Prologue
It was the blizzard nightmare. That’s what decided me.
Freezing cold and freezing fear. Shouts, mad roars.
“K'rakanungah devours!"
Naked men charging out of the white, naked steel in hand, and things worse too, things far worse.
Tusked maws dripping gore.
“K'rakanungah devours all!”
My sword, iced over, stuck in its scabbard, and the cultist's axe coming down to halve my skull.
I cannot draw my sword...
I cannot draw my sword!
I CANNOT DRAW MY SWORD!
I awoke with a jolt, my sword arm sweeping the silver decanter from my bedside table. It crashed to the floor with an awful clang, the dregs of last night’s wine flooding across the alabaster tiles like blood over ice.
Frik was through the door fast as a hare. “My lord! My lord, what ails thee?!”
“I am quite all right, Frik,” I said, cupping my aching head. “Another silly dream. Be a good fellow, will you?”
The footman nodded sadly before setting himself to cleaning up.
I ignored his impudence and turned away to put a hand to my chest. My heart was pounding, harder and faster than ever, gods help me. I had recently despaired of ever making it slow. Alchemists' tinctures, fairy brews and even a witch's counterhex had done nothing to help. Only strong drink could separate my mind from its incessant thrumming, and the results were measly half-sleeps peopled with the ghosts of my enemies. I know now that the end of the road is near. Sixty and seven. Can any man ask for longer?
With a decent rest having eluded me yet again, I told Frik to bring in the day's wine and as much parchment as he could find.
My name is Anton de Valois. In the storybooks, you'll read that I won my fame in a time when knights were noble warrior poets and the sword honour made steel, and that I was a paragon for all others, so virtuous and brave and so on and so forth.
Well, the time has come for a very different tale, one in which words like ‘noble’ and ‘brave’ are far from the best descriptors of my doings in those fateful years for the kingdom. For that traitorous fiend has finally dissolved parliament and sat himself on the throne, and I mean to make it as uncomfortable a seat for him as I can. Not that I was ever for the republic; I couldn't give a fairy's shit about any of that, but they say revenge is a dish best served cold, and with however many days I have left, I shall feast of mine, for never shall I call that misbegotten son of mine my king.
The true story of my life begins at the ill-fated tournament near Mynton, with yet another boozy awakening, half a century ago when I was but a squire.
Chapter 1
The blast of a trumpet put an end to the reign of sleep, and to pillage its kingdom a hangover came roaring down like a vengeful dragon.
Gods, I beseeched, spare me the ravages of wine, and what bastard was blowing a trumpet at this ungodsly hour?
"Water," I rasped, for my throat was dry as old parchment. "Anyak… wake up… Anyak, girl… fetch me water."
Silence answered mutely. With a start I realised that I was not lying on my own lumpy hay pile but rather on a large, plush, exceedingly comfortable bed. I tried to peer about me, but in the unlit dim I could see nothing beyond shadow on shadow.
Suddenly from out of the darkness a ghostly shape loomed. "Gods!" I yelped. Sweet blessings, it was but a water jug being pressed into my hands. Manners abandoned, I took it and drank like one lost in a desert.
The bearer was a vague silhouette sinking down next to me on the bed, but I knew her by her fragrance; lavender, sandalwood and that rare highland essence I could never name: Baron Cragge's daughter and heiress, Selene.
Just what had I gotten myself into last night, I wondered. Racking my pickled brains, I vaguely recalled dancing (never a good omen in my case), and for a certainty myself and some fellow squires had stolen into the King's private wine reserve. But to bed Lady Selene Cragge? That was a most singular blunder.
A vision of her father plunged unbidden into my mind, and I shuddered. The Baron was a terror of a man, a black-armoured, red-faced bull, his thick moustache forever bristling with some barely-chained rage, his greatsword never but an arm's length away from his grasp, sharp as hatred and ever eager to cleave some poor fool's skull in twain… and there a prime fool lay, all but naked to the world and with no friends to lend me aid.
A strategic and speedy withdrawal was called for.
I returned the jug to my ministering lady and tried to sit up, but the world was suddenly spinning like a sycamore seed.
"Slowly, Squire Anton," counselled Selene in that rough northern twang, so incongruous at such a womanly pitch. She hooked a hand under my arm to keep me from tumbling out of the bed. "You were quite the beast last night," she added in a sly tone.
"Indeed," I concurred, remembering precious nothing of our dalliance.
Another trumpet call shook my bones. Why the damned din? The jousting wasn't until the afternoon, and we were surely yet in the small hours.
"I must away, my lady," I blurted, suddenly inspired. "Sir Falris needs must have his jousting gear prepared, for he is in the lists against your father at noon."
This was conveniently true.
"Oh, truly?” said she. “I do hope father goes gently with him. But, why, Anton, it is fast approaching noon now."
I almost deposited my bowels right there on her sheets. Almost noon? Now? How? Sir Falris was an easy master (a drunk and a glutton for the better part), but he would not countenance one of his squires' absence when he truly had need of him, and squeezing the man into his armour was a task of hours.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
I crawled my way down to the carpeted ground (fox fur, I remember) and cursed my lot. Remaining upright was still a skill beyond me.
"Please, Selene," I pleaded, "for the love of all that’s good and true, help me find my britches."
She went to the entryway, pulling the canvas back a mite, and a sliver of accusing sunlight near seared my eyes. There was no denying the hour now. I damned House Cragge and their thick mountain pavilions.
Gods, I prayed, help me through this morning and I shall be a virtuous man all my days, and on that bald lie I spied my clothes under the bed and began to hurry myself into them.
"Shall you be in direst trouble?" Selene was saying, kneeling to help me with a boot. Was that amusement I detected? Sweet divinity, though, she was beautiful. The late night hadn't touched her; she was pristine as new snow, her light green eyes vivid in the slice of daylight, her chestnut hair falling untamed about her bare shoulders, and what interesting shapes beneath that gauzy nightgown… How she was sired by a grotesque like Cragge, I could never fathom, and her mother was no eyecatch either.
She offered the jug again and I took another swig. Yes, that was doing the trick. My balance was returning and I even dared to stand.
"All will be well, my lady," I said with a confidence that was only a sapling as I buckled on my sword belt. "But if you'll forgive me, I really must away." And as I turned to go, what did she do but throw her arms about my shoulders and kiss me on the cheek. I was incredulous. Reserved, aloof, icy Selene Cragge… I really must have outdone myself.
With an imbecile’s grin, I skulked unsteadily out the servants' flap and into the narrow defile between Selene’s pavilion and her neighbour's. The hill that had been reserved for the Cragges was mercifully deserted, with anyone who mattered long gone down to find their seats for the jousting, so it was nothing at all for me to pilfer a long hooded cloak from a peg and to make my way across in relative anonymity to Wridwick lines.
Walking down the roiled path, cloak wrapped about me like an old woman, my boots were soon heavy with mud. Yesterday’s downpours were only now disappearing in wisps of steam, yet I saw that in a far western corner of the sky that more dark clouds were conspiring for another go at us, and I wondered if the King would insist the action continue if they did so, as the inconsiderate relic had the day previous.
"Well, thrice well. If it ain’t the veringest squire himself!” crowed Wartnose Dunfler, the captain of the sentries on guard, when I came squelching up the track that led to their picket. “Spent the night in the kennels with the bitches again, Squire Anton?" Dunfler was a foul-looking wretch with a household of enraged warts taking up half his bald head, and he had a temperament to boot. The other squires went in terror of him reporting their indiscretions, but I knew he was possibly the most corrupt man in the King’s army, so I had no such fear.
"Someone needs must keep your mother company," I shot back, and for good measure I tossed a half crown his way and then the Cragge cloak over his head as he scrambled for the coin, leaving him struggling to extricate himself from it and his long-suffering underlings looking like all their birthdays had come at once.
A lesser put neatly back in his box, I made my way to Sir Falris' pavilion and, with a deep breath, slipped inside.
It was worse than I'd feared.
Sir Falris was laid out on the dining table in full armour, looking fit for burial. By the echoey snores coming from out his visor, I could tell he was in a deep stupor. Standing over him were Jean and Anyak, working vainly to fasten his chestplate straps.
"And where in the red hells have you been, you waste of air?" snapped Jean, Sir Falris' other squire. He and I had come to blows frequently since he'd been foisted on our little ménage not long before, and he was proving a difficult dragon to slay. He was a favourite of the knights, who admired him for his dedication, direct way of speaking and lack of airs, which of course meant that us city squires detested him. The third son of a knight-errant who’d done some hedge lord a good turn, he truly was the pea in the raisin jar. He had neither thirst for grog nor women and was such a prig that he would surely take Sir Leam’s place as Wridwick’s paladin one day. One knows the type.
I held my tongue and added my strength to the task. After a mighty heave, Sir Falris was officially ready to sit Redlocks, his charger, if we could but wake the man up.
"I'll go and beg a tincture from Ravlix," suggested Anyak, our lowly, and I just then noticed that the quartermaster had shorn her hair again. There was no mistaking her inhumanity now. The wolf ears would be visible for months. I resolved to find her a good bonnet.
"No," said Jean. "Sir Falris has had quite enough of that sorcerer’s poison. Bring a bucket of water."
Anyak went as bid, wolf ears wilting.
"I mean, really," declared Jean, putting on his big boy voice and squaring up to me like some godspoxed hero, all fresh-faced and blonde. "To skive off at such an hour. Ye gods, you've truly surpassed yourself, Anton. Congratulations."
Sarcasm, by gods! He really was at the boil, and I'd have softened his cough with a punch to the guts but Anyak was back with the bucket.
Wordlessly, steeling myself against the coming outrage, I removed Sir Falris' helm, lifted up the bucket and poured a gallon of river water over my master’s head.
The results were quite impressive.
"NNNGYAAAHAH!" roared Sir Falris, sitting straight up, water and spittle spraying everywhere, with Anyak letting out a little lupine bark as she retreated under the table.
"Easy, Sir Falris, easy now," I preempted. "It appears you may have been the victim of a bad batch of wine, but everything is in order and we've made you ready for the jousting." At that last bit, Jean sneered at me like the sneering little sneerer he was.
"I, wha—" tried Sir Falris, his wet red beard looking like a sweaty fox. His eyes were all manic blood-shot confusion. "Jousting, says you?"
We had our work cut out for us, right enough. I nodded and smiled in the style of one entertaining a toddler. "The jousting, Sir Falris. Remember the jousting?" He probably didn't. He'd been reeling with the gargle long before we'd even arrived yesterday.
The poxing trumpet sounded again, the final call.
"Shall we help you down, sir?" Jean offered hurriedly.
"Help?!" snapped Sir Falris. "I need no help!" And with that he helped himself off the table and face first down to the ground.
I would have laughed if the situation weren't so appalling. As his squires, this was sure to blow back on us. Armourers and babysitters both were we.
Even Jean, that bastion of pluck, looked perturbed. "What shall we do?" said he.
How was I bloody well meant to know? We rolled Sir Falris on to his side. He was insensate once again.
“One of you needs must champion him,” piped Anyak from under the table.
That sent the freeze right through me, you may be sure. I scoffed, trying desperately to think of a reason why I, the senior squire, shouldn’t be the one to volunteer, for the mere thought of riding against the Baron had my innards in rebellion. Gods above, this would take a deft touch, but as it turned out I needn’t have worried.
“She’s right,” answered Jean after a horribly long moment. “And I shall be his champion.”
I laughed for a good eight seconds, entirely in relief. “Oh, if you wish for Baron Cragge to skewer you clean through, have at it. I was about to volunteer, but far be it from me to stand in the way of such a boy of destiny!”
He rounded on me. “Every time you and I have tilted, I have landed you on your arse, Anton de Valois, so I don’t see why you find the idea so great a jest.”
This was depressingly true. My tilting was up there amongst the best of the Wridwick squires, but Jean was a veritable wasp with a lance. Having no great strength, he had, however, what our tutors called ‘the eye’.
I shrugged, my awful pride rearing its treacherous head. “So you may break a few poles against the man. What of that? You’ll never unhorse him, and even if by some perverse bit of luck you do manage it, he’ll turn you into pâté once he gets his hands on you.”
Jean turned abruptly and went outside. When he came back in a moment later, he was smiling with that quiet farmboy confidence I detested so much. “He won’t get his hands on me. Anyak, please fetch my lightest mail.”
I threw my head back and laughed again. “Light mail against heavy plate, and your opponent three times the size of you?! You’re a dribbling quarterwit!”
“We’ll see,” said he, and we did.
End of Chapter 1