S.J.A. Turney - The Winter Knight

For Paul and Lou, always and forever.

A man apostate, a man unprofitable, is he who goeth with a wayward mouth; he beckoneth with eyes, he trampeth with the foot, he speaketh with the finger, by shrewd heart he imagineth evil, and in all time he soweth dissensions. His perdition shall come to him anon, and he shall be broken suddenly; and he shall no more have medicine.

Six things there be, which the Lord hateth; and his soul curseth the seventh thing.

High eyes

A liar tongue

Hands shedding out innocent blood

An heart imagining full wicked thoughts

Feet swift to run into evil

A man bringing forth lies, a false witness

And him that soweth discord among brethren

My son, keep the commandments of thy father; and forsake thou not the law of thy mother. Bind thou those continually in thine heart; and encompass to thy throat. When thou goest, go they with thee; when thou sleepest, keep they thee; and thou waking, speak with them. For the commandment of God is a lantern, and the law is light, and the blaming of teaching is the way of life.

Proverbs 6:12-23

The door to the castles great hall slammed shut somewhere far back, and the greasy smoke and dancing orange flames of the three torches along the corridor walls each guttered and flared momentarily, throwing eerie demonic shadows around the grey stonework. For a heartbeat the flittering illumination picked out details in the great tapestry that hung on the wall opposite, a treasure from the time of his great grandfather, the story of the fortress and his family.

A flare: Henry the Lion with sword raised, heroic and larger than life as he stands alongside the fearsome beast that is his namesake, the pair facing the dread crimson wyrm as it breathes its fire at them in great billowing clouds. Guttering back into darkness.

A flash: Burkhard von Zollern in his mail shirt with a sword large enough to cleave giants, standing atop a rock in the shape of a curled dragon, his new castle rising strong and noble behind, imposed against a bright sky. And then darkness.

A flicker: Hildiger von Ehingen de Rottenburg standing between Frederick the One-Eyed and a young princeling the family proudly claimed to be Frederick Barbarossa. A trinity of steel-clad warriors and nobles representing the great power of the Hohenstaufen dynasty and their allies.

The angry figure stomped past the tapestry and its glorious scenes, past the torches as they once more settled into a quiet guttering, sinews of black smoke rising to add to the sooty coating of the ceiling, hiding its once rich, now faded paintwork. The torches entirely failed in any aspect of their purpose. The light they gave off did little more than highlight how gloomy the corridor was by throwing small patches of it into clarity, and any heat they produced was immediately smothered by the bitter cold, carried along the passageway on a wind that cut like the talons of a wyrm.

Anger. Anger and frustration. Anger over the rifts that were endemic in the family, over the idiocy of the argument that had led to his storming out, over the pig-headedness of the old man, refusing to accept that there could be any view but his own. Anger over a world where such a noble family could be brought so low, low enough that arguments over minutiae shattered the peace, when they should be above such things.

Frustration that his own manner was so impulsive and hot-headed that he had so readily failed to keep control of his temper in the face of the argument. He should have been able to rise above, but he couldnt. He simply couldnt. He was a man of fire, like his father, not one of ice, like his uncle.

Would that Ltolf was here now

Trudging along the corridor, still aswirl with anger and regret, he made for the square of blue-white ahead, the open door into the courtyard, passing through into the antechamber on the way. Two more torches entirely failed to illuminate this small room between the wide corridor and the courtyard exit, the bottom of a spiral staircase presenting a black maw to the left; to the right was bare stonework with pegs for cloaks. Half a dozen thick robes hung there, and he made his way towards them.

Through that doorway the world was a wintry blue-white. So cold that the world felt as though it might snap or crack. The blizzard had stopped for now, and the moon had put in a rare appearance, lending the world a silvered glow. The dazzling light on the white landscape below made the world as bright now as it could ever hope to be on the sunniest of days. White-blue and perfect.

He reached up and grasped the thick fur collar of the hooded cloak on the end peg the fleecy thick wool garment rich burgundy in colour, picked out with silver thread designs, a grand garment for a once grand family. His fingers, becoming raw with the cold already since leaving the comfort of the great hall with its roaring fires, closed on the fur.

He was aware of the movement behind him for just a fraction of a second before it happened. Something hard came down on the back of his head, scattering his wits in a flash of terrible pain. His hand went instinctively to his waist, fingers wafting across the pommel of the dagger as he tried to grip it to defend himself against this sudden and unexpected threat. Nothing happened. The fingers danced on, twitching, uncontrollable. Years of martial training rendered ineffective by a critical blow to his head. His mind was a blur of pain and panic. If hed been able to think, to move, to react to the blow, hed have reached up and tested his scalp. He felt sure even in the swimming nausea of agony that he would find the skull cracked and loose, blood welling up into his thick lion-mane of hair.

He fell forward as if poleaxed, almost putting his eye out on one of the cloak pegs as his face slammed into the stonework, a blow that would have been painful in itself if he could have felt anything over the agony in his scalp.

Warm blood ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, tried to think, tried to move. His body felt useless, as though it belonged to someone else. Even every ounce of will he could summon, which was almost nothing, could not even lift his finger. He slipped. He felt certain he should be falling, but seemed to be being supported. Someone was lowering him to the ground.

Thank the Lord. Thank you, kind friend.

He was on the floor now, but not on the hard cold flagstones of the antechamber. He was lying amid the comfortable folds of the cloak, the fur of the collar under his head, soaking up the blood flowing over his face. It was in his eyes, in his nose and mouth. He choked and coughed out the viscous liquid of his life, groaning and shaking.

The figure was there, just a silhouette. A darker shape within the hellish gloom of the chamber. It was probing him, moving him. It was in his garments now, feeling, pushing, grasping. What was it doing?

He tried to shout, his wits slowly returning. He had been almost knocked out completely by the blow, but he was made of hardy stuff and already he was beginning to recover from the shock, master the pain. His fingers gripped into a fist, gathering a fold of the cloak in them. The other hand went feeling for the hilt of the dagger once more, groping wildly in his slow recovery, but now they found only the empty mouth of the sheath. The blade had been removed. Blood sprayed from his lips as he tried to speak, but a hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth. He struggled. Panicked.

He was recovering his wits and even his mastery over his limbs, but not his strength. The pain and the nausea were still there and were a combination far too powerful for his potency to override them. He had been a strong man and deadly with a blade, but the suddenness and well-placed violence of the attack had unmanned him in an instant. Now he was weak, at the mercy of the figure. As he struggled and tried to rise, tried to slip out from under the gagging hand, he felt his head lifted slightly and then smacked back against the stone floor.