Miles Cameron - The Red Knight

‘We did, too,’ said Gawin. ‘I couldn’t get it lit, you used power, and Pater cursed you.’

‘You’re making this up,’ the captain said, shaking his head.

Gawin gave him the oddest look. ‘No,’ he said. He used his body and his soaking cloak to cover the fire pit, and the captain’s quick hands laid a bed of twigs – damp, but dry as drift wood ever is. Gawin put a bed of dry tow from his fire kit inside a nest of birch bark.

‘Bark from home,’ he said.

The captain shrugged.

Gawin laid charred linen deep in the tow, and then struck his fire steel against a small shard of flint until spark flew. The char-cloth lit, he dropped it into the nest in his hand, and blew. Smoke billowed out. He blew a second time, a long, slow breath, and more smoke came.

The captain leaned over and blew.

Before his breath was out, Gawin blew, and the whole nest burst into flame. Gawin dropped it onto the waiting twigs, and both men added more, and more – speed and accuracy embodied.

In two cracks of lightning, they had a fire.

Maggie laughed. ‘You could have just magicked it,’ she said. ‘Instead of showing off with your woodcraft.’

Gawin frowned.

The captain smiled. ‘I avoided the use of power for many years.’ He shrugged. ‘Why waste it?’

She nodded, understanding.

They made tea from the water of the loch, ate cold meat, and curled up to sleep. The stones of the beach were cold and wet, but the wool tent and the warmth of the horses won out in the end.

They took watches in turns. The captain took the mid watch, and he sat high above the beach on a rock. The wind was gone, and with it the rain, and he watched a thousand thousand stars and the moon.

May we talk?

No.

You’ve closed your door and you aren’t responding to Mag and she’s confused. You are linked to her. The courtesy of mages requires you-

No. The captain looked out over the loch. Go away. Not at home.

His head hurt.

In the morning, they drank hot tea, ate fresh Johnny cake made in ashes on a flat rock by Mag, and rode on. The horses were tired and cold, but by a miracle none of them were lame or sick despite a cold night on a mountainside. They followed the trail up over the green ridge at the north end of the loch, down into a shallow, high valley of green turf with the stream ripping through, full of rain water. From there down a rocky course at the centre, and then they cut back twice, riding up another ridge. The green of the hills was deceiving – what looked like one endless ridge proved to be a succession of them, one merging to another in the grey light.

The Keeper shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like this the last time,’ he said.

Ranald laughed. ‘Never the same twice, is it, Keeper?’

The Keeper shrugged. ‘This is only my second trip, Ranald.’

Bad Tom grunted. ‘Never been, meself. But Hector said it was different every time.’

Up and up.

They climbed the next ridge as the sun struggled through the curtain of cloud, and at the top of the next ridge, in a fold of the earth, sat a shepherd’s cot with a curl of peat-smoke coming out of a low chimney.

Sheepfolds extended right out from the walls of the stone house, as if the whole place were built for sheep.

The trail led from their ridge to the door of the shepherd’s cot, straight as a lance.

‘Biggest sheep I’ve ever seen.’ Alcaeus was rubbing the water out of his hair.

They rode down the track. The stone wall by the cot had a gate with richly worked iron hinges and the captain leaned over and opened it.

On the far side, hidden by the crest of the hill, was a brick horse barn. It had eleven stalls.

The captain grinned. ‘I’ll take this as a sign we’re welcome,’ he said.

The brick horse barn looked very out of place.

‘I know this barn,’ Gawin said. ‘This is Diccon Pyle’s barn.’ He looked at Ranulf, who nodded.

‘From Harndon,’ Ranulf said. ‘I was just thinking of it. Warm, snug-’ He blew out a breath.

They took the horses into the barn. Their hooves rang on the brick floor, louder than the captain would have thought possible. There were oats in every manger, fresh straw on the floors, clean water in the buckets.

They unsaddled the horses, and took the gear off the pack animals. The captain curried his new destrier and put a blanket – ready to hand – over him. Gawin and Alcaeus did the same, as did the Keeper and Ranald. Bad Tom stood in the doorway, a sword in his hand.

‘I don’t like this. It’s fey.’ Tom thumbed the edge of the blade.

‘Not a problem you can solve with a sharp blade,’ said the captain. He got the tack off Tom’s big gelding. ‘Relax.’

Tom didn’t leave the doorway. ‘I want to get this over,’ he said.

Ranald went and took his arm. ‘Not the way to go, Tom. Be easy .’

Mag smiled at Ser Alcaeus. ‘Would you be so kind as to have the saddle off my horse, ser knight? I’m a poor weak woman.’

Ser Alcaeus grinned.

Mag gathered her cloak, pushed past Bad Tom, and walked to the door. She knocked politely.

The knock sounded as loud as the crack of a trebuchet in the silence.

The door opened.

Mag went in. The Keeper paused at his currying and dropped the brush. ‘Damn,’ he said. And ran for the door, but it was already closed. He knocked, and the door opened, and he was gone.

‘I think the rest of us might as well go in together,’ the captain said. He wiped his hands on straw. He walked up to the door. ‘You, too, Tom.’

Tom was breathing hard. ‘It’s all magick. ’

The captain nodded and spoke carefully, as he would to a skittish horse or a scared child. ‘It is, that. We’re in his hands, Tom. But we knew that.’

Tom stood straight. ‘You think I’m afraid.’

Ranald made a motion of negation.

The captain nodded. ‘Yes, Tom. You are afraid. If you weren’t, to be honest, you’d be some sort of madman.’

‘Which you may be, anyway,’ Ranald said.

Tom managed a smile. ‘I’m ready.’

The captain rapped at the door.

And it opened.

The croft was low and close yet surprisingly spacious. The rooftrees were just above the captain’s head height, too low for Tom, and the building had a roof-end hearth, not a proper fireplace at all. The fire in it was enormous, filling it like a furnace, so that individual logs couldn’t be made out in the inferno – but just enough heat escaped to make the room pleasant on a cool summer evening.

Around the fireplace were heavy wooden chairs, covered in wool cloths. Some cloths were armorial, and one was an ancient tapestry, cut up and sewn to cover the chair.

The cot beams were black with age, but carving could still be seen on them.

Over the fireplace, a pair of swords were crossed and, on the main beam, a spear was carefully set on a long row of iron nails.

Mag sat with the Keeper, her legs crossed. And beyond her sat a small man smoking a long pipe.

He was so very ordinary that their eyes passed over him, at first. He wore a plain wool cote of coarse wool, and leggings of the same, and his weather-beaten face was neither handsome nor ugly, old or young. His eyes were black.

He opened them, and they were instantly arresting.

‘Welcome,’ said the Wyrm.

The captain bowed. He looked around, and none of his companions was moving – except that the men behind him in the doorway were suddenly sitting in chairs, hands on their knees.

He hung his cloak with theirs, and went to a seat.

‘Why is no one speaking?’ he asked.

‘You are all speaking,’ the Wyrm said. ‘It is easier for all of us if I deal with each in turn, in privacy.’