by Anthony Ryan
“Yes,” I said. “She’s mad all right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
To my dismay, our march to the muster produced no fortuitously distracting events. The company tramped its increasingly disciplined course along the road with no interruptions from the Pretender’s scouts or obliging outlaws. It was a tiresome journey in many respects. We woke at first light to a breakfast of gruel then an hour of training under Supplicant Blade Ofihla’s ever-critical eye. Then came the delightful prospect of eight hours on the road, the Supplicants hectoring our every step as they no longer tolerated untidy ranks or straggling. Evenings were taken up with pitching camp followed by a plain but admittedly hearty meal, then yet more drill before the captain’s sermon.
While there were still no strictures enforcing attendance, every soldier would gather to hear the lesson, if lessons they could be called. As the days passed the sermons reminded me more and more of the times I had watched a blacksmith at work as a boy. Every word Evadine spoke was a precisely aimed hammer blow, shaping this cluster of one-time outlaws and villains into true swords of the Covenant.
Toria and I attended along with everyone else, for to do otherwise would attract notice. Each time I heard Evadine speak I felt another fractional piercing of my armour, although I still refused to join in the others’ shouting gesticulations. There was a danger to this woman, a lure I knew I needed to resist as I had once needed to surrender to Sihlda’s tutelage. Evadine did not teach; she inspired. Before concluding every supplication, she would ask a question, different each time but always leading us towards the ultimate goal.
“The Pretender fills his followers with lies,” she told us that final night on the road. “He claims royal blood he does not have. He slakes their greed with plunder. He services their lusts with rape. He is a servant of the Malecite. This has been shown to me. Will you allow this creature his spoils? Will you let him cast open the gates to the Second Scourge?”
The clamour of “NO!” was complemented by an overlapping chorus of “NEVER!” The company was on their feet by then, raised up by the blossoming heat of Evadine’s voice. I saw true rage on many faces alongside the wide, moist-eyed devotion. Ayin leapt in excitement, tears streaming down her laughing face while Brewer’s features quivered with worshipful fury.
Sensing the fast-approaching moment when this congregation would transform into an unreasoning mob, I touched Toria’s arm and we began to back away. Impending violence thrummed the air like the prickly oppression before the thunder roars, and I wanted no part of it. But, once again, Evadine calmed them by merely raising a hand.
“Tomorrow we join with the king’s host,” she said, her voice soft and intent but easily heard in the breathless silence. “Battle will surely follow. Know that I have the greatest pride in you. Know that I have witnessed more true devotion in your company than I ever saw in all my life. Know that I love you. We will speak again when battle dawns. Go now, friends, and rest.”
Rest, however, eluded me that night. While Brewer snored, Toria fidgeted and Ayin lay curled in contented slumber, I stared up at the dense weave of our canvas roof. The sermon was loud among my thoughts but louder still were Sihlda’s words spoken at the close of her testament, words I hadn’t shared with Ascendant Hilbert.
I detest the notion that I am a victim, she told me as we huddled together in her alcove. I recalled the way the light of the candle stub played over one half of her face, catching the lines around her eyes and mouth. I thought her aged but made beautiful by wisdom.
My actions, she went on, my sins remain my own and I’ll not shirk the consequences, in this life or when I stand before the Seraphile to give my account and suffer their judgement. But, the fact remains that I am a victim, Alwyn. So are you. So is every member of this congregation and every unfortunate who labours in this Pit. We are the victims of a world made wrong, and its wrongness could be made right if only every victim saw the truth of it.
Inevitably, I wondered what Sihlda would have made of Evadine. Some are bestowed with the gift of snaring the souls of others with words alone, she had said. Would she dismiss this visionary noblewoman as a mere rabble-rouser? Possessed of a voice and face sure to fire the souls of the ignorant or easily gulled? I doubted it. Sihlda’s insight was always deeper, always pure in its precision.
Calculations, I thought, recalling how she would guide my thoughts towards conclusions she found obvious but eluded me. Assemble the facts, find where they join, form conclusions.
So, facts then: I served in a company recruited under Covenant auspices and captained by a noblewoman with visions of the Second Scourge. Adjacent fact: this was the same noblewoman upon whom Lord Eldurm had expended so much saccharine correspondence.
I knew from those many letters that her family were not merely noble, but so highborn that Evadine’s grandfather had once served as adviser to King Tomas when he ascended to the throne as a boy of only nine years. Also, her family owned a goodly portion of the best land in Alberis. A beauty of such esteemed breeding and wealth would not have been wanting for suitors, and yet here she was commanding a few hundred supposedly redeemed villains as they trooped towards probable slaughter.
What is she doing here? I thought, grasping for a conclusion I couldn’t find. What does she want?
The answer came with surprising swiftness and it was spoken in Sihlda’s voice, the patient, measured tone I knew so well, loud and clear as if she lay next to me: Her family will have shunned her for this, perhaps even disowned her. Such sacrifice comes only from a heartfelt desire for one thing: change, Alwyn. These visions she speaks of, assuming she believes them to be real, have birthed in her the same desire that possessed me. She wants what I wanted, what my testament was intended to produce. She wants to change it all, but not with words.
Fatigue finally welled in me then, my eyelids drooping and the weave of the tent roof dissolving into blackness. As I slid towards slumber, Sihlda’s wisdom followed me into the void: And, like me, she’ll need you to do it…
The company arrived at the outer picket of the king’s host around midday. We spent a short interval loitering while the captain and Sergeant Swain went off to consult with whatever noble luminaries held command. The company waited on the slope of a low hill affording a decent view of the entire host and I quickly lost count of the banners rising above the city of tents and corralled horses. The full extent of the encampment was partially occluded by a pall of mist, the accumulation of woodsmoke, sweat and the breath of so many folk and beasts. Even so, Toria and I managed to arrive at a decent estimation of the overall number which has been largely borne out by many a learned scholar since.
“Fifteen thousand,” I opined.
“I’d say twenty,” she countered. “You have to account for the camp followers and the gaggles of servants and arse-lickers the nobles drag around.”
“A great and mighty army!” Ayin enthused, beaming once again. Her bright, white-toothed smile had become ever more frequent as the prospect of battle loomed closer. “We’ll cut down the Pretender’s filth like wheat before the scythe.” Her eager tone caused me to reflect that Evadine may have done much to calm Ayin’s mind, but she certainly hadn’t mended it.
“That’s an untidy picket line,” Toria observed quietly, ignoring Ayin as was typical. “Seems most ragged to the south.”
“We’ll have to see where they put us,” I murmured back. “Scrounge up some liquor from somewhere, make friends with the churls on guard. Maybe they’d appreciate a tot or two of brandy on a cold night.”
“Drunken sentries.” She gave a slight nod of approval. “My favourite kind.”
Sadly, such clever scheming was frustrated when Sergeant Swain returned and issued orders for us to camp atop this very rise. His features were even more grim and forbidding than usual as he barked out the orders that had us scurrying to raise the tents and stack wood for the fires. I wondered at the significance of Swain returning without Evadine and concluded his darken
ed mood probably had something to do with it. So, it was with some trepidation that I heard him call my name.
“Scribe! Get over here!”
I dutifully trotted to his side, knuckling my brow and adopting the straight-backed, eyes-averted stance expected when addressing a Supplicant. My voice was flat, as I found it best when in his presence to maintain as neutral a tone and expression as possible. His suspicions of my character were far from quelled, despite my exemplary and honest bookkeeping.
“Fetch the company ledgers and take them to the captain,” he instructed. “Bring ink and quill, also. You’ll find her at the tent where the Covenant banner flies. Quick now!” he added in a growl when I hesitated a fraction too long.
It is my experience that armies can be counted on to produce three substances in abundance: mud, shit and blood, mostly the first two since many an army has marched hither and yon without spilling a drop of the red stuff. Those of you with a passing interest in recent history will know that this certainly wasn’t the case with the host King Tomas gathered to face the Pretender’s horde.
Navigating the camp was a messy and occasionally perilous business, burdened as I was by the sack containing the company ledgers. The atmosphere was heavy with a melange of smoke and horse dung, bringing an unpleasant itch to my nose and moisture to my eyes. Progress required much squelching of mud in between scrambling clear of carts and the horses of nobles or mounted men-at-arms. Neither seemed to have much of a care for any wayward foot soldier who might happen into their path, some even letting out amused guffaws as they sent an unfortunate sprawling in the mud. I was surprised to find this camp such a disorderly place, the various clusters of tents having been pitched at random intervals with no attempt to create proper thoroughfares. This dirty disorganisation was reflected in the occupants, at least those I encountered as I searched for the Covenant banner.
“Got any leaf on ya?” one besmirched fellow called out to me from a cluster of particularly ill-favoured tents. The banner fluttering above them was unfamiliar, as was his accent, a sharp, halting grate I later learned hailed from the eastern extremity of the realm. He wore a leather jerkin studded with rusted iron and hadn’t shaved in days. In Covenant Company, the Supplicants gave a man seven days to grow a beard then forced him to shave if he couldn’t. I also had little doubt Supplicant Blade Ofihla would have beaten me bloody for going about with dried mud on my face.
“We’re not allowed it in our company,” I called back. “I’ve sheks for brandy, if you’ve got it.”
“Oh piss off.” He lost interest, waving a hand and turning away. “Not a bottle to be had in this whole shitting camp.”
I moved on, trying to keep to the fringes of the muddy lanes as I scanned the forest of banners for the Covenant sigil. It was as I came to a small copse of trees that my gaze was distracted by a curious sight. For reasons unknown, there was a decent gap between these trees and the surrounding tents; however, beneath the branches of a tall birch a conical shelter sat alone.
It appeared to be fashioned from curved, intertwined branches, the gaps filled with a mix of moss and leaves. Alongside it a pot steamed over a small fire watched over by a slim figure in a cloak of earthy green. While the shelter was unusual, it was the sight of the woman sitting by the fire that captured my gaze, not lured by beauty, but by the sack of rough woven cloth she wore on her head. From the rear of the sack, long blonde hair cascaded down her back, but, as I saw when she turned to regard me, her face remained completely hidden.
The sack featured two small, diamond-shaped holes. What lay beyond was hidden in shadow, but I could sense the depth of scrutiny there. She had felt my gaze upon her, I was certain of that, but how remained a mystery. I felt a quickening of my heart as she continued to stare, rising from a small stool and turning to face me. The sack crinkled as she angled her head. It wasn’t a particularly predatory gesture, but still it stirred an unease in me and a desire to be elsewhere. Yet I lingered, unable to look away from the black diamonds of her eyes. So commanding were they that I failed to hear the squelch of boots at my back.
“Got a stiff-stand for the Sack Witch, have you?” a familiar voice enquired. “I wouldn’t. Way I hear it, the sight of what lies beneath that cloth is so foul to look upon it’s like to drive all reason from a man’s head.”
Turning, I found myself confronted by a stocky man with grizzled features, clad in grey and black livery. His hand rested on the handle of the sword at his belt, his grip tight although his face remained affable.
“Sergeant Lebas,” I said, eyes flicking to his left and right to confirm he wasn’t alone. Two other guardsmen I recognised from the Pit stood at his back, their expressions far less benign.
It is at such times that I find fear diminishes. The outcome of this encounter was not in doubt, so the absence of uncertainty left no room for the kind of sweaty-palmed panic I might have felt had I merely glimpsed this man’s face in the crowd.
“Alwyn Scribe,” Lebas replied, inclining his head.
“Is she truly a witch?” I asked. I wasn’t playing for time, just indulging my curiosity as I gestured to the woman with the sack-covered head.
“So they say.” Lebas grinned and shrugged. “She’s Caerith, y’see? Wherever there’s a muster there she’ll be with all manner of potions, for the right price. Cure anything from a drooping member to a poisoned gut. Haven’t yet had need of her services, meself.” A measure of the cheeriness slipped from his features as a hard glint shone in his eyes. “And I doubt you’ll get the chance.”
I returned his smile with one of my own. “Lord Eldurm sent you in answer to the king’s muster, I take it?”
All pretence to amiability fell away then, Lebas’s skin reddening and nostrils flaring. “The Pit is no longer the charge of the Gulatte family, thanks to you.” His knuckles whitened on the sword’s handle. “Just one escape after all those years and the king took away his lordship’s charter, sold it off to another noble with a fatter purse. Now we’re here so’s Lord Eldurm can redeem his honour in the king’s sight. In a day or so some of us’ll be lying in the mud, thanks to you.”
“Lot of folk lying by the gate every morning, as I recall.”
“Worthless scum they were, just like you.” His grin returned and he stepped closer, slipping the sword from its sheath. “Though, I should be thanking you. You’re about to make me rich…”
There are many vagaries that decide the fate of a man at times like these. They can be something as simple as the course of the wind or the angle of the sun. Any number of factors now combined to decide whether I would survive this meeting, principally the fortuitous fact that Sergeant Lebas and his two friends were not truly soldiers; they were guards. It may be a subtle distinction, but it proved to be very important. Had he been a soldier rather than a man who had spent years intimidating and beating those with no chance to defend themselves, Lebas would have either been quicker in his approach, or more cautious. Instead, his attack was the charge of the lifelong bully surrendering to anger and therefore it gave him no chance to avoid the ledger-laden sack as I swung it to connect with the side of his head.
Before turning to sprint in the opposite direction, I caught the gratifying sight of blood exploding from the sergeant’s mouth along with several teeth, his head jarred to a sharp angle as his stocky body fell. I heard the thud of his comrades’ boots on the earth as I ran, heading for the copse of trees. I would dodge through them and make for the busiest part of the camp, hoping to lose the pursuit among the mass of tents and soldiers.
My course inevitably took me close to the Sack Witch. She stood still and unperturbed by the ruckus. Once again the black diamond holes that formed her eyes drew me in and time seemed to slow as I passed her. Just for a second I glimpsed a pinpoint of light gleaming on a deep blue orb.
Then I was beyond her, pounding hard, expecting to hear the whoosh of a sword blade at any instant. Instead I heard a sudden shout of alarm followed by the sound of a man fal
ling to an untidy halt. Slowing a little, I glanced over my shoulder to see one of the pursuing guards on his knees, the other still standing but also halted. They both stared at the immobile form of the Sack Witch, their faces turned white in terror. I had no notion of what precisely had caused this sudden abandonment of the chase, but had no doubt it originated with her, even though her posture hadn’t changed at all.
The kneeling man scrambled back from her, managing to regain his feet after a few faltering attempts before making a rapid retreat. His friend was more controlled, his gaze switching from the woman to me, flushing with dark frustration as he brandished his bared sword. He cursed, then cast a few insults at the Sack Witch, although was quick in walking away as he did so. My last sight of the pair was of them crouching to gather up Lebas’s sagging form and drag him away.
I turned and kept running, feeling the Sack Witch’s gaze on me until I disappeared into the city of tents.
I found the Covenant banner near the centre of the camp, pitched close to a well-guarded and multi-hued cluster of larger tents. The tallest banner of all rose above this colourful grouping, the flag emblazoned with three white horses on a black background. Heraldry had been a marginal part of Sihlda’s tutelage, but she hadn’t neglected it entirely and I was quick to recognise this as the banner of the Algathinet dynasty. Its size and the gold tassels fluttering from the corners identified this as the flag of King Tomas himself rather than some lesser vessel of the royal blood.
I found myself pausing to stare at it, my eyes sliding down the pole to the tents beneath. Despite the fact that I couldn’t see a soul beyond the armoured, red-cloaked guards of Crown Company, I was still beset by the sheer novelty of being only a few dozen yards from the monarch of Albermaine.
Come to fight in person, after all, I mused. It appeared my assumption that the Court would decamp for safer climes during this crisis had been in error. This was decidedly at odds with everything I had heard or learned about the king and his noble cronies. The king is a fool who loves the company of those yet more foolish had been Sihlda’s unvarnished description of the current occupant of the throne. A foolish commoner is merely a danger to himself. A foolish king endangers all.
