A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  At the far eastern end of their camp he found the Etruscan, Di Bracchio, still awake.

  “Have you found your missing men?” Ablemont asked.

  Di Bracchio shook his head. “No, my lord.”

  “Deserted, eh?” Ablemont asked.

  Di Bracchio shrugged, a distorted shape in the darkness. “Who would desert here?” he asked.

  If Ablemont agreed, he didn’t advertise the fact. He walked all the way from the extreme east of the camp to the west, more than a league, and then stumbled back to his tent, still unable to sleep, but relieved at least to find the camp secure.

  He lay on his camp bed and stared at the roof of his silken pavilion, which moved in the darkness as a cold wind blew across the camp. He couldn’t get the smell out of his head, or the dead monsters’ faces out of the gently moving shadows.

  * * *

  The day passed. The ditches deepened, as men dug them deeper, and the walls of dirt and the palisades were raised higher. De Ribeaumont stayed with the king, and Ablemont ordered Vasili to assemble the siege train—heavy catapults, onagers of ancient design, trebuchets of the very latest style, and ballistae that were like immense crossbows. The Etruscans sighted them carefully, but no one made any attempt to occupy the hill that rose behind the camp or the ancient hill fort atop it, and Ablemont, when at last he walked in that direction, thought the smell of death was spreading.

  But it was a magnificent spring day, with the sun brilliant in a blue sky decorated with a few fleecy white wool clouds. It was hard for Ablemont to fully remember the terror of the night before.

  About noon, the king emerged from his pavilion. “Well?” he asked.

  De Ribeaumont stood by him in his magnificent dragon armour.

  Ablemont could not hide a tick of frustration. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”

  “When does the food arrive?” the king asked. “So that we can resume our advance?”

  De Ribeaumont nodded. “The essence of strategy is a strong offence,” he said. “To attack is to seize the initiative. Whatever we are facing here, it fears us. These scorched-earth tactics—”

  “Scorched earth?” Ablemont asked.

  The king waved a hand in dismissal. “De Ribeaumont understands these things,” he said. “Our opponent fears the might of our arms, so he drives off all the people and livestock to deny us food.”

  “We must push on and force battle,” De Ribeaumont said. “Since clearly this is what our enemy most fears.”

  Ablemont felt ill at ease, which was rare for him. He could see that De Ribeaumont, usually his ally, was making a bid to become favourite. And somehow the terror of the night before had robbed the game of its savour. It was as if he didn’t care.

  In fact, he didn’t give a damn. He was scared.

  He shrugged. “Your Grace,” he said, “we understand nothing of our foe. Last night, one of Your Grace’s scouts discovered an old fort at the top of that hill. It is full of corpses.”

  “You see?” De Ribeaumont said.

  “Corpses of creatures of the Wild,” Ablemont said.

  The king shrugged. “All the better,” he said. “Your brother was not completely ineffectual in his defence of this realm of ours.”

  “And then he withdrew southward,” De Ribeaumont said.

  “Except that he came from the south, and so, as far as we know, did the Wild,” Ablemont said.

  The king shook his head. “I’m sorry you are so easily unmanned,” the king said. “De Ribeaumont says that we should leave you here to command the camp and move south to attack the enemy.”

  Ser Tancred Guisarme was in full harness, as the law of war required, and he stood very straight despite his years. He had been silent thus far, but now he spoke. “Your Grace, it would be foolishness to move south without any kind of report on the enemy, his location, or his numbers.”

  The king merely glanced at his constable. “Old men are often cowards,” he said.

  Guisarme raised an eyebrow. “Your Grace, I will accept any insult from you, as you are my king. But I will insist that you acknowledge that I have lived to be an old man—an old man of war, who has seen a dozen great battles and a hundred skirmishes. My cowardice is such that many of my foes have regretted. I say, learn something of this foe before you strike.”

  De Ribeaumont nodded. “I say, ride now, and strike before the opportunity to do so is lost, while our horses and men have full bellies.”

  “There speaks a true knight of Galle,” the king said.

  “It is too late in the day to move today,” Ablemont said. “Although perhaps the army would benefit by forming for battle on the plain in front of the camp. To better know their order on the day of battle. March tomorrow, Your Grace. By then, perhaps I’ll have the first wagonloads of food from the north.”

  De Ribeaumont looked at Ablemont with a certain derision, as if to say I know your game.

  But the king nodded to Ablemont. “Now you speak sense at last. Let’s form for battle after the noon meal.”

  And in fact, as they all expected, the royal army took hours to form. Indeed, having started late, the last bannerette was placed in the line on the far left as the sun began to go down behind the hills to the west.

  “Almost fifteen thousand men,” Ablemont said. “A superb host. The main battle is more than a league long.”

  “No one is missing?” the king asked.

  “A few dozen squires and light horsemen and hunters who are out scouting beyond the hills,” Ablemont said.

  The whole host made a magnificent show, and when they were formed, before the shadows of the tall pines across the valley began to fall on them, they waited in relative silence, and there was a moment when Albemarle thought that perhaps...just perhaps...something was watching them. Or perhaps some evil enemy army would suddenly appear on the plain in front of them.

  No such thing occurred, and the army unfolded much more swiftly than it had formed, dribbled back inside the walls of earth, and cooked its meager dinner.

  While Ablemont ate, he was served his scouting reports. His chief forester reported that he had seen rabbits and, to the west, squirrels in the trees.

  “Nothing larger than a cat,” the man said with a gap-toothed grin. “No deer, no bear, and this in the richest game country in all the southland. My lord.”

  “And no men,” Ablemont said.

  “Not a soul,” the man said.

  It was a day late, but Ablemont had to try everything at hand. “Do me a favour,” he said. “Find the Etruscan, Di Bracchio. Ask him to show you where his men were when they deserted. See if you can follow them. Track them.”

  “Day-old tracks on dry ground, my lord?” The old forester shrugged. “Your faith in me is...probably a bit much, my lord. But I’ll have a go before last light.” He paused. “Deserted, my lord? That’s foolery. No sane man would walk off right now. I been in the woods man an’ boy, an’ I don’t like it out there alone.”

  The next man was a squire, a local boy who served in Ablemont’s household. He was pale, and his eyes seemed odd. Saint Quentin. That was his name. Gaspard Saint Quentin.

  “Well, Gaspard, mon vieux?” Ablemont asked.

  The boy shook his head. “I have bad news, lord,” he said. His voice was wooden.

  “Out with it,” Ablemont said.

  “I found...” The young man drew himself up. “I found what must have been one of my lord’s couriers. Here’s his pouch.”

  Ablemont found that he was standing. “Damn,” he said, far more mildly than he expected.

  “He and his horse were...”

  Ablemont sighed. “Take your time,” he said quietly.

  “Shredded,” the young man blurted. “Oh sweet Jesus, I have never seen anything like it. Or the maggots and worms all over...” The boy bent suddenly and threw up. “Oh God, oh God,” the young man managed, and retched again. “Something’s wrong,” he said in an odd, detached voice.

  Servants saw to the squire, and
towels were brought, rags, a bucket of water. The stench was foul, and it tickled Ablemont’s throat. And his memory. Something of the smell of the hill fort.

  Worms.

  He dismissed his fears. He had a more immediate crisis, if his couriers had not gotten through. It had not, until then, occurred to him that he was surrounded.

  Saint Quentin shook off the helping hands. He stood up. He seemed to have difficulty controlling himself.

  Ablemont knew something was wrong, and got a hand on his sword.

  Ah, there we are, said Saint Quentin’s voice, except devoid of any nuance. The squire stood in an odd crouch, his weight mostly on one foot, as if he’d forgotten how to stand erect.

  “Gaspard?” Ablemont asked.

  You command these creatures? Saint Quentin asked.

  “Messieur de Saint Quentin!” Ablemont insisted.

  No. You command all these creatures?

  Ablemont had a very able brain, but he could make no sense of the development. Except that his squire was possessed, and by some demon that could not fully control the young man’s body. Even as he watched, it gave a convulsive step, a foot shot out and steadied him...like a bad marionette. Or a drunken man.

  “Who are you?” Ablemont hissed. It was unseemly...and disgusting.

  You command these creatures? Communicate. Now.

  Saint Quentin took an ungainly step toward Ablemont.

  “Guards!” the king’s favourite shouted.

  Another step. The boy swayed toward Ablemont.

  A long, pencil-thin worm emerged from one eye.

  In an eternity of fear and a need for action, Ablemont’s arming sword exploded out of his scabbard. His draw was an upcut that severed the reaching hand and the worm as the blade rose, and the descending cut went deep into the boy’s neck, a killing blow.

  The squire was not-dead. A hand reached for Ablemont, and the mouth moved.

  You command...

  Disgust, terror, anger. Ablemont’s sword arm had never been so strong.

  Saint Quentin’s head rolled away from his corpse.

  “Stand back!” Ablemont shouted as guards began to pour into the tent. “Back!” he shrieked, his voice breaking.

  * * *

  “Sieur D’Ablemont is quite mad,” De Ribeaumont reported to his king. “He has slain one of his squires for making a report. There is blood everywhere.”

  The king shrugged. “Ablemont has always been a very strange man,” he said. “But he is my horse, and I will ride him as I please.”

  “He is demanding to approach Your Grace. I feel that this is unwise.” De Ribeaumont was not quite gloating at the near destruction of his rival.

  The king, however, was not quite so fickle. “I have certainly been tempted to kill squires,” the king said. “And other bearers of bad tidings. Let him be.”

  The king went back to bed, and in the morning, he rose, and armed, and was pleased to see his orders obeyed, and the whole of the army forming in the meadow in front of the camp.

  He didn’t see Ablemont until his great charger was brought. A mounting block was being prepared, and then the man hurried up. He looked hag-ridden.

  “You should be in full harness, sir,” the king said.

  “Your Grace, I beg your attention,” Ablemont said. “This is not what it seems. This is not a straightforward war against a simple enemy.”

  The king reached out a hand and touched his friend on the cheek. “Ablemont,” he said. “I am the king.”

  “Sire!” Ablemont said, and knelt. “Sire! There is something here that we do not understand. It tried...to communicate. Or...”

  The king stepped up onto his mounting block, got a sabatoned foot in his great steel stirrup, and in one easy swing, he mounted. “Go and arm,” he said.

  Ablemont shook his head. “We have no food. Sire, it is possible none of our messengers have got through. We—”

  “We will dine in Arles,” the king said. “No more prevarication.”

  Ablemont drew himself up. “Your Grace,” he said. “We have no idea what we face.”

  “We have the best knights in the world,” the king said. “Fear nothing.”

  They moved across the plain in columns formed by battle: advance, main, rear. They crossed the stream to their front and climbed the next ridge, crested it, and scouts brought them reports of the enemy host waiting at the next ridge.

  The army hurried forward. Even Ablemont, riding with his own knights, felt the thrill; to know that the waiting was over, and now they might come to grip with their foe, whether natural or infernal, was a relief.

  A herald rode up, saluted, and requested Ablemont’s presence with the king.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “The advance battle has taken prisoners,” the herald said. “Or perhaps messengers. I do not know, my lord.”

  Ablemont and one of his squires rode forward. They went over the top of the ridge and for the first time Ablemont could see the size of the plain, which stretched for leagues, and the very top of the citadel of Arles gleamed in the distance.

  Down on the plain, an army waited. Steel glittered in the sun.

  The enemy had no flags. Ablemont had never seen an army without flags or banners before.

  He pushed past a retinue of knights who were all counting their kills, bragging about how quickly they would break the enemy. A pair of priests were shriving foot soldiers. The king was sitting on his horse in the midst of a circle of courtiers and staff in a clearing in the pine woods just off the road.

  Two men stood alone, surrounded by dismounted knights. The men were expressionless.

  Ablemont frowned, noting the rags of their hose and shirts.

  “Etruscans, surely?” he asked Ser Tancred.

  The old knight made a face as if something smelled bad. “I should have known,” he said. “The deserters. They demand to see the king.”

  Ablemont nodded, and the king took a pull from a flask and laughed.

  “They do not look so dangerous, eh, Ablemont?” he asked. “Ribeaumont says we can scatter that host in one charge.”

  Ablemont saluted the king.

  Before he could comment, the two Etruscan captives were summoned forward.

  They walked badly, and Ablemont was immediately reminded of his young squire. His gorge rose.

  “Sire, they may be possessed,” he said.

  The king turned. “Ablemont,” he said, as if deeply disappointed, and the weight of royal disapproval silenced Ablemont.

  The two prisoners were placed before the king.

  “Are you the king?” asked the shorter one.

  A knight tapped him, hard, in the back of the head.

  The man’s body moved, but he didn’t even register the pain. Are you the master of these creatures? said the voice. It was almost the same voice that Ablemont had heard from his squire.

  The king gave a twisted smile.

  Ablemont said, “Yes, he is.” His hand was on his sword hilt. His knuckles were white.

  Good, said the unmoving face. We have no need for your people. You may go.

  The king made a face. “I give the orders here,” he said, mildly enough, for him.

  No, said the voice. We will direct now. For the good of all. All.

  The king was no fool, whatever his little predilections. He looked at the two prisoners, who spoke in perfect concert. “Something is channeling through them. I thought channeling was a myth. Ablemont?”

  “Who are you?” Ablemont asked.

  We are all, they said.

  “You are not all,” Ablemont said.

  We are all. You can be All. All will be all.

  The king laughed. “Well, you have certainly taken disrespect to the king to new heights,” he said. “Kill them. Let’s get on with this.”

  Go! said the two men.

  “No, I’ll destroy your army and your satanic monsters, and free Arles,” the king said.

  You are master of Arles? they asked. Give
us Arles and we will not molest you, or take you. For now.

  Ablemont smiled. “Your diplomacy is too honest,” he said.

  The king clenched his fist, and the heads of the two Etruscans fell from their shoulders almost together.

  Even Ablemont, who expected the worms, was appalled at the size of the things that emerged from the necks of the dead men. They were like segmented snakes, long, grey and white, with tiny hairs and teeth in their mouths.

  Neither worm made much headway against fully armoured men.

  “Burn them,” Ablemont said. “Sire, that was what inhabited my squire.”

  De Ribeaumont was having trouble breathing. He looked at Ablemont.

  “I must apologize,” he managed.

  “Sire, we must show these...things...to the army.” Ablemont caught the king’s bridle.

  The king made a face. “No,” he said. “No, it would only unman them. Burn the dead. Come.”

  Old Ser Tancred still had his sword in his hand. “How long until they infest a man?” he asked. “And what’s waiting for us down there? I don’t see any monsters. I see men. Men who do not move, like these.”

  “Good, we’ll slay them quicker. On me! Form for battle! Come, my lords!” The king swept past, and his household knights mounted and joined him.

  Guisarme looked at Ablemont. “I mislike it,” he said simply.

  “Now we know a little,” Ablemont said. “We should retreat and learn more.”

  “These things killed those irks,” Guisarme said. “The Wild is no myth. So the priests are either ignorant or lying. But if the irks are the Wild, what in the name of the saints are these things?”

  Ablemont shook his head. “After the battle. If we both tell the king...”

  Guisarme shook his head. “See those men waiting for us?” he asked. “I’ll wager you a gold ducat of Venike against a bowl of maggots that we’re looking at the feudal host of Arles. Full of worms.”

  “Oh sweet Christ,” Ablemont said.

  “It’s too late to stop the battle,” Guisarme said. “Ride away and save something.”

  Ablemont smiled. “And leave my king at the edge of mortal battle? You must think me a bad knight, Ser Tancred. Not to mention the complete loss of prestige if the king should win.”