The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (27 page)

9

Reik Vahrd crossed the Black Tower’s drawbridge one morning, at the reins of an old creaking wagon that transported the royal blacksmith’s most precious possession: his anvil.

‘Our forge may be in ruins, but it does still have an anvil, didn’t you know that?’ jested Lorn, coming up as Vahrd stepped down from his seat.

‘Not like this one.’

‘You mean ours isn’t as hard as that old head of yours?’

‘Not half.’

Happily, they exchanged a warm and virile embrace, the sort that cut off breath, crushed ribs and cracked shoulder blades. Vahrd didn’t know any other kind.

‘I’m truly glad to see you,’ said Lorn.

‘Me too.’

‘Did you have a good trip?’

‘It’s a long road from the Citadel …’

‘But you came alone? And Naé? Didn’t she accompany you?’

The old blacksmith scowled.

‘No. I’ll explain later.’

Lorn sensed a problem but did not insist. Besides, Vahrd was already changing the subject, looking about him, his hands on his hips.

‘So you’re really gone and installed yourself in this ruin,’ he observed.

Lorn had informed him of his intentions before leaving the Citadel, the same evening he proposed that Vahrd join the Onyx Guard and help him accomplish the mission the king had set for him. Vahrd had asked for a night to think it over before agreeing – and then only on condition that the High King freed him from his service.

Which made him the first man that Lorn had recruited.

The first Onyx Guard.

In the courtyard flooded with sunshine, Lorn saw Liam coming out on the keep’s porch, squinting in the dazzling light. He had been working inside when he heard the wagon arrive and had emerged to see what was going on. He was in his shirtsleeves, grey with dust, his brow shining and his armpits darkened by sweat.

Lorn signalled for him to join them.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Vahrd.

‘Liam. My first recruit. That is, after you.’

Lorn made the introductions and Liam could not hide his emotion on learning who the other man was. Reik Vahrd was not simply the High King’s blacksmith, the person who forged his weapons and armour, the person – to a large extent – on whom Erklant II’s life had depended in battle. He had also been the king’s companion in arms during several wars both heroic and glorious, at the beginning of Erklant’s reign.

Sensing what was going through Liam’s mind, Vahrd gave him a friendly, knowing wink.

‘That’s fine,’ he said with a frank smile. ‘Glad to make your acquaintance.’

‘It’s … It’s an honour.’

‘That will pass after a few drinks … And that one? Another recruit?’

Vahrd pointed to Daril who was approaching, beaming and curious, Yssaris held in his arms.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ replied Lorn. ‘He’s been keeping me company for the last few weeks, and I have no cause for complaint. The other one is Daril, my … squire.’

‘Hello, Daril.’

‘Good morning, my lord.’

Escaping from the boy, the ginger cat went to have a look at the newly arrived cart and the horse that pulled it.

Lorn took Vahrd by the arm.

‘Come. I’ll show you the forge. Or rather, what’s left of it.’

They went for a walk.

Built against the outer wall, the forge had been abandoned, like the rest of the Black Tower. There scarcely remained anything beyond the walls and a few wooden crossbeams, the roof having long since collapsed.

Arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, Lorn watched as Vahrd toured the place, stepping over brush and debris, and examined the forge itself, whose chimney still rose bravely into the air. Lorn used the time to inform the blacksmith of essential matters. He spoke to him of Sibellus, Andara, the prefect Yorgast, and what he had discovered about life in the Redstone district. Vahrd listened in silence, attentively but without interrupting his inspection of the premises. His glance finally landed scornfully on the anvil covered with rust and ivy that stood in the middle of the rubble.

Lorn waited a moment, and then asked:

‘So? Naé? Did she decide to stay behind?’

Vahrd shrugged. The gesture did not indicate ignorance, however, but rather embarrassment over how to reply.

‘As a matter of fact, she left the Citadel shortly after you did.’

‘To go where?’

‘I’m not sure. We … We had something of a quarrel.’

‘About what?’

Another awkward shrug of the shoulders.

‘She didn’t like my accepting your offer to join the Onyx Guard at my age. But more than that, she …’ Fearing to say too much, Vahrd chose his words carefully. ‘She made a decision I did not approve of.’

The old blacksmith’s precaution puzzled Lorn.

‘Why all this mystery?’ he asked.

‘It was her choice …’ Vahrd blurted out.

Lorn decided not to persist, but Vahrd continued:

‘I raised her to be independent and make up her own mind. I wasn’t going to stop her doing what she wanted just because it displeased me, was I?’

He seemed be seeking reassurance, some answer Lorn did not possess. Then, abruptly ashamed of having given way to a moment of weakness, the old blacksmith looked down, and Lorn had no idea how to assuage a father’s fears.

There was a prolonged silence.

Then Lorn came to a decision that relieved both of them, and acted as if nothing had happened.

The old blacksmith looked over the ruined forge one last time before giving an appreciative nod and saying:

‘My anvil will soon be singing in here.’

After Vahrd, others came.

They turned up as summer progressed and scaffolding rose around the Black Tower. Most of them were drawn by rumour. Andara had the posters torn down almost as quickly as they were put up but soon it was no longer necessary to replace them. Word of mouth worked perfectly well, especially among soldiers by trade and veterans nostalgic for the lost glory of the High Kingdom. It was said there was a new First Knight of the Realm and that he was recruiting for the Onyx Guard. A madman, perhaps. But this madman had Reik Vahrd with him, one of the High King’s last remaining stalwarts …

So each week new candidates turned up.

Lorn received them in the presence of Vahrd, whom he looked to whenever he felt hesitant. Often, however, a mere glance sufficed to reject a volunteer. Lorn wanted men capable of fighting and riding a horse. But who would also obey orders, and endure pain and fatigue. Above all, he was looking for men obsessed by an ideal, men of honour and duty who had lost everything just as he had and yet preserved within them a secret flame.

A sacred flame.

Lorn recruited only four men in all those weeks.

Dwain, a red-headed colossus with a back striped by scars, who had been a farrier in the army of Ansgarn before being sent to the galleys. Yeras, a scout who – with a slit throat and an arrowhead in his left eye – had been left for dead at the end of a suicide mission in the Grey Steppes. Eriad, a young and attractive blond-headed man who dreamed of great deeds and heroic victories.

And Logan.

The latter showed up one evening with a sword at his side and its twin upon his back. Taciturn, he seemed wary of everyone and barely responded to Lorn’s questions. The interview went badly, to the point that the man was already turning to leave when Vahrd called him back.

‘Just a minute!’

Rather satisfied to see Logan departing, Lorn stared at the old blacksmith in surprise.

‘Mercenary?’ asked Vahrd.

‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘Almost as long as I can remember.’

‘You respect the Code?’

Logan lifted his sleeve and displayed the mark, branded by red-hot iron upon his wrist, borne by all mercenaries who swore to exercise their trade according to the commandments about courage and loyalty set out in the Iron Code.

Vahrd pretended to mull matters over, and then said:

‘The two swords, are they merely for show?’

The question was deliberately provocative but Logan didn’t rise to it.

‘No.’

Another man might have drawn the weapons to put on a demonstration, performed a few practice strokes supposed to demonstrate his skill.

Not Logan.

Vahrd, then, smiled. And without consulting Lorn, he said:

‘Be here tomorrow at dawn.’

The mercenary nodded and went off without uttering either a word of thanks or farewell.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lorn, watching Logan leave the courtyard.

‘Certain,’ replied Vahrd.

He had recognised a suffering in the mercenary’s eye that was only too familiar to him. The man was in search of redemption.

‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘I don’t care much for Eriad.’

Lorn pulled a face.

‘Bah! He dreams of glory a little too much, but so what? He’s still young.’

‘He’s only five years younger than you.’

‘I dreamed of glory five years ago.’

Lorn’s face grew dark, thinking of who he had once been and could never be again.

The old blacksmith muttered a little more.

But embarrassed at having indirectly – and not at all deliberately – awoken bad memories in his friend, he finally cleared his throat and said:

‘Well, let’s just say I allow you Eriad and you allow me Logan …’

Lorn nodded.

‘What do you make of the others?’

Vahrd thought briefly before replying:

‘I like Dwain. I’d rely on him. I’m less sure about Yeras. Even with just the one eye, I reckon he’s seen death up too close.’

‘And Liam?’

‘With him, don’t worry. Make him your lieutenant.’

10

Life became more organised over the next few days at the Black Tower.

The first Onyx Guards fraternised and got to know one another, except for Logan who often preferred to remain apart. In the evening, when everyone gathered round a campfire at the end of a hard day’s work, he remained silent and ducked away after saluting the company with a brief nod of the head. Their meals together were, however, friendly and often joyful affairs at the foot of the keep, beneath the stars. Sitting on pieces of beams or sacks of plaster, Lorn and his men ate, drank and spoke as people do when making acquaintance, alternating their own stories with questions aimed at others, and giving up some of their own half-secrets.

Daril listened to the talk, delighted, his face heated by the fire, and often he nearly burned the meat he was supposed to be watching. His admiration for Lorn remained as strong as ever, but he positively worshipped Vahrd whose hilarious anecdotes and epic tales enthralled him: in his eyes, the old blacksmith was a sort of demigod stepped out of heroic times. Indeed, the others felt almost the same way about him, impressed by his stature and his experience, but also comforted by his gruff modesty and natural frankness. They nicknamed him ‘the Old Man’ with a mixture of respect and affection. It rather pleased Vahrd and he allowed them to get away with it, so much that even Lorn sometimes found himself calling him that.

The Old Man enjoyed a special status no one disputed: that of Lorn’s close confidant. But following Vahrd’s advice, Liam became Lorn’s right-hand man. It was a wise choice. The veteran was rigorous and precise, dependable and effective. If he gave his opinion, it was never more than once and thereafter he carried out orders without further discussion. Discreet and thorough, he was capable of taking initiatives. Moreover, he kept his eye on everything and reported to Lorn what he needed to know; which meant he did not report everything. A perfect lieutenant.

One of his duties was overseeing the restoration work.

As it was time to tackle the structural repairs in the keep, Lorn was determined to hire trained workmen and artisans. For the timbers, he had called upon Daril’s father, Elbor Sarne, and asked him to recommend a capable overseer. Sarne recommended several men for whom he had worked or knew by reputation, but all of them refused the contract or desisted very quickly. It could not be a coincidence. Was the prefect Yorgast pulling strings? Or was Andara making threats? Whatever the case, the result was plain: no one seemed willing to take charge of the repair work in the Black Tower.

Except for Sarne himself, whom Lorn finally asked without concealing the risks involved:

‘The news won’t please Andara at all.’

‘Andara has laid down the law in Redstone long enough,’ Daril’s father replied after a moment’s reflection.

So the two men sealed their agreement with a handshake.

Lorn did not regret his decision.

Sarne proved to be competent. He had spent enough time on building sites to be able to direct one himself. He had the experience and authority required, and enjoyed the respect and trust of the artisans he hired because he belonged to the local building trade, like them. He hired the best. The keep was furnished with scaffolding inside and out, and Lorn and his men worked without protest, sweating and toiling in the sunshine like simple manual labourers. The evening found them tired but glad to be taking part in the rebirth of Oriale’s last Black Tower.

It became their tower.

The one they were building and would defend if necessary.

The first days of labour, however, were terrible for Eriad. Lorn and Vahrd watched him exhaust himself, while his tender hands that had never seen hard toil were worked bloody. But he did not give up and never complained. His self-sacrifice earned him the esteem of the other Onyx Guards, who until then had regarded him with a wariness tinged by scorn. Even Vahrd acknowledged that he had perhaps been mistaken and recruited Eriad to help him, along with Dwain, restore the forge.

The work was proceeding well, accompanied by the blows of hammers, the singing of saws, the squeaking of pulleys and the comings and goings of carts. The scaffolding climbed higher and higher about the keep. The barracks were made habitable. The forge gained a roof. No incident disturbed the progress of the building site, but Lorn remained on edge.

The Black Tower’s forge was working only two weeks after Vahrd’s arrival. The royal blacksmith could then repair the equipment and tools used by the workmen engaged in restoring the tower, but also make the kit that the new Onyx Guard needed.

First of all, Lorn asked Vahrd to forge the armour and reinforced hoods that would allow them to be recognised in public. He wanted them to wear black leather lined with chain mail, in order to combine suppleness and sturdiness. And he wanted hoods rather than helmets, which restricted the field of vision too much. The blacksmith produced several models which Lorn tried on one after another, requesting an adjustment here, an improvement there. And each time, Vahrd carried out the modifications. Often, the hammer rang against his anvil until well into the night.

Finally, one evening after dinner, Daril came seeking Lorn.

‘Your armour is ready, my lord.’

Lorn followed the boy across the courtyard. Night had fallen and, with the workmen gone, the Black Tower seemed deserted. A peaceful silence reigned beneath the Nebula. Only Logan was still on watch.

Vahrd was waiting on the forge’s threshold, his broad silhouette outlined by red-orange light. He bade Lorn to enter and presented him with the armour he had just finished. Lorn immediately tried it on. He admired its lightness and made a few movements to test its flexibility.

‘Well?’ the blacksmith enquired.

‘It feels like this is finally right.’

‘I was inspired by a type of armour I saw a long time ago. The man who wore it said he took it from a Drakhen knight. I didn’t believe it, but the armour was handsome. A little heavier than this, perhaps.’

‘It’s perfect.’

Lorn took two swords from a rack, threw one to Vahrd, adopted a guard stance, and the two men sparred within the forge, much to Daril’s delight. It wasn’t a matter of winning, but rather of testing attacks, parries and feints, all of the sequences likely to be carried out in mortal combat. The duel looked like the real thing, except that Lorn and the blacksmith were smiling and at times exaggerating their gestures. The boy did not miss the slightest move, even miming a sidestep or a riposte on occasion.

‘Bravo,’ said Lorn when the bout was over.

‘Thank you.’

Vahrd was out of breath, but his arm hadn’t weakened, as Lorn had seen for himself.

‘You weren’t just testing the armour, were you?’ the old royal blacksmith asked him.

‘No,’ admitted Lorn. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I quite understand.’

A silence settled in the forge as Daril helped Lorn remove the armour. The knight could easily have managed on his own, but the boy took his duties as squire very seriously. And squires helped knights remove their armour, didn’t they? Lorn and Vahrd exchanged a glance and tried not to smile.

At last, Daril headed off carrying the armour, with instructions to grease it in order to make the leather more supple and to protect the steel mail.

‘The next armour you make will be your own,’ said Lorn to the blacksmith from the forge’s doorstep. ‘The others will come and see you after that so you can take their measurements …’

‘Understood.’

‘We may need that armour soon, Vahrd.’

‘I know.’

Like Lorn, Vahrd had a hunch that Andara would not stand idly by for long without moving against them. For the moment, he contented himself with keeping a watch on the Black Tower and its occupants, while his militiamen made their presence felt more than ever in Redstone and imposed a silent menace on the district.

‘Are you planning to go and see Sibellus, this evening?’

Lorn nodded.

‘I’m already late.’

At first, after dinner, he had tried to study the documents the master archivist had sent him on his own. But being very tired, he had often fallen asleep over a legal text or a commentary on a little-known excerpt from the
Chronicles
. So he’d adopted the habit of visiting Sibellus to ask him to read and explain the most important texts. Lorn thus assured himself of the legality of his prerogatives as First Knight of the Realm and discovered what the Onyx Guard had once been. Created and then dissolved by Erklant I, it had entered into legend and seemed to belong to an unreal, heroic past. But the duties and attributions of this elite troop were by no means imaginary.

‘Be careful,’ Vahrd advised him.

‘I’ll be back before midnight.’

‘Ask Logan to go with you. In any case, he never sleeps, that one.’

‘As you like. But I don’t believe Andara will attack me directly.’

‘Even so, keep an eye out.’

‘I promise.’

Lorn went off with a smile.

‘And take Logan with you!’ Vahrd reminded him from within the forge.