The Red Knight (56 page)

“Do you think I care? My life has been torn apart; all that’s left is lying over there.” She gestured to her son. “The rest is rotting in a pit at Gallen Arth. So you’ll forgive me, but I’m beyond being cowed by princely commands. I’m not beyond stopping another mother’s son from running to his death.”

She turned back to Olin and took his hands in hers. “If you truly love your brother, you will make sure he stays bound tight and you will not let him out of your sight until this evil has passed. Do you understand, Olin? Only…” she paused, swallowed hard, “Only death waits for him at Gallen Arth. If you let him go, you’ll be killing him as surely as if you stabbed him yourself.”

The colour drained from Olin’s face. He nodded gravely and turned to his brother. “I’m sorry, Tal. I can’t.”

After they’d rested, Suli led them deeper into the wood. Unlike the forest around Gallen Arth, the trees here were small and crooked. Their bent spines twisted together, their warty branches entangled. The ground between them was littered with tumbled stones, carved with faded patterns and robed in moss. When they reached the end of the trail, Suli ripped some makeshift blindfolds from the lining of her doublet.

Garian decided it wasn’t treason to keep quiet about exactly where they were going. As far as the Queen, her sons and Lady Beria were concerned they were just going to a hidden valley. He’d lead them around the woods to disorientate them and then Suli would open the gateway to the valley and safety—in the Void.
The fucking Void!
I must be mad.
His stomach rolled. Could he really take the Queen and heirs to a place he’d always believed to be the realm of evil? Could he afford not to?

When the others were blindfolded, he led them along a winding deer path before bringing them back to where they’d started. Suli had been carrying Lady Vorsten’s baby, she passed the child to him before going over to a pair of stubby oaks off to the side of the path. They didn’t look any different to any of the others.

The child gripped his chin and laughed. Garian watched Suli run her hands down the trunks of both trees. He could hear her whispering, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. When she was done, she stepped aside and took the infant from him. Smiling, she gestured for him to walk between the trees. Garian drew his knife. Nothing had changed; there were no glowing runes or magical light, just two trees. That didn’t stop his hackles rising. It was the Void. He took one last look at Suli and walked through.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was late autumn when he stepped between the trees; on the other side a warm breeze kissed his face, carrying with it the sweet scent of a flower filled meadow. Crouching low, he took in the view with a sweeping scan, then again, more slowly; just to make sure there wasn’t anything with teeth or claws waiting to rip him apart. The two oaks he’d just walked between formed an arch leading into tangled undergrowth and darkness; they were also flanked by an impenetrable thicket that seemed to mark some kind of barrier but that was just a guess, his mind trying to make sense of what he’d been told and what he could see. For all he knew, none of it was real.

Overhead, the moon hung low and full. The argent sphere was reflected in a wide, glassy mere that lay a few yards from the portal. The pool was fringed with a crescent of graceful trees the likes of which he’d never seen, not even in books. They had clean, white trunks that shone like fresh snow. Elegant upswept boughs forked like antlers and darkened from pure white through shades of silver-grey to deep, gleaming black at the tips. The leaves were sickle shaped and silvery white. They sparkled in the moonlight as though rimed with frost.

Beyond the pool he could see a rolling meadow, dotted here and there with stands of the same luminous trees.
How big was this place?
It was beautiful. Hardly what he’d imagined the home of demons would look like. Within the snow trees by the pool, he saw dark shadows weaving between the trunks. He kept low, peered into the darkness trying to make out what they were. Suli appeared beside him. She was leading Prince Talin, still bound and blindfolded. He barred her way with his arm, and motioned for her to be quiet.

“There’s something moving in the trees,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry; it’s only ‘Zia, Pytre, and Lady Berwick. They’re staying out of the way so they don’t scare the others.”

“Why did they change?” Garian asked. “Why didn’t they stay human?” He hated not knowing what was going on, and wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of three shapeshifters lurking in the shadows. This place was making him twitchy.

“It’s difficult for them in here. I’ll explain later.”

With that, she ushered the Prince to one side and went back through for the others. It was so strange, watching her walk between the trees, and then suddenly vanish. Garian removed the Prince’s blindfold, but left his hands tied. They waited in icy silence for the others to come through.

When Lady Beria’s blindfold was removed he quickly handed the child back to his mother. Lady Beria peeled back the blankets and gasped. Garian was immediately on his guard, but then he realised Lady Beria was laughing… at her faintly glowing son.

Garian got a closer look, sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him. They weren’t. The child was glowing softly, but that wasn’t all. His babyish features looked more refined, and his eyes had turned impossibly blue—like Suli’s had. Other than the startling change in his appearance he seemed perfectly well, and giggled appreciatively at all the attention. He just didn’t look quite human anymore.

Beria laughed. “Oh, Cass, I wish you could see this, my darling.” Tears streamed down her cheeks and she hugged her son.

The nameless river that flowed beneath the Arth had narrowed over the centuries. Alyda slammed into the deep bank of silt and sludge that had built up over scores of years.

The shock of landing half in the icy water brought her back to consciousness. She was lying up to her waist in the water. Her ruined legs rocked gently in the sluggish current. Instinct took over, and she began to claw her way up the muddy bank, driven by the animal urge to survive. Cold crept into her bones and numbed her flesh. She shivered violently until darkness claimed her.

She was falling into unending blackness. There was no pain.

“I’ve been waiting for you,”
said a voice as ancient as the bones of the earth, as powerful as a storm.

This is a dream.
She ignored the voice; fell faster, the pain of her ruined body a distant memory.

“Do you come to me now; through air, fire and water?”

She didn’t want to talk, she just wanted to fall.

“Speak—blood of my blood. You have threaded the path; do you give yourself to me now in this sacred place?”

She didn’t know what it wanted, but a tiny part of her thought she ought to. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to remember, she just wanted to fall, but she could feel it near her, waiting. It wasn’t going to leave her alone until she gave an answer. She forced her eyes open. There was only blackness, so complete, she wasn’t sure she’d opened her eyes at all.

“No, I damn well don’t,” she mumbled into the mud before slipping back into unconsciousness.

The Anvil and three companies of infantry tore through Gallen Forest. When the King had released them, Vanen had done more than Vorbek could have asked to get them back to Antia in time to relieve the Hammer and the Lancers. She’d even risked her ships by bringing them up river as far as Weyhithe. The black columns of smoke rising over the forest and the circling flocks of carrion told him their efforts had probably been in vain.

The poached road leading to the Arth was littered with debris, but there were no bodies, which was a good sign. Vorbek sent scouts off to follow the mass of tracks and find out who had gone where. He took the Anvil and the foot soldiers on to the Arth. The smell of death carried by the wind warned him of what lay beyond the trees. When they reached the edge of the clearing the Captain of the Anvil called a halt.

War had harrowed the battlefield, seeded the ground with ravaged corpses that lay mired in filth. It was a vile harvest, ripe for the crows to reap. Althus cast a hopeful glance to the blackened turrets to see if any standards still flew there. Today was not a day for miracles. With a heavy heart, he signalled for the company to ride within.

Inside the Arth the destruction was complete. Fires smouldered in the ruins, and the bailey was filled with rubble and bodies. The curtain wall was dressed in fire black and blood red, a cruel parody of the lost knights’ colours,

“Arno!” Vorbek summoned his second. “I want this place searched for…for anything.” Arno didn’t answer. Vorbek swung round. “Arno! Did you hear me? I…”

Arno was looking at a child, standing by the barbican; he couldn’t have been older than five or six.

“Perhaps today is a day for miracles after all,” Vorbek muttered.

“In here!” the boy shouted and hared off down a flight of steps next to the gatehouse.

Althus cursed, leapt from his horse and charged after him.

The steps led down into a dank chamber, the embers of a fire still glowed in the hearth. Althus drew his sword. The floor and the walls were splattered with blood, cut sections of rope dangled from a grilled partition wall. It smelled of burnt flesh. Terrible things had been done here. Vorbek lit a torch from the dying fire. The child was standing beside an open trap door, he gestured urgently for Vorbek to come over.

“She’s down there!” The child pointed into the blackness. “I lifted the lid and I tried to tie the rope so I could get her, but I couldn’t do the tie, and the rope fell in.”

Vorbek was a soft touch when it came to children. Gods only knew what horrors the little mite had seen. He reached out to the boy, but he danced away from Vorbek’s hand—dangerously close to the edge of the hole.

Vorbek froze. “Easy now, little man,” He lowered his hands. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”

“You have to get her,” The boy demanded, a determined frown set on his dirty little face, his heels hanging over the edge of the hole. “Come see, come see!”

“Alright, lad, alright. Now don’t you move; I’ll take a look.” Althus edged closer, very slowly. He peered down the hole; he couldn’t see anything, but he could hear the sound of running water. He waved the torch in the darkness. When his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he thought he caught a glimpse of something pale, near a dark ribbon of flowing water.

“She’s down there! Can you see the red knight? You have to hurry before the clouds come into her eyes.” The child bounced excitedly beside Althus.

His heart skipped a beat. “What did you say, boy?”

The boy took a deep breath. “The Captain of the Hammer is down there.”

“Sir, perhaps we should send someone else down first?” Arno ventured, “someone smaller—Keris maybe?”

Vorbek tossed his breastplate on the floor of the crowded dungeon. “Just hang onto the blasted rope, Lieutenant.”

Vorbek stripped down to his shirt, breeches and boots, and strapped his sword across his back. Even without his armour it took three of the Anvil’s biggest knights and two stout ropes to lower him into the hole. Distance was hard to judge in the near total darkness, but by his estimation the water was about twenty feet below the trap door. Vorbek’s torch spluttered, hungry for air, but the flame steadied and his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. He was in an underground cavern, half filled with silt. He corrected himself as he went deeper and saw more. It wasn’t a cavern; it was a chamber.

It must have been part of an earlier incarnation of the Arth. Crumbling stumps of columns jutted out of the mud and patches of ancient, painted plaster clung to the walls. When he reached the bottom he sank up to his calves in the cold slurry. He swung the torch towards where he’d spotted what might have been a body. Less than six feet away, he saw it, and his hopes were crushed. Whoever they were had their ruined back to him, and short hair. He was just about to shout up and tell them it wasn’t Alyda when he caught a glimpse of a tattoo through the mud and blood. To a Tamalak, tattoos were as individual as a face. It
was
Alyda.

He thrust the torch into the mud, rushed over and scooped her out of the muck.”Hang on Shorty,” he whispered. She groaned. Shocked and elated, he shouted up, “She’s alive!”

After the voice went away, she stopped falling and began to dream. In the dream she saw a stag running through a silver river beneath a lustrous moon. Someone spoke. Their voice was loud, commanding, but it wasn’t the Stormbreaker.

It was Althus.

What’s he doing in my dream?
She opened her eyes and saw towers of smoke rising into the sky. Then the pain returned, and it was vengeful. She cried out. Someone fed her sweet wine. The pain went away again. She dreamed of a stag racing through a silver river beneath a lustrous moon…

They laid Ali by the fire in the Great Hall. Althus paced as he waited for the Company Surgeon to finish her examination. He could hardly bring himself to watch, Alyda looked more dead than alive. That the Queen had escaped was some consolation, but a lot of friends were lying in those grave pits. The surgeon covered Ali with a blanket and came over.