by Anthony Ryan
“Scribe,” Evadine said, her eyes betraying a restrained flinch as they shifted to Crown Company. I reckoned about half were left, which itself seemed something of a miracle. I experienced an unexpected pulse of relief at seeing Ofihla still alive and apparently unwounded. She and Sergeant Swain were busy marshalling the survivors to gather up the wounded and the fallen weapons. There were many of both.
“I can’t leave the company,” the captain told me, “so must put this man in your charge.” She nodded to the slumped form of the captive. “I ask that you get him clear of this field and secured in our camp. Will you do this?”
Does she ask treason of me? I wondered, taking note of the fact that she had framed this mission as a request and not an order. This man, this Wilhum of the handsome face and effortless smile, was plainly one of the turncoat knights. His life was forfeit, as mine would be if I were caught helping him evade the king’s justice.
“I would consider it the greatest of favours,” Evadine added, perceiving my hesitation.
“Might I ask, Captain,” I said, turning a sour glance on the treacherous noble, “who this man is and why his life requires that you risk ours?”
I expected some form of rebuke, a curt reminder of our respective status, but she just gave a small grimace and replied in a soft reflective tone, “His name is Sir Wilhum Dornmahl. He was once… my betrothed, and I look to you to save him, Alwyn Scribe.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“I will never do this again,” Toria informed me as we led Sir Wilhum towards our camp, passing a succession of horrors along the way. Nearby a man-at-arms was on his knees, both hands raised as he begged mercy from a trio of Crown Company halberdiers. “Are we not all soldiers?”
They let him scream himself hoarse before unleashing a frenzy of blows. Despite the wounds that laid him open, he still managed to keep screaming out his final appeal, as if it held some form of magical protection regardless of dreadful evidence to the contrary: “Are we not all soldiers! Are… we…”
“Not for her and not for you,” Toria went on, wincing in mingled despair and annoyance as the unfortunate man-at-arms’ cries dwindled into grating, agonised sobs. She didn’t turn to look, however, addressing her words to me with harsh, insistent certainty. “You hear me, Alwyn? I’m done with playing soldiers.”
“Played at it pretty well, from what I saw,” Brewer muttered, wincing as he tugged the glove from his injured hand, revealing an ugly red and black hole.
“Supplicant Delric will see to it,” I told him. “Bind it up till then.”
“I would advise seeking aid sooner rather than later,” our prisoner said, the first time he had spoken since we’d led him away. Sir Wilhum grimaced as he peered at Brewer’s wound. “That has a decidedly ill look to it. An arrow, I assume?” He gave an apologetic shrug in response to Brewer’s guarded nod. “Our Caustian bowmen were fond of smearing their arrowheads with all manner of foulness. A dreadful lot, to be sure, given to filthy manners and performing strange rites come nightfall.”
“Shut yer arse crack, you!” Toria snapped with a livid glare, one she quickly turned on me. “It’s not a quarter-hour since this fucker and his friends were doing their best to kill us. Remind me again why we’re saving his hide?”
“Captain’s orders,” Brewer stated with a glower. “After today, can you ever doubt her? We march beneath a banner blessed by the Seraphile.”
“I saw plenty die under that banner,” she shot back. “Didn’t do them much good, did it?”
“A realist and a fanatic in the same company,” the young noble observed in muted amusement. “Which are you?” he added, raising an eyebrow at me as that effortless smile reappeared on his lips.
“Worse,” I told him, stepping closer, his smile slipping as I placed the blade of my axe under his chin. “A cynic. Now—” I put a hand to his armoured shoulder and shoved, hard enough to send him stumbling “—be so good as to walk in silence, my lord.”
We pressed on, averting our gaze from the murders that marked our progress. The preoccupation with scrupulously observing the king’s edict spared us unwanted attention but, as the supply of victims grew thin, blood-drunk soldiers inevitably went in search of more.
“What’s this one, then?” a beefy fellow enquired, mud squelching as he stumbled into our path. He carried a gore-matted hatchet in one hand and a bottle in the other. The unfocused cast to his eyes and stink of his breath told me he was drunk on more than just blood.
“Not one of our noble buggers, is he?” the beefy soldier observed, peering closer at Sir Wilhum, spattering red droplets onto the blue enamelled armour as he gestured with the hatchet. “I saw some bastard ride into our line wearing pretty coloured plate just like this…”
“Move on,” Brewer instructed, stepping between our charge and the overly curious soldier. The fellow wasn’t so drunk as to ignore a warning and duly stumbled off in the opposite direction, though not without casting an aggrieved glance or two over his shoulder.
“We’re drawing too many eyes,” I said, turning to his lordship and reaching for the straps on his vambrace. “Best get this plate off.”
“This plate—” Sir Wilhum sniffed, snatching his arm away “—is worth more than every shek the three of you have earned in your entire lives.”
“Do you want to die?” I asked, taking hold of the rim of his gorget and dragging him close. “Listen, you puffed-up, coddled fuckwit! The captain wants you alive and I’ll do my best to see it happen. But, since I saved her life today, I doubt she’ll hang me if I fail. So, do what you’re told, or I’ll dump your noble carcass at the feet of the next Crown Company man I see.”
Espying the overlapping corpses of two warhorses a few paces off, I dragged him behind the fly-shrouded mound. His handsome features slumped once again into misery as we stripped off his armour, the pauldrons, greaves and sundry other bits consigned to a sack Toria had been saving for her promised loot.
“Reckon the captain’ll let us keep it?” she asked. The armour clanked as she hefted the sack, giving Sir Wilhum an empty smile. “Since it’s worth so much, and we’re being denied our share of the spoils on this field.” She inclined her head at the sight of a cluster of Cordwainers squabbling over the half-naked corpse of a fallen knight.
“A mob of beasts consumed by greed,” the young noble sneered. “Just as the True King said you were.”
“Funny that,” Toria returned. “Our captain said much the same thing about your lot.”
Shorn of his armour, Sir Wilhum was revealed as a young man of lean and athletic build clad in shirt and trews of thin cotton. He stood about my own height but without the broken nose and accumulated marks of a hard-lived life. At another time I was sure he would have made an impressive figure. But, shrunken in haggard self-pity and denied the trappings of wealth, he became pathetically human. He also still appeared to be every bit the captive.
“Here,” I said, struggling free of my leather tunic. “Put this on. Anyone asks, you lost your billhook in the battle and we’re off to see Supplicant Delric to get our cuts stitched.”
We resumed our trudge, Brewer cursing as he shooed flies from his wounded hand while Toria soon gave up trying to carry the sack of armour and resorted to dragging it through the mud. Fortune smiled and we drew no more eyes, although, as we reached the firm green of untrammelled ground, we happened upon something that drew mine.
The silver-hawk banner of the Duke of the Shavine Marches fluttered atop a tall pole held by a man-at-arms of impressive stature. Next to him, a man of far less noteworthy bearing but much finer armour stood reading from an unfurled scroll. His words were addressed to a score of bound, kneeling captives cowering beneath the lowered halberds of men in the duke’s livery. While most who met their end in the twilight of this battle were victims of haphazard murder, it appeared Duke Elbyn Blousset was keen to conduct matters on a more formal basis.
“For treason can inspire no mercy,” he intoned in a voice I
assumed was supposed to convey grave and implacable judgment. Instead, to my ears he resembled the nasal droning of an uninspired cleric to an empty shrine. “Neither testament nor contrition in word or payment may negate the traitor’s crime and their only obligation is to suffer just punishment without unseemly complaint or cowardly display. So decreed by King Tomas Algathinet on this day in the sight of the Martyrs and in most humble gratitude for the Seraphile’s grace.”
He spoke on for a while longer, either keen to prolong the fears of his captives or due to love of his own voice. However, I paid scant heed, my full attention having been captured by the slender and finely attired figure standing a few paces to the right of the bannerman. Her hair was loosely bound and twisted in the breeze, its hue matching the fox-fur trimming of her cloak. Her face was pale and stiff, apparently taking no pleasure in what was about to unfold, but not opting to look away either. The years had not dimmed her looks; if anything, I found myself more captivated than ever.
“Alwyn!” Toria said, voice sharp and just loud enough to carry to the ears of the woman in the fox-fur cloak. Her head snapped around, gaze fixing on me in an instant. The rigid features slackened in shock and the pallor of her face abruptly shifted from pale to near white, eyes widening as she took an involuntary backwards step. While I was sure the years had not been so kind to my face, Lorine apparently had no difficulty in recognising it.
Another insistent call from Toria made me pause, and I realised I had taken a few involuntary steps of my own. I also had a firmer grip on my axe and, even though I didn’t recall choosing to do so, had filled my free hand with the handle of my knife.
“Off with you, man!”
I blinked, finding my path barred by a wiry sergeant wearing the duke’s colours. He waved a halberd at me, lean features hard with dismissal. “We don’t need any more blades here and the loot’s all spoken for. On your way.”
I ignored him, looking past his shoulder to see Lorine swiftly regain her composure. She spared me a final, wide-eyed glance before turning her attention back to the doomed captives, her face once again serenely devoid of expression.
“And keep your eyes off the duchess,” the sergeant warned, shifting to obstruct my view. “She’s not to be gawped at by the likes of you.”
“Duchess?” I asked. “Never heard her profession called that before.”
“Watch your lip!” He crouched, halberd angled in readiness, which did nothing to cool the heat now raging in my chest. Looking him over, I saw how the blade of his weapon was comparatively free of gore and grime, his tunic being similarly lacking in the stains and rents that marked mine.
“You’re awful clean-looking,” I grated, jaw clenched as I started forwards. “Do any actual fighting today? I have.”
“Alwyn!” Brewer’s meaty hands clamped to my right arm and Toria’s to my left. “We have a mission, remember?” Brewer hissed in my ear. I shuddered in frustration and mounting rage, finding I had to drag several breaths into my lungs before I consented to being pulled away.
The wiry sergeant, concealing evident relief behind a snarl, brandished his untarnished halberd again before striding back towards his men. I forced myself to turn as the blades began to fall. The sight of Lorine standing in placid observance of the slaughter would have rekindled my rage and I had already acted in a sufficiently stupid manner. Shouldn’t have let her see my face, I berated myself as we led our prisoner towards the camp of Covenant Company. Now she knows she’ll have to kill me.
Brewer’s steps began to falter as we neared the camp, his skin showing an increasingly pale shade of grey beneath the covering of mud and dried blood. By the time Ayin came scampering to meet us at the picket line, his gaze had taken on an unfocused cast and his head lolled, words emerging as mumbled nonsense from his lips.
“Not yet… time…” he said, swiping at something only he could see. “Not yet time…”
“Brewer?” I asked, only for him to peer at me with blank incomprehension.
“Supper,” he slurred. “It’s not yet time for supper…” His words dwindled into gibberish before all sense fled his gaze and he fell. Toria and I rushed to catch him, though his bulk was such it bore us both to our knees.
“Is he drunk?” Ayin asked, cocking her head at Brewer’s inert form before issuing a disdainful sniff. “I thought better of him. Who are you?” she added, casting a suspicious scowl at Sir Wilhum.
“Who he is doesn’t matter,” I grunted, attempting to heave Brewer upright. “Help us get this lump to Supplicant Delric. You too, my lord. Unless you feel assisting a mere churl to be beneath you.”
“I swore an oath to the True King to do just that,” Sir Wilhum replied, gesturing for Toria to stand aside so he could lay Brewer’s arm across his shoulders.
I resisted the impulse to point out the numerous churlish corpses now twisting in the river’s current as a result of his false king’s promises and took hold of Brewer’s other arm. Together the four of us managed to convey Brewer’s utterly limp and insensate person to Delric’s tent where the healer was quick to identify the source of his malady.
“Poison,” he said, long nose wrinkling as he sniffed at the blackened hole in Brewer’s hand. “Not just filth. Acted too quickly.”
“Do you have a…” I fumbled for the right word, the healing arts having been outside the scope of Sihlda’s lessons. “A cure, a physic.”
“Don’t know what poison it is,” Delric replied. His robe and face were liberally spattered with dried or recent blood, the tent crowded by a dozen soldiers in various states of injury. Outside, a line of twenty bodies lay under blankets awaiting rites and burial. These were those who had possessed enough strength to stagger here from the field where, I knew, many more lay still in the mud.
“No name for the poison, no cure,” the Supplicant continued, reaching for a bowl of steaming water and a small knife. “I’ll clean this,” he said, nodding to Brewer’s wound. “Nothing else to be done.” Seeing the helpless concern evident on both Toria’s face and mine, he added, “He’s strong. Makes it through the night, he has a chance. Now leave.”
“What was it like?” Ayin’s face was bright with an excited curiosity that failed to dim in response to Toria’s growling rebuke.
“Fucking horrible. What d’you think it was like?”
“Did the captain kill the Pretender?” Ayin went on blithely. “I heard she fought him. Did she kill him?”
“No,” I said, casting a sidelong glance at Sir Wilhum sitting close to the fire in morose silence. “They say he fled like the worst of cowards.”
The noble’s features tensed in anger but he refused to rise to the taunt. The company had returned to the camp come dusk and there were too many soldiers and Supplicants about to risk an outburst. Sergeant Swain had been stern and unforgiving in resuming discipline, ordering all weapons cleaned and stacked before calling us into our troops to be counted. It transpired my estimate of our losses had been a trifle pessimistic. Instead of half, one-third had perished, though a good number of the survivors were wounded. Some had only minor cuts or broken bones that would heal in time. Others, like Brewer, would be lucky to see the morning.
“It’s not all they’re saying,” Toria told me. She lowered her voice and looked around before stepping closer. “Took a turn around the rest of the camp earlier, heard some of the other companies talking, all manner of wild rumours. The usual nonsense spoken by folk who’ve seen too much too quick. But most of it was about the captain, how’s she anointed and such. Blade of the Covenant, they’re calling her.”
“She held the line and won the day,” I said, shrugging. “Every battle has its heroes.”
“Hero,” Toria corrected. “Just her. Not the king, not that monster champion of his. Anointed Lady Evadine, servant of the Covenant, not the Crown, and the nobles didn’t like it. Saw a knight from Crown Company order a man flogged for speaking too loud about the greatness of the Holy Captain.”
“What did
he look like?” I asked, my interest piqued. “This knight?”
“Big, like most nobles who actually do the fighting, but not so big as the King’s Champion. Had a brass hawk on his breastplate.”
Althus Levalle, I concluded. It stood to reason he would be here somewhere. Roused by the knowledge that both the knight commander and Lorine were within a few hundred paces of where I now sat, my vengeance began whispering dangerous notions. Could get it all done in one night. How hard would it be?
I pulled my cloak about me, hunching in self-reproach. Lorine was well guarded and Sir Althus surrounded by kingsmen, not that either would be an easy kill. Lorine had always been a fine hand with a blade and, while my martial abilities had sufficed to ensure my survival this day, I knew I was no match for the knight commander. Not when he’s awake, the dangerous voice inside whispered in awful temptation. But a man can’t fight when he’s asleep…
Toria’s soft, worried gasp brought a welcome distraction. I followed her gaze to see Supplicant Delric outlined in the glow emanating from the healing tent, beckoning to us with a tired, impatient hand. The hope that flared in my chest as Toria and I hurried over died at the sight of his grave, fatigue-ridden face.
“He’s got some hours left,” he said, leading us to where Brewer lay on a narrow cot. He had been stripped to the waist and his thick-muscled frame had taken on the grey hue of dry slate, his skin slick with sweat that tainted the air and brought a sting to the nostrils. His wound was bandaged but the flesh surrounding it mottled in red and an ugly shade of purple. His chest rose and fell in sluggish heaves, head swaying and vacant eyes gleaming dull behind fluttering lids.
