A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  “Show-off,” Cully said.

  “By now, Wilful Murder would’a noticed that there’s no duty roster posted for tomorrow,” Long Paw said, clearly very pleased with himself. “No good will come of it,” he said loudly.

  “Mark my words,” came the chorus.

  Dozens of men and women laughed.

  An Outwaller in red paint strode to the line and loosed his arrow. It did not appear that he had aimed or even prepared himself. He never set his hips. His arrow, however, flew true and struck the target very near the center. He grinned at the company archers.

  They grinned back.

  A pair of bogglins shot and struck the target.

  “I know it’s wrong,” Cully said. “I can’t abide their mouths. They go the wrong way.”

  Smoke elbowed him. “They got bows, they can shoot, and we’re allies.” He’d heard that bogglins were always hungry, and he waved a half loaf of bread at the pair.

  Sure enough, they came over and bowed—itself an inhuman motion.

  “Bread for me?” one said.

  “Sure,” Cully said.

  “Eat bread, still try win,” said the second bogglin.

  Cully made a face.

  Long Paw nodded. “He means, just because he eats your bounty don’t mean he won’t try to beat your shot.” He made a saluting motion with his right hand. “That’s alright, mate. Eat up and shoot well.”

  The bogglins bobbed their heads like extremely ugly children. Their bows were stubby and short, but carefully recurved.

  “God help us all if they figure out how to make a hornbow,” Cully said.

  “Allies,” hissed Long Paw.

  Cully shrugged. He turned to the young Outwaller who had chosen to stand with them as they waited for the next distance. “Ever thought o’ travel?” he asked casually. “Like to fight?”

  “Fight?” the young man said, and his eyes burned.

  “Speak Alban?” Cully asked.

  The man made a face. “I speak this stone-house tongue,” he said. He spoke in a slightly accented High Archaic. Cully had spent years in Liviapolis. He nodded.

  “Ever considered coming along o’ we as a soldier?” he asked.

  Smoke stepped up to the line at seventy paces and drew and loosed. It was not his best arrow, but it hit the outside rim of the straw target...and stuck. He looked disappointed.

  Cully looked at him. “A hit’s a hit,” he said.

  The Outwaller stepped to the line. Again, he didn’t even seem to focus. He loosed, and twenty warriors in the crowd shrieked. He turned away before his arrow struck. “Where do you go to fight?” he asked. “Who do you fight?”

  Cully could tell the young man was excited. “We go far,” he said evasively. “And we fight whoever the cap’n tells us.”

  The young man’s arrow again hit the straw almost on center.

  Cully shook his head and stepped to the line. To his left, the two bogglins loosed together. One missed, and one hit.

  Cully loosed, and hit.

  Long Paw loosed, and hit.

  “How far?” the warrior asked.

  Long Paw shook his head no.

  Cully wanted this boy. “Across the sea,” he said.

  The warrior’s eyes widened. He stepped close to Cully—too close, for most men—and took Cully’s new red coat between his fingers, rubbing the fine wool. “This for me?” he asked.

  Long Paw rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to cheat him on the fine wool,” he said in Alban. “He’ll know.”

  “I’d put this one in cloth-o’-gold. You saw him shoot.”

  The targets were at a hundred paces. Now there were only two hundred archers left, and the shooting went much faster. Men and women stepped to the line and loosed one arrow, all or nothing for this range. One woman laughed when she hit—she was an older woman with two children following her, and she shook her head.

  No Head, who had just missed, liked her smile. “What’s funny, mistress? A fine shot.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever hit a target at this range,” she said.

  No Head nodded. “Well, now you have.”

  “Mostly I shoot deer for the pot,” she said. “The closer the better.”

  No Head nodded.

  He smiled at a bogglin, who stepped up to the line and seemed to strain every limb to bend his bow. His arrow flew—and struck.

  “Well shot, boyo!” No Head said.

  The woman flinched when the bogglin moved closer.

  No Head put a hand on her shoulder. “Allies,” he said.

  “I can’t stomach ’em,” the woman said.

  “You know they only live twenty years?” No Head said conversationally.

  “Oh!” the woman said.

  Her daughter said, “That’s terrible, mister. Mama’s already older ’an that.”

  Her boy looked at the bogglin. “Do that mouth thing?” he asked.

  The Bogglin split its four-part mouth sideways.

  The boy tried to imitate him, and the creature spat a brown juice and shook.

  “That’s bogglin laughter,” No Head said.

  “You like them?” the woman asked him. The targets were moving to a hundred twenty-five paces.

  “Spent most o’ my life killin’ ’em,” No Head said. “But then,” he said, “I found they ain’t so bad.”

  No Head watched Cully strike home, and Long Paw, and an Outwaller boy standing with them. All three shot beautifully. Smoke had almost missed at a hundred, but at one twenty-five he struck dead center and got a hearty cheer.

  “Better take your turn, mistress,” No Head said.

  “Never shot this distance,” she said. “I won’t even reach.”

  “Sure won’t reach if you don’t try,” No Head said.

  The bogglin pulled his bow carefully, as far as he could...and it snapped. The sound carried, and the crowd fell silent.

  A tall irk, one of the judges, came over to them, looked at the bogglin’s bow, and shook his head. “I rule thisss no ssshot. If anyone will lend it a bow?”

  No Head smiled at the woman, wondering if she had a man. He got his bow off his back and handed it to the little creature, and he played with it a moment and then shook his head.

  “Too many talls,” it said.

  No Head nodded. He watched Count Zac rifle an arrow effortlessly into the target and then waved to the man and borrowed his bow for the bogglin.

  “Not my shot,” the bogglin said to the irk, and loosed an arrow. It flew well past the mark.

  Zac calmly handed over three more, and the little creature loosed two of them.

  “Like,” he said.

  He seemed to gather all his limbs, pulled his bow, and loosed.

  His arrow struck the target.

  Zac looked impressed, and smacked the little creature on the wing case.

  The woman stepped up to the line. She took a long time, rolling her shoulders. But when she moved, it was all grace, and her bow rose like a bird taking wing, and her arrows leapt...

  ...and struck.

  “Oh!” she said with delight. “Oh!” she said again. Her daughter leapt up and kissed her, and her son laughed and went to watch the bogglin.

  “I’m Fran,” she said to No Head.

  “Ever thought o’ travelling, Fran?” No Head asked.

  The targets were moved to one hundred fifty paces. There were twenty-eight archers left.

  The Outwaller boy—Heron—struck the target. It was the first shot he’d taken with a stance and a careful draw.

  Smoke missed. He shrugged and stepped out to fetch ale.

  Long Paw missed and cursed. “I hate these one-arrow matches,” he said.

  Cully loosed and struck.

  Zac loosed and struck, and then handed his beautiful jade-coloured horn bow to a bogglin, who loosed—and struck.

  The tall, bony woman, Fran, at the end of the line, drew, pointed her arrow almost at the heavens, and loosed. Her arrow went high, and struc
k—fifteen paces beyond the target. She laughed a great deal and let No Head buy her a flagon of wine. Her boy was handing arrows to the bogglin, his arrow squire. Her daughter sat down with Long Paw and Smoke opposite her mother.

  “Can ye fight?” Long Paw was asking. “No offence, mistress. It’s a hard life. Can ye kill?”

  “Kilt my man,” she said. Her tone was not even flat, merely cool, as if women killed men all the time. “He had it coming.”

  “That counts,” Long Paw said, his eyes elsewhere.

  The distance was moved to one hundred seventy-five paces. There were eight archers, and everyone knew that at this stage, it was luck, skill, and fortuna. All the archers shook hands with all the rest, even the bogglin, whose name, it transpired, was Urk13, or something like that. One of the Exrechs came to watch.

  Zac shot first. It was a bad shot, which wavered in the air too long, and seemed to fly short. But it struck the very distant target, and hung. It didn’t go deep. But the head stayed in the target.

  Cully made himself stand by the little bogglin. He was ashamed of himself for admitting he didn’t like the creatures, and he had to prove himself to himself. That was how he was. That was how you got to be the captain’s archer. He went and stood shoulder to shoulder with the little bug, and he gave the thing a nod, and then he went into the place he went when he was shooting well, and he loosed.

  His arrow buried itself into the straw, and the crowd gave him a shout.

  The bogglin drew Zac’s bow with a lot of effort and loosed. He had declined Zac’s offer of a bone-tipped flight arrow, and his release was perfect. The arrow rose like a falcon and fell like an eagle.

  A hit.

  Cully couldn’t help himself. He put a hand on the thing’s wing case. “Well shot,” he said. Close up, the bug had a smell Cully remembered from combat...a salty smell. Not a bad smell at all.

  The thing looked at him. The eyes were like a person’s eyes. Cully decided to stay with the eyes. He managed a smile.

  They all hit at one hundred seventy-five paces.

  The range moved to two hundred paces. The three judges held a brief conclave and announced that the range would now increase by ten yards a shot.

  Cully stepped up and loosed.

  Hit.

  The bogglin stepped up. Its whole body strained, and Cully was afraid a moment for the thing’s chiton structure. There was a terrible creaking.

  I’m worried for a bug, he thought. But the arrow struck home.

  The crowd roared. Up until that shot, most of the bogglin’s fans had been other bogglins, but now there were hundreds of bears roaring, wardens thumping armoured tails, and men of the Brogat cheering the little thing.

  The duchess, Mogon, came up to the archery line. The archers all bent their knees, but she went to the bogglin and put a hand on its head.

  It cried. Tears flowed down its face.

  “What the hell?” Cully asked.

  The young Outwaller’s face was working with emotion. “She scent-marks him,” he said. “She offers him her name. His fame will live forever in her nest. This is a good thing, and is why she is a good lord.”

  Cully wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he could see what it meant to the bug.

  Zac missed. It was just a freak in the wind, but he took it personally and walked away scowling.

  The Outwaller shook his head. “Would you lend your bow?” he asked.

  Cully considered the young man. “Yep,” he said. He handed it over, and called a judge, who gave the Outwaller five arrows to learn a new bow.

  The Outwaller warrior loosed them all, carefully, taking his time, apparently unaware of the hundreds of people watching his every move. Finally he drew his competition arrow to his ear and loosed. He shook his head and turned away, and indeed, he’d missed.

  Robin Hasty missed.

  The target was moved to two hundred ten paces. It was just Cully and the bogglin, Urk of Mogon, now.

  “Far,” Urk said.

  Cully smiled. “My best range,” he said.

  Urk’s two jaws moved. “Good,” he said.

  He shot. And hit.

  Cully shot. And hit.

  By now, people who didn’t give a damn about archery were watching. Hundreds of knights, fully armoured and ready for various events, were standing in the sun to watch. The Red Knight and the Green Knight both stood at the edge of the spectators, and both queens had joined the duchess and the master and the Keeper.

  The target was moved to two hundred twenty paces.

  Cully shot first. He had a great release...he knew the moment the string left his fingers that he’d hit, and he was right. He was rewarded with a roar.

  The Outwaller boy hadn’t gone back to the line. He was standing, watching Cully shoot, and now he handed the older man an arrow. “Your best that is left,” he said in Archaic. “Not the best arrows.”

  Urk walked up to the line twice with Zac’s bow, and both times walked back. He asked for permission to try a flight arrow before his formal shot.

  The judges looked at each other.

  Cully nodded. “Let him have three,” he said.

  The bug loosed three arrows. The third clipped the target and bounced away.

  The bogglin looked at Cully and bowed. “I thank you,” he said. Then he took a flight arrow from Fran’s boy who was helping him, drew it past his head, and loosed.

  And hit.

  The crowd was already wild. Cully’s chivalry won him many new fans, and so did the bogglin’s skill.

  “We are over the time allotted,” the irk said with a bow. “Our queens offer you a choice; share the victory, or move the target to two hundred fifty paces.”

  Cully had the winning arrow in his hand. He knew he could hit at two-fifty. He had a war bow and thirty years of practice. He thought about it. About the captain’s admonition to make them allies, and about his own aversion.

  The bogglin would never reach a target at two-fifty. Not even with Zac’s bow.

  The bogglin stood with his borrowed bow in his spidery fist. He looked at the ground.

  “I say draw,” Cully said softly.

  The bogglin looked up, eyes shining.

  “Ever think of travelling?” Cully asked the little fellow, after he’d embraced a bogglin for the first time in his life.

  * * *

  The Red Knight was in full harness, waiting his turn to fight on foot against the Green Knight, when the imperial messenger appeared overhead. He knew it as soon as it cried, and raised his fist, and the bird came in a rush of wings. It came straight to him, and he knew what that meant.

  He stepped back from the railing of the lists and went to stand by himself. His breath came short. He read the cover letter from Alcaeus and then began on Kronmir’s densely written report, scanning line after line and trying to work out the code.

  Finally, he gave up. “Withdraw,” he said to the marshal.

  Ser Michael struck his name off the list.

  “Like hell!” Gavin called. “Do you reckon knighthood so cheap?”

  Michael flinched, but that tone got a sudden smile from Ser Gabriel. “Fine,” he said. “Our fight’s next, then. The world’s about to burn.”

  Gavin nodded. “Ain’t it always,” he said.

  Gabriel waved to Toby and got his helmet on his head. Gavin wore a bascinet and a long trailing green plume, and Gabriel wore his own bascinet. He envied his brother’s plume.

  They’d agreed to fight on foot with spears and arming swords. It was an Archaic combination, one that looked pretty and offered scope for drama, and which Gabriel had not actually fought before, although he’d certainly imagined it often enough, looking at ancient texts.

  He didn’t even spare a thought for the coded text that bird had brought. He was escorted by Anne, his page, to his corner of the foot lists and there handed a spear.

  “Where’s Toby?” he asked.

  “Next up to fight, wi’ the squires, my lord,” Anne said wi
th a look that suggested that he ought to know.

  His marshal was Bad Tom, of all people. The big man grinned.

  “I didna’ think you’d miss a fight,” he said. Then he raised his voice so that it filled the stands.

  “Gentle cousins! The Green Knight, Ser Gavin Muriens, will here engage the Red Knight his brother, Ser Gabriel Muriens, in a contest with spear an’ sword, fightin’, they assure me, like the knights of the time of the Empress Livia, though I ha’ a strong sense that they’re full o’ rope. But have it as they will! Salute the queens! And all those who do ye honour by attendin’! An’ the Lady Tar, height the Virgin, on her day!”

  Gabriel was not sure he’d ever been quite so hot.

  “En garde, mes amis!” roared Tom in a passable Gallish.

  “Et allez!” he called, and Gavin moved, his spearhead low in his left hand, his arming sword well back in the long tail garde, ready for a heavy swing.

  Gabriel’s head cleared, the heat fell away, and his sole thought was that it appeared his brother had been practicing this Archaic form. While I command armies and learn to ride a griffon. Bastard.

  He parried the spear and the point of the arming sword went high over his garde and pricked him in the neck through two layers of mail.

  The crowd roared.

  Et allez!

  This time, Gabriel was considerably more careful. But care couldn’t replace practice, and his damned brother had practiced. He rolled the spear over Gabriel’s spear—they were both holding the shafts in the left hand, where they could be used to parry—and thrust with the butt spike. Since, until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to Gabriel to use the butt spike as a weapon, he overparried, using his arming sword—and his brother thrust, stoccata, a pretty thrust that struck Gabriel under the arm.

  Ordinarily, Gabriel might have applauded the neatness of it, but Gabriel had a life of experience with Gavin, and he knew that he was being punished. For various things. And he had his usual reaction to his brother’s aggression.

  When Tom called the allez, Gabriel stepped off line and thrust with the point of his spear. Then, with a flick, he reversed the spear and swept it left to right, collecting both of his brother’s weapons and then pushing an imbrocatto thrust across his own body, hand reversed, everything reversed, really. The blow was fast, and hard, and precise. It struck Gavin just under the right pauldron and Gabriel left it there, flaunting it for the marshal and the crowd, who roared their approval.