They dashed on, thundering down the road, until the very last light was leaching out of the sky and it was clear that Demetrius’s party would make Eves.
And then the Duke reined in.
He rose in his stirrups, and his left hand flashed out. ‘Ignem veni mittere in terram,’ he shouted, and a line of fire rose a mile away.
‘Jesu!’ Gavin said.
‘Not exactly,’ his brother responded. And pressed his spurs to his horse’s side.
They galloped over the darkening fields, and the men they were chasing, trapped on the road by the high walls and the tower of flame, finally turned at bay. There were twenty of them, all professional soldiers. They were in a mix of armour, although they all wore the golden leopard badge of Demetrius. They had ridden away from the flame, which burned like hell come to earth.
Demetrius, in his golden helmet, mounted on his white charger, looked like an angel. But the fire burned too red, and it made him a fallen angel – a rebel. He was in front, and he halted his horse fifty yards from the Red Knight’s horse, which was breathing like it was about to founder.
‘Warhorse,’ the Red Knight said, softly.
Nell brought his horse forward.
He dismounted. ‘Single combat,’ he shouted. ‘You and I can fight for this, Demetrius.’
‘I think I’ll just surrender and see what my cousin Irene decides,’ Demetrius said. ‘Or perhaps my guards will take you and your friends. Wouldn’t that be a nice reversal of fortune?’
The Red Knight got a foot into the stirrup of his great black charger and pushed with all his might to get himself into the saddle. He failed, and almost fell. But his horse stayed still.
He sighed. ‘Look at the pillar of fire that burns at your back, Demetrius. And ask yourself if you can take me – me and my friends?’
‘I accept your point,’ Demetrius said, his cultured voice light, like a comic actor’s. ‘I’ll render myself your prisoner.’
The Red Knight tried to mount again. His left thigh apparently wasn’t doing the job. His armour weighed down like the world on the shoulders of Atlas.
Demetrius laughed. ‘Maybe I should fight. I hear you are very good, but you look tired.’
Suddenly, he slammed his visor down, put his lance into its rest and his horse leaped into a gallop. From fifty yards away. A warhorse takes ten seconds to run fifty yards.
The Red Knight leaped, and Nell shoved her shoulder under his left cuisse and pushed. He almost fell, but he righted himself.
Eight.
He got his feet into the stirrups.
Six.
Slammed his spurs into his charger’s sides and reached for his sword.
Five.
Grasped the sword as the warhorse exploded into motion-
Three.
Demetrius’s lance tip danced in the firelight, but the man was backlit, wearing golden armour, glowing like a creature of hell or one of the old gods, and the Red Knight’s draw flicked out-
One-
He cut up into the lance, his sword arm lifting, point dropping so that the lance tip slipped past his shieldless side. Then he reversed the blade, with the full power of his right shoulder, and backhanded the red-enamelled pommel into Demetrius’s visor, hooking the pommel on the other man’s neck and lifting him over the back of his saddle so that he crashed to earth.
He reined in, only a few paces from Demetrius’s men. It was hard to see their faces in the unsealy light, so he backed his horse before turning. But none of them came for him.
He trotted down the road until he came to Demetrius, who was on his hands and knees. He dismounted and walked over to the young man, who was pulling at his aventail, trying desperately to take a full breath through a partially crushed larynx.
The young Count got his helmet free and gasped in a lungful of air. And saw the Red Knight.
‘I yield,’ he whined, and held out his blade.
The Red Knight had his sword point down, a relaxed grip called Tutta porta di ferro. ‘No,’ he said, and cut.
Demetrius’s head hit the ground at the same moment as his body, but they were no longer together.
Far to the north, the Black Knight stood with two of his squires and Master de Marche under the flapping hearts and lilies of Galle. By careful pre-arrangement, they stood on an island in the midst of the Great River. There was still snow on the grass, and the late winter sun shone fitfully on it.
‘He won’t come,’ de Marche said. He regretted that he had become the Black Knight’s naysayer. It wasn’t a role he relished.
Ser Hartmut Li Orguelleus nodded. ‘It was worth a trip here to find out.’
He raised a gauntleted hand. ‘Ah! But there he is, messires.’
On the northern shore, a company came into view. They carried four slim boats, and in moments they had them in the water.
It took them the better part of an hour to paddle across. The Great River was feeling the first of the thaws. She was great with water.
De Marche watched Ser Hartmut. The man did move – but it was glacial, and he never seemed to lock a joint. Or tire. De Marche felt the weight of his harness everywhere – his ankles hurt the more he thought about them.
Ser Hartmut merely stood.
Eventually, three of the boats landed, disgorging a hand of slovenly warriors in rusted maille and a handsome young man in what appeared to be hand-me-down armour. His bow was courtly.
Ser Hartmut opened his visor. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
The young man rose from his bow. ‘You are the Black Knight, I wager. My master has sent me to ask you if you wish to take Ticondaga.’
‘I will take it,’ Ser Hartmut said.
Suddenly, Speaker was there – cloaked in black, with a tree branch through his midsection and a smell of rot. His once-handsome features were now unmoving. In fact, the body was dead.
Under the body, Thorn was not dead.
‘This young man is the rightful heir of the Earldom of the Northwall,’ Thorn said. He meant the voice to sound pleasant, but he was out of practice and his puppet’s lungs were dead. Flies emerged when he spoke. His puppet emitted a foul reek and a croak.
De Marche retched. And translated.
Ser Hartmut shrugged. ‘You are a necromancer,’ he said.
Thorn’s corpse made no movement.
‘What do you want?’ Ser Hartmut asked. It was like dealing with Satan himself and a host of his fallen angels, but Ser Hartmut had not come to be called the Knight of Ill Renown without supping with various devils. He’d even allied with other necromancers. He knew the smell.
He knew other things that made a slight smile cross his lips.
Thorn was not, and had never been, a fool. He watched the reactions of the men to his puppet – and cast it aside. He’d been careless, and let the body die. He dropped it, seized one of the slovenly warriors and took him.
The new host was tall and thin. He had never been handsome – his face was too ferret-like – but everything worked.
‘There, that will be better,’ Thorn said. ‘I want an ally in the north. I want the Wild left unmolested by men – all men. Immediately, I will aid in the capture of Ticondaga in exchange for free passage south past its defences and the use of its deep cellars as a source of supply for my army.’
‘Your army?’ Ser Hartmut asked.
‘I will summon the Wild, and it will come. A host of boggles like this world has never seen. An ocean of silkies on the water. Wyverns and Wardens and irks and trolls and things no man can yet imagine.’ Thorn spread his arms. ‘I will bring down fire from on high.’
Ser Hartmut rubbed the ends of his moustache with his fingers. ‘How will you transport this army?’
Thorn shrugged and enjoyed the act of shrugging. ‘My captain will take care of the details.’ He indicated the young man.