Tapio gestured again, a slight wind passed, the fire flared, and Thorn’s casting dissipated among the stars, impotent. ‘I have had thousssandsss of yearsss to perfect thisss,’ he said. ‘We need not be foesss.’
Thorn’s staff crackled and a wave of green and black shot out, mottled like mould. It passed through Tapio, who vanished.
‘That was far easier than it should have been,’ Thorn said. ‘I distrust even victory.’
‘You have gained in wisssdom, then, Thorn.’ Tapio’s voice seemed to come out of the air. ‘Master Tyler, I came to keep you free of thisss – entanglement.’
‘Yes, this cruel little elf has made your lady-love a strumpet and broken your friendship and has come to help you,’ Thorn said.
The irk’s laughter rang on the clear, cold air. ‘Cruel little elf! Ah, my pooor friend. You reek of Asssh.’
Thorn moved, and the irk was suddenly outlined in a pale green light. Thorn’s staff shot out – there was a flash, and then another – a sound like distant thunder, and the tree behind Thorn burst into a thousand splinters – some of them quite large. One penetrated right through Thorn’s man-form. But it was a form, not a man, and Thorn paid the wound no heed as he worked again, and the very air became pellucid – Tyler could not breathe, but only watch. It seemed that only Thorn could move, and the tongues of his dark fire licked at the irk’s form . . . and then something gave. It felt to Tyler as if the whole world missed a beat, and suddenly he was alone at his fire, heart in his throat, choking.
Well off to the east, perhaps ten miles away in the rugged hills he’d crossed on the way from the disaster at Lissen Carrak, there was a rumble like a mighty avalanche, and the flash of green-tinted lightning was followed by pulses of lavender lightning, and then the thunder carried – crack, crack and then a rumbling like the sound of a mighty army on the march.
Tyler threw more wood on the fire. He shivered, pulled his blankets closer, and sat with his sword across his knees. He was reasonably sure it wouldn’t stand him in any stead against either foe, but he felt more comfortable having it ready.
Distant thunder mocked him. He had time to ponder Thorn’s words. To imagine Bess, ensorcelled, locked in Redmede’s embrace.
I’ll show them, though.
He threw more wood on his fire, and then Thorn was back – the long spruce splinter still transfixing him. The warlock gestured. ‘I will show you a secret,’ he said.
‘I want none of your secrets,’ Tyler said. ‘Did you defeat the irk?’
‘Of course,’ Thorn said. ‘What a foolish question. Listen, man. You will die here. Or at your next camp, or your next. Winter is a more formidable foe than either Tapio or Thorn and you have neither the training nor the fortitude to defeat it. I, too, seek the death of Alba’s King. Let me help you live to try it.’
Tyler felt the cold all around him. Sometimes, even when you know you are being manipulated, you have very few options. Flow with the river.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a long spoon.’ He managed a brave grin. ‘Like I always say, needs must when the devil drives.’
Thorn’s human form seemed to frown. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Come.’
He held out his hand.
‘I’ll need my kit,’ Tyler said.
Thorn’s face remained unchanged. ‘Very well.’
Tyler gathered his blankets and what remained of his food, including frozen portions of venison. His cold fingers were not quick, and the darkness hindered him at every turn. ‘I could use some light,’ he muttered.
‘Make a torch, then. I do not make light.’
Eventually he was done, and he pulled his toboggan to where the sorcerer stood with a four-foot length of wood through his body. Some of his entrails had been blown out of his back and a length of spine showed.
Tyler shuddered.
‘Take my hand,’ Thorn said.
‘Where are we going?’ Tyler asked.
‘An excellent question. We are going through the aether to an entrance to the Serpent’s Walk.’
Mont Reale – Ser Hartmut Li Orguelleus, the Black Knight
The Gallish fleet turned into the Great Huran River out of the lake in good order. They camped for three days, built great fires, got warm and ate sparingly. The Black Knight took every precaution to prepare his men, and he ignored de Marche’s whining, assembled his men, and gave his orders.
The fleet sailed after mass on a Sunday, and he kept them moving through the night, with oil lamps in the sterns of his four war galleys and exhortations and occasional trumpet calls, and as the sun rose on Monday, he looked over the stern of his own Saint Michael and counted the boats, and reached a satisfactory number.
‘Now, we will see something, I think,’ the Black Knight said.
Oliver de Marche elected to try one more time. The loss of his servant left him without a confident translator – Lucius had been killed by the Imperial troops who’d materialised out of the snow and wrecked the Black Knight’s already precarious campaign against the Southern Huran. With Lucius at his side, he could have attempted to contact the Northern Huran leaders directly.
But de Marche had little choice, so he put on a bold face and climbed the steps to the quarter deck. ‘Ser knight?’ he asked. ‘Ser Hartmut?’
The Black Knight gave him a hard smile. ‘Ah – merchant. Come to dissuade me? Eh?’
De Marche nodded. ‘Ser knight, it cannot help the King or your own reputation to do this.’
Ser Hartmut laughed aloud, and the sound was fell. ‘Merchant, I am called the Black Knight for a reason, and what I am about to fashion will suit my reputation exactly. Indeed, what I do, I do in part so these beasts of the woods will know me – and fear me.’
‘They will fear you, and being brave, then they will make war on you,’ de Marche said.
‘Brave? De Marche, I would have had the Southern Huran in the palm of my hand if those cowards had done my bidding. Even without them-’
De Marche bit the end of his moustache and planted his feet. ‘Either way, you never had a chance against a professional army and a string of well-supplied forts. Seizing Osawa was beyond you, so taking Ticondaga is a goal as far over our heads as that bird. We would not have taken Osawa, even if the Outwallers had thrown themselves at its walls like automatons. You seek to make them bear the weight of your – of our – own failings.’
De Marche braced himself for death.
The Black Knight’s rage passed over his face like a shower on a sunny day – passed over, and was gone. Ser Hartmut fingered his beard, ‘You are a good blade, de Marche. I have learned to respect you – you are not one of us, but you are no coward. But in this, you are a complete fool. These Outwallers are not worth a fart, as my men – and yours – will demonstrate in an hour. And in the spring I will take some of them and train them as soldiers – real soldiers – as I did in Ifriqu’ya. They will learn, and they will obey.’
De Marche fought an urge to shout, or tremble. ‘You cannot storm Mont Reale. It is the largest Outwaller settlement in the north. Even the armies of Alba have never attempted it, not at the height of the old King’s power. Nor the Moreans.’
‘More fool they. Watch and learn, merchant. Your way might work, but it is too slow.’ The Black Knight brushed a pair of moths away from his helmet. ‘When the ice clears in spring, we will have another fleet coming down the river bringing me more soldiers. Men who will follow me willingly, for loot, for plunder – perhaps even for God.’ He smiled, and his smile was the final nail.
‘You will get us all killed!’ de Marche shouted. The moths flitted away. ‘You will incur the wrath of God and every decent man!’
Ser Hartmut laughed. ‘Listen to me, merchant. I am a man of honour, and I live by the rule of war. I will do this openly, not in the dark, and my message will be loud. I do exactly what the Moreans have done, what the Albans have done – indeed, what every man has done since men first came to Nova Terra. Outwallers are not men. They are outside the walls of the church and of civilisation. Their deaths will not even leave a stain on our blades.’