The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (8 page)

11

‘Woe to he whose body is embraced by the Dark. Woe to he whose soul it embraces. Woe to he who hears its Call and woe to he who answers. Woe to he who, in his entirety, is delivered unto it.’

Chronicles (The Book of Prayers)

Lorn plunged straight into the river and disappeared beneath its dark, swift waters.

The current carried him away.

Dazed by the shock of a fifty-foot fall, he resurfaced downstream. He took a great gulp of air and did his best to keep his head above water. But he was weak and disoriented. His movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Moreover, he had to struggle in the darkness, with only one able arm, against treacherous eddies and whirlpools. His boots had filled with water and were pulling him towards the bottom. Luckily, the bonds that Elana had hastily knotted had come undone around his wrists.

Battered and tossed about, Lorn thought he was going to drown and almost knocked himself out against the pile of a bridge before grabbing hold of it.

It was a brief respite.

He did not have the energy to call out and knew that he would not be able to hang on for long. He looked for some means of rescue, a hope, anything. His troubled vision allowed him a glimpse of a stairway that descended from a quay to the river.

Perhaps he could reach it …

Lorn drew a deep breath, calculated his trajectory by instinct, and let go. The battle he waged against the current used up his remaining strength. He swallowed water several times, thought he’d missed his target, but finally succeeded in dragging himself out of the water onto the stone steps.

He remained still for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the celebrations and the conversations of people who walked by without seeing him. Then, shaking and feverish, he stood and climbed the stairs on trembling legs. His left arm was one great throb of pain. His clenched hand barely responded to his commands and when he tried to move his frozen fingers, a burning sensation radiated through them to the tips of his nails.

He was close to the port. The inhabitants were a more mixed and dangerous lot than on the city heights, but the neighbourhood was perfect for disappearing. Soaked and limping, keeping his head bowed, he slipped into the flow of passers-by without anyone taking notice of him or showing alarm at his state.

Yet he had never felt so physically ill. He was both hot and shivering from cold. There was a whistling in his ears. He was crippled by cramps. Steel claws raked his guts. He did not know the cause of his state and found it difficult to think. Impossible to concentrate or follow an idea to its conclusion. It occurred to him that he should return to the palace, but he quickly dismissed this notion out of fear that Elana’s men would be waiting there for him.

Besides, he was thirsty.

Very thirsty.

Yes, a few glasses of wine would do him good …

Still dripping, Lorn entered the first tavern he came across.

He sat in a corner, having to start over twice as he counted out the money he had on him, and ordered a jug of wine. The tavern was seedy but he didn’t care. He just wanted to drink and drink, hoping the wine would kill the fever and his pains.

So he drank.

A young girl brought him a second jug of wine. She was winsome, rather plump, with a pretty mouth and beautiful chestnut curls, not yet twenty years in age. She smiled at him and thereafter often caught his eye by smiling again. He responded mechanically. He even found some comfort in it, but soon perceived that he was attracting hostile gazes from a group of sailors seated at a neighbouring table. At first, he thought he might be mistaken, but no, it was him they were eyeing as they spoke in low voices.

Lowering his eyes he saw that the leather band around the Dark’s seal on his left hand had come undone. In the dim light, the dark red stone medallion resembled a clot of blood and the rune looked almost black. As if caught doing something shameful, Lorn hid both hands beneath the table.

The sailors rose, looking grim.

Surmising they were about to have a go at him, Lorn decided to leave. He was in no shape to fight and had only one desire: to be left in peace until he felt better. He bolted, making a detour in the crowded room, trying not to cross anyone’s gaze. He did not linger, wending his way among the tables and customers, leaving by a small door that led him into a sordid-looking alley. The sailors had already lost sight of him, but as soon as he set foot outside, someone shoved him from behind.

Lorn fell headlong upon the filthy paving stones. His breath cut short, it took him a moment to understand what had happened. The person who’d bumped into him so violently had meant him no harm: the man was being attacked by four others, who were amusing themselves by hitting him and pushing him back and forth within their circle. Lorn, too busy looking out for himself, had walked right into the middle of the brawl.

He picked himself up, wiping his mouth.

In the alley, there was no one else except Lorn, the four louts and the wretch, who, struck in the head, had collapsed and was now receiving a flurry of kicks. The thought of intervening occurred to Lorn. It mattered little to him what this man had done. He was on the ground and, four against one, might die if no one stepped in. His aggressors were running amok, drunk and relentless. Soon they would be kicking an inert, bloody heap.

But Lorn stayed rooted in place, hugging his left arm tightly against his body …

The biggest of the four men caught his eye. Leaving the others to finish their work, he straightened up and, displaying a nasty little smile on his lips, took a step towards Lorn. He was heavy and fat. Sweat beaded his brow and the knuckles of his fists were scraped raw. Intrigued at first, he calmly looked Lorn up and down, silently challenging him to make a move.

Lorn swallowed. He was trembling.

Without taking his eyes off Lorn’s, the lout opened his trousers and turned to one side in order to urinate on the victim’s sprawled body. As he pissed, he continued to stare at Lorn. After which he gave a loud snort and refastened his trousers while Lorn bowed his head and turned on his heels.

Sick, broken and defeated, Lorn slowly walked away.

Behind him, he heard the big lout snicker and spit scornfully.

Lorn vomited against a wall two streets further on.

The wine had added drunkenness to his fever without easing his pain. He felt lost and abandoned. Attacked by the Dark, his body was betraying him. And his will, his strength of character, was weakening as well.

He was delirious.

Dalroth had got the better of him. There had been the nightmares and the haunted nights. There had been the solitude and the despair in the shadows of his cell. And at the end of this long, slow ordeal, only two outcomes were open to him: madness or oblivion.

Lorn had believed that he’d defeated the cursed fortress by avoiding madness, cheating the Dark’s spectres. But he was wrong. For although he had not become demented, he was now no more than the shadow of a vanished man.

He felt gazes upon him, gazes that perhaps he only imagined but were unbearable all the same. Leaving the animation of the festive streets, he entered a back alley.

Fleeing.

He disgusted himself.

Humiliated and distraught, Lorn was overcome by dizziness and vomited again. He hadn’t eaten anything and had been drinking throughout the evening. He had no idea where he was and could not care less. He just wanted to disappear.

At the entrance to the porch of a building, he raised a sweating face to the night sky. His gaze sank into those eternal depths and his thoughts took him back to Dalroth and the night he was freed, when he found himself backed up against the ramparts.

He suddenly burst into sobs.

‘I should have jumped,’ he murmured, letting himself slide down the wall.

He fell sitting on the ground and took his head in his hands.

‘I should have jumped,’ he repeated in a broken voice. ‘Jumped …’

12

‘Well! You look more in need of this than me …’

Lorn lifted his head from between his hands.

A man he had not noticed before was sitting in the shadow of the porch. A beggar. And he was offering Lorn a bottle.

Lorn hesitated, wiped his nose and mouth on the back of his sleeve.

‘Go on, have a drink!’ the man insisted.

Lorn took the bottle in a shaking hand. After all, anything would do to take away the foul taste in his mouth.

Though …

Lorn grimaced after the first gulp and swallowed it down with difficulty.

‘Not exactly first-rate, is it?’ the beggar commented wryly.

‘Not really, no.’

‘It’s the wine the burghers gave to the city to celebrate the prince’s visit. Believe me, they’re drinking better stuff up there, at the governor’s palace. But the rest of us are supposed to drink this and give thanks for it.’

The beggar fell silent for a moment.

‘I’m called Delio.’

‘Lorn.’

‘Have another drink, Lorn. You’ll get used to it, I assure you.’

Lorn obeyed and immediately regretted it. To be sure, the wine seemed less foul, but not to the point of giving it a third chance. He returned the bottle to the beggar, who drained it in a few gulps.

‘And I wouldn’t worry so much if I were you. I know what ails you. It will pass,’ said Delio in a reassuring voice.

Lorn looked at him steadily and the beggar understood.

‘Oh,’ he said knowingly. ‘I see.’

‘What do you see?’

‘It’s the first time it’s happened to you, isn’t it?’

‘You know what’s wrong with me?’

‘Well, that depends. Do you use kesh?’

‘No.’

‘Then yes, I know.’

Delio stood up and left the darkness of the porch. Intrigued, Lorn stood up in turn, leaning on the wall. His legs trembled a little, but they supported him.

‘What …? What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

His impatience had made his voice hoarse and menacing.

Normally, he would have paid no attention to the beggar. But he was so far at a loss concerning the illness afflicting him that he was ready to hear anything, to listen to anyone.

And perhaps even believe what he was told.

‘Where did you catch that?’ Delio enquired.

With a glance and a movement of his chin, he designated Lorn’s marked hand. Lorn realised that the Dark’s mark was again visible. And once again he covered it up with his right hand.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said the beggar, removing the filthy hood that covered his head.

He had a craggy, badly shaven face, whose left cheek was eaten by a purple, venous crust. It was the purple plague, the plague of the Dark. It wasn’t contagious, but there was no cure for it.

Lorn understood why the man stank of rotten meat as well as filth.

‘Well?’ insisted Delio. ‘Where did you catch it? In the Deadlands?’

Without really knowing why, Lorn decided to tell the truth.

‘Dalroth.’

The beggar’s eyes grew wide.

‘Dalroth?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, damn me … My compliments.’

He was speechless for a moment, and then asked suddenly:

‘Can you stand us a round?’

‘You said you knew what’s wrong with me,’ said Lorn.

He was growing tired.

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Tell me!’

Delio retreated a step, but obeyed.

‘You must know what happens when a kesh smoker is suddenly deprived of his favourite drug …’

Lorn knew only too well. But he was too weary and too ill to be truly moved by the memory of Alan lying in his filth, a cold pipe in his lips. He was not even sure he was still capable of compassion.

‘Withdrawal,’ he said.

‘That’s right. Well, you’re going through the same thing, but with the Dark.’

Ignoring the pain in his left hand, Lorn seized the beggar by the collar. His eyes flashed with anger.

‘I … I said you wouldn’t like it!’ Delio yelped.

‘What are you talking about?’

The beggar was gasping for air.

‘It’s … the Dark … Your body … It’s … It’s grown used to … It … needs …’

Lorn shoved him away violently before he could finish his sentence.

‘You lie!’

Toppling backwards, Delio had struck a wall. He rubbed his neck and said:

‘All right, all right … Perhaps I’m mistaken then …’

‘And why should I listen to you?’ rumbled Lorn. ‘Why should I believe you? Why should I believe the ranting of a stinking, filthy wretch! A beggar! One who’s being eaten alive by the Dark!’ he spat. ‘So? Why should I?’

His gaze was still filled with rage. But it was also the gaze of a man who was lost, adrift, for whom rebellion and denial were the last recourse.

‘Because you’re really not any better off than I am?’ suggested Delio.

Lorn froze, struck in the heart.

Fearing he was about to receive another blow, the beggar cringed. But Lorn only stared at him and reflected, despite the torments of his fever, standing there shivering, his eye haunted by a painful uncertainty.

He suffered a dizzy spell.

His knees gave out and he would have fallen if Delio had not rushed forward to grab him.

‘Steady now! Stay with me, friend …’

Smaller than Lorn, the beggar had difficulty holding him up. But Lorn leaned on his shoulder and eventually recovered.

‘All right?’ asked Delio anxiously.

‘I should have jumped.’

‘Jumped from where?’

‘From on top of a rampart.’

‘That’s rarely a good idea. Can you walk?’

‘I … I think so, yes.’

‘And do you have any money?’

‘A little.’

‘That will do. Come on, we’ll soon set you right …’

They took a bridge over the Eirdre and walked into Bejofa.

They dined on soup in a cheap eating place and then visited a series of squalid taverns. They went from alley to alley, crossed back courtyards darker than wells, descended into cellars where people drank to pass out and forget. It was a sordid and dangerous world. One’s throat could be slit for a copper belt buckle, girls exchanged their favours for the promise of sleeping in a bed, and famished children begged at the doors of kesh-smoking dens. But no one asked questions in this world. And no one judged anyone else here.

Lorn ended up feeling at ease with Delio.

He had followed the beggar without thinking at first, and then out of weakness. He let himself be towed along. The soup had revived him some, while the darkness of the places they visited reassured him. The worst of his fit of illness seemed to have passed. He still suffered from cramps but he felt better and, despite his fatigue, was starting to enjoy the beggar’s company.

The man was likeable. He only stopped talking to whistle for jugs and bottles which Lorn willingly paid for. Born in Sarme, Delio was a former sailor who had spent the first part of his life at sea and not re-embarked after a stopover in port. Delio himself could not say why. At the appointed hour, he’d ordered another glass of wine instead of returning on board. That had happened in Samarande, fifteen years earlier.

‘I tell myself that one day, perhaps, I will leave on another ship. But I know that it won’t happen. I’ll die here. And as far as dying goes, this city is as good as any, am I right?’

Lorn had nodded.

The beggar was talkative but he wasn’t inquisitive. Besides, he knew all he needed to about Lorn: the man had money and was willing to spend it buying Delio drinks. On that point, Lorn had no illusions. He did not doubt that Delio would abandon him as soon as he ceased paying and would forget all about Lorn by the following day. But it didn’t matter. Delio distracted him. He was joyful and, when inebriated, proved to be a bountiful source of funny and increasingly bawdy tales. One of them made Lorn burst into laughter and cough up the mouthful of wine he had just drunk. It splashed on a man and they would have come to blows if Delio had not defused the situation with a jest.

As the night advanced, the celebrations came to a close in Samarande. The musicians put away their instruments, people went home and the streets emptied little by little. Soon there remained only a few drunks who were chased away by the city watch and some lovebirds who did not want the evening to end.

But Bejofa was a neighbourhood that never slept entirely.

They were going from one tavern to another when, passing a dark alley, Lorn detected presences in the shadows. At first, he acted as if he hadn’t noticed and counted six men. Then he pressed a protective hand upon Delio’s chest to keep him back.

‘Careful,’ he said.

The beggar retreated as the men revealed themselves. Petty criminals. Thugs used to performing dirty deeds. Dressed in thick leather and rough cloth, they had daggers at their belts and all of them held weighted clubs, except for one. He stood with his arms crossed. Tall and bald, his bare shoulders covered with black hairs, he seemed to be the gang’s leader.

Sure of himself, he struck a pose.

‘You gave us quite a chase,’ he said.

‘You were looking for me?’ Lorn asked.

‘You could have killed yourself throwing yourself out that window …’

Sincerely indifferent to his own fate, Lorn shrugged. He heard Delio, behind him, running away before it was too late.

The thugs advanced, ready to fight.

‘It would be simpler if you followed us,’ the bald man said.

‘Where?’

‘You’ll see.’

Lorn let out a sigh.

The thugs slowly encircled him, moving cautiously, some of them slapping their clubs on the palm of their hands. Without doing anything to prevent them, Lorn considered his situation. He did not feel up to contending with these men. Indeed, he did not feel up to contending with anyone or anything. But the idea of surrendering to these brutes was unbearable.

‘I won’t follow you anywhere.’

‘There are six of us.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

Unarmed since he had planted a dagger in the wall at Elana’s place, Lorn balled his fist and adopted a fighting stance.

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ the bald man told him.

‘That makes me feel much better. I think that, above all, you want me alive.’

The man smiled. Most of his teeth were missing.

‘You’re cleverer than I thought,’ he said.

‘Because you actually think?’

The bald man’s smile faded.

‘As you like, then … Don’t kill him,’ he said to his men. ‘And don’t mess him up too badly.’

The thugs knew how to win a street fight: they attacked all at once. Before he had time to react, a blow from a club landed on Lorn’s ribs, then a second upon his back, while a third almost broke his wrist. He let out a cry and did not see the blow that hit him beneath the chin and caused him to stagger backwards. He fell down at the foot of a crumbling wall.

The gang members tightened their ring around him. Their leader parted them to pass through.

He hadn’t struck a single blow.

‘It’s over,’ he said.

But Lorn got up with the help of the wall.

Tottering, he displayed a deranged smile and spat out a bloody gob. He raised his fists and once again took up a fighter’s stance. He was unsteady on his feet and his gaze was blank.

‘Go on,’ ordered the bald man.

One of the thugs attacked. Lorn surprised him with a right hook to the temple, but he was powerless to counter the others. Blows started to rain down. On his sides. On his back. On his belly. Unable to defend himself, Lorn protected his head with his elbows. He gritted his teeth, reeled but did not fall. His opponents were forced to persist and the ordeal went on.

Finally, a blow to the back of his thighs forced him to his knees. The next blow, on the back, forced him to arch his body and lower his arms. The last blow, right in his face, toppled him.

Lorn lay exhausted and broken, his hair sticky, his face covered in blood and mud. His arms stretched out, he coughed up a thick bile that stained his lips. He was almost blind. A buzzing filled his ears. He was in incredible pain and wanted to die.

The gang leader towered over him.

‘Why do you bring this on yourself?’

Lorn did not reply. He groaned and raised himself with difficulty on all fours. He was still trying to stand up.

‘By the Divine Ones!’ the bald man muttered.

Then there came one blow too many.

It was a violent kick to the ribs which blasted Lorn with pain. The thugs’ leader thought it was the finishing blow. Looking satisfied and almost relieved, he gazed down at Lorn who had fallen back on the dirty paving stone and lay motionless. Was he still breathing? Yes, fortunately. But he would no doubt keep some traces of his injuries. No one could fully recover from the beating he had just endured.

A few seconds went by in the silent alley.

Then, just when the bald man was about to give the order for him to be carried off, Lorn rolled onto his belly. And slowly, ponderously, like a stone giant who had slumbered too long, he rose up.

On one knee first.

Then up on legs that did not tremble.

His chest lifted by deep breathing, Lorn straightened up his shoulders and head. He balled his fists. On the back of his left hand, the leather band slipped off and revealed the stone seal. A strange gleam shone in his eye. Running through his left arm, the pain had completely overwhelmed him and become welcoming, soothing.

It cradled him.

‘What …?’ managed the gang leader.

Abnormally lucid and calm, Lorn dealt first of all with the two quickest thugs. He dodged an attack by the first and delivered a palm blow to the base of the nose that drove his opponent’s nasal bones into his brain. As the man collapsed, Lorn seized the second’s wrist. He turned him round by raising his arm at his back, forcing him to put one knee on the ground, held his jaw in the crook of an elbow and, with a sharp twist, broke his neck from behind.

The cracking sound caused his remaining aggressors to freeze. They instinctively backed away and exchanged anxious glances.

Lorn released the corpse which slumped to the ground. He retrieved the man’s dagger while the thugs and their leader kept their distance. He resumed a fighting stance, planted on bent legs, and challenged his adversaries with a look.