LITMIR.BIZ

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that reached to mid-thigh. He stowed away his simple conical helmet and green traveller’s cloak and put on instead a green surcoat and a very grand-looking helmet surmounted by a pair of the curled and twisted horns he had identified as having come from an Ogre.

      ‘Well?’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia when they had finished putting on their finery, ‘how do we look?’

      ‘Very impressive,’ she complimented them.

      Talen, however, eyed them critically. ‘They look sort of like an iron-works that sprouted legs, don’t they?’ he observed to Berit.

      ‘Be polite,’ Berit said, concealing a smile behind one hand.

      ‘That’s depressing,’ Kalten sighed to Sparhawk. ‘Do you think we really look that ridiculous to the common people?’

      ‘Probably.’

      Kurik and Berit cut lances from a nearby yew-grove and affixed steel points to them.

      ‘Pennons?’ Kurik asked.

      ‘What do you think?’ Sparhawk asked Tynian.

      ‘It couldn’t hurt. Let’s try to look as impressive as we can, I suppose.’

      They mounted with some difficulty, adjusted their shields and moved their pennon-flagged lances into positions where they were prominently displayed and rode out. Faran immediately began to prance. ‘Oh, stop that,’ Sparhawk told him disgustedly.

      They crossed into Lamorkand not much past noon. The border guards looked suspicious, but automatically gave way to the Knights of the Church dressed in their formal armour and wearing expressions of inexorable resolve.

      The Lamork city of Kadach stood on the far side of a river. There was a bridge, but Sparhawk decided against going through that bleak, ugly place. Instead, he checked his map and turned north. ‘The river branches upstream,’ he told the others. ‘We’ll be able to ford it up there. We’re going more or less in that direction anyway, and towns are filled with people who just might want to talk to alien strangers asking questions about us.’

      They rode on north to the series of small streams that fed into the main channel. It was when they were crossing one of these shallow streams that afternoon that they saw a large body of Lamork warriors on the far bank.

      ‘Spread out,’ Sparhawk commanded tersely. ‘Sephrenia, take Talen and Flute to the rear.’

      ‘You think they might belong to the Seeker?’ Kalten asked, moving his hand up the shaft of his lance.

      ‘We’ll find out in a minute. Don’t do anything rash, but be ready for trouble.’

      The leader of the group of warriors was a burly fellow wearing a chain-coat, a steel helmet with a protruding, pig-faced visor and stout leather boots. He advanced into the stream alone and raised his visor to show that he had no hostile intentions.

      ‘I think he’s all right, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said quietly. ‘He doesn’t have that blank look on his face that the men we killed back in Elenia had.’

      ‘Well met, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork said.

      Sparhawk nudged Faran forward a bit through the swirling current. ‘Well met indeed, My Lord,’ he replied.

      ‘This is a fortunate encounter,’ the Lamork continued. ‘It seemed me that we might have ridden even so far as Elenia ere we had encountered Church Knights.’

      ‘And what is your business with the Knights of the Church, My Lord?’ Sparhawk asked politely.

      ‘We require a service of you, Sir Knight – a service that bears directly on the well-being of the Church.’

      ‘We live but to serve her,’ Sparhawk said, struggling to conceal his irritation. ‘Speak further concerning this necessary service.’

      ‘As all the world knows, the Patriarch of the city of Kadach is the paramount choice for the Archprelate’s throne in Chyrellos,’ the helmeted Lamork stated.

      ‘I hadn’t heard that,’ Kalten said quietly from behind.

      ‘Hush,’ Sparhawk muttered over his shoulder. ‘Say on, My Lord,’ he said to the Lamork.

      ‘Misfortunately, civil turmoil mars western Lamorkand presently,’ the Lamork continued.

      ‘I like “misfortunately”,’ Tynian murmured to Kalten. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it.’

      ‘Will you two be quiet?’ Sparhawk snapped. Then he looked back at the man in the chain-coat. ‘Rumour has advised us of this discord, My Lord,’ he replied. ‘But surely this is a local matter, and does not involve the Church.’

      ‘I will speak to the point, Sir Knight. The Patriarch Ortzel of Kadach has been forced by the turmoil I but recently mentioned to seek shelter in the stronghold of his brother, the Baron Alstrom, whom I have the honour to serve. Rude civil discord rears its head here in Lamorkand, and we anticipate with some certainty that the foes of My Lord Alstrom will shortly besiege his fortress.’

      ‘We are but five, My Lord,’ Sparhawk pointed out. ‘Surely our aid would be of little use in a protracted siege.’

      ‘Ah, no, Sir Knight,’ the Lamork said with a disdainful smile. ‘We can sustain ourselves and my Lord Alstrom’s castle without the aid of the invincible Knights of the Church. My Lord Alstrom’s castle is impregnable, and his foes may freely dash themselves to pieces against its walls for a generation or more without causing us alarm. As I have said, however, the Patriarch Ortzel is the paramount choice for the Archprelacy – in the event of the demise of the revered Cluvonus, which, please God, may be delayed for a time. Thus I charge you and your noble companions, Sir Knight, to convey his Grace safe and whole to the sacred city of Chyrellos so that he may stand for election, should that mournful necessity come to pass. With that end in view, I will forthwith convey you and your knightly companions to the stronghold of My Lord of Alstrom so that you may undertake this noble task. Let us then proceed.’

      Chapter 4

      The castle of Baron Alstrom was situated on a rocky promontory on the east bank of the river. The promontory jutted out into the main channel a few leagues above the town of Kadach. It was a bleak, ugly fortress, squatting toad-like under a cheerless sky. Its walls were thick and high, seeming to reflect the stiff, unyielding arrogance of its owner.

      ‘Impregnable?’ Bevier murmured derisively to Sparhawk as the knight in the chain-coat led them along the short causeway that led out to the castle gate. ‘I could reduce these walls within the space of two years. No Arcian noble would feel secure within such flimsy fortifications.’

      ‘Arcians have more time to build their castles,’ Sparhawk pointed out to the white-caped knight. ‘It takes longer to start a war in Arcium than it does here in Lamorkand. You can start a war here in about five minutes, and it’s likely to go on for generations.’

      ‘Truly,’ Bevier agreed. He smiled faintly. ‘In my youth I gave some time to the study of military history. When I turned to the volumes dealing with Lamorkand, I threw up my hands in despair. No rational man could sort out all the alliances, betrayals and blood feuds that seethe just below the surface of this unhappy kingdom.’

      The drawbridge boomed down, and they clattered on across it into the castle’s main court. ‘And it please you, Sir Knights,’ the Lamork knight said, dismounting, ‘I will convey you directly into the presence of the Baron Alstrom and His Grace, the Patriarch Ortzel. Time is pressing, and we must see His Grace safely out of the castle ere the forces of Count Gerrich mount their siege.’

      ‘Lead on, Sir Knight,’ Sparhawk said, clanking down from Faran’s back. He leaned his lance against the wall of the stable, hung his silver-embossed black shield on his saddle and handed his reins to a waiting groom.

      They went up a broad stone staircase and through the pair of massive doors at its top. The hallway beyond was torchlit, and the stones

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