The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (11 page)

16

‘His ancestor was Erklant I, whose glorious name he bore. King of Langre, Erklant I, nicknamed ‘the Ancient’, had fought during the Last Shadows and led his kingdom to victory against the armies of Obscurity and Oblivion. He then vanquished the dragon Serk’Arn and, through a series of conquests and treaties, became the first High King. He died after living almost a century.’

Chronicles (The Book of Kings)

The gate was so tall that it seemed narrow, when twenty men abreast might have crossed it. The immense double doors shook. A luminous crack appeared between them and widened as they drew apart. Then they halted, barely opened. But it was more than enough to grant entry to a tiny silhouette, that of an old, ill king who advanced leaning on a cane.

The gap between the doors had traced a long, narrow carpet of light upon the floor. The High King followed it, walking straight ahead with a slow step, his back bent, preceded by his inordinately stretched-out shadow. The darkness was thick. But from the way it absorbed every sound, one easily sensed that the place was gigantic and cavernous: a hollow mountain.

King Erklant hobbled towards a stone platform, where four bowls of oil burned. They framed two thrones facing one another. One, with its back to the door, was empty. The other had an immobile occupant, sculpted from the same rock as the seats.

It was a king.

A warrior king, with his crown and boots, wearing a hauberk, one hand on the armrest of his throne, the other gripping the hilt of a sword resting with its point on the floor.

The first of the High Kings.

The old king sat before his ancestor, whose name he bore. The resemblance between them was striking. They seemed to be of the same age and looked almost like brothers. The same clothing. The same wrinkles and hollow face. The same sharp cheekbones. The same jutting jaws. The same long straight hair. And the same deep eye sockets.

‘Good evening,’ said the High King.

He waited for the pains in his joints to diminish. He also needed to catch his breath.

‘It has been a while since my last visit,’ he said finally. ‘Forgive me.’

He sighed.

‘The news is bad. The city of Angborn is going to be ceded to Yrgaard …’

He was alone, yet the old king sensed a presence. A powerful and immense presence whose invisible aura was almost palpable.

‘Yes,’ he said as if in answer to a question. ‘Ceded. Or rather sold.’

King Erklant became thoughtful. His gaze grew vague for an instant, and then his attention returned.

‘Sold! Can you believe it?’ He became agitated. ‘And to the Black Dragon! To the Hydra of Yrgaard. And they dare to present this as a diplomatic success?’

He calmed down and his voice filled with sarcasm.

‘For diplomatic relations will at last be established between Yrgaard and the High Kingdom, do you see? As if Yrgaard could ever become our ally …’

Gloomily, the High King fell silent, before murmuring to himself:

‘I already made the mistake of believing that. Wasn’t once enough?’

He shook his head and, directing his words at the invisible presence, added:

‘But one has to admit that the queen has laid the groundwork well … Esteveris has been negotiating in secret with Yrgaard for months and now everything has been arranged. Or almost. Whether the other kingdoms like it or not. Or anyone else, for that matter …’

His voice died.

Despondent, the old king knew that Yrgaard would never be a loyal ally. A few years earlier, he had let himself be persuaded to attempt a rapprochement. To no avail. The hatred of the Black Dragon for the High Kingdom was too deep and too ancient. She had ruled Yrgaard since the Shadows and had a visceral enmity towards Eyral, the White Dragon of Knowledge and Light – the protector of the High Kingdom. Eyral was still worshipped here and his oracles continued to guide the High Kings.

‘I don’t know what Yrgaard has in mind,’ confessed Erklant II. ‘I only know that Angborn is being handed over to it cheaply and in complete contempt of the blood shed to liberate the Free Cities. But the final straw … The final straw is that we have almost as much to fear from an honest alliance with Yrgaard as from the Black Dragon’s treachery. For the other kingdoms all have good reasons to worry at seeing the two most powerful realms of Imelor allied to one another. For the moment, they’re putting on a brave face before the fait accompli. But how long before they react?’

The old king’s shoulders slumped, but then he straightened up upon detecting a movement in the darkness.

‘There remains one source of hope, however. Lorn will soon be here; did you know? I sent my guards to seek him … They will soon bring him back here … I raised him as my own son and I believed he betrayed me, but that was a mistake. In truth, he has always been loyal and the Guardians say that …’

A sound like the scraping of metal against stone interrupted him.

‘Yes,’ the High King resumed. ‘He’s returning from Dalroth and I know full well what that means … Three years. Might as well say an eternity. Yes, an eternity …’

His thoughts eluded him once again.

Once the old king went away, once the tall doors were closed again and the bowls extinguished, shadows massed around the stone thrones, a pair of red eyes opened and a dull roar rose from beneath the mountain.

17

‘After the sacrifice of the Dragon-King and the cataclysm that followed, after the drowning of the province of Elarias and the birth of the Captive Sea, long after the end of the Last War of the Shadows, the Deadlands remained cursed and corrupted, subject to the Dark which impregnated the earth and the water and the stones and the wind.’

Chronicles (The Book of Elarias)

Upon leaving Samarande, Lorn did not travel up the Eirdre valley although it would have led him to the heart of the High Kingdom. Instead he rode west, following the coast of the Sea of the Free Cities for several days, and then turned south. His intention was to cross the province of Issern until he reached Brenvost. There he would embark on the first ship leaving for Loriand, from where he would travel to the duchies of Sarme and Vallence. It was not the shortest route, or the easiest one. But Lorn knew he was in danger and although he had refused the escort offered to him by Alan, it nevertheless seemed safer to take byroads. Moreover, his destination mattered less to him than the journey itself, which he hoped to put to good use reflecting on his situation. He was not even sure he would reach Sarme, and he did not care.

The king’s illness, the queen’s regency, the cession of Angborn and the intrigues of Yrgaard, all of that left him indifferent. As did Alan’s doubts and worries. And Irelice. And even the Dark. Lorn was no longer the man he’d been. He no longer felt any obligation to the High Kingdom, or to the High King. He wanted to have no dealings with anyone. He only aspired to one thing: to be left alone. He wanted to travel for a long time on his own, incognito.

He wanted to forget.

To flee.

And, perhaps, to lose himself.

The province of Issern was hemmed in by wild mountains to the east and the Deadlands to the west. A few isolated farms were scattered across it. Its only real value was the royal road that linked the Free Cities to the coast and to Brenvost, one of the busiest and most prosperous ports on the Captive Sea. Merchants and merchandise travelled this road every day, despite the brigands who had been preying upon them since the High Kingdom had withdrawn the troops keeping watch over the region – due to its inability to maintain them. Now increasingly bold and audacious bands were robbing travellers before finding refuge in the nearby hills.

The only really safe places were the great inns built along the road. Completely self-sufficient, they were fortified and defended by mercenaries. One could eat and sleep there, but also change mounts, have one’s horse shod or repair a cart wheel. All these services, however, commanded exorbitant prices. A pallet and a bowl of soup cost as much as a fowl. But the walls were high, the stones solid and the gates robust. Here, one could rest and relax with peace of mind between two anxious days on the road. And too bad for those who lacked the means to pay or preferred to save their money.

The first two nights, Lorn spent sleeping under an open sky. Each time, he moved away from the road and took care to find a discreet spot, where his fire could not be seen and his horse could not be heard. He had more than enough to pay for several nights at inns. Even so, he preferred solitude and never grew tired of observing the Great Nebula above him. He had missed this spectacle during his imprisonment at Dalroth. Moreover, with his eyes sensitive to the weakest glimmers, he could now appreciate details that others could not make out. Everything – the dimmest star, the faintest coil, the smallest milky cloud – appeared to him with perfect sharpness when he was not wearing his dark glasses. It almost seemed as though he was now, like some animals, better adapted to nocturnal life than to the daytime.

On the evening of the third day, however, Lorn decided to stop at one of the inns.

The idea of eating a cooked meal and sleeping in a proper bed was quite tempting. Perhaps he would even remain a day or two, provided he could occupy a quiet room on his own. His horse was also in need of rest, as well as a new shoe for his right front hoof: spending a little time in the stable would do him good.

Moreover, Lorn had suffered another mild fit while on the road, towards the end of the afternoon. It had started with pains in his hand and arm. Then came the trembling and the beginning of a fever. Luckily, Lorn had only needed to concentrate and take some long, deep breaths to bring himself under control. But he now dreaded the next outbreak, which he feared would be both imminent and more violent. And all things considered, he preferred to have it surprise him in a place where someone could come to his rescue and where he could receive care afterwards. He was not happy about the prospect. Coming to terms with these fits was admitting the Dark’s hold on him. But he needed to deal with it. Hiding his head in the sand would be suicidal. The Dark was an adversary who would not be ignored.

Located at a slight remove from the road, the inn was built on a river whose current powered a waterwheel. Its thick walls protected not only the inn itself, but also a stable, a forge, a barn, an entire farmyard, a vegetable garden and an orchard, an oven, a mill and a chapel consecrated to the Dragon-King.

Having dismounted, Lorn entrusted his horse to the ostler, and then, as he sluiced his neck at the water trough, discreetly looked around the place. The inn was busy, pleasant and welcoming. And it must have been prospering because a new building, no doubt destined to house more guestrooms, was under construction. Upon the outer walls, sentinels kept watch over the surrounding area but also glanced towards the enclosed compound from time to time. Others guarded the gate. Lorn wondered what these men were worth. Times were troubled and anyone carrying a sword could call himself a mercenary. But it was enough if their presence dissuaded the brigands from attacking. After all, it was all that was required of them …

Lorn requested a room of his own, which did not please the proprietor, for – like all innkeepers – he did not rent rooms, but places in each bed. He had only one big bed left in a large chamber, a very comfortable one, as it happened, and he boasted of its merits. Lorn rented both the bed and the entire room. He paid cash on the nail, and that, added to his sinister air and the impassive gaze of his dark spectacles, convinced the proprietor to hand over the key without further discussion.

That evening, Lorn demanded a hot bath and chose to dine alone in his room. He only left it to make sure that his horse was in good hands, after which he blocked his door with a chair, closed his shutters, and fell into a haunted sleep. He was unaware that he had been recognised upon his arrival and that, just as he was falling asleep, a man was riding flat out to collect the rich reward he had been promised.

18

The following morning, as the Dark’s mark still hurt and it seemed his right eye was even more sensitive to the light than usual, Lorn remained in the dimness of his room. He rested, drowsed, suffered in silence, and waited.

But nothing happened.

In fact, he felt better and, after midday, he decided to take some fresh air and have a short stroll. The bright sunshine made him blink as soon as he stuck his nose outside, obliging him to draw his hood above his dark glasses. He hesitated for an instant, working the joints of his marked hand, then made up his mind and descended into the courtyard.

Three families had just arrived and were negotiating the price of their stay with the innkeeper. The men, women and children seemed exhausted. They weren’t rich and were only asking for a corner where they could spend the night and water for the mules harnessed to their wagons. The children would cost nothing: they would sleep in the same bed and eat from the same plates as their parents. But the proprietor remained inflexible. He refused to grant them a discount and voices were raised, an old woman appealing in vain to his generosity, a man reproaching him for profiting from their desperation and fixing unfair prices. Some mercenaries approached and lent support to the innkeeper, silent but menacing. Their presence sufficed. The families realised that further discussion was to no avail and after conferring, they regretfully clubbed together the necessary funds. Wary, the innkeeper insisted on being paid in advance. He counted his money while an infant cried in its mother’s arms.

Lorn went on his way.

He returned to the stable to look after his horse, exchanged a few words with the ostler, then bought a bottle of wine and went to sip from it in a chair left in the shade of an oak tree, secluded in a quiet corner away from the bustling courtyard. He had removed his hood but kept his spectacles on, and was rubbing his left hand, immersed in his thoughts, when he perceived a presence beside him.

It was a little girl, three or four years in age, dirty and barefoot, who was staring at him as she sucked the fingers of her right hand.

Lorn returned her gaze without saying a word and waited.

The little girl then raised the hand she was not devouring and pointed a chubby index finger at Lorn. He realised that she wasn’t indicating him but his spectacles. No doubt she had never seen anything like them before. He removed them and held them out to her so that she could look at them closely.

The child hesitated.

This unsmiling man made her feel shy.

Lorn then held up the dark glasses in a sunbeam that broke through the branches. The little girl approached. She wanted to touch the spectacles, but Lorn shook his head. She restrained herself for a moment, looked Lorn in the eyes, and took another chance, advancing her hand very, very slowly.

Lorn smiled and put his spectacles back on.

‘There you are!’

The little girl gave a start.

A young woman approached with a hurried step and one could read a great relief upon her face but also the vestiges of a worry too fresh to be easily erased. She was blonde, attractive and not yet thirty years old, although weariness had added to her apparent age. Lorn recognised her. She had arrived with the families who had tried to haggle over the price of their stay.

‘You know how I hate it when you run away that, Idia! I always want to know where you are, do you hear me?’

To seek pardon, the little girl ran to her mother and hugged her legs.

The woman softened and, caressing her daughter’s hair, reproached her gently.

‘I was worried sick, I was.’

Whereupon she lifted her head and said to Lorn, who had not moved:

‘Forgive her, sir.’

Lorn did not say a word.

‘I hope she did not bother you …’

‘No,’ replied Lorn.

There was an embarrassed silence, the woman hesitating to take her leave without further ado. So she asked her daughter:

‘Say goodbye, Idia.’

But the child, with her face in her mother’s skirts, refused.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman. ‘She’s sometimes a little shy …’

Lorn nodded.

‘Well, goodbye, sir … And once again, forgive Idia.’

Upon which, the woman was about to turn round when Lorn suddenly asked her:

‘Where do you come from?’

Caught short, the woman stammered:

‘Where …? Where do we …?’

‘I saw you arriving, just now.’

‘Yes, I remember. You … You were there.’

‘You’re from the Cities, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Angborn?’

The woman frowned.

‘Yes. But how …?’ And then she understood. ‘Ah. My accent. You can hear it, can’t you?’

‘A little,’ said Lorn with a friendly smile. ‘And where are you going?’

‘We’re going to Brenvost.’

‘For long?’

‘Perhaps for always. We don’t want to become Yrgaardians.’

This sentence, spoken with pride, caught Lorn’s attention. It even aroused a trace of admiration in him.

‘So you’d rather move …’ he said.

‘Move?’ The woman smiled sadly. ‘Our goods wouldn’t fit in a wretched cart, if we were moving. We’re not moving, sir. We fled.’

Lorn stood up.

‘Fled? What do you mean?’

With a gesture he invited the woman to take his seat. She remained undecided for moment, then suddenly felt very tired and willingly agreed to sit for a few instants in the shade, with her daughter on her knee.

‘You were saying you’ve fled Angborn, you and your husband?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Answering Lorn’s questions, she explained that for the last several months the inhabitants of Angborn had not been allowed to leave. The future Yrgaardian authorities feared a mass exodus before the cession, so definitive departures were forbidden and those leaving the city could not take more than they ordinarily would for a journey. It was even impossible to sell one’s house or goods. If one decided to move elsewhere, one had to leave practically everything behind.

Lorn would have liked to learn more, but the woman’s husband arrived and asked warily:

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ replied his wife. ‘I was just resting a little, that’s all.’

She rose as the man took their daughter in his arms.

‘Goodbye,’ said the woman.

‘Goodbye,’ said Lorn, after exchanging a plain nod with the husband.

Who was quick to lead his family away.

When evening came, Lorn went to take his supper in the common room.

Although he did nothing to cause it, his entrance drew notice. His sombre appearance was disturbing and his spectacles aroused curiosity, so that conversations faltered as he found an empty place on a bench.

They resumed when he ordered.

Lorn supped without saying a word, listening to the chatter around him. His neighbours alluded in low voices to the prices being charged by the innkeepers.

To complain about them, of course:

‘It’s theft. Theft, pure and simple.’

‘You’d think they were feeding the chickens with grain made of gold.’

‘And that their carrots were sown in silk!’

‘You said it! You can bet they’re making a fat profit …’

‘If you think about it, the only choice is between being robbed in here or out there.’

‘But here, at least, we don’t run the risk of having our throats slit.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘How’s that?’

The discussion took a new turn.

‘The brigands are growing more and more numerous. And more and more bold. You’ll see: one day, they’ll attack an inn.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m sure of it! Where do well-to-do travellers stop, if not in places such as this?’

‘That’s true.’

‘And you think these brigands don’t know that?’

‘But all the same, there are the walls. And guards.’

‘Walls can be climbed. And guards can be killed. Or paid off. You’ll see that one night we’ll go to bed believing we’re safely tucked away, only to find ourselves with our throats cut in our slee—’

‘That’s enough,’ said Lorn in a tone that brooked no argument.

The three traders who were conversing near him fell silent, and by way of explanation, Lorn pointed to little Idia.

As chance would have it, he was seated at the same table as the girl and her parents. Her father and mother, weary and too busy discussing how the meagre funds remaining to them would last until the end of their journey, had failed to perceive that the child was listening closely to the traders’ talk with her eyes wide open in fright. Embarrassed, the men apologised and did not utter another word during the rest of their meal.

Lorn, however, was no longer much concerned by what Idia might have heard. The Dark’s mark was hurting him and the pain was climbing his arm. He felt both hot and cold, and sweat was beading upon his brow. The fit he’d been dreading for several days now was imminent.

He stood up, walked out of the room as steadily as he could, and once he was out of sight from others, he took several deep breaths. Gripping a railing, he struggled to keep control of himself but knew that his efforts were to no avail. He needed to return to his room and lie down while he still had the strength to do so on his own. He wondered whether he would have done better to have warned the innkeeper he was ill and asked the man to keep an eye on him. Lorn’s pride had prevented him from doing so and now it was too late.

The path to his room passed through a gallery open to the air on one side.

Lorn attempted to climb the stairway that led to it, leaning on the bannister, and once he reached the top he was one of the first – along with the mercenaries standing guard – to see the coach rapidly approaching on the road. Escorted by riders, it entered the courtyard with a great din of hooves, ironclad wheels and creaking axles. This sudden arrival caused an uproar at the inn and quickly drew everyone outside. Even Lorn remained where he was and, pricked by curiosity, watched from the gallery.

‘
CLOSE THE GATES!
’ yelled the coachman, as he pulled on the reins to bring the coach to a halt. ‘
CLOSE THE GATES! WE WERE ATTACKED!
’

As the heavy gates were being shut, Lorn, who could see over the outer wall, scrutinised the surrounding area in the glimmering dusk. But his sight was blurred; it was like looking through a billowing veil. He gave up and focused instead on the coachman, who, in front of the inn, had jumped down from his seat and was recounting how bandits had ambushed them but they had managed to force a passage. Worried questions poured forth from his listeners. Where had the ambush taken place? How many bandits were there? Had they pursued the coach?

The coach.

Despite his difficulties in concentrating, Lorn observed that the person or persons whom the coachman had been driving had still not shown themselves. Then he noticed that the escort riders had dismounted but that only a handful of them remained by the coach they were supposed to protect. Most of them had already quietly slipped away while the coachman drew all the attention to himself.

Something was up.

Something that Lorn sensed was about to happen, without being able to identify it clearly.

He understood when he saw who finally left the coach.

Dark-haired, young, pretty.

She had claimed to be called Elana and, a few weeks earlier, she had tried to abduct him.

At first he thought he was delirious, that his fever and the Dark were playing tricks on him. But he recognised the young woman without a shred of doubt when she raised her head as if she knew exactly where to find him and he met her gaze.

She smiled at him.

Lorn cursed and rushed to his room, locking the door and jamming it with a chair. Anxious and fretful, he paced up and down trying to collect his wits. He needed to think. Quickly. He had no shortage of ideas, but they jostled about in his head, overlapping and cancelling one another, while the pain in his strained arm provoked a sort of dizziness in him.

They were there for him.

To abduct him. Irelice had missed its chance in Samarande but had not given up.

He was in no shape to fight.

He had to flee.

Starting by escaping this room in which he had trapped himself …

Lorn suddenly realised that screams of horror and the sounds of combat were rising from the courtyard. And just then, someone tried to open the door.

His combat instincts took over.

He snatched up his sword in its scabbard, passed his good arm through the strap of his bag, opened the room’s window and threw his legs over the sill. The window was ten feet above the ground, behind the main building. Handicapped by his left arm, he fell rather than leapt out at the very moment when his door was kicked down. His landing hurt but caused no serious injury and, limping slightly, he went to the corner of the building and discreetly glanced around it.

It required an effort to clear his sight, as fat drops of sweat stung his eyes.

Chaos reigned within the fortified inn. In the light from torches and lanterns, the warriors who had been escorting Elana were fighting the mercenaries and had taken possession of the premises, striking at anyone who stood in their path, shoving aside men, women and children.

A man was leaning out from the window of Lorn’s room.

‘
THERE HE IS!
’

Lorn rushed into the melee, unsheathing his sword.

He struck a warrior who was taken by surprise, deflected the attack from a second by pure reflex, and riposted by slitting the man’s throat.

‘OVER THERE!’

Lorn turned round and sensed rather than actually saw Elana, who was calling and pointing at him from the gallery. A warrior rushed him and Lorn struck blindly. Once. Twice. And he struck again at another menacing figure, before feeling the spatter of warm blood upon his face. The world had become an appalling muddle of sounds, cries, tumbling shapes and brimming colours. Lorn lost all awareness of himself and once again became the terrified madman who had fled beneath the storm at Dalroth. It was a fall into an abyss of violence, screaming spectres, primitive fears and savage impulses. He no longer knew who he was attacking or whom he was defending himself against, warriors or mercenaries, or perhaps even innocent bystanders.