Devil's Night Dawning: The First Book of the Broken Stone Series Read online

  Sir Anrod was content with cured meats and hard cheeses. He was a tallish spare man and evidently did not share his friend’s appetite. That gave Derrick the easier job – but at least it meant the two squires didn’t have to jockey for who got to use the fire first for cooking.

  Sir Anrod got up to relieve himself in the trees. Vaskrian stirred the broth with a stick to stop the sizzling fat from congealing too much. He’d forgotten to pack the ladle, but hoped Branas wouldn’t notice. The old knight seemed content with staring off into the trees, a dreamy smile on his face as he hummed a war-tune and drank his wine.

  ‘A stick?’ asked Derrick suddenly, with mock incredulity. ‘Why, Vaskrian, I would have thought even a glorified peasant like you should know better! Haven’t your years about your betters taught you anything?’

  He was sitting by the fire, a platter of food next to him. Custom dictated that a squire couldn’t start eating until his master had taken the first bite of his own meal, and Anrod was still busy wetting the trees.

  Branas raised an eyebrow. ‘Too busy tilting when he should have been preparing for the road!’ he growled. ‘Always the same – I’ll thank you not to get any bark in my broth, Vaskrian!’

  The squire flushed hotly. It had little to do with the fire – now Derrick was showing him up in front of his master. ‘I shaved the bark off it, sire,’ was all he could mumble.

  That seemed to placate Branas, who turned back to his wine with a harrumph. Derrick was another matter. He let a braying laugh off the leash. ‘Well, there’s no end to your ingenuity… oh, I’m sorry, you won’t know what that word means, will you? How shall I put it then? Low animal cunning – that’s you all over isn’t it? Well, more of the first two anyway.’

  Taking the stick from the spitting broth Vaskrian did his best to shut Derrick’s words out as he prepared to serve it up. No ladle meant he’d have to pour it in. Wrapping his hands in the thick folds of his cloak, he lifted the iron pot from the fire and bent low over the first bowl. Sir Anrod was making his way back over to the centre of the clearing. Sir Branas was still humming away, his eyes now fixed expectantly on the steaming soup as Vaskrian filled his bowl. He’d made sure there was plenty enough for two servings each.

  He could feel Derrick still staring at him. He hadn’t said anything for at least five seconds. Perhaps he’d finally shut up now his own master was drawing back within earshot.

  He stooped over the second bowl, his own. Technically he shouldn’t serve himself until he’d served his master, but lifting the heavy pot on and off the fire was a pain, and the day’s unwelcome events had left him feeling drained.

  ‘What’s this! Serving yourself before you’ve brought your knightly master his food? Didn’t your churl mother teach you any manners, Vaskrian?’

  He did it without thinking. The next thing he knew Derrick was rolling around on the ground screaming, hands clawing at his face. Vaskrian was holding an empty pot, steam rising from its bottom into the uncaring night.

  Branas lurched to his feet, a horrified cry escaping his bearded lips. Anrod was nearly on Vaskrian, the whisper of cold steel mingling with a yell of hot anger as he drew his blade.

  He would have run him through there and then if Branas had not stepped up to bar his way.

  ‘Now then, Sir Anrod, peace!’ he growled, laying a broad mailed hand on his friend’s shoulder to restrain him.

  ‘What… is the meaning of this?!’ Anrod managed to splutter. Derrick’s screams continued to tear the silence.

  ‘Derrick provoked my squire,’ said Sir Branas, making a point of catching his friend’s eyes. ‘Dishonoured his mother. Common or no, that’s a hard slight for a man of arms to bear.’ His voice was dangerously even. You could say one thing for the old veteran, he was a fair man. Hard, but fair.

  But Anrod was having none of it. ‘Why hell and blazes, man, he’s blinded my squire! What use is he to me in this state? I’ll have to ride back to Hroghar and get him seen to! Even if I manage to find a replacement, I’ll miss the entry signing for the tournament! And all because you can’t keep your whoreson villein in check! In Reus’ name, Sir Branas, you should know better than to take commoners into knightly service – this is what comes of it!’

  Branas’s eyes narrowed at that, his eyes like flints in the firelight. ‘I don’t recall you saying anything of the kind before,’ he growled. ‘And mayhaps you should have had your squire keep his tongue in check – he’s been sniping at my Vaskrian all day. What did you think would come of it!?’

  Sir Anrod took a step back at that, breaking contact between them. He was still clutching his sword. The blade carried an orange flicker in the fire’s glow. Derrick’s screams had subsided into low moaning sobs as he writhed in the grass. Vaskrian stood stock still, clutching the pot stupidly. He knew he must look like a village idiot. He felt like one too. What had he just done?

  But the two knights had eyes only for each other.

  ‘I demand a reckoning for this,’ yelled Anrod. ‘I’ll be wanting compensation – and so will the lad’s family. Why, he’s my wife’s nephew! There’ll be hell to pay for this – and I’ll not be footing the bill, Sir Branas!’

  Branas let his hand drop to the hilt of his own sword. ‘I’ll be damned if I pay a penny for your fool squire’s big mouth, Sir Anrod,’ he snarled.

  That was Branas all over – hard, fair, and tight-fisted as the day was long.

  ‘Reus damn you, Branas, I’ll have satisfaction over this, damn you but I will!’ exploded Anrod, really losing his temper now.

  ‘Oh aye?’ replied the old knight, the edge in his voice sharpening. ‘Well, Sir Anrod of Dalton may have satisfaction any time he wishes!’

  His meaning was unmistakeable. The spat had become a duel of honour, and there was no backing out now.

  ‘Draw that blade of yours, Reus damn you,’ seethed Sir Anrod, dropping into a fighting stance. ‘I’ll not attack a defenceless man, like yon coward squire of yours.’

  The pot slipped from Vaskrian’s fingers at that. The words stung him. He was no coward. He’d wanted to fight Derrick properly – not maim him with a pot of boiling broth. But it was too late for regrets now.

  Branas’s blade left its scabbard with a steely whisper as he dropped into a fighting stance of his own. The two of them circled each other warily in the light of the fire. The drink had slowed them a little, but not enough to seriously impede their fighting abilities.

  Vaskrian fixed his eyes on them, all thoughts of Derrick banished by the prospect of a good fight. Sir Anrod was at least fifteen years younger than Branas, and half a head taller too. That meant his reach was slightly longer – but Branas was a seasoned campaigner. He’d fought in the War of the Southern Secession against the pretender Kanga – Anrod had just missed out on the front line of that conflict, serving out his squirehood instead.

  Vaskrian hoped experience would trump old age – he didn’t fancy his chances fighting an enraged armoured knight if Branas lost.

  Their blades rang as they passed and feinted at one another, each trying to outfoot his opponent. Sir Anrod was a good swordsman, and did everything by the book. But Sir Branas fought with a stubborn tenacity that had seen him live through years of warfare, skirmishes and tourneying. He wasn’t an exceptional knight – but he was a survivor who knew his trade.

  It was knowledge that paid off in the end. Sir Anrod came at him high; the grizzled old knight caught the blade and turned it forcefully. He was stronger than his antagonist despite his superior years. Anrod stumbled to one side and before he could recover Sir Branas caught him in the side with a swift riposte. His hauberk took the worst of it, but even so the impact was probably enough to crack a couple of ribs. Sir Anrod grunted and staggered back on legs that tottered.

  Sir Branas could have pressed his advantage and finished him, but he didn’t.

  ‘All right, Anrod,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘You’ve had your satisfaction, now let’s put this matter behind us and
- ’

  With a roar Anrod came at him again. Branas’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise, but he quickly recovered the initiative. The attack was that of a wounded animal – clumsy and angry. The old knight sidestepped the swipe and took Anrod full in the face as he did. Neither of them were wearing helms; in the heat of the argument Anrod had not even thought to pull up his coif.

  He didn’t cry out. He just brought up short, turning a half circle on feet that were suddenly slow. It brought him face to face with Vaskrian as his sword slipped from nerveless fingers. Blood welled from a diagonal slit that straddled his nose bone, reaching from lower cheek to forehead. It cascaded over his mouth and chin in a torrent made black by the half-light of the fire. Without a word he toppled to the ground in a jingle of mail links.

  Branas stood, leaning heavily on his sword and panting. Vaskrian dashed over to inspect the fallen knight. Branas’s blade had bit deep, its renewed edge shearing through the front half of his skull. Ereth had done his work well.

  ‘He… he’s dead,’ said the squire in a hushed voice. Derrick’s low moaning continued to keep the silence at bay. Even now Vaskrian couldn’t help but feel excited. They hadn’t even reached Harrang yet, and he’d already watched his master win a duel.

  ‘He came at you with everything he had!’ he said feverishly as Branas straightened himself and let go of his sword. ‘He had to be at least fifteen winters younger than you, and you got him anyway - ’

  Striding over, Branas pulled him up by his brigandine and slapped him hard across the face. His gauntleted hand drew blood, tearing his lower lip. Vaskrian didn’t even have time to register pain as the stocky knight held him over the fire and exploded in his face.

  ‘What in Palom’s name do you think you were playing at!?’ he screamed, spittle spraying in Vaskrian’s face. Never mind a split lip, he could feel the heat of the fire on his backside. It was uncomfortably close. ‘I just had to kill a good knight I’ve known for ten years because of you and your temper! I’ve a good mind to do the same to you!’

  Branas had the neckline of his brigandine in both hands. There was a ferocious strength in them.

  ‘I… I’m sorry,’ Vaskrian stammered. A painful heat was coursing through his rear now.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ repeated the knight, his voice an unpleasant mixture of rage and incredulity. ‘Yes, I daresay you are – though not half as sorry as poor Anrod and yon squire, I should think!’

  ‘Please, sire, the fire…’

  Branas’s eyes were burning with a fire of their own. Vaskrian knew which one he feared most.

  With a disgusted noise the veteran turned him from the blaze and flung him to the hard ground.

  ‘Well, you caused this mess and you’re going to damn well clean it up,’ he thundered. The cool earth felt good beneath Vaskrian, but it didn’t look as though he would be enjoying it for long. ‘I’m certainly not missing the tourney at Harrang escorting that blinded idiot back to Hroghar!’ Suddenly lowering his voice ominously, he added: ‘So you’d better finish what you started.’

  His eyes had turned from fire to ice. Derrick had started wailing again – evidently his pain wasn’t getting any better over time.

  ‘Wh-what?’ Vaskrian managed to stammer. He didn’t like where this was going.

  His master loomed over him, an implacable silhouette against the firelight.

  ‘What’s the matter, Vaskrian, esquire of Hroghar? Surely you of all people aren’t one to quail at a bit more bloodshed? It’s not as if you’ve never killed a man before – now get to it!’

  Vaskrian turned to glance at Derrick. His agonised throes had taken him to the edge of the circle of light. The darkened wilderness stretched behind him.

  What his guvnor said was true enough. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed. That had been two years ago, when he and Sir Branas had fought against Baron Olvar, a rapacious Wolding who had crossed the Warryn to raid Lord Fenrig’s lands. He’d felt proud of himself that day – an enemy squire and a footsoldier had both met their ends on his blade. At fifteen summers, he’d been well on his way to becoming a knight of renown. Or so he’d reckoned at the time.

  But this was different. He certainly had no love for Derrick – yet even so, he was incapacitated. Chivalrous knights weren’t supposed to do this sort of thing.

  Sir Branas must have read his mind. ‘No, not very knightly is it, to kill a defenceless opponent?’ he snarled. ‘That’s why I certainly won’t be doing it!’

  ‘But… can’t we just leave him here?’ Vaskrian tried desperately. ‘He’s completely helpless. I can’t just kill him in cold blood!’

  ‘You should have thought about that before you threw a pot of boiling fat and water in his face! Reus’ wounds, look at him! Blinded and disfigured – what place do you think he’ll have at the Jarl’s table now? You’ve as good as killed him already – now finish the job, for mercy’s sake!’

  Looking over at Derrick again he saw it was true. He’d taken to clawing at the long grass, revealing a face that was hideously burned and scalded. The eyes were gone – he couldn’t distinguish them from the lumps of sizzling bear fat clustered about them.

  Picking himself up with leaden limbs Vaskrian drew his dirk and walked over to Derrick.

  He’d heard veteran knights at the castle say there was no strength like that of a dying man. And so it proved with Derrick, who wrestled like a Wadwo, his cries swiftly turning fearful as death embraced him. Perhaps there was a lesson in that – no matter how bad pain could get, fear of worse always trumped it.

  In the end Vaskrian had to sit astride him, pinning both his arms to the ground with his knees. Derrick’s legs thrashed up manically, kicking helplessly at his back before he sank the dirk into his throat. As his screams subsided into gurgles Vaskrian kept his eyes tightly shut, trying not to think of Derrick’s pitiful pleading before the sharp blade silenced him forever.

  He wrenched the dagger free with hands darkened to the wrists with blood. Lurching up he staggered over to the nearest tree and threw up bile. All was silent now but for the crackling of the fire and the lone hooting of an owl.

  Without looking at Derrick’s corpse he made his way back over to the fire and slumped down next to it. Sir Branas was still standing, staring at Sir Anrod’s crumpled form, shaking his head sadly and muttering to himself.

  ‘We’ll leave them here,’ he said presently, his voice flat and emotionless. ‘I’ll tell the peasants at the next village to send word so his family can collect his remains – his horses and chattels too, I’ll not profit from an old friend’s death. It was a duel of honour so at least there’ll be no blood-price to pay.’

  Turning to look at Vaskrian he added coldly: ‘Go and clean yourself up at the river. After that you can do the same for my blade and see about cooking up another supper – fighting is hungry work and I’m rightly famished. See it doesn’t stray between pot and bowl this time.’

  Vaskrian nodded blankly and did as he was told. It wasn’t until he was stirring a second pot of broth that the old knight spoke again. He was finishing off the wine, staring grimly into the night.

  ‘Be thankful Derrick was only the second son of a minor vassal,’ he said. ‘If his family were more powerful we could both have been in a lot of trouble, duel of honour or no. All the same you’ve a nobleman’s blood on your hands, Vaskrian, and you’ll have to tread carefully from now on.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ replied Vaskrian sullenly. ‘I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand, but everyone at Hroghar’s been taking pot shots at me today - ’

  Branas silenced him with a curt wave of the hand.

  ‘Derrick is – was – a big-mouthed fool, no better than his cronies. If they could couch a lance half as well as they can hurl insults then Lord Fenrig would have a fearsome garrison in the making. As it is he has a spoiled bunch of rakehells who talk better than they fight.’

  ‘But I can fight!’ protested Vaskrian. ‘Why can’t I be
a knight? I’d serve Lord Fenrig as well as anyone if only they’d give me a chance!’

  He’d spoken well out of turn. He was half expecting Branas to rise and chastise him again, but the grizzled knight only laughed and took another pull on the wineskin. He was well in his cups now.

  ‘Nay, Vaskrian of Hroghar,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’ve no idea what it means to be a knight. It takes more than a strong right arm to serve with honour. You commoners want it too badly, that’s your problem. That’s why only men of noble blood are fit to wear the spurs – not even that fool Derrick would have done what you just did.’

  His eyes narrowed to mean slits as he gestured at the squire’s corpse with the wineskin. ‘Didn’t I teach you your lesson just now? You start a fight ugly, it’s going to finish ugly. Killing a defenceless man in peacetime doesn’t feel as good as taking a life on the battlefield does it?’

  ‘But he provoked me! You said so yourself!’

  ‘Aye! And what did you do?’ roared Branas. ‘Sniped back at him – all blasted day! You could have held your tongue – do you think I won’t have to do the same when some high-born lordling’s son gainsays me during battle planning for the melee at Harrang? When some idiot half my age presumes to know better than me because he’s bluer-blooded than I am? Oh, I may be of noble lineage, Vaskrian, but I have to stand in line too! Even lords have to bend the knee before their royal liege – why should you of all people be any different?’

  Vaskrian stared sullenly down at the bubbling soup. He felt exhausted. It had not been a good day.

  ‘If Lord Fenrig didn’t owe your father his life I’d have dismissed you from my service months ago – you’re nothing but a liability!’ snarled the old knight. ‘As it is, I’ve no choice but to put up with you – because I too have to do what I’m told, whether I like it or not!’