thunder of her heart as they hurtled towards the Guthani.

At the last possible moment, just before his long stride took them too close to manoeuvre, she turned sharply to the left. The destrier pivoted on his powerful hind quarters and sprang away, followed by the Hammer. The Lancers mirrored the manoeuvre and split right. A handful of horses skidded in the mud, lost their footing and went down, delivering their riders to the enemy, where death was waiting, sharp and swift.

Alyda took the Hammer around the Guthani and charged for the road to the Arth. Cassian took the Lancers towards the bulwark.

Kilner couldn’t bear to be in the cellars a moment longer. The knights had ordered everyone to stay inside and keep the doors bolted, but he had to get out. Eventually he made enough of a fuss that the housekeeper who held the keys was only too pleased to be rid of him. Outside, under the blessed open sky, he was rewarded by the kiss of a cold breeze.

The gut-twisting panic eased, his heart stopped pounding quite so hard. The air reeked of death, but it was a huge improvement on the stink of fear and ceaseless, pitiful crying that had driven him from the cellars. He just wanted the fighting to stop, but the bloodthirsty bastards wouldn’t be satisfied until everyone was dead. As he stood in the bailey, pondering his fate, a warrior fell screaming from the wall. She hit the ground, bounced—burst, and broke on the jagged rubble.

Kilner almost fainted. He had never seen death so raw, so visceral. He wasn’t safe here, but he couldn’t go back down into the bowels of the Arth and wait to die with the others. He tried to gather shadows and hide himself, but his mind wouldn’t hold the spell. Another body plunged from the wall and smashed into the gore-drenched ground.

Fear set his feet to flight. He ran blindly across the bailey, desperate to flee the mayhem. He collapsed behind the keep tower and crawled between the buttresses. He could see the stables from his hiding place. He wondered if the horses knew that their riders were probably dead. More likely they didn’t care and just wanted to get away from this madness, but like him, they were trapped. He thought about trying to climb the west wall, take his chances in the Galerun, but he didn’t have much of a head for heights and he didn’t like water—all those fish… He shuddered. Something soft caressed his chin. Startled, he looked down to see that he was still clutching the scarlet feather.

It was beautiful, so delicate, so out of place amid all the ugliness. He wondered what kind of bird it had come from, something exotic from a distant land. He’d always wanted to travel, to see the world beyond Antia’s tame borders. There were so many wonderful places he’d read about and dreamed of seeing, and now he never would because he was going to die here.

It isn’t fair!
Hadn’t he always been careful to avoid the slightest whiff of danger? He’d never even allowed himself to fall in love because he was too afraid to risk his coward’s heart. All that sacrifice, the denial of a life half-lived, and he was still going to die a violent and untimely death. It was too much. Kilner broke down and sobbed a flood of tears.

By the gods’ good grace, they had beaten the enemy to the bridge. Cassian called a halt before the ruined gatehouse. The defenders on the barbican were screaming for them to get inside. He looked at Griga. She had lost her helm; a cut on her forehead bled fingers of scarlet down her face.

“What are your orders, Captain?” she asked, leaning heavily on her pommel, her spear slick with Guthani blood.

The Lancers were less than a hundred paces from the Arth. Beria and Tomas were waiting for him…
So close.
Through the heaving sea of spears, Cassian saw the Hammer’s standard fluttering above the jagged tide.

“We stay and hold the bridge,” he said.

The Black Lancers were valiantly trying to hold the bridge, but the Hammer was cut off. Alyda
was cut off.
Where did the fucking cavalry come from?
Driven by helpless rage, Talin fought like a man possessed and tried to drown his fury in the blood of the enemy swarming over the wall. He hacked wildly, blindly swinging his sword at whatever came before him. Something heavy fell across his back, taking him down.

An arm flopped beside his head; he was pinned under a body. He struggled to throw it off. A hirth saw him, raised his axe and charged. Nevenna hobbled between them. The Guthani yelled his fury and swung. She raised her halberd, but the injured knight stumbled and mis-timed the block. The Guthani’s weapon struck her polearm and bounced off at an angle, shearing through her neck guard before burying itself in her shoulder. She screamed and dropped her weapon. Blood sprayed from the terrible wound, her right arm fell useless. Snarling a curse, she spat a mouthful of blood in her attacker’s face. He recoiled.

The dying knight grabbed the horse tail plume on his helm, and dragged him towards her. Off-balance, the Guthani stumbled, clawing at the strap fastening his helm. With the last of her strength, the Knight Herald threw herself back off the wall, taking her killer with her to the Void. Talin crawled from under the corpse and picked up the halberd.

At first, the dreams that came to Kilner were a jumble of meaningless images. But as sleep dragged him deeper under its thrall, they began to change. He was in a vast, empty land of dark, rolling hills beneath a grey sky. Under his feet, a web of silver shone through the short, purple-tinted grass.

His dream self calmly watched the argent tendrils quest towards him. He didn’t move. Something was there with him, something unseen, but a comforting presence all the same. The tendrils latched onto his feet, and quickly flowed over his entire body, covering him in a silver filigree web. The web pulsed. It was alive.

The vein-like strands swelled and ran together until he was completely encased in a shining metallic skin.
I’m not afraid.
On the contrary; he felt safe, unassailable within his new, steel skin. It rippled and flowed, distended and hardened into layers and plates of gleaming metal; a suit of impossible armour more fantastical than any real harness ever could be. He raised his hand; saw the reflection of a scarlet flame burning atop the inhuman helm. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t recall what it was.

This isn’t right, this isn’t me.
As soon as he had the thought, the armour flew apart like rose petals caught in a storm. The silver skin rippled. He looked at his new form.
Yes. This is right,
he thought, and flexed his claws.

Kilner woke with a start. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of urgency, a need to act that was more pressing than anything he’d ever felt before. He didn’t panic. He knew what he had to do; the Other had shown him—opened his mind to all that was possible. The mage closed his eyes, freed his spirit from his body and plunged into the essence flow. For the first time in his life, Kilner wasn’t afraid.

At the first touch of the slumbering elemental his courage faltered. There was so much power! He would be consumed, destroyed before he got close enough to—

The Other was with him.

It didn’t speak, but its presence alone was enough to reassure him, to hold him to his course. He hovered on the edge of the maelstrom, just a little closer and he would be gone. It wasn’t too late to pull back; nothing was forcing him to proceed. The Other had only shown him the way. But if he did go back, they would never stop.
But what if it doesn’t work?

The elemental was a shadow of what it had once been, and held together by nothing more than a vague memory. There
was
a mind somewhere within the mass of energy, a consciousness buried deep within the furnace, and only one way to reach it. He had to let go. It was all he’d ever had to do…and finally, he did. Kilner let go of his essence and became one with the elemental.

As the pattern of his spirit began to unravel, he visualised what he wanted, and drove the vision like a knife, deep into the slumbering creature’s mind. A heartbeat later, Kilner Reese ceased to exist.

Rayna checked the picket line for the third time in an hour. She’d lost her good sword and the wound in her shoulder ached like the Void, but it was thinking about Big Janni that darkened her mood.

She kept seeing him snatch the shaft from his neck, unstoppering the wound that fountained blood over both of them. She’d reached out—snagged a link of mail, but she lost him, and he fell back, into the stinking cess pit of a moat. And then he was gone. Just like that, the putrid water swallowed him. She’d miss Janni, miss his company on cold winter nights, and miss his laughter…
Bastard archers
.

She slumped down against a boulder and cursed the day she’d signed up for this ill-starred venture. The pickings had been slim, and the fighting too hard. The sooner they were done and away the happier she’d be. Rayna closed her eyes; if nothing else, sleep was free. The horses would wake her if anyone came near.

The dense forest dulled the din of battle and soaked up the spiky sharpness of metal striking metal, but the screams of the wounded and the dying scratched at her consciousness and kept her awake. The trees had an odd way of distorting noise; they made it sound like the fighting was getting closer. She opened her eyes. Maybe it was. Maybe reinforcements had come to save the Steelskins. She sat up; palms flat either side of her. The ground was trembling.

She scrambled to her feet; that was no army—it was an earthquake
.
The ground heaved beneath her. The terrified horses ripped the picket line out of the ground and galloped into the forest. The mercenary tried to run but the ground was shaking so violently that she fell. A nearby hillock cracked and split, throwing up dirt and rocks as it erupted.

The shaking was so powerful that a pair of beech trees started to slide down the flanks of the shattered mound. She scuttled back on her arse; the ground flowed around her like water. The beech trees trembled and creaked ominously, branches snapped and crashed down around her.