The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (26 page)

‘Who is he?’

‘No one knows. No doubt a former mercenary. But if you allow me to give you some advice, knight, I’d stay well clear of that monster.’

Lorn remained unperturbed.

‘And you? Have you had any problems with Yorgast and his clique?’

‘They don’t like me because I do what I can to help the needy and give them hope. I think Andara sees me as an opponent to his rule. An adversary.’

Lorn wondered if Andara was entirely mistaken on that score.

The influence of the Church of the Dragon-King had indeed spread, winning new converts each day. Among the powerful, to be sure. But above all, among the less well off, to whom it provided assistance. In these troubled times, it gained popularity by standing for justice, order and hope. As well as by feeding and caring for the poor. All the same, the black priests’ charity was not disinterested: it formed part of a strategy of conquest.

‘They’ll never dare come after me,’ added Father Eldrim. ‘The Unique protects me.’

He made the sign again.

‘You can count on my help,’ said Lorn. ‘Don’t hesitate to call on me if necessary. In the meantime, please allow me to pay for old Cadfeld’s care.’

He handed over a small purse. The priest took it, opened it, and said:

‘That’s far more than necessary.’

‘Devote the excess to the most destitute of your flock, father.’

‘For them, I thank you.’

Father Eldrim had just pocketed the purse when they heard a drumming on the dispensary door. They exchanged a puzzled look, stood up, and saw Daril, who burst into the courtyard, pursued by two or three nuns he’d charged past.

Red-faced, out of breath, the boy barely managed to enunciate:

‘Quickly! My lord … You need … You need to come right away!’

A great fire was blazing in the darkness, at the centre of the square, visible to all.

Dragged out of bed by the militia, the district’s inhabitants had gathered in the warm night. Hastily dressed, barefoot in some cases, they kept a safe distance from the glowing inferno without saying a word, fearful and vaguely incredulous, forced to watch an obscene spectacle. There were plenty of dishevelled heads at the windows and curious gawkers arriving by the streets, drawn by the uproar.

Someone was burning the life of a good man.

The flames were tall. Kindled by some flasks of alcohol, they devoured worm-eaten boards, a stool, a crate that had served as a table, a pallet and a blanket, some shabby carpet, torn books whose pages fluttered in the air as they took flame and were lifted by the warm air, and a whole series of odds-and-ends accumulated over time. Indeed, the militiamen were still feeding the bonfire with what remained of the paltry treasures – a stuffed bird that had served as a faithful and patient confidant, a small chipped box decorated with mother-of-pearl patterns, a collection of small empty bottles – that Cadfeld’s shack had contained before it was destroyed. It had only offered a feeble resistance. Two or three well-placed kicks had been enough to knock down its loose boards in a cloud of dust.

Andara smiled, satisfied, arms crossed upon his chest while his men finished tossing into the fire the little that a harmless old man had ever possessed. He was convinced the lesson would bear its fruits. This was what it cost to oppose the militia, to oppose him. By attacking his militiamen, someone had directly contested his authority. Like everyone else in the Redstone district, the person in question would learn there were consequences.

7

That night, in the square, Lorn chose not to intervene.

There was nothing that could be done to save Cadfeld’s cabin and a public confrontation with Andara would have been premature. So Lorn remained at a distance and kept Daril close to him, while Father Eldrim, for his part, briskly made his way through the crowd. The priest’s courage surprised Lorn, not hesitating to take Andara to task, accusing him of cruelty and cowardice.

He impressed Lorn all the more as he had little liking for the black priests or their dogma, which denied the divine nature of the Dragon with the exception of the Dragon-King, whom they called the ‘Unique’. According to them, the other Ancestrals were just emanations or incarnations of the Dragon-King. To venerate them was a heresy to be combated by words and preaching, but also by fire and the sword if necessary. In Lorn’s view, the Church of the Sacrificed Dragon-King embodied a faith he detested: intolerant, often blind, and sometimes fanatical.

Was it his faith that gave Father Eldrim the guts to stand up to Andara in front of everyone? And to insult him? Perhaps. But he seethed with an anger Lorn believed was genuine. He was clearly outraged and could remain silent no longer. Whatever the risks. Had he even thought about it before acting? Lorn somehow doubted it and observed Andara’s reaction.

Immense, massively built, the leader of the militiamen towered over the priest by a head. He withstood the diatribe without flinching. Then he leaned over and, in the midst of a deadly silence, the entire group of onlookers holding their breath, he said a few words in the priest’s ear, which Lorn learned of afterwards:

‘Go away, father. Go away before it’s too late and someone else pays the price for you this evening.’

Then he had added:

‘We’ll settle this little dispute later …’

Furious but impotent, fearful that innocent victims would suffer Andara’s wrath because of him, Father Eldrim had given up and retreated.

‘A curse be upon your head!’

‘Come now, father. Where’s that compassion inspired by the Unique’s love for us all?’

Andara had then ordered his men to clear the square.

The militia members unceremoniously drove the crowd away while the fire died. The inhabitants of Redstone went home docilely. Lorn was one of the last to leave, once he was certain that Andara had seen him. They exchanged a glance, each of them recognising in the other a mortal enemy.

Daril did not understand why Lorn had stood by without intervening. But he said nothing about it and, Lorn having taken him into his service with the blessing of his father and Sibellus, he carried out his tasks with zeal during the days that followed.

The boy soon became a familiar figure in the neighbourhood. He was the valet of the knight in the Black Tower and everyone sought his good graces in the hope of finding out a little more about his master. Daril knew better than to say anything, made all the easier since Lorn told him nothing of his projects. Besides, he scarcely had time to enjoy his sudden popularity, Lorn preferring to keep him within the walls surrounding the tower. Lorn was convinced the militia would not let matters lie. He was afraid that Andara would single out Daril to reach him and thus deemed it prudent that the boy not venture out into Redstone too frequently. So he only occasionally entrusted him with running errands or gathering news of Cadfeld, as well as of Father Eldrim, who Lorn was sure was now in danger.

One morning, shortly before noon, Lorn returned from a printer with some small posters he had ordered two days earlier. He gave them to Daril and told him to put them up in the district, but to keep an eye open and not stray too far from the tower. Daril read one of the leaflets and his eyes opened wide in astonishment. But as Lorn was looking at him and waiting, he dared not ask any questions and went off.

An hour later, he was back.

The rubble and debris that Lorn had cleared formed a pile in the courtyard. It had to be carried away and work started on restoring the tower, which Lorn could not do, even with the help of Daril – who proved to be more dangerous with a hammer than an oil lamp in a powder magazine. Lorn now needed competent workers and a master builder capable of organising the work and supervising the construction site.

The whole Black Tower was threatening to come down and its collapsed roofing had smashed through the upper floors. The simplest thing, no doubt, would have been to demolish it and rebuild. But even if it meant using up all the money given to him by the Count of Argor, Lorn was determined to establish himself in the last Black Tower in Oriale for the same reason he had done as much as possible without assistance: as a symbol.

But there was still one last task he needed to perform on his own, a task he had already postponed for far too long.

‘Daril, fetch me the big sledgehammer.’

The drawbridge had remained blocked, and with construction work soon to begin, mules, handcarts and wagons would need to go in and out. Lorn had identified the defective parts in the mechanism, those that – after centuries of disuse – were stopping the chains from unwinding. He had tried to clean them, to remove them, to gently force them. To no avail. They were caught in the rust and sedimentary dust and now formed a single, solid, lump.

It had gone on long enough.

So it was with a heavy mallet on his shoulder that Lorn, in shirtsleeves, crossed the courtyard broiling in the sun that day. After spitting into his palms, he struck and struck again with great steady blows …

… until he could keep it up no longer and, arms stiff and shoulders aching, went to drink some water from the well.

He had exhausted himself for an hour to no avail. The mechanism seemed irreparably stuck in an accretion as solid as granite and Lorn was starting to seriously consider freeing the drawbridge by cutting the chains, something he had resisted doing since the beginning.

He has just poured water on his head from a bucket that Daril had hauled up when, his face still dripping with cool water, he squinted on seeing someone enter the courtyard. He put his spectacles back on and recognised the veteran who had been to conversing with Cadfeld and two others at the inn.

‘Go and find something to do, Daril.’

The boy nodded and went off without arguing.

The veteran didn’t seem to have a clear idea of how to proceed or where to go. He finally approached Lorn who, expressionless, did not take his eyes off him.

‘Good day.’

Lorn replied with a nod of the head.

‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked.

The man nodded and drank from the bucket.

‘It’s fresh,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Thanks.’

Lorn examined him.

He was taller than Lorn, with enormous hands, a thick beard and a gentle gaze. A cross-shaped scar split his right cheekbone. His clothing was humble, patched and worn, but clean. He had old rope sandals on his feet and carried a carefully wrapped sword upon his back.

‘I saw the posters,’ he explained. ‘Is it true, what they say?’

‘It’s true.’

The former soldier took some time to absorb the news.

For he was a former soldier, Lorn was certain of it, even if he still did not know his name.

‘You were at the battle of Urdel?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What company?’

‘Langre-Azure.’

‘I was in Langre-Silver,’ Lorn declared.

The mutual esteem between the two soldiers was immediate. They sized one another up, until Lorn said:

‘There will be some hard knocks and we’ll need to get our hands dirty at times. But we’ll have a chance to make a difference. For the High King. And for the High Kingdom.’

‘That suits me.’

‘You don’t want to know about the pay?’

‘No.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Liam.’

Lorn held out his hand to the veteran.

‘Welcome to the Onyx Guard, Liam.’

They hadn’t finished shaking hands when they heard the noise a metallic mass might make striking a rock.

There was a very long creak.

Then a sharp crack and, with a furious clicking of great chains unwinding, the drawbridge lowered with a thud onto the street paving, lifting a thick cloud of dust.

After a moment which stretched into a long silence, Daril appeared.

Dumbfounded but delighted, he was holding the mallet.

Just as Lorn had asked him, he’d found something to do, and one blow had been enough.

8

Talinn Yorgast looked up from the poster that Andara had brought him. It bore the Black Tower’s silhouette and the following inscription: ‘The Onyx Guard is recruiting.’

‘Well?’

‘Did you recognise the seal?’

There was a red wax seal fixed to the bottom of the poster. To make it out, Yorgast had to approach one of the torches that illuminated the terrace of his summer garden that evening.

A wolf’s head on two crossed swords.

And a crown.

Yorgast recalled the ironic manner in which his uncle had dismissed the idea that the High King’s knight might try to reconstitute the Onyx Guard on his own. The calm evinced by the minister had impressed him and he wanted to instil the same effect now.

‘The Onyx Guard will not be reborn with a few posters,’ he said with a disdainful shrug. ‘Is this why you’re pestering me, Andara?’

‘The Onyx Guard or another, it makes no difference to me,’ replied his henchman.

Which disturbed the prefect of the Redstone district.

‘Pardon?’

‘The troubling thing is that he’s recruiting,’ explained Andara. ‘First, the man takes possession of the Black Tower. Then he gives four of my men a hiding and becomes thick with that blasted priest. Now, he’s recruiting.’

‘So what?’

‘Believe me, this man is dangerous.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, Andara. There’s no question of that.’

‘He would disappear. No one would ever know what became of him.’

‘No!’ snapped Yorgast.

Andara waited for a moment and said calmly:

‘He’s becoming popular. Soon it will be too late. Sometimes all it takes is for just one man to rise—’

‘I know, I know …’ the prefect interrupted him.

The situation worried him more than he wanted to let on. He wasn’t keen on anyone – and certainly not a royal representative – doing as they pleased in the Redstone district. But Esteveris had been absolutely clear: it was out of the question to touch a single hair on the head of this Lorn Askarian. The signet ring on his finger protected him.

‘Keep an eye on him,’ said Yorgast. ‘But I forbid you to go after him.’

‘Understood.’

Andara left, leaving the poster behind.

Talinn Yorgast could say and order what he liked, but he did not know what really went on in Redstone. Andara did and he had a lot more to lose than the prefect if the district slipped from his grasp and its inhabitants started to grow restless. He had done the right thing by burning down that old fool’s shack in full view of everyone.

But now, he would have to strike harder.

And higher.