The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (19 page)

Now it was Lorn who turned towards the count. They exchanged a long glance, Lorn wondering to what extent Teogen might be right. Then he looked out again at the night’s horizon.

Without really seeing it, however.

From a small bag that hung from his belt, Teogen drew forth a tin flask. He uncorked it, drank from its neck and offered it to Lorn. Lorn accepted it readily and took a gulp of flavoured brandy that flowed down his gullet like molten metal. He swallowed with difficulty, grimacing, and almost choked.

‘It’s a little strong,’ the count conceded, taking back the flask.

‘A … A little?’ said Lorn in a hoarse voice.

He cleared his throat before adding:

‘What is that?’

‘A recipe from my mountains. Not bad, is it?’

‘It’s … memorable.’

‘Want some more?’ proposed Teogen, holding out the flask.

And when Lorn refused, he shrugged and drank again.

‘You don’t like Dorian much, do you?’ he asked, after a period of silence.

Lorn hesitated, before noting that the count was smiling and that his smile was not only conciliatory, but understanding. Evidently, he knew how matters stood with Dorian of Leister. Lorn must not have been the first to have problems with him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But it seems to be mutual.’

‘Leister is wary of you, knight. And frankly …’ Teogen paused and waited until he had caught Lorn’s eye. ‘Well, can you truly blame him?’ he asked in a tone of friendly reproach.

Lorn did not reply.

Then he lowered his eyes towards his marked hand, working his knuckles. He thought about who he was, what people knew or thought they knew about him, his appearance and his manner. Whereupon he raised his eyes and met the count’s friendly and amused gaze.

‘Dorian is a pain in the arse, but he’s loyal, fair and valiant,’ said Teogen. ‘Unfortunately, for some reason, he’s angry with the world and with himself. You’ll see. You’ll end up getting along, the two of you …’

Slapping both hands against his thighs, the count stood up, stretched his wide shoulders, and added:

‘I should try to get a few hours’ sleep. You should do the same, knight. I’m sure that tomorrow Orwain will wake us even earlier than usual. Good night.’

‘Good night, count.’

Teogen walked towards the cavern, but Lorn called him back.

‘Count!’

Teogen turned round.

‘Yes?’

‘Earlier, before the scouts returned, you didn’t tell me what the other explanation might be. If the High King isn’t mad, why did he give me a blank letter for you, do you think?’

Teogen planted himself firmly on both his legs, crossed his arms, and waited, convinced that Lorn already knew the answer.

‘I’m not the messenger, am I?’ said Lorn. ‘I’m the message.’

The Count of Argor nodded.

‘You, and that signet ring on your finger. By sending you to me, the High King has made his intentions plain. He’s letting me know he hasn’t given up, that he’s ready to get back into the game, and that you are the trump card he’s planning to play. The High King has named you his representative. He has made you his arm, his sword.’

At that instant, Teogen’s expression became grave, severe and, in the dark, almost threatening.

‘Why he has done so, I do not know,’ he concluded. ‘All that matters to me now is to find out whether you are worthy.’

6

They broke camp just before dawn, crossed over the pass that won them precious hours and reached Erm’s Fork at midday. Prudently, Teogen dismounted and sent Orwain ahead with some scouts. Sentries were designated. The men hitched the horses and gathered in small groups, in the shade, to lunch on a slice of dried meat and a piece of hard bread. They had been rationing themselves for three days already and hunger was beginning to gnaw at them painfully.

‘Luckily, there’s plenty of water,’ said Guilhem, coming back from filling his flask.

Born of the lively, clear waters of a high glacier, a torrent ran not far away between mossy rocks.

‘Perhaps we should devote an hour or two to hunting,’ said a knight with a braided beard.

Squat with broad shoulders, a battle-axe tucked into a ring upon his belt, his arms were covered with tribal tattoos. His name was Garalt and he spoke with a Skandish accent easily recognised by Lorn – it was the same as his mother’s.

‘The scouts may return at any moment,’ replied the Count of Argor. ‘We would then need to wait for the men we sent out hunting. And perhaps in vain, if they come back empty-handed. We won’t let ourselves die of hunger, but we’ll hunt on the return journey, once we’ve accomplished our mission.’

A hoarse, bestial cry then tore the silence of the summits. It was not the first such cry Lorn had heard that morning, but none had been so close. He raised his head and examined the sky.

‘A male wyvern,’ Teogen indicated to him. ‘A challenge. It shouldn’t be long before we hear a—’

He could not finish his sentence.

A second cry rang out, before the echo of the previous one had died in the distance.

‘There!’ said Leister, pointing.

Two wyverns had just appeared above a rocky ridge. Two young males who circled one another in a furious ballet. They snapped at one another and struck with their claws, aiming to bite the neck or gut their adversary.

‘Two males fighting it out,’ said the Baron of Ortand.

He squinted, using one hand as a visor against the sun.

‘We’re approaching an area where the wyverns reproduce and build their nests,’ Teogen explained to Lorn. ‘We’re going to bypass it. The Ghelts won’t take the risk of crossing it and neither will we.’

‘Those two are just playing,’ said Leister.

He had barely glanced at the wyverns and, sitting on a big rock, made a show of being interested only in the piece of cheese he was eating with his knife.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Ortand in surprise.

‘Certain of it.’

Not knowing much about wild wyverns, Lorn was unable to say whether he was watching a real combat or a mock duel.

The baron turned towards Teogen.

‘Count? What do you think?’

‘I would have said the same as you …’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Ortand triumphantly. ‘Did you hear that, Leister?’

‘I heard.’

‘But knowing Leister, I would defer to his opinion,’ the count continued.

‘Really? Well, I still maintain that I am right,’ said Ortand.

‘I would not wager on it, if I were you.’

‘A wager? Now, that’s an idea!’

Lorn exchanged a knowing look with Teogen. The count had deliberately slipped in the idea of a wager and was glad that his knights, for a while at least, did not have their minds on the Ghelts.

‘What would you say to a wager, Leister?’ asked the baron.

‘That it’s easy money.’

The reply amused Ortand.

‘Twenty-five silver langres?’ he proposed.

‘Fifty?’

‘Done. Fifty.’

‘You’re wrong, Ortand,’ said Garalt. ‘You should have listened to the count.’

‘We’ll see about that. Do you accept, Leister?’

Leister carefully wrapped up the piece of cheese in his rag and wiped his knife upon his thigh. He could not appear more sure of himself, but without a hint of arrogance or jubilation. He simply displayed the tranquil certainty of being right.

‘I accept,’ he said. ‘Baron, you owe me fifty silver langres.’

And as if to support his claim, the wyverns ceased fighting at that precise instant. They flew off, playfully chasing one another.

There was some laughter, and even some mockery, which Ortand accepted with a good-natured smile.

‘Brothers, no doubt,’ he said. ‘True male rivals would have torn one another to pieces.’

‘I did warn you,’ said Teogen gleefully. ‘Leister knows more than any of us about wyverns.’

‘My word, it’s true … Leister, I shall pay you your fifty silver langres upon our return.’

Dorian of Leister stood up and turned towards the baron.

‘I don’t want them. Give them to the wretches who have lost everything because of the Ghelts instead.’

‘Understood. But in that case, I’ll double the amount.’

The two men exchanged a handshake before being congratulated by the others on their generosity. Teogen had a paternal smile upon his lips, a smile of mixed joy and pride.

But it soon faded.

The scouts were returning.

‘They’ve split up,’ said Orwain as he jumped down from his saddle.

He drank from the water bag offered to him, giving thanks with a glance, and added:

‘At Erm’s Fork, just as I thought. Two groups. One is headed towards the north pass and the other towards the east. The traces they’ve left are clear.’

‘How far ahead of us?’ asked Garalt.

‘Barely a half-day,’ said Orwain with satisfaction.

‘We have them!’ cried the Count of Argor, balling a vengeful fist.

They resumed their pursuit.

It had been agreed that the Count of Argor would take half of the troop towards the east pass, while the Baron of Ortand would lead the other half towards the north pass, which was further away. The two columns soon separated, each of them taking a large horn and an equal share of provisions. Despite the prospect of catching the Ghelts and confronting them at last, the men were in a sombre mood. In addition to their fatigue, they did not know when they would see one another next, or even if they would ever meet again.

Along with Orwain, Lorn and Leister were among those who accompanied Teogen. Garalt, Guilhem and others followed Ortand, each column comprising twenty to twenty-five riders. Lorn regretfully gave a parting nod to Garalt, who appeared to be a valiant combatant. The warrior with the braided beard and tattooed arms responded gravely to his salute. They had barely had the chance to speak and to become acquainted, but they instinctively felt a mutual esteem. Garalt, moreover, was aware that Skandish blood ran in Lorn’s veins.

Before they lost sight of one another, the two troops halted. Turning round, Teogen ordered the horn to be blown by way of a farewell. Ortand did the same and the count watched as the baron’s column moved away in good order up the valley. He was worried. An evil premonition nagged at him, but he did not let it show.

Or at least so he believed, until he saw Lorn watching him.

They exchanged a glance and the count realised that Lorn had guessed his feelings. How, Teogen did not know. The knight sent to him by the High King seemed to watch everything attentively from beneath his hood and behind his dark glasses. Perhaps they shared the same apprehension.

And perhaps for the same reason.

Instinct.

Teogen having given the departure signal, Lorn urged his horse forward with a cluck of his tongue.

They started off on a path that snaked its way along a rocky wall and climbed towards jagged ridges. They were aiming for an elevated pass that led to a high valley surrounded by three mountains whose peaks were invisible among the clouds. The riders formed a long file that progressed slowly along the edge of the precipice until the track became so narrow that prudence dictated they should continue on foot. The horses snorted nervously. They had to be held firmly by the bit to prevent them from taking a fatal sidestep when the rocks slipped beneath their hooves or when a sudden gust of wind spooked them by howling past their ears.

Orwain took the lead. He walked four or five switchbacks ahead of the others and often halted to read the traces left by the Ghelts, observing the surroundings and listening carefully. He had traded his light armour for chain mail and solid spaulders, but he was without a helmet, his white hair floating in the wind. The Count of Argor advanced at the head of the column, followed by Lorn. Leister closed the march, far behind them.

The afternoon was drawing to a close when the landslide surprised them.

Orwain gave the alert too late.

He saw the first boulders go by, which dislodged others, and then still more, lifting billows of dust, causing waves of rocks and pebbles to race down the slope, and mowing down the members of the column. Lorn dived for cover beneath a slight overhang, crouched down and protected his head between his elbows. Less lucky, other knights, soldiers and mounts were engulfed, broken, crushed, swept away and pushed out into thin air. The roar of the landslide drowned their cries. Struggling to breathe, debris raining down upon his shoulders, Lorn closed his eyes and waited.

Waited for the deafening din to cease.

Waited for the rolling hell that carried everything before it to finally halt …

And the landslide came to an end, almost suddenly.

His ears ringing, Lorn straightened up cautiously, still hesitant to raise his head above his shoulders. He coughed and spat, trying to see through the particles that were falling gently all around, while pebbles still came tumbling past. He could make out a massive silhouette, that of the Count of Argor, who, covered in dust, with a cut on his brow, came towards him.

‘All right?’

Lorn nodded and followed Teogen towards the heap of stones and dirt that covered the path behind them. They heard moans and plaintive whinnying coming from within. Blood flowed from between the blocks, forming red rivulets. The landslide had decimated the troop. Only those at the head and tail of the column had been spared.

And Orwain.

He arrived at a gallop as Teogen, Lorn and some others were already searching for survivors.

‘The Ghelts!’ he exclaimed, jumping down from the saddle. ‘They—’

‘Later!’ thundered the count. ‘Help us!’

Lorn, Leister and he were trying to lift a boulder that had trapped the leg of one poor fellow. Orwain lent them his strength but could not help saying, in an afflicted tone:

‘I saw them moving out. Not more than ten of them. It was a trap. A trap. The Ghelts … The Ghelts planned the whole thing. The detour, the Fork, the two paths, everything. And I led us into—’

He did not complete his sentence.

Like all the others, he grew still upon hearing a sound that froze his blood.

The sound of a horn blowing in the distance, mournful and lonely, carried by the echo.

‘Ortand!’ cried Teogen.

‘They’re under attack,’ said Lorn.