by Jack
‘I am Second Terril,’ said Terril. ‘This rag-bag is Second Limath.’
‘Rag-bag is rather extreme,’ said Limath. He clapped Morghan on the shoulder. It was a companionable touch, though the younger man had braced for a testing blow. ‘I fell off, if you must know. There was a storm, and bandits, and ...’
‘Perfect calm and an empty road, in truth,’ said Terril. ‘Limath just isn’t a very good rider.’
‘True, true,’ sighed Limath. ‘But perhaps the luck that has given us a new cadet will also allow me to walk to the bridge, and I need not ride till ... oh damn ...’
Morghan turned his head to see what had stopped the flow of Limath’s speech and instinctively braced as he saw Serjeant Ishring.
‘Need not ride until tomorrow morning, Second Limath, I think you were saying?’ asked Ishring. ‘To the seventh milepost and back, perhaps you were about to say?’
‘Indeed, Master Ishring,’ said Limath. Morghan was surprised to see him smile, as if perfectly happy at being caught out. ‘I daresay I could use the practice.’
‘I daresay,’ said Ishring. ‘I beg your pardon for my intrusion, Second Terril.’
He turned his attention to Morghan. ‘Cadet Morghan, the Bridgemistress has decided that now the Seconds have returned, she can spare you from tomorrow for additional arms drill. You will have the first hour after dawn and the first hour from the halt with me, for pole-axe and other work.’
‘Yes, Serjeant!’ bellowed Morghan.
Ishring nodded, and stalked off past the torch-poles, out into the darkness toward the nearest of the outer guard posts. Morghan had already been taken around the outer ring of sentries, learning where they all were so that he could, at least in theory, find them in the dark. In this careful preparation, as in so many other things the company did, the young cadet saw the very real expectation of trouble.
‘Show us our tent and the refectory wagon, then,’ said Limath. ‘I could eat a horse.’
‘You’d probably do that better than you ride them,’ said Terril.
‘Ah, I shall miss your wit when you are made Bridgemistress,’ said Limath. ‘Now, Morghan, is it? Was the watch list for the bridge made up before you joined?’
‘I don’t know, Second,’ said Morghan.
‘Ah, you would know, because you would have been writing out a dozen copies if it had,’ said Limath with great satisfaction. ‘Fortune smiles upon us, Terril.’
‘I suspect that rather you should say the Bridgemistress knows her business,’ said Terril drily.
Morghan was unable to stop a flicker of puzzlement wrinkling his brow, though he did suppress a question. Terril saw it pass across his face, like a swift cloud across the sun.
‘Tell Cadet Morghan why you are so pleased to see him ... or rather, any cadet ... and the associated matter of the watch list.’
‘Ah, it is simple!’ roared Limath, clapping Morghan on the back. ‘You know that the Bridgemistress must always be accompanied about by a Second or a cadet? We must buzz about her like bees around the queen of the hive, ready for anything, to sting or fly at her order. You follow?’
‘Yes ...’ said Morghan cautiously.
‘But unlike bees, who only work under the sun, the Bridgemistress moves by night as well as day. You see now?’
‘I’m not sure ...’
‘It is simple! You comprehend that the day and night is divided into four watches?’
Morghan nodded.
‘With only two Seconds, we must divide all four watches between us, to follow the Bridgemistress about and do her bidding. But there is also weapon work, and writing work for Famagus, and all manner of other works that must be done, and if we must serve the Bridgemistress watch-by-watch, it leads to a terrible lack of that wonderful thing that we know as sleep.’
‘Ah, I do see now,’ said Morghan. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should admit a weakness that might be used against him. ‘I admit that I am a little bit —’
‘Tired?’ interrupted Terril. ‘That is the lot of cadets, and even for such exalted beings as Seconds. But you will be more tired still by the time we reach the bridge. It is in many ways a test, Morghan.’
‘A test! But I have been tested ...’
Morghan’s voice faltered, and stopped for a moment, before he resumed.
‘I see. I shall not fail.’
‘That’s the way, young cadet!’ boomed Limath. ‘Let’s get this gear cleaned up, Terril, and then ... food!’
‘You’d best go back to the Bridgemistress,’ said Terril. ‘If I were you, I’d run. The Bridgemistress does not make much allowance for the chattering we have just done. We will not be far behind.’
‘Yes, Second!’ replied Morghan. He turned and raced back past the tents, jumping over guy ropes rather than taking the time to go around them.
‘Keen,’ remarked Terril.
‘Yes,’ said Limath. ‘I hope he makes it to the bridge. I confess that I do not fancy watch-and-watch for the whole winter.’
* * * *
Morghan did make it to the bridge, though he was battered and scratched from his daily practices with Serjeant Ishring and other guards, and weary beyond reckoning, for he had never walked so far for so long, and had so little sleep.
None of that mattered as he stood on the hill top, and looked along the road that wound down to the river valley. The Greenwash ran there, in slow curves, at its narrowest more than two thousand paces wide. But the river, for all its majesty, did not hold Morghan’s eye. He looked at the bridge, the greatest bridge he had ever seen. Nine vast arches sat on piers the size of houses, their flanks extended by cutwaters that divided the river’s flow into nine swift channels. Though the stone deck was not yet laid, it was clear that when finished the bridge would be wide enough for four carts to pass abreast.
The Mid-River Bastion, built on an all but submerged islet that underpinned the middle of the bridge, was complete, barring all passage along the temporary boardwalk or the side parapets. A square tower, eighty feet higher than the bridge deck, which was itself forty-five feet above the water, the bastion’s gates were shut, and guards walked along the battlements, the company’s banner flying high above them.
As Morghan watched, a horn sounded on this tower. It was answered a few moments later from the castle on the northern bank. Morghan switched his attention to that, noting that while a relatively small fortification of only four towers around a single bailey or courtyard, it was built on a rocky spur that rose from the river, and a small stream wound about it before rejoining the Greenwash. The castle was thus protected by swift water, and sat on the highest point for at least a league, till you reached either the southern hill where Morghan was, or the slowly sloping land to the north which led to the high steppe, somewhere beyond the far horizon.
Ahead of Morghan, the Bridgemistress raised her hand in the air, and a single bright Charter mark flew into the sky. It whistled as it sped, a single pure note that was louder and clearer than the horn-blasts of the two fortifications, loud enough to be heard for leagues. Morghan wondered what mark it was, for he did not know it, and wished he did.
‘Onward!’ ordered Amiel. ‘Let the Winter Shift take possession of our bridge!’
* * * *
Three months later, Morghan felt it was indeed his bridge, as much as anyone else’s in the company. He had walked and climbed every accessible inch of it, slipped on its icy stones, been bruised by it, and almost drowned shooting the rapids under its arches in a too-flimsy craft. He knew every nook and cranny of the North Fort, the Mid-River Bastion, and the work camp on the southern shore. He had learned and even understood Company Orders and could recite any part of it. He had grown a fingerwidth in height and a fraction broader in shoulders and arms, though he was still thin. He had come to know several hundred new Charter marks, and forty-six particular spells. Though his elbow held him back from reaching the standard Serjeant Ishring expected with a pole-axe, he had been graded as very good w
ith a crossbow, and the Serjeant had once hinted that another year or two of constant practice might — just might — make Morghan a worthwhile addition to the company’s fighting strength.
It was more difficult to tell what the Bridgemistress thought about his value. She was not generous with praise, but did not criticise unduly either, not unless it was deserved. Morghan had made his small mistakes, and had taken his punishments without complaint, which were usually designed to ensure that he learned whatever he had got wrong the first time.
But he still worried that he might not be considered good enough, a fear that slowly grew as the winter waned and the first signs of spring began to show in sky and field. Eventually, he broke his habit of caution and on one of their last evenings spoke to Terril about it. They were on watch in the Mid-River Bastion, Terril commanding the small garrison, while Limath was off with the Bridgemistress, inspecting the southern ferry station which was a league to the west, far enough away to avoid the rapids created by the bridge. With the Field Market only a week away, the ferry was very busy, and there was a line of waiting wagons, trains of mules and even footsore pedlars that stretched from the ferry station to the bridge and then halfway up the southern side of the valley.
‘Second Terril, may I ask a question?’ Morghan said, as he stood at her side on the top of the tower.
‘You may, Cadet Morghan,’ said Terril. She was always formal and deliberate, unlike Limath, who treated Morghan as something of a cross between a pet dog and a little brother, with great enthusiasm and friendliness, but not a lot of thought.
‘I have been wondering,’ Morghan said carefully. ‘I have been wondering if cadets are often dismissed.’
Terril turned her complete attention to him.
‘Very rarely,’ she said. ‘Only in circumstances of incompetence, or gross turpitude. Selling our secrets, for example. Or weapons or something like that.’
‘What exactly might comprise incompetence?’ asked Morghan. He swallowed and thought of his elbow and Serjeant Ishring’s frowns at his pole-axe work.
Terril put her head on side and looked Morghan in the eye.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Cadet Morghan,’ she said firmly. ‘You have worked well, and I am sure that you will get a very good report.’
‘I will?’ asked Morghan.
‘Yes,’ said Terril firmly. ‘And if you keep on as you have, I expect that one day you will make an excellent Second, and in time, will be a redoubtable Bridgemaster yourself.’
Morghan nodded gratefully, unable to speak. He had not been able to think past their return to Navis. But to one day be a Bridgemistress’s Second, and then ... to reach the impossible peak of becoming a Bridgemaster!
‘Now go and get some sleep,’ instructed Terril. ‘I expect we’ll swap watches a little early, when the Bridgemistress comes back tonight, and you go with her, and Limath takes over here.’
‘But the dusk rounds, shouldn’t I go with you?’
‘Not tonight,’ said Terril. ‘I’ll go in a moment, and Farremon will keep watch here. I’ll wake you in good time for the Bridgemistress, have no fear of that. We won’t see her much this side of midnight.’
‘Thank you, Second,’ said Morghan gratefully. He bowed, and climbed down the stairs to the guardroom on the second floor, where everyone off-duty slept. The bastion was garrisoned by a dozen guards and an officer, and six of the beds were occupied by variously silent or snoring guards. Morghan found his own, wearily shrugged off his hauberk and hung it and his weapons on their stands, and sat on the bed. He thought about taking off his gambeson and boots, but before he could decide one way or another, he fell sideways and was instantly asleep.
Morghan awoke from the grip of a terrible, frightening dream to find himself in total darkness, and immediately felt waking panic too. There should have been a lantern lit, as per standing orders, and the Bridgemistress might be there at any moment. He leapt up and felt for his armour and weapons, dressing and equipping himself with practised speed, despite the absence of light.
It was only when he fastened his belt that he fully woke up and realized something was wrong, much more wrong than one unlit lantern.
He couldn’t hear any snoring, or even the soft breath of his companions, and there had never been, nor could there be, a guardroom so quiet.
They’ve been called to arms was Morghan’s immediate thought, and panic choked him. I’ve slept through an alarm! I’ll be dismissed after all!
He caught a sob in his throat, choked on it, and coughed, the sound harsh and loud in the silence. With the intake of breath after the cough came a sour, nasty taste, as if the air itself was tainted with something like the hot, metallic air of a forge ...
‘Free Magic,’ whispered Morghan, and a different fear rose in him and washed away all other fears. Instinctively he reached for the Charter, and found that it was already there, that he must have reached for it in his sleep. A faint, almost extinguished mark glowed feebly just below his heart, and it was joined to other marks that ran in a chain around his chest. Morghan touched them one by one, and remembered a spell that he had forgotten that he knew, a spell his grandmother had taught him when he was too young to know what she guarded him against. But somewhere deep inside, the child within had remembered in the time of need.
Morghan called the marks again, and rebound them to himself, winding them around like the armour they were. Armour against spells of ill-wishing, that if strong enough might still a beating heart, or close mouth and nose against the life-giving air.
With the new marks came light, but not enough. Morghan reached into the Charter again and found the one he sought. He drew it in the air, and it hung above his head, a companion brighter than the best of candles. In its light, Morghan surveyed the room.
Wisps of fog, thick and unnatural, oozed in through the shuttered arrow-slits and clustered around the beds. One quick glance across the silent, still figures and the winding fog was enough for Morghan to know that all his sleeping companions were dead, even the three who also had the Charter Mark.
Morghan picked up his pole-axe and ran down the steps.
The five guards below were also dead, but though their chests were still, they were moving. Four of them were clumsily unbarring one of the northern gates, while the fifth kept walking into the wall, bouncing off it and walking into it again. The reek of hot metal was stronger than ever, and the fog flowing in under the gates was as thick as wool.
Morghan did not immediately recognise the guards were no longer alive.
‘Stop! Stand!’ he shouted. But they did not stop, or stand still, or even turn. They had one end of the bar lifted out of its bracket, and he realised they would have it off entirely in a minute.
Morghan shouted again, then dashed forward and struck the closest man across the back of the legs with the shaft of his pole-axe. Bone cracked, but the man did not turn. Still he lifted the beam, and Morghan belatedly saw what he was dealing with.
The pole-axe swung, and a head rolled on the floor. The decapitated body kept at its work for a few seconds, then lost coordination and began to flail angrily at the gate.
Sobbing, Morghan swiftly beheaded the other guards, and beat the headless bodies back from the gate. The Dead tried to keep opening the door, but without heads they could not see, so they crashed into each other and fell over, and felt about blindly and worked at cross-purposes.
For a moment Morghan thought he was done with them and could take a moment to think. But then he heard something from outside, something that at first gave him heart, for it was the pure, sweet sound of a bell, before the sound was overlaid with something else, something he felt rather than heard, that made his stomach cramp, and bile come flooding into his mouth.
The dead guards, headless as they were, answered the bell as if a guiding intelligence had occupied them all. They came at him together, hands grasping, trying to bring him down, and he swung and bashed and cut and kicked at them with everything he’d
learned from Serjeant Ishring and in the alleys behind the inn, but it was not enough and at last he had to jump back to the stairs.
He was only just able to slam shut the heavy door as the Dead charged against it. One dead guard’s hand was caught in the doorway, and severed. It scuttled at him as he swung down the bar, and he had to stomp it to pieces before it lay still.
Morghan stood for a moment, trying to regain his breath. He could hear the Dead going back down to unbar the gate. There had to be a necromancer there, maybe more than one, or several Free Magic sorcerers. There might be an army of the Dead ...
Morghan stopped that thought. There would not be an army of the Dead. They could not cross fast running water. In fact, it was only because the bastion was built on a rocky island that the Dead below could survive. The necromancer outside could only use those people in the bastion that had already been slain with Free Magic to raise the Dead —
