Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

The wolf started to run after a half mile or so, its long, loping stride covering the distance with deceptive speed. Frentis lost sight of it several times as they galloped after, tracking it over low hills of long grass. Finally they reined in as it came to a halt on one of the taller hills and a familiar scent came to Frentisʼs nostrils. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Davoka who nodded and climbed down from the saddle. Frentis joined her and they handed their reins to Illian. She pouted in annoyance as he pointed an emphatic finger at the ground to fix her in place.

They ascended the hill at the crouch, dropping to a crawl at the summit. The wolf had sunk to its haunches, waiting no more than a few feet away, still regarding Frentis with the same blank scrutiny.

“What a fool the man must be,” Frentis breathed, staring at the scene before them. The camp sat in open ground, the rear flank covered by a shallow stream, pickets patrolling the perimeter but not far enough out. The scent of smoke and horse sweat was richer now, campfires threw dozens of grey columns into the air, only partly obscuring the banner that rose from the centre of the camp: an eagle on a red-and-white-cheque background.

Five hundred men at most, Frentis mused, eyes scanning the camp. And Bandersʼs army stands unnoticed between him and Varinshold. “Take Illian,” he told Davoka. “Tell Banders Iʼll lead them to Lirkanʼs Spur. Master Sollis knows the way.”

“She can go,” Davoka said. “You shouldnʼt do this alone.”

He shook his head, grinning as he nodded at the wolf. “Seems Iʼm not alone. Ride fast.”

He waited a good hour after their departure, watching the camp as scouts came and went, small groups of men with hunting dogs reporting in or galloping off in a fresh direction. He thought weʼd make for Nilsael, Frentis decided, seeing how most of the scouts rode off to the north or the west. Didnʼt consider weʼd try for Renfael, his own land, the people so fiercely loyal. He shook his head, wondering if Darnelʼs mind was truly that of a fool or if the man wasnʼt in fact just a barking loon.

It took the best part of another hour before a scouting party came their way, two riders and a clutch of dogs making directly for their hill. The wolf rose when they had begun to climb the slope, the riders immediately dragging their mounts to a halt whilst the hounds milled about, whining in fear as their masters whipped at them, uttering curses and threats.

And the wolf howled.

Frentis shrank from the vastness of the sound, sinking to the earth, eyes clamped tight shut and hands over his ears as it soared across the fields and hills, the force of it cutting through him like a ragged saw-blade. Not since the long years of the binding had he felt so helpless, so small.

He opened his eyes as the howl faded, finding the wolf staring down at him, green eyes meeting his and birthing a realisation that it knew him, knew his every secret, every hidden scrap of guilt. It dipped its head, a rough tongue scraping over Frentisʼs forehead, drawing a whimper and leaving something new. A message. It wasnʼt a voice, more a certainty, a clear and bright surety shining in his mind: you must forgive yourself.

Frentis felt a laugh escape him as the wolf drew back, blinked again, then turned to lope away. Frentis stood to watch it run, a silver streak through the twisting grass, disappearing in a heartbeat.

The whinny of a panicked horse brought him back to his senses, turning to find the two riders staring at him in shock, their dogs a good distance away, yelping in fear as they raced for the camp. Frentis chose the rider on the left, palmed a throwing knife and sent it into his throat. He fell from his horse, blood frothing from his mouth as he clutched at his neck. His companionʼs wide-eyed gaze shifted to Frentis and back again, hands twitching on his reins, his sword untouched at his side.

“You have a report to make,” Frentis told him. “Give Lord Darnel the Red Brotherʼs regards.”

He remounted and guided his horse to the crest of the hill, sitting and watching as the huntsman galloped back to camp. It took no longer than the space of a few heartbeats before it convulsed, knights struggling into armour and running to their horses, tents falling as squires packed up, and a single rider emerged from the burgeoning dust cloud, blue armour gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. Frentis raised a hand in a friendly wave, lingering long enough to ensure Darnel had seen it, then turned and galloped towards the east.

He led them on a winding course, buying time for Banders to get his people moving. He would gallop east for a time, halt, and watch Darnelʼs pursuit for a few moments, then strike out towards the south. Darnel edged closer with every pause, but his horse and those of his knights were too burdened by their ridersʼ armour to mount an effective pursuit. Frentis would wave every time he stopped, the last time leaving it long enough to ensure Darnel saw his mocking bow.

He came to Lirkanʼs Spur some two hours into the chase, a narrow thumb-shaped spit of grassland jutting into the broad waters of the Brinewash. The river was shallow here, fordable even this late in the year with open country to the north and a tall, rocky hill some three hundred paces south, shielding the eastern bank from view. He pulled his horse to a halt and scanned the surroundings, finding no evidence of any ally.

He turned his horse about, calming him with a stroke to the flank as he waited. The wolfʼs message still sang in his breast, his newborn spirit leaving him with a faint smile that refused to budge from his lips, even as Darnelʼs five hundred knights thundered towards the spur.

Come, my lord, he urged Darnel silently. Just a little closer.

His risen spirits took a slight tumble at the sight of Darnel raising a hand, his entire command coming to a halt some two hundred paces short. Frentis reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, raising it high before pointing it directly at Darnel in a clear and unambiguous challenge. Be true to yourself, my lord, Frentis implored him. Be the fool.

Darnelʼs horse reared as its rider drew his own sword, one of his retainers trotting forward, perhaps keen to offer a cautionary word, but Darnel dismissed him with a furious wave before spurring his horse to a gallop. Frentis made ready to begin his own charge, then paused as a new sound came to his ears; horns sounding a high pealing note to the east, too high for a Renfaelin knight and the Sixth Order had no use for horns. He paused to glance over his shoulder, his smile fading completely at the sight of at least two battalions of Volarian cavalry charging towards the eastern bank of the Brinewash.

Al Hestian! he cursed. Another tumult drew his attention to the south, the great churning roaring of many horses charging through shallow water. Banders led his knights around the rocky hill and straight for Darnelʼs company, Frentis spying the dim figures of his brothers atop the hill, bows drawn. He switched his gaze back to Darnel, finding the Fief Lord now halted, his men milling in confusion behind him. Frentis cast a final look at the onrushing Volarian cavalry, now fording the river, but prevented from galloping by the waterʼs height.

He fixed his gaze on Darnel once more and kicked his horse into motion, sword held out straight and level as he charged, covering the distance in barely a few seconds. He could see the black streaks of his brothersʼ arrows arcing into Darnelʼs host, horses rearing and knights falling as they struck home. One of Darnelʼs retainers took hold of the Fief Lordʼs reins and tried to drag him towards the Volarians, falling dead as Darnel hacked his long sword into the manʼs neck, wheeling about and meeting Frentisʼs charge head-on.