The Ruby Knight

craggy hill.
    There was a narrow track leading up the side of the crag, and they rode up it in single file.
    ‘Gloomy-looking place,’ Ulath said, craning his neck to look up at the brooding structure atop the crag.
    ‘It doesn’t really help to generate much enthusiasm for this visit,’ Kalten agreed.
    The track they followed led ultimately to a barred gate. Sparhawk reined in, leaned over in his saddle and pounded on the gate with one steel-clad fist.
    They waited, but nothing happened.
    Sparhawk pounded again.
    After some time, a small panel in the centre of the gate slid open. ‘What is it?’ a hollow voice demanded shortly.
    ‘We are travellers,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and we seek shelter from the storm which approaches.’
    ‘The house is closed to strangers.’
    ‘Open the gate,’ Sparhawk said flatly. ‘We are Knights of the Church, and failure to comply with our reasonable request for shelter is an offence against God.’
    The unseen man on the other side of the gate hesitated. ‘I must ask the count’s permission,’ he said grudgingly in a deep, rumbling voice.
    ‘Do so at once then.’
    ‘Not a very promising beginning, is it?’ Kalten said.
    ‘Gatekeepers sometimes take themselves too seriously,’ Tynian told him. ‘Keys and locks do strange things to some people’s sense of proportion.’
    They waited while lightning streaked the purple sky to the west.
    Then, after what seemed a very long time, they heard the rattling of a chain followed by the sound of a heavy iron bar sliding through massive rings. Grudgingly, the gate groaned open.
    The man inside was huge. He wore bull-hide armour, and his eyes were deep-sunk beneath heavy brows. His lower jaw protruded, and his face was bleak.
    Sparhawk knew him. He had seen him once before.

Chapter 14

    The corridor into which the surly gate-guard led them was draped with cobwebs and dimly lit by flickering torches set in iron rings at widely spaced intervals. Sparhawk quite deliberately lagged behind to fall in beside Sephrenia. ‘You recognized him too?’ he whispered to her.
    She nodded. ‘There’s more going on here than we realized,’ she whispered back. ‘Be very careful, Sparhawk. This is dangerous.’
    ‘Right,’ he grunted.
    At the far end of the cobwebbed hallway stood a large, heavy door. When their silent escort pulled it open, the rusty hinges squealed in protest. They came out at the head of a curved stairway that led down into a very large room. The room was vaulted, its walls were painted white, and the polished stone floor was as black as night. A fire burned fitfully in the arched fireplace, and the only other light came from a single candle on the table before the fire. Seated at the table was a pale-faced, grey-haired man dressed all in black. His face was melancholy and had the pallor of one who is seldom out in the sun. He looked somehow unhealthy, a victim of some obscure malaise. He was reading a large, leather-bound book by the light of his single candle.
    ‘The people I spoke of, Master,’ the lantern-jawed man in the bull-hide armour said deferentially in his deep, hollow voice.
    ‘Very well, Occuda,’ the man at the table replied in a weary voice. ‘Prepare chambers for them. They will stay until the storm abates.’
    ‘It shall be as you say, Master.’ The big servant turned and went back up the stairs.
    ‘Very few people travel into this part of the kingdom,’ the man in black informed them. ‘The region is desolate and unpopulated. I am Count Ghasek, and I offer you the meagre shelter of my house until the weather clears. In time, you may wish that you had not found my gate.’
    ‘My name is Sparhawk,’ the big Pandion told him, and then he introduced the others.
    Ghasek nodded politely to each. ‘Seat yourselves,’ he invited his guests. ‘Occuda will return shortly and prepare refreshments for you.’
    ‘You are very kind, My Lord of Ghasek,’ Sparhawk said, removing his helmet and gauntlets.
    ‘You may not think so for long, Sir Sparhawk,’ Ghasek said ominously.
    ‘That’s the second time you’ve hinted at some kind of trouble within your walls, My Lord,’ Tynian said.
    ‘And it may not be the last, Sir Tynian. The word “trouble”, however, is far too mild, I’m afraid. To be quite honest with you, had you not been Knights of the Church, my gates would have remained closed to you. This is an unhappy house, and I do not willingly inflict its sorrows on strangers.’
    ‘We