David Eddings - The Ruby Knight

‘It is.’

‘And is that the monastery up on that hill there?’

‘It is,’ the man replied again, his voice a bit sullen.

‘Is there some problem?’

‘The monks up there own all the land hereabouts,’ the fellow replied. ‘Their rents are cruel.’

‘Isn’t that always the way? All landlords are greedy.’

‘The monks insist on tithes as well as the rent. That’s going a bit far, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You’ve got a point there.’

‘Why do you call everybody “neighbour”?’ Tynian asked as they rode on.

‘Habit, I suppose,’ Sparhawk shrugged. ‘I got it from my father, and I think it puts people at their ease.’

‘Why not call them “friend”?’

‘Because I never know that for sure. Let’s go talk to the Abbot of that monastery.’

The monastery was a severe-looking building surrounded by a wall made of yellow sandstone. The fields around it were well-tended, and monks wearing conical hats woven from local straw worked patiently under the morning sun in long, straight rows of vegetables. The gates of the monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.

‘Good day, brother,’ Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to have a word with your Abbot.’

‘I’ll bring him immediately, My Lord.’ The brother scurried back inside the building.

The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarrassingly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep. ‘My Lords,’ he grovelled, ‘how may I serve you?’

‘It’s a small thing, my Lord Abbot,’ Sparhawk told him gently. ‘Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?’

The Abbot swallowed hard. ‘Patriarch Dolmant?’ he said in an awed voice.

‘Tall fellow,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who’s got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It’s in the service of the Church.’

‘O-of course, Sir Knight.’

‘I’d hoped you’d feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I’ll compose the message, and then we won’t bother you any more.’

‘One other thing, My Lord Abbot,’ Kalten added. ‘Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We’ve been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind – a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?’

‘Of course, Sir Knight,’ the Abbot agreed quickly.

Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.

‘Did you have to do that?’ Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away.

‘Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk,’ Kalten replied loftily. ‘I like to encourage it whenever I can.’

The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.

Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. ‘Doesn’t look too promising, does it?’ he noted.

‘Dismal,’ Sparhawk agreed.

‘I think we’re going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out.’

‘I’m not feeling too spry myself,’ Sparhawk admitted. His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.

‘The only trouble is that I haven’t seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don’t I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?’

‘Keep your eyes open,’ Sparhawk cautioned.

Kurik turned in his saddle. ‘Berit,’ he called, ‘I need you.’

Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.

‘We could just ride on, you know,’ Kalten said.

‘Not unless you feel like walking before morning,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Kurik’s right. The horses don’t have very much left in them.’

‘That’s true, I suppose.’

Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. ‘Get ready!’ Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. ‘We’ve got company!’

‘Sephrenia!’ Sparhawk barked. ‘Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses.’ He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.

There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly assorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun smocks and a few peasants. Their faces were all blank, and their eyes dull. They charged on mindlessly, even though the heavily armed Church Knights were rushing to meet them.

Sparhawk and the others spread out, preparing to meet the charge. ‘For God and the Church!’ Bevier shouted, brandishing his lochaber axe. Then he spurred his horse forward, crashing into the middle of the oncoming attackers. Sparhawk was taken off guard by the young Cyrinic’s rash move, but he quickly recovered and charged in to his companion’s aid. Bevier, however, appeared to need little in the way of help. He warded off the clumsy-looking sword strokes of the mindlessly charging ambushers with his shield, and his long-handled lochaber whistled through the air to sink deep into the bodies of his enemies. Though the wounds he inflicted were hideous, the men he struck down made no outcry as they fell from their saddles. They fought and died in an eerie silence. Sparhawk rode behind Bevier, cutting down any of the numb-faced men who tried to attack the Cyrinic from behind. His sword sheared a church soldier almost in half, but the man in the red tunic did not even flinch. He raised his sword to strike at Bevier’s back, but Sparhawk split his head open with a vast overhand stroke. The soldier toppled out of his saddle and lay twitching on the bloodstained grass.

Kalten and Tynian had flanked the attackers on either side and were chopping their way into the mêlée, while Ulath, Kurik and Berit intercepted the few survivors who managed to make their way through the concerted counter-attack.

The ground was soon littered with bodies in red tunics and bloody white Styric smocks. Riderless horses plunged away from the fight, squealing in panic. In normal circumstances, Sparhawk knew the attackers bringing up the rear would falter and then flee when they saw what had befallen their comrades. These expressionless men, however, continued their attack, and it was necessary to kill them to the last man.

‘Sparhawk!’ Sephrenia shouted. ‘Up there!’ She was pointing towards the hilltop beyond which the attack had come. It was the tall, skeletal figure in the black hooded robe which Sparhawk had seen twice before. It sat its horse atop the hill with that faint green glow emanating from its concealed face.

‘That thing’s starting to bore me,’ Kalten said. ‘The best way to get rid of a bug is to step on it.’ He raised his shield and thumped his heels on his horse’s flanks. He started to gallop up the hill, his blade held menacingly aloft.

‘Kalten! No!’ Sephrenia’s shout was shrill with fright. But Kalten paid no attention to her warning. Sparhawk swore and started after his friend.