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Lords of the Lance – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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CHAPTER ONE

The Knights of the Unicorn

The Border Princes…

Corentin Varo had heard many shocking tales of this wretched place, a realm of robber barons and beggar knights, a land plagued by warring tribes of orcs and roving beastherds. Ruled – if such a disunited clutch of fiefdoms could ever truly be ruled – by an ever-shifting patchwork of exiled lords and vagabond kings, it was a realm of lawlessness and petty squabbling under the constant shadow of war.

The maps that deigned to mark it at all depicted it as a dismal, rain-soaked peninsula beyond the southern edges of the Empire and Bretonnia, bordered on three sides by soaring mountains as vast and pitiless as it was possible to imagine and the treacherous waters of the Black Gulf.

Here, folk of low character washed up like flotsam on a stony beach. The troubadours of Quenelles regaled the tavern folk with lurid songs of honourless miscreants such as Cecile Gastonne, Desa Donalba – the Bloody Baron – and the murderous Maid of Mousillon.

Yes, Varo had heard all the tales and songs, believing them darkly and comically exaggerated to titillate their peasant listeners. But now that he beheld the land of the Border Princes for himself, he saw the songs had, if anything, underplayed its sullen wretchedness.

Fifty-three days it had taken the army of Lord Cyricus Carrard to reach Kasos Rock: a hundred knights in riotous panoply, five hundred peasant yeomen, and twice that number of drovers, motley-fools, wagoners, and beasts of burden brought along to supply them. From the exuberant knights errant in the vanguard to the more seasoned warriors of the rearguard, the column trailed nearly a mile, a snaking line of soldiers on the march.

It had been a brutal crossing, and Varo still didn’t know for sure why they had made it.

Three months ago, a warrior clad in black war plate had arrived at the gates of Quenelles, bearing a letter sealed with blue wax and stamped with a dragon sigil, declaring that his orders were to hand it to the duke himself. As knight-equerry to Lord Carrard, Varo had escorted the man to the duke’s chambers, ready to put a sword through his heart if he proved false.

The contents of the letter, however, remained a mystery, for Lord Carrard had cast it into the hearth fire and dismissed the warrior as soon as he’d read it. With the man gone, the duke gave the order to summon the knights of his dukedom to Quenelles and oath themselves to a new quest under the unicorn banner.

No sooner had that order been despatched than the duke dictated a letter to be sent to none other than King Louen Leoncoeur, the Orc-Slayer himself. With every word Varo wrote, his amazement grew, for Lord Carrard was regretfully informing his liege lord that he could not rejoin the errantry war, that a matter of honour required him to ride to his cousin’s aid in the Border Princes.

Varo had served Lord Carrard for three years, ever since Varo had saved his life at Taubert’s Vale and taken the knightly vow on a battlefield knee-deep in orc corpses.

But instead of then granting Varo his own lands and the right to raise a castle, as was customary, Lord Carrard had appointed him to the role of his knight-equerry. Instead of building his own lands, he was tasked with running the duke’s citadel in Quenelles: managing the health of his stables and the organisation of his household, and dealing with his lord’s many correspondences. An honourable posting to be sure, one that taught Varo that being a lord-knight of Bretonnia involved so much more than prowess with lance, sword and axe.

But three years was a long time to wait to forge his own legacy.

Long enough to earn him a derisory nickname: the Knight of Quills.

Long enough for Varo to grow weary of penning letters, balancing ledgers, and collecting feu duties from the duke’s tenant farmers. This quest was the perfect opportunity to again prove his worth as a warrior deserving of his own lands, a chance to step from Lord Carrard’s shadow and become master of his own fate.

Seven days after the messenger’s arrival, an army of knights, peasants and pilgrims began the long march over the Vaults along narrow roads made almost impassable by winter’s closing fist. The blessings of Lady Rosamund kept the worst of the elements at bay, but still many horses and men had perished in the worsening blizzards as they climbed higher into the mountains.

Deep in the jagged peaks they saw many hideous cairns of skulls and grotesque bone totems, and endured attacks from spiteful goblin arrows that troubled the knights not at all, but slew dozens among the peasant host. All in all, they suffered two months of hardship, sporadic fighting, and privation before emerging into the wide, rain-soaked highlands of the Border Princes.

At the mouth of the Old Dwarf Pass, Lady Severine’s pegasus knights came upon the warrior who’d brought the dragon-sealed letter to Quenelles. The man had been strung up on a triangular gibbet and stripped of flesh. Only his face had been left untouched, frozen in a mask of agony. The ground was too hard to dig, so the peasant labourers fashioned a pyre from his gibbet as the handmaidens of the Lady said prayers of mercy to guide him to the Garden of Morr.

Then, descending to the dark forest-lands and sodden plains, they marched past muddy farms and stockaded hill forts on rutted tracks, where the eyes of hooded and suspicious peasants followed them as they passed south. And now, as the sun dipped to the west on the fifty-third day of their long march, the host had their first look at the headland of Kasos Rock.

Lord Carrard lifted his helm’s visor and surveyed his cousin’s demesne with a disdainful eye, but it was left to Bastien, the brash and haughty cavalier of the knights errant, to fully express the feelings of the gathered army.

‘What a shithole…’

The sky was the wine-dark purple of a midwinter night when the skirling blast of a horn halted the shivering column before Kasos Rock. And for all that Bastien had denigrated it from afar, Varo saw Baron Lothar Aquilena’s castle was a formidable stronghold.

Following the rugged contours of the landscape, its walls were tall and strong, with solid-looking square towers dominating the high ground and the narrow straits of the Lagoon of Tears. Any ships seeking to pass farther north would have to take Kasos Rock first, a siege that would exact a fearsome butcher’s bill of blood.

While the bulk of the host remained beyond bowshot, Lord Carrard rode towards the wide ditch before the walls with his senior commanders. Varo rode on his right as his lancer, mounted on a roan steed named Caerian, a horse he’d reared from a foal and whose lineage could be traced back to Cyrapheaus of Gisoreux.

Riding to the duke’s left in the shield position was Lady Severine, the youngest daughter of Duke Cassvon of Parravon. Her father and Lord Carrard were old allies, and upon hearing of his comrade’s call to arms, Cassvon had immediately pledged Severine and her pegasus knights to the unicorn banner.

She was a poised and elegant rider whose red-gold hair streamed behind her and who sat astride a winged steed named Agameda, an ivory pegasus, regally caparisoned in black and gold and with a flowing mane of spun silver. The beast restlessly shivered its wings, irritated at being confined to the earth and eager to be in the air again.

The host’s greatest knight, Sir Leodegar of the Golden Hart, had remained with the army, having informed Lord Carrard that he would stand with the carriage bearing the handmaidens of the Lady to ensure their protection. In truth, Varo was churlishly grateful the grail warrior had not joined them, for his numinous presence led anyone near him to question their own purity and prowess. Twisting in the saddle, Varo saw the green-and-gold-robed Sir Leodegar sitting as unmoving as a statue astride his mount, a towering midnight beast with a single streak of gold running from its muzzle to its pearl-black eyes. Its name was Xiphos, and Varo had never seen a steed its equal.

‘Eyes front, Varo,’ said Lord Carrard. ‘Don’t gawk at Sir Leodegar.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Varo, though in truth he had not been looking at the grail knight, but the carriage he protected, hoping for a stray gust of wind to part its curtains and permit him a glimpse within.

Varo reined in his horse as Lord Carrard halted at the edge of Kasos Rock’s defensive ditch. The duke removed his helm and hung it from the saddle horn of Greymaus, his faithful ash gelding. Though Lord Carrard had just entered his sixty-seventh year, he was yet a vital and powerful warrior, and his eyes, one of blue, the other of gold, had lost none of their sharpness. His beard was darkly silver and his scarred face was that of a venerable campaigner, the very epitome of a Bretonnian lordly knight.

Varo reached up to remove his helm, but the duke snapped a finger and said, ‘No. Leave it on.’

‘My lord?’

‘Your helmet. Keep it on.’

‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Varo, though the order puzzled him.

Lord Carrard ran a gloved hand across his own shaven scalp and studied the ramparts with the grim expression of a man who had stormed too many castles like this.

‘Strong walls,’ said Varo, guessing his lord’s thoughts.

Severine grunted in amusement. ‘The Knight of Quills is an expert on fortifications? How quaint.’

‘Kasos Rock might look thrown together,’ said Varo, ‘but to reach that height, those walls will be at least ten yards wide at their base, and looking at the slope of the batter where they meet the ground, I’ll wager they have deep foundations cut into the heart of the bedrock.’

‘High walls mean little when you can fly over them,’ said Severine, rubbing her mount’s neck.

Varo gestured to the towers. ‘The men crewing the war engines up there might have something to say about that. I’m no pegasus knight, but I suspect three yards of sharp iron in Agameda’s belly would ruin your day.’

Severine looked up, now seeing the bolt throwers behind the wood-mantled parapet. ‘I wonder, can they turn as fast as I can fly?’ she snapped.

‘Perhaps not, but I’m sure the men with crossbows either side of it can.’

‘Might be worth a try,’ said Severine with a wide grin that made Varo think she meant it.

Lord Carrard raised a hand to still their argument and said, ‘Square towers. Just like at Al-Haikk. Oswain always did admire the war-craft of the Arabyan stonemasons.’

The duke’s mood was hard to read in the gloaming, but Varo thought he glimpsed an expression of profound regret that was quickly masked. Varo looked away, lifting his eyes to the ramparts of the barbican protecting the gateway into Kasos Rock.

Billowing sea fog wreathed its parapets and smoke from braziers threw the men-at-arms in the embrasures into dark silhouette. Firelight reflected from spear-tips and the heads of arrows nocked to taut bowstrings.

‘Why are their bows drawn?’ asked Varo.

‘Life in the Border Princes teaches a man to expect betrayal,’ said Lord Carrard, twisting the tip of his wide moustache between his fingers. ‘But whether it’s expected or not, my cousin is likely deciding if I’m here to talk or lay siege.’

A shout went up from the stronghold’s courtyard and the barbican’s drawbridge lowered on iron chains, revealing a heavy portcullis and a banded gate of seasoned oak set deep within a tunnel pierced with murder holes.

‘Looks like he wants to talk,’ said Severine.

‘With me,’ said Lord Carrard, urging the gelding forward with a tap of his spurs. ‘And both of you keep tight rein on your ire on my behalf.’

‘Our ire?’ asked Severine.

‘Aye. We come at Baron Aquilena’s request, but mark me – given enough time, a man’s grudge can fester into something ugly, bitter as any a dwarf ever held. Lothar needs us, but that doesn’t mean he won’t throw out some venomous barbs at my expense. Why do you think I left Bastien behind?’

The pugnacious cavalier of the knights errant was an undoubtedly brave and ferocious warrior, but his reckless spirit was untempered by modesty or restraint: a sometime virtue in battle, but likely not an asset in a potentially delicate parley.

Varo nodded, moving his hand away from the hilt of his sword, where it had unconsciously drifted as the portcullis rose and the gate behind swung open on creaking hinges. The three knights rode into the tunnel, and Varo glanced at the slits cut into the roof and the loopholes in the walls as they moved towards a second portcullis at the far end of the passage.

It remained sealed and did not rise as they reined in their mounts.

The courtyard beyond the latticed wood and iron was well-lit with torches and braziers, and Varo saw a delegation of knights awaiting them, all armoured in the same black plate as the warrior whose message had brought them here.

‘Lothar!’ called Lord Carrard. ‘Do you plan to bar me like a common tinker at your gate?’

For a moment that stretched altogether too long, nothing happened, but eventually the portcullis rose with a clatter of chains and gears. When it had risen enough, Lord Carrard led them through with his head held high, Varo and Severine taking up position behind him, riding side by side.

Agameda preened his wings and shook his mane, proud as any peacock.

Lord Carrard kept his gaze locked on the tall knight clad in black plate who stood upon a raised platform at the end of the courtyard: Baron Lothar Aquilena.

The border lord wore a blue-and-white surcoat over his blacksteel armour, and kept a mailed fist clenched over the pommel of the heavy broadsword at his side. A kneeling squire held his white-plumed helmet, but Varo’s attention was entirely captivated by the knight at his side, a woman with long raven hair that lay in a knotted braid draped over one shoulder. Similarly clad in black armour, she wore an expression that was carefully neutral as their delegation approached.

‘Who is that?’ asked Varo.

‘Lady Karolina Aquilena, Baron Lothar’s daughter,’ answered Severine. ‘A feisty one, I hear.’

‘She’s no stranger to war,’ said Varo, seeing the bow-legged stance of a born rider and the wide shoulders of someone used to bearing the weight of sword and lance.

‘I’ll wager she’s seen more charges than you,’ whispered Severine. ‘But then that wouldn’t be hard.’

Varo didn’t rise to the bait, and instead studied the others attending Baron Aquilena: twelve helmeted knights in the same dull black armour as their lord. Seasoned warriors by the look of them, and the parapets above them were lined with surly-looking men-at-arms with bows and axes. Standing behind the knights at the rear of the platform was a hunched old man with an ashen pallor who wore the midnight-blue robes of a scholarly advisor and a jade pendant around his neck.

The duke reined in his horse before the platform and raised a hand in greeting.

Baron Aquilena said nothing in response, seemingly unwilling to offer up the words honour required of such a meeting. The silence stretched long past any measure of decorum until Lady Karolina took a half-step forward and gave a deep bow.

‘Welcome to Kasos Rock, Lord Carrard,’ she said. ‘We are honoured to receive you and your host.’

‘I was honoured to receive your father’s invitation,’ said Lord Carrard.

‘I would not have sent it were there any other choice,’ snapped Baron Aquilena.

Varo stiffened at the insolence of the baron’s words; he’d seen men executed for less.

‘Nevertheless, cousin, I am here,’ said Lord Carrard with a restraint Varo had rarely seen. ‘We have made the arduous journey from Quenelles to fight at your side as honour demands.’

‘Honour?’ spat the baron. ‘You of all people dare use that word in my presence?’

Again, Lord Carrard allowed a grave insult to pass unremarked.

‘Aye, our bonds of kin and friendship were sundered many years ago,’ said the duke with a sigh, ‘but I implore you to put aside the bad blood between us. We are here for your son, so do not let my ill-deed and the wounding words of our parting blind you to why I have brought my host to your castle.’

Lady Karolina placed a hand on her father’s arm and said, ‘Forgive my father’s hasty words, my lord. His love for Henri, my brother, weighs heavily upon him.’

Baron Aquilena shook off her hand. ‘Do not speak for me, girl,’ he barked. ‘I am still lord of Kasos Rock. If you knew this man as I know him, how he dishonoured me, you would drive your blade through his heart!’

That was too much for Varo and he reached across his saddle to draw his sword.

Lady Severine’s hand gripped his wrist and Varo looked over at her in surprise. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and flicked her eyes towards the ramparts. A score of men-at-arms with bows drawn, a dozen more with crossbows. Even heavy plate and mail wouldn’t protect them from that weight of broadheads.

‘Was that all this was, Lothar? A ruse to draw me down here so you could take your revenge?’ asked Lord Carrard, dismounting and spreading his arms. ‘Has your grievance against me driven you to become so base that you would sully what honour you have left for hate? If it’s my death you want and any shred of the man I once knew remains, then come down and face me as a warrior, sword to sword.’

Baron Aquilena stepped forward, drawing his black sword, his face a mask of fury.

‘Father!’ cried Karolina. ‘No!’

Lord Carrard unsheathed his own weapon, a gleaming hand-and-a-half sword known as Edhelaur. Its name meant Elf-dawn in Old Breton, but those who had seen its radiance in battle knew it simply as the Burning Blade. It had been passed down through generations of Carrard knights, slaying servants of the Dark Gods, grave-risen revenants, and monstrous beasts alike.

At the baron’s side, the wizened scholar raised a liver-spotted hand. ‘Please, my lord, we need Lord Carrard’s host!’

But Lothar Aquilena was not to be denied, oblivious to the pleas of his daughter and the counsel of his advisor. Blinded by whatever justice or retribution he craved, he descended to the courtyard, ready to take the life of a fellow knight.

‘What in the name of the Lady do we do?’ asked Varo, aghast at the unfolding madness.

Severine gave him a withering look. ‘If they cross blades, I’ll take to the air and you ride for the gate. If either of us makes it out alive, we have Sir Leodegar raze this place to the ground.’

‘What? No, this is insane!’

‘You have a better idea?’

‘I don’t,’ said Varo, ‘but I’m not leaving. Bad enough to be scorned as the Knight of Quills, but to abandon the duke like that would forever brand me as a coward.’

Severine looked set to berate him, but she simply nodded and said, ‘Very well. We’ll die together then.’

‘Father, please!’ said Karolina. ‘There is no honour in this. I beg you, put up your blade.’

Her words fell on deaf ears, and Baron Aquilena raised his sword.

Varo tightened his grip on his own sword, his heartbeat racing.

But the urge to fight instantly drained from him as a shimmering silver radiance filled the courtyard.

The men-at-arms on the ramparts fell to their knees, dropping their bows and laying down their axes. Some wept, while others hid their faces in shame.

Varo twisted in the saddle to see three figures standing silhouetted in the open gateway: two women and a towering warrior armoured in steel plate that gleamed like a polished mirror.

The women were clad in the purest shimmering samite, their steps fluid, as though they were adrift on soft winds. Both were armed with leaf-bladed daggers sheathed in pale scabbards at their waists, and the light seemed to move with them, borne within their hearts and given radiance through their flawless skin. The broad-chested warrior was Sir Leodegar of the Golden Hart, the host’s sublime grail knight, a paragon of courage and honour in mortal form. Varo let his eyes linger on the knight, suddenly aware of every nick, dent and mud-stain on his own armour and tabard. In that moment he felt entirely unworthy of being a knight of the realm, his manhood held cheap in the face of this perfect warrior.

The taller of the women had ivory skin and long white hair bound in a braid that reached to her waist, and no unicorn of Athel Loren had ever possessed a mane so pure. Her name was Rosamund the Fair, and her eyes were chips of purest sapphire, a blue so deep and peaceful they could quell any thoughts of villainy with a glance. Her face was careworn with her many years, as if she had seen all the wickedness of the world and taken its sadness within her to spare others its pain.

Her companion was younger, the same age as Varo, a woman with golden-brown skin and black hair woven in elaborate plaits that framed her hazel eyes and gentle smile. Her outward beauty stole Varo’s breath, wrought by a heart and soul entirely free of all worldly vanity.

‘Alisende,’ whispered Varo, and he thought maybe her eyes darted in his direction. His heart ached at the sight of her, and his hand reached for the thong around his neck. She had changed so little and yet so much since he had last seen her. He was down on one knee, unable to remember having climbed from his saddle. All around him, every warrior in the castle was now prostrate before the two women, heads bowed in awed reverence.

Lord Carrard sheathed his blade and took a knee. Baron Aquilena put up his sword and followed suit, his skin ruddy with shame.

The women halted before the two knightly lords, faces serene and faintly disappointed.

‘I dreamed of this place,’ said Rosamund, tilting her head as though only just now remembering. ‘A summer sun shone in the sky, yet darkness held sway. A bitter rain wept from the sky like tears.’ She lifted her hands, palms up, as if she could feel the rain of her dreams.

‘I…’ said Baron Aquilena, his tongue in knots and his heart seemingly in ruins. ‘I… I beg your forgiveness, I did not know handmaidens of the Lady accompanied Cyricus.’

‘Dearest Lothar, I am Rosamund and this is my beloved companion, Alisende.’

‘You do me the greatest honour,’ said the baron.

‘Your heart is in such pain,’ said Rosamund, reaching out to him and brushing her pale fingers across his shoulder. ‘I would see it lessened.’

Her touch broke the confounding spell of beauty that lay upon Baron Aquilena, and Varo was amazed to see tears roll down his cheeks as some grievous burden was shared.

‘My son…’ he said, rising slowly to his feet. ‘He is lost.’

‘His face lingers in my mind,’ said Rosamund. ‘A prince of dragons who speaks with his fingers.’

‘Yes,’ said Baron Aquilena. ‘My son. My Henri.’

Rosamund now addressed the baron’s daughter. ‘Lady Karolina, it lifts my heart to see you again.’

Varo saw the confusion in her eyes as she said, ‘Forgive me, my lady. Though it saddens me to say so, we have never met.’

‘You are the dragon’s daughter,’ said Rosamund with a smile. ‘I have lived this moment so many times, so many ways. Sometimes I forget I see things differently to others.’

Sir Leodegar stepped forward before Lady Karolina could answer, head and shoulders above every other warrior. The gold thread of the horned stag woven upon his surplice gleamed like fresh sunlight.

‘Baron Lothar,’ he said, his accent deep and resonant: a kingly voice. ‘Lord Carrard’s host has marched long and hard to render aid unto you, crossing over mountain, hill and dale. They are weary and hungry.’

Shamed by the grail knight’s words and his anger now cooled by the presence of the Lady’s handmaidens, the baron stood and scabbarded his sword with a low bow.

‘I beg your forgiveness,’ he said. ‘Old wounds are like sharp spurs against my heart and make me forget myself. I will have food and drink sent out to Lord Carrard’s men immediately.’

Sir Leodegar nodded and said, ‘See to it personally.’

The sounds of feasting drifted on the night air as Varo walked the battlements of Kasos Rock. The smell of roasted venison and wild boar spoke to the bountiful nature of Baron Lothar’s kitchens, and the knights of Lord Carrard dined well with their host around the roaring hearth fire in the Dragon Hall.

Unlike a great many knights of Bretonnia, Varo had little taste for carousing, and had excused himself early from the feasting. Lady Severine and her knights were using elaborate gestures to tell tales of aerial combat to the baron’s enthralled Blacksteel Riders, and Bastien’s knights errant were singing rowdy tavern songs as they drained firkin after firkin of their host’s ale.

Alisende and Rosamund sat close to Lord Carrard and Baron Lothar, their plates of stag meat and boiled vegetables untouched. The serene aura of the Lady’s handmaidens had cooled the violent ardour of the two lords for now, and the near bloodbath of earlier seemed like a half-remembered dream. Sir Leodegar loomed behind the women, likewise having partaken of neither food nor water, and his piercing, all-seeing gaze swept the hall for ignoble intent.

Varo felt appraising eyes upon him as he excused himself, half turning to see Lady Karolina watching him intently.

Leaving the Dragon Hall, he crossed a timber bridge from the ramparts of the central keep to the curtain wall, where men-at-arms kept watch over the secretive waters of the Lagoon of Tears. Most were a mix of borderland types with the heft of bonny fighters: some with the look of Tilean sellswords, others like Estalian rowdies, and a few who wore the conical helms and flowing robes of warriors from beyond the Worlds Edge Mountains.

As disparate a force as they were, each was well provided for with a shirt of mail worn beneath a padded jerkin of blue and white and an iron-brimmed kettle helmet over a hooded coif. Their weapons were a mix of spears, bows and axes, with the sergeants and yeomen equipped with wide-bladed backswords.

‘Not like men-at-arms you’re used to back in Bretonnia, eh?’

Varo turned to see Lady Karolina leaning on the parapet, the wind whipping long strands of black hair around her face. She wore buckskin breeches and a furred tunic over her leather bodice, and her cloak of patchwork scales was pulled tight over her shoulders.

‘No,’ said Varo. ‘Your father’s host has a strange look to it, but this is the Border Princes – I am led to believe that strange is the norm.’

Karolina shrugged. ‘I don’t give a shit what they look like, so long as they stand and fight.’

‘A truth more Bretonnian lords would do better to understand,’ agreed Varo.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Can you fight?’

Varo was taken aback by the directness of her question, and said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We’re sailing for the Land of the Dead on the morning’s tide, and I need to know I can trust the warrior next to me,’ said Karolina. ‘So, can you?’

‘I am a knight of the realm,’ said Varo. ‘You doubt my sword-arm?’

She jerked her thumb back towards the Dragon Hall with a shrug. ‘The knights below certainly seem to. They called you the Knight of Quills.’

‘A foolish nickname only,’ said Varo. ‘I am Lord Carrard’s equerry, after all.’

‘So you keep the duke’s accounts in order, good for you,’ replied Karolina. ‘But can you fight?’

‘I have fought the orcs since I was a child after they burned my home to ash,’ said Varo, struggling to control his anger. ‘I have hunted forest beasts by moonlight as they debauched around brutish herdstones after murdering Bretonnian women and children. Villainous men and flesh-hungry ghouls despoiling the Gardens of Morr have tried to kill me, but they are all dead and I am alive. So, yes, Lady Karolina, I can fight.’

‘That’s all I wanted to know,’ said Karolina, holding out a leather-wrapped canteen. ‘Here. For your throat.’

‘Thank you, but I do not drink wine.’

‘It’s water. The air up here is salty as a saddle’s underside. Gives you a powerful thirst.’

Despite himself, Varo grinned as he took the canteen and took a long swig. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

‘Save the “my lady” courtliness for the handmaidens. Call me Karolina.’

‘Corentin Varo. But call me Varo.’

She leaned in close, peering intently at him in the gloom. ‘Your eyes,’ she said. ‘They’re each a different colour. Just like Lord Carrard’s.’

‘Not an uncommon occurrence among the folk of Quenelles,’ said Varo.

‘How so?’

Varo shrugged. ‘I’m no scholar, but some say a little of the magic of Athel Loren runs in our veins. Those with eyes of different hues are sometimes, if the speaker is being charitable, called fey-eyed.’

‘And if they’re not being charitable?’

‘Changeling, elf-born, spite-cursed, ill-born – take your pick.’

‘Fey-eyed… I like it,’ said Karolina. ‘It softens your features, makes you look less grim.’

Varo blushed and said, ‘Thank you… I think.’

‘Why didn’t you stay at the feast?’

Her abrupt change of tack caught Varo off guard and he hesitated before answering. ‘The company of drunken knights is best shared if you’re drunk yourself,’ he said. ‘I prefer to greet the morning and ride with a clear head.’

‘You won’t be riding tomorrow, you’ll be on one of my father’s ships.’

‘Even more reason to keep a clear head and settled stomach,’ said Varo.

‘I mean, yes, that’s sensible, but are you sure it doesn’t have something to do with the handmaiden who came with Lady Rosamund?’ asked Karolina.

‘What?’ said Varo, turning away to look over the wind-blown sheen of the lagoon. Moonlight shimmered on its surface, reminding him of a lake far away over the mountains and a day he could not forget, no matter how painful a memory it was to hang on to.

‘You kept sneaking glances at her all night,’ said Karolina.

‘You are uncommonly blunt,’ he said at last.

She cocked an eyebrow, and Varo saw she wasn’t going to let her question go unanswered.

‘Uncommonly blunt and persistent,’ he added.

‘Two of my best qualities,’ she said with a grin. ‘Along with my incredible modesty.’

‘Duly noted, but we have only just met,’ said Varo. ‘Why would I speak to you of such things?’

‘Because I want to know and sometimes it’s good to tell your secrets to a stranger in the dark.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Varo. ‘But for tonight, my secrets are mine to keep, my lady.’

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2024.
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This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

the purchaser of a Black Library e-book product (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase a Black Library e-book (“e-book”). The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media.

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.