She eyed him in the fire-lit darkness. ‘This is your doing, and not the enemy’s?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I hope so,’ he said. Then he leaned close. ‘Hellenic fire. In their camp. Or so I hope.’
North of Harndon – Harmodius
Dissection is one of those skills a man never really forgets. Harmodius had exhumed the corpse himself – not much of a risk, given the haste with which it had been buried.
He was only interested in the brain, anyway. Which was as well, as the thorax was badly damaged and the central body cavity was largely empty. Something had eaten the guts.
Harmodius was above such feelings as nausea. Or so he kept telling himself. A steady spring rain fell on his back, darkness was falling, and he was in the midst of the northern wilderness, but the body was there for the taking and it was, after all, what had started him on this mad-cap chase. That, and the firm and magnetic draw of the power. Power like a beacon.
He took out a hunting trousseau – a pair of very heavy knives and half a dozen smaller, very sharp ones – and quickly and accurately flensed the skin from the dead man’s skull, folded the flaps back, took a trepan from his pack, and lifted a piece of skull the size of a triple leopard of solid silver.
The light was failing, but it was still clear the brain-matter was rotting.
Harmodius took an eating knife from his purse, pulled out the sharp pick, and dug around carefully. He used the tip of the knife to cut away small portions of the rotting material—
He spat out a mouthful of salty saliva. ‘I will not vomit,’ he declared aloud. Dug again.
It was too damned dark. He pulled a candle from his increasingly upset horse’s pack, and lit it with sorcery. There was no breeze at all, and the candle hissed in the light rain. He lit two more, squandering the beeswax.
He trepanned again, but it was no use. The brain-matter was too rotten. Or his theory was entirely wrong. Or rather, Aristotle’s theory was entirely wromg.
The Magus left the body where it was, lying half exhumed in the rain. He washed his hands in the creek at the base of the hill, repacked his knives, extinguished the candles, and reloaded his horse, who now shied at every noise. He reached out, and felt the power gathering the north.
Jesu Christe
The Magus paused, one booted foot already in a stirrup. There was something—
The creature gave itself away with a growl, and his mare bolted. Harmodius managed to get a hand on the saddle-bow and clung on for a furlong until the frightened animal turned. Harmodius rode the turn, using the force of her movement to help get his leg over the saddle at last. The moon was new and distant, the rain was covering the stars, and the night was dark. He prayed, rapidly and incoherently, that his mare stayed on the road.
He got his right foot in the stirrup and the reins in his left hand, and he pulled on them. Ginjer did not obey.
He reined in sharply, and felt for the baton he used as a riding whip. It took him what seemed hours to locate it in his belt, and hours more, apparently, to press it to her neck, a trick he’d learned from a knight.
He cast a simple thought, a phantasm that allowed him to see in the dark.
What he saw froze his blood. The horse balked, and he almost went over the cantle.
‘Sweet Jesu!’ he said aloud.
Something was standing in the road, waiting for him.
Off to his left, the north-west, the sky erupted – a long orange flash. Its dim light further illuminated the familiar – too familiar – shape of the creature standing on the road.
It tossed the corpse aside and loped at him. But he had time to feel the convulsion in the northern power first. To ponder, for an instant, the fact that the long flash of orange beyond the horizon had reached him long before the convulsion of power, a matter of great interest to a hermeticist. He had never fully investigated the effects of distance on power—
It was a form of panic, to spin off thought after thought, none of them connected to the monster on the road ahead of him, or the wave of terror that it emitted like a fist of fear.
‘Adeveniat regnum tuum,’ the Magus spat.
A lance of fire sprang from his riding stick to the winged creature, whose head was bathed in flame for as long as man might draw a deep breath. The liquid parts of the creature’s head vaporized and its skull exploded, lit by the intense flame of the lance of fire.
The fire went out, apart for some pale blue flames that licked at the creature’s neck for a few heartbeats before sizzling out.
Silence fell, in which the creature’s tail lashed the ground – thump, thump, thump – and then was still.
The silence went on, and on. The night smelled of singed hair and burnt soap.
The Magus drew a deep breath. Raised his riding crop and blew gently on the silver rune set in the gold cap. He smiled to himself, despite the fatigue that settled on his shoulders like a haubergeon of mail, and allowed himself a single ‘heh’.
He watched the northern horizon as the fire flickered there again, then dismounted and walked through the darkness to the creature’s side and muttered ‘Fiat lux.’ His light was blue and pale, but it sufficed.
He made a clucking sound, reached out into the night with his senses, recoiled from what he found there and ran for his horse.
East of Lissen Carak – Peter
Peter lay in a state of angry exhaustion and watched the pale fire flicker in the distant west. He had to tear his eyes away from it and watch the darkness to be sure that the whole thing wasn’t just his imagination. But it was true – above the endless trees, somewhere to the west, there was a great fire. So great, it reflected from the cliff face above him in long flashes of light.
His two ‘masters’ slept through it.
He struggled with his yoke again, surrendered again, and fell asleep.
Awoke to the smaller man kneeling beside him.
‘Cook,’ he said. ‘Wake up. Something is out here with us,’ he added. There was fear in his voice.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked the other Morean.
‘I’m letting him out of this yoke,’ said the smaller man. ‘I’m not going to run and leave him to die. Jesu – I’m a better man than that.’
‘He’s a pagan, or a heretic, or some such filth. Leave him.’ The first man was loading the mule as fast as he could. It was dark, but not true dark – the first pale light of morning. And something heavy was moving in the bush.
‘I am a Christian man,’ Peter said.
‘See?’ said the smaller man. He fumbled with the chains. Grunted.
‘Come on!’ shouted his friend.
The shorter man pulled again, slammed the yoke against a rock, and scrambled to his feet. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the key.’ And he followed his mate into the woods, leaving Peter lying on the ground.
He lay there and waited to die.
But no one came for him, and you can only be so terrified for so long.
He got to his feet and stumbled over a stump he’d made himself the night before. The axe handle bruised his shin. The idiots had left their axe.
He plucked it from the stump. He went through the camp, over the broken ground in the near dark – camp was too strong a word for a place where three men had built a fire the size of a rabbit and lain on the bare ground. But by the fire he found an earthenware cup, still intact, and a tinderbox with both char cloth, flint and a steel.
Peter knelt on the ground and prayed to God. He managed a bittersweet thanks, and then he put the cup and the tinderbox into the front of his shirt, tied them in place, and made his way to the road, just a few horse lengths to the north. It was the main road from the eastern seaports to the Albin Plains. He knew that much.
To the east lay civilization and safety – and slavery.
To the west lay the Albin River and the Wild. Peter had seen the Wild, red in tooth and claw. And it had not enslaved him. So he shouldered the axe and headed west.
Har
ndon Palace – Desiderata
She read the note with ill-concealed irritation. ‘He gave this to you when?’ she asked the terrified boy.
‘Yesterday, r’Grace,’ he mumbled. ‘Which – er – cook sent me to Cheapside and me mum was sick—’
She looked at him. She was annoyed – she loved the useless old Magus the way she loved her magnificent Eastern riding horse, and his recent display of real power made him even more exciting.
‘An he took a horse – a fine horse – r’Grace. Had leather bags – had hisn staff.’ The boy’s desire to please was palpable, and she relented.
She turned to Lady Almspend and motioned at her waist. ‘Give the boy a leopard for his pains and send Mastiff to the Magus’ rooms in the tower. I would like a full report.’ She made a face. ‘Sir Richard?’
Sir Richard Fitzroy was the old king’s bastard son, a handsome man, a fine knight, and a reliable messenger. He doted on the Queen, and the Queen appreciated his stability.
He was attending her, obviously courting Lady Almspend now that his low-born rival was gone.
She beckonned to him. ‘Sir Richard – I need a private word with the king,’ she said.
‘Consider it done,’ he allowed, and bowed himself out.
East of Albinkirk – Gerald Random
Gerald Random woke to hear Guilbert Blackhead rapping for entrance to his tent – knocking on the tent’s cross-pole with his sword hilt. Random was on his feet in an instant, dagger in hand, and he was awake in another.
‘What is it?’ he asked, fumbling for the hooks and eyes that would open the flap.
‘No idea. But you had better see it.’ Guilbert’s urgency was carried fluently.
Random was out of the tent in another few heartbeats.
They were camped in a narrow meadow on the banks of the Albin, and the great river was in full flood, running fast and deep and almost silent, the black water sullen in the damp night air. They’d been hit by rain squalls again and again all day, and men and animals were still as wet and as sullen as the water.
Far off, north-east, the first crags of the mountains should have been visible, but low clouds drifted right over them, obscuring them for minutes at a time and then clearing just as rapidly, keeping the grass and the trees full of water.
As the next low cloud passed by, the Adnacrag Mountains loomed even in the darkness. Random thought that they might make the fortress town of Albinkirk in four more days. It was not the distance but the condition of the road at this time of year which delayed them. The river road, with its stone bridges and deep stone foundations built by the Archaics, was the only one a sane man would travel with heavy wagons. Every other road was fetlock deep in mud. But all the same, it was not easy.
There was an orange glow to the north.
‘Just watch,’ Guilbert said.
After six days on the road Random had the warrant-man’s measure – careful, cautious, and thorough. Perhaps not the man for a deed of daring, but just the sort of man to work a convoy. The guard posts were always manned and constantly checked.
Whatever he was trying to show the merchant, it was important.
Random watched a flicker – was it more than that? North-west, towards the fair. Perhaps – but they were too far for the fair to be visible. It was fifty leagues away or more – they were not yet to Albinkirk.
‘There!’ said the mercenary.
There was, just for a moment, a pinpoint of light that burned like a star above the glow of Albinkirk.
Random shrugged. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.
Guilbert nodded, clearly unhappy about it.
‘I’m for bed, then,’ Random said. ‘Wake me if we’re attacked,’ he added. He wished, later, that he hadn’t been quite so snappish.
Lissen Carak – Mag the Seamstress
Mag the seamstress sat on a barrel, staying out of the way. The day had passed well enough – she’d helped Lis wash shirts and been paid in solid coin for her work; had remembered her skills at avoiding pinching fingers, or delivering a slap where it was needed. The mercenaries were like nothing she’d ever seen – aggressive beyond anything a town of peasants had to offer.
She knew that, had the circumstances differed, they’d have killed her sheep, taken her chickens, her silver, and probably raped and killed her as well. These were hard men – bad men.
But they shared their wine and danced in the evening, and she had a hard time seeing them for what they probably were. Thieves and murderers. Because the Abbess said the Wild was going to attack them, and these men were all they had as defenders, and Mag thought . . .
Whatever she thought, she must have drifted off after the flashes in the sky. And suddenly they came out of the darkness in blackened armour, led by Thomas, who she now knew was Ser Thomas, riding hard on a destrier covered in sweat; six men-at-arms, twenty archers and some armed valets, all galloping up the twisting road and through the gate almost at her feet.
Bad Tom was the first off his horse, and he bent his knee to the captain. ‘Just as you said,’ he panted. ‘We fucked ’em.’ He rose stiffly.
The captain embraced the bigger man. ‘Go get your harness off and get a drink,’ he said. ‘With my thanks, Tom. Well done.’
‘And who’s gonna take the lamp-black off my mail?’ complained one of the archers – the one with dead eyes. He looked up, and his terrifying eyes found her unerringly with their promise of violence.
He grinned at her. The other men called him Will, and she’d learned it stood for Wilful Murder, of which he had apparently been convicted.
She flinched.
‘How was it?’ asked the captain.
Thomas laughed his huge laugh. ‘Gorgeous, Cap’n!’ he said, and swung down.
The other men laughed, a little wildly, as Mag knew men she knew that Thomas was really laughing, and the others had endured something sharp and horrible.
They’d survived it, and triumphed.
The captain embraced the big man again, and shook his hand. He went among the archers, helping them dismount and giving each his hand, and Mag saw the Abbess was right next to him and that she was blessing them.
She clapped her hands and just managed not to laugh.
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
As evening fell, Desiderata watched the foreign knight with the pleasure of a connoisseur for a true artist. He was tall – a head taller than every other man in the great hall – and he moved with a grace that God only bestowed on women and exceptional athletes. His face was like that of a saint – bright gold hair and sculpted features that were not quite too fine for a man. His red jupon fitted to perfection, his white hose were silk, not wool, and the wide belt of gold plaques on his slim hips was a mute testament to riches, privilege, and bodily power.
He bowed deeply before the king, sinking all the way to one knee with graceful courtesy.
‘My lord King, may I present the noble Jean de Vrailley, Captal de Ruth, and his cousin Gaston D’Albret, Sieur D’Eu.’ The herald proceeded to name their coats of arms and their heraldic achievements.
Desiderata already knew the foreign knight’s achievements.
She watched his eyes, and he watched the king.
The king scratched his beard. ‘It is a long way from the Grand Pays,’ he said. ‘Is all of Galle at peace, that you can bring so many knights to my lands?’ He said the words easily, and yet his eyes were hard and his face blank.
De Vrailly remained on one knee. ‘An angel commanded me to come and serve you,’ he said.
His sponsor, the Earl of Towbray, turned sharply.
Desiderata extended her sense – her warmth, as she thought of it – towards him, and the foreign knight burned like the sun.
She inhaled, as if to inhale his warmth, and the king glanced at her.
‘An angel of God?’ the king asked. He leaned forward.
‘Is there another kind?’ de Vrailly asked.
Desiderata had never heard a man speak with such simp
le arrogance. It hurt her, like a physical blemish on a beautiful flower. And yet, like many blemishes, it had its own fascination.
The king nodded. ‘How do you intend to serve me, Ser Knight?’ he asked.
‘By fighting,’ de Vrailly said. ‘By making unrelenting war upon your enemies. The Wild. Or any men who oppose you.’
The king scratched his beard.
‘An angel of God told you to come and kill my enemies?’ he asked. Desiderata thought the knight spoke with irony but she couldn’t be sure. De Vrailly blinded her in some strange way. He filled the room.
She closed her eyes and she could still sense him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
The king shook his head. ‘Then who am I to deny you,’ he said. ‘And yet I sense that you, in turn, desire something of me?’
De Vrailly laughed, and the sweet musical sound of it filled the room. ‘Of course! I would be your heir in exchange, and this kingdom shall, after you, be my own.’
The earl staggered as if he had been struck.
The king shook his head. ‘Then, angel or no, I think it would be best if you went back to Galle,’ he said. ‘My wife will bear me an heir of my body, or I will appoint my own choice.’
‘Of course!’ de Vrailly said. ‘But of course, my king!’ He nodded, his eyes shining. ‘But I will prove myself and become your choice. I will serve you, and you will see that there is no one like me.’
‘And you know this because an angel told you.’
‘Yes,’ said Jean de Vrailly. ‘And I offer to prove it on the body of any man you send against me, on horse or foot, with any weapon you care to name.’
His challenge, delivered in his sweet angelic voice from the bended knee of the suppliant, had all the authority of a decree. Men flinched from it.
The king nodded, as if satisfied.
‘Then I look forward to placing my lance against yours,’ he said. ‘But not as a challenge to your angel. Merely for the pleasure of the thing.’
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