The Last Benediction in Steel

by Wright, Kevin

  I’d seen my share.

  The night before battle, the two of you drinking and dicing and swearing and praying. Jawing on into the night long past when you should be sleeping. Resting. Staying sharp. Then comes the aftermath, so sudden, so sharp, and you’re staring down at a hunk of flesh and metal, wondering what you’re going to write the poor bastard’s family. What you’re gonna tell them to make sense of it all when you were right there and can’t make heads or tails. So you start thinking up all the gleaming poetics you can muster to deify the departed when you know in the hellfire pit of your gut it won’t matter what you do, what you say, what you write. So you do nothing, say nothing, write nothing cause you don’t want to be the last nail in a loaded coffin.

  But you can’t do that with a king. Not when you’re in his service. Entwined in the morass. And until we’d beat feet, I was entwined. My brother was entwined. Lady Mary and Karl. All of us. Entwined round our necks by nooses, wind blowing, toes gripping the rough-hewn planks of the trap door beneath.

  Alright. Focus.

  I inspected the bed, drawing back the linens and blankets torn asunder when the King died kicking in his throes. Jesus. Dying in a nightshirt? Skinny legs sticking out all pale and hairy? Small dignity in that.

  The sword piercing his chest had been very neatly done. It’d come in at an angle through the ribs on his right side. I pulled his nightshirt up to see if I was missing other wounds. I wasn’t. One good thrust, nigh on to the hilt. Through the lungs. The great vessels. The heart.

  Rigor mortis had set in. His arms were like wood, ramrod straight, stiff. He’d been dead a while. A few hours at least. Using his limbs as levers, I gripped and lifted. “Rrrg…” Jesus. I readjusted. Moving a rigored corpse is a pain in the balls. Took some doing, some awkward fumble-fucking, like trying to flip a table by grasping the bottom of one leg, but I managed. Eventually.

  “Hmm…”

  The sword stuck out through his back. It’d pinned him to the bed when he’d toppled over backward. Or he’d been lying down when he was stabbed. Blood soaked the sheets, the mattress, pooling in a clotted mess.

  Outside, von Madbury pounded on the keep door, demanding it be opened by order of the Queen. Of the King. Of the Lord God Almighty. Seemed Karl was deaf, though, or a piss-poor listener, or just a downright stone-walling prick, which happened to be precisely why I kept him around.

  When I was done with the corpse-king, I wrestled him back near to how I’d found him. “Hmmm…”

  “Hmmm, what?” came a voice from the doorway.

  “What the—?” I banged my head on the bedpost and nearly ended up alongside the corpse.

  Lady Mary stood at the door, peering in, a look of consternation twisting her lip. “Here. Your face.” She dug around a knapsack and withdrew a handful of bandages and a small bottle. “We have to clean it up.” She unstopped the bottle then upended it into the bandages.

  “Ain’t bleeding anymore.”

  “Bites are renowned for festering.” Lady Mary paused when her gaze fell upon the King. “Sweet mercy…”

  “Wrong on both counts.” I pulled the linens up, covering the corpse-king.

  “Who…?” she stammered.

  “I’m fair certain it was suicide,” I deadpanned.

  “Where…” She stood there mesmerized for a moment. “Where’s your brother? And what the hell’s going on?”

  “Out ministering to the downtrodden. And you tell me. I’ve been busy.”

  “I don’t know.” Lady Mary dabbed some concoction on my cheek. It stung like hell and I told her so. She didn’t seem to care. “We were prisoners.”

  “Even you?”

  “I can’t bandage it.” Lady Mary grimaced, tucking away the bottle. “Prince Eventine offered to release me. In exchange for my hand.”

  “The wooden one or real?”

  “I’m glad you still have the time to be an arse.”

  I offered a bow. “I hope you told him to fuck off.”

  “Not in those words, exactly, but yes, more or less.” Lady Mary fingered the tip of her hook hand. “Rose of Sharon. That was hours ago. And we … we heard something from outside. Screaming. A panic. A commotion.”

  “Yeah. They ran off the camp folk.” I thought on the corpses littering the yard. “Those they didn’t run through, anyways.” I glanced past her shoulder. “Ruth…?” I didn’t know what question to ask.

  “Still out cold. The children are…” Lady Mary ran a hand through her hair. “I have to get back. There’s nothing to pack. A few blankets. A jug for water. Nothing else to take. Nothing to…” She glanced toward the window. “Things are falling apart.”

  “Yeah. And then some.”

  Lady Mary crossed herself as she took in the corpse-king. “I always thought he wasn’t what he appeared to be.”

  “Despondent? Weak? Indecisive?”

  “Aye. Yes. Well… Perhaps he was exactly what he appeared to be.” Lady Mary crossed herself again for good measure. “I suppose I merely hoped he wasn’t. Or prayed.”

  From outside came the sound of someone taking an axe to the Schloss’s front door.

  Thunk…

  Thunk…

  Thunk…

  “Company.” I glared out the window. “Have you seen Sir Alaric?”

  The hacking continued. But it was a stout door. And it had Karl buttressing it.

  “I saw a light in his room.” Lady Mary stood at my side gazing out the window. “Something inside him’s broken as well.”

  “Lot of that going around.” I shrugged, tapped my chest. “I’ve a special place in here for overwrought drunks languishing under the thumb of weak kings.” I raised an eyebrow toward the King’s weapons rack. “You any good with a crossbow?”

  Pride was not a thing we clung fast to in our pyrrhic victory.

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 39.

  WITH HIS HAIRY-TWIG legs splayed out from beneath his moth-eaten nightshirt, a bent-framed portrait tucked under one arm, Sir Alaric lazed across the floor, leaning against the foot of his bed, propping him upright. Sort of. A gleaming knife leaned across one leg, a flaccid skin of whiskey by his side. He was drunk off his arse. At the very least. “You work fast,” I said.

  “Come to pay yer last respects?” he slurred.

  “That’d require me to have had first respects,” I deadpanned.

  “Heh. Don’t surprise me.” Sir Alaric cracked an eye. Fire rippled soft in the hearth, a tangy smoke thick in the air. He had a belt looped tourniquet-wise round his bicep.

  “Chimney needs cleaning,” I coughed, meandering through the stratified smoke, and pushed open the shutters. “Jesus.” It’d gone quiet outside. Which could’ve been a good thing or not. But probably not. “Or the damper’s closed.” I waved a hand. “Either way, you need a bath.”

  Sir Alaric frowned over at the meager fire, shrugged, cinched the tourniquet tight with his teeth then set the belt buckle. “One way’s as good as another.”

  “I’d beg to differ.” I appraised him solemnly. “But you’re doing it right. Mostly. Warm fire. All snug as a bug, sipping liquid sunshine in a soft balmy haze. Could be worse.” I sniffed. “You’re missing a pretty young lass to sing sad imminent sorrows, though. I could send for Wenelda?”

  “Pretty?” He squinted in suspicion. “Young?”

  “Sorry,” I held out my hands, “short notice, you understand?”

  “Hmm? Naw.” Sir Alaric wiped his mouth then clutched the knife. “As such, ain’t sure I could rise to the occasion. I’ve had trouble since…” Veins bulged on his forearm. “Well…” he closed his eyes and nodded, fingers working as he opened and closed his hand, “you’ll just have to do.”

  “Well, I am pretty,” I admitted.

  He chuffed a stunted laugh, dabbed an eye, took a swig.

  Stacks of unfinished portraits leaned against the walls. Some outlined. Some half-painted. Others nigh on complete but missing
that final sheen of professional polish. The one under his arm was the exception. It was a masterpiece.

  “What the fuck happened here?” I asked.

  “Feel it’s fair evident.”

  “Give me something.” I crossed my arms.

  “Prefer to not talk on it presently.”

  “Oh? When?” I asked. “Tomorrow good?”

  “I’m sorry for all this, lad.” His old hound dog eyes wept clear. “Truly, and I am.”

  “You should be. You’re the only one left who’s not a complete asshole.” I eyed his knife. “And now you’re fixed on taking the easy way out?”

  “Easy?” Sir Alaric considered a moment. “I don’t know. All’s I know is I’m sorry about ditching you with so much unfinished business. Navigating a shit-storm blind through the pitch black of night.”

  “You are a useless old fuck, but you’re still kicking. And that ain’t nothing.”

  “My wife’s dead, lad.” Sir Alaric clutched the portrait to his chest, fingers gripping the frame. A woman I could only describe as majestically beautiful stared out from the canvas with soulful brown eyes. Lady Catherine. She looked … strangely familiar. “Used to hear her some nights. Alone in the dark. Lost. Alone. Freezing. Sickness gnawing holes through her. But scratching at the door, begging to be let in. But I can’t never find the knob. I scrabble up and down, left and right, but ain’t nothing there.” He moaned. “And she’s right there, by the hound, she’s right bloody there.”

  “It’s just a dream, Red,” I said.

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “And you’ve still a daughter who needs you.”

  “The high and mighty Queen? Heh. Naw. She don’t need no one,” Sir Alaric said. “Made it clear she don’t need me. Lass can fend for herself. Always could. Better at all this shite than me. Her sister now…” He dry-swallowed something back. “And I … I’m just an old, beat-down law-dog who can barely lift his prick let alone a sword.”

  I shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  “And what it is,” Sir Alaric struggled for the word, “is shit. Is horror. Is — lord in heaven, failure.” He took a drink. “I was supposed to serve. To protect…” He winced as he formed a flaccid fist. “Was supposed to…”

  I nodded at his hand. “How’s it coming?”

  “Nigh on there.” He pursed his lips. “Naught but pinpricks.”

  “Good,” I said. “Who ordered them after us at the leper-house?”

  “Eh? Oh, I … I don’t know,” Sir Alaric winced. “I’m cut off, y’see? Sold out. Impotent. A damned eunuch. You were there. Stripped me of my station. Cuckolded me. Again.” Sir Alaric scowled at the wineskin then hurled it across the room. “Understand something, lad. If I’d known they was coming your way… If I’d known when or how or … or anything, I’d have done something. Warn you. Stop them. Something. Anything. On my life, on my soul, I swear it.”

  “I know it, Red.”

  He slumped. “I … I thank you for that, truly and I do.” Sir Alaric raised an eyebrow. “Been meaning to ask, what the hell happened to your face?”

  “Wenelda. Getting frisky. You should see my cock. What’s left of it, anyways.”

  “Appreciate it, but I’ll pass.”

  Sir Alaric leaned back, losing his balance, knocking over Lady Catherine’s portrait.

  “Easy, old man.”

  “It’s nothing.” He struggled back upright. “Did what ye had to.”

  “Red,” if I could just get within arm’s length of his blade, “what’s strigoi mean?”

  “What? Eh? Don’t…” Sir Alaric rubbed his belly. “Where’d you hear it?”

  “The Nazarene,” I grimaced. “He told me to ask the King. See what he says. And I did, but the King wasn’t in any shape to answer.”

  “And that’s a fact.”

  “Those poor fuckers crucified?” I said. “Wasn’t the Nazarene killed them, yeah?”

  “I…” Sir Alaric’s knuckles turned white on the knife hilt, “I don’t know, lad.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not enough. Not … not nearly enough.”

  The stacks of unfinished portraits leered, a silent jury watching with consternation, mute accusation, awaiting final judgment.

  Sir Alaric hefted his knife, tottering almost ass-over-tea kettle again. “Fair travels.”

  “Put the blade down.”

  “Decision’s made, lad.” Sir Alaric set the blade against his forearm, biting into a risen vein. Just a quick nick and the world’d run red. “Foregone. That’s the word…”

  “Fuck your foregone. You’re telling me you’re sorry for stranding me in a shit-storm? Then don’t. Suck it the fuck up. Stay. Help make it right.”

  “Right?” Sir Alaric sucked his teeth. “Ain’t no such thing. Not now. Not ever. We both ken it.”

  “No shit. Then help get me and mine out of here. Jesus. Be a knight.”

  “I told you what I was. What I am. And what I ain’t.”

  “I know where you’re at. And I know where you want to be. But I need you here.”

  “How fares the Ulysses?” Sir Alaric muttered.

  “Dry dock still.” I slid a little closer.

  “That’s close enough,” Sir Alaric warned. “Wouldn’t want to stick you by accident in a tussle. Won’t do no one no good.” He grimaced at the knife, trembling in hand. “Come on, lad—”

  “All those poor fuckers you swore to protect.” I poured it on. “All those poor fuckers turned out into the streets. Into the hills. All of them starving and wasting and dying one by bloody one. Gonna cut and run on them, too?”

  I could see him staggering beneath my blows but withstanding, numb as he was.

  “I…” Sir Alaric swallowed slowly, precisely, his Adam’s apple jumping. “You made your point, lad. Now, for the love of God, make your peace.”

  I held out a hand. “Give me the damned knife.”

  “I’m steeled to it now,” Sir Alaric snarled. “Ain’t you seen? Ain’t you listened?”

  “I’m thick as shit.”

  “Honor demands—”

  “Honor demands you get me and mine out of here. Honor demands you find who killed your King. And honor demands you find your wife’s killer.”

  “Two out of three…” Sir Alaric’s voice cracked. “You don’t ken it. I just want to see her so bad—”

  “And you will. We’re all piloting that skiff white-knuckled downriver, a full gale howling at our stern. And there’s no stopping. No coming about,” I said. “She’ll be there waiting when you arrive. So do something. One last thing. Do what Catherine would want you to.”

  “I…” Sir Alaric crumbled beneath my final blow.

  It was a low one, using his wife, but life and death? You throw whatever combination’ll land. Whatever’ll do damage. I held Lady Catherine’s portrait out at arm’s length and whistled. “She was a real looker, yeah?” I set it down across from him, leaning it against one of the stacks. “What was she doing with an old hound like you?”

  “Lad…”

  “What was she like?”

  Sir Alaric’s frigid rictus trembled to a halt, a germ of warmth taking root as the grim shroud of determination melted. “Aw, lad,” he choked out, his knife clattering to the floor, “but weren’t she grand…”

  …departed to the croak of a desiccated crone, cawing like a raven after our departure.

  That she was still able to draw breath after her ordeal was the last testament to the hardiness of her slaughtered folk.

  —War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg

  Chapter 40.

  SIR ALARIC GROANED, drooling as I dragged him up, limp as a dead fish, onto his bed, rolling him over. I rubbed my back. My neck. He was a pint-sized old geezer but seemed of the variety whose bones were made of lead. Or I was just getting old. Weak. Pathetic. Leaning over, back creaking, I grabbed the one boot Sir Alaric still wore and yanked it off. “Jesus.”

  Sir Alari
c didn’t answer, but a voice from behind said, “You’re a man of dichotomies in stark opposition, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  I stiffened. Recovered awkwardly. But it was only Prince Palatine. “What the hell’s a dichotomy?” I turned.

  “I think you know more than you let on.” Prince Palatine leaned against the doorjamb, his crippled arm clutched to his chest as though by some unseen sling, a thick book pressed into its crook. “Earlier in the yard, with Sir Gustav.” He dabbed a tear from his eye. “Forgive me. And now,” he nodded toward Sir Alaric, “with grandfather. How do you explain that? A man who plays the part of death-dealer in one breath yet savior in the next?”

  “Savior’s a bit strong.” I yanked a blanket up over Sir Alaric. “But to each his own. Besides, Sir Alaric’s a good man. Or at least tries to be. Gustav? Well, not so much.”

  “Is it all that simple?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Unless you don’t like sleeping nights.” I did a half-arsed job of tucking Sir Alaric in. “You want to be up til dawn, mind racing, untangling endless knots, that’s as good a subject as any. Your failing marriage is another.” I started counting on my fingers. “Being a horrible father. Or human being, in general. Wondering if God truly exists, and if he does, why’s he hate us so much. Then taking a hard look at us, and knowing exactly why.” I straightened, brushing my hair aside. It was gritty with dried blood. “You saw your old man?”

  “Yes,” Prince Palatine twitched a spaced nod, “it was…”

  “Yeah kid,” I said, “it sure as hell was.”

  From outside the window, someone shouted epithets into the night. A blade was unsheathed and clanged against a shield.

  “Are…” Prince Palatine crushed away tears, “are you going to let them in?”

  “Doesn’t seem prudent.” I looked out the window. The Schloss’s front door was still intact. “Maybe once they simmer down.”

  “Unlikely to be anytime soon.”

  “I had that same thought,” I said. “Another thought I had was maybe you might try and let them in.”