The Dinosaur Knights
Page 45
He blew out a long breath. “You oppose them, though?”
“In this,” she said, “yes. They mean to wipe out humanity. I’ve come to love your kind, Karyl. And beyond that, I believe the Angels have come to misinterpret the Creators’ desires.”
“Why don’t the Creators set them straight?”
“The Eight have their own agendas, let’s say.”
“So what do you want with me?”
“Remember that I told you, that day on the Hassling, that I thought I sensed something special about you? Some kind of destiny?”
His fingers clenched on the camp chair’s arms. His overtaxed hands promptly knotted in cramps. He bent over, wincing, prying the fingers loose by sheer will.
“I doubted my perception then, I admit,” Aphrodite said. “You proved my doubts wrong. You possess unusual gifts, not least of survival. And so I have chosen you.”
“Chosen me for what?”
“My champion.”
“What does that mean?”
She smiled. “As with your other questions, that awaits you learning enough that you can understand the answer.”
She leaned toward him, pursing her lips as in a kiss. Where the phantom mouth touched his forehead, he felt a tingle.
“Wait!” he cried. He lunged for her.
His arms wrapped air. She vanished. He fell on his face.
He was still weeping broken-heartedly when servants came to ready him for the great thanksgiving feast.
* * *
Rob Korrigan—Sir Rob, now, Baron Rob If-You-Please—was drunk.
Not just drunk. Not tipsy. Not shitfaced. Gloriously, rousingly, thunderously drunk. As only a goblin-brew of fatigue poisons, the exhilaration of sheer unexpected survival, and liters of better booze than he’d ever dreamed existed could make him drunk.
And, well, he thought, I am shitfaced. That too.
When a body sucked down such pelagic quantities of alcohol in many forms, particularly the Emp’s own beer and ale (ambrosia!), there were certain regular and predictable consequences. And so Rob, cut loose after the great banquet broke up, was stumbling about the dark Imperial camp behind Le Boule in search of a place to pee.
Having found a tent grand enough to conceal him from wandering eyes, he took himself in hand. He was experiencing relief so pure and profound he was surprised he didn’t just deflate like an air-filled strider bladder and fall flat down, when he heard voices close by. One voice, in particular, seemed familiar. If only of recent acquaintance.
It came through the tent wall, he realized. He noticed, then, as the release of pressure on his bladder allowed blood to flow to his brain again what he had failed to mark before. By the light of the rising Eris, the tent showed distinct broad stripes. Of red and gold.
Well, Rob lad, and isn’t that you all over? he told himself. No sooner made a noble you are, than you go and piss behind the Emperor’s very tent.
Or, to give the Truth more service than is your custom, piss on it.
The voices murmured on. There was something about the second one, a dessicated rasp that reminded him of insect wings, which made him furrow his brow. It didn’t sound right somehow.
That was when he spied the tear in the cloth.
It was a small hole. A mere slit, really. Probably from some random arrow. Strange to find one here; but he’d been told the fighting had swirled everywhere, there at the end. Battle raged clear to the vast supply-wagon fort even farther back down the Chausée Imperial toward the village.
Until Shiraa bit that devil Raguel in two. Neat as you please.
The Grey Angel’s end, or ends, had left all of the Crusaders whose souls he’d controlled blinking in befuddlement. Some began to cry; others wandered, hopelessly confused. And others were simply blank, as if in reaching etherically into their heads the Grey Angel had broken something in there.
That was most by far of the Grey Angel horde. A minority, of course, consisted of those who had willingly taken up the Crusade. And partaken eagerly of its dark rewards.
Those had vanished over the horizon as quickly as they could, once Raguel fell. Exhausted as they were surprised, the victors let them go. Over coming weeks and months they would hunt the willing collaborators down. Years, if that was what it took. Rob thought he himself might ask permission to join the hunt. Although he doubted there’d be any shortage of applicants.
Ask Karyl’s permission as well as his Emperorship’s, he reminded himself. He might be a Barón Imperial now, but Nan Korrigan’s boy had his priorities on right-way to. And lucky he was his dear friend and comrade was also his liege lord, all through the magic of Imperial decree.
Again the voices whispered to him. Again his gaze strayed toward that hole. That inviting little hole.
He finished, shook himself, stuffed himself back in place, drew his drawstrings tight. No good walking about the camp with Little Rob peeking out all uninvited; unworthy of his aristocratic dignity, that was.
So was eavesdropping, of course. Not to mention lèse-majesté at the very least.
But then, Rob reasoned, things happen for a purpose in this fine world the Creators have made. Haven’t we all seen the same today?
And so that hole … plus Rob … plus those voices … well, surely it all added up to the Creators’ manifest Will. Had to. There could be no denying.
And Rob, being a pious man—however temporarily and under the direct influence of recent frightening spiritual manifestations as well as truly epic quantities of drink—was never a lad to defy his Creators. Not openly. No indeed.
He took out his dirk and, slipping the tip into the little tear, improved it ever so slightly.
It might be that his hand was not altogether unused to such a task.
He got the hole large enough, he thought, to peep through without holding it open with his fingers and risking getting caught like a lummox. The words swam into focus, like little fishes from the murky bottom of a pond to clearer water near the surface.
“Please, Fray Jerónimo,” Rob heard, and it seemed Felipe halfway sobbed the words. “I know what you told me before. But I confess: I still have doubts. The most terrible, terrible doubts. Have I truly done the Creators’ Will, by defying Their own appointed emissary?”
Rob peeked inside. At first he could make out little. He was peering into a rear corner of this back room, made into an alcove by a movable screen. The only light came filtered through the paper from a single oil lamp on the screen’s far side. Felipe sat on the other side as well.
Ah, Rob thought, trying to sharpen well-blurred vision, so there you are, my mystery lad. Let’s have a look at you, then.
Every eye in the Empire, it seemed, had striven without success for just such a glimpse at the power who sat invisibly behind the Fangèd Throne. And now to Rob went the golden prize! He called that no less than his due.
Shadow resolved to shape.
By some sheer twist of luck, Rob managed not to shriek. Managed indeed to stumble away into the night without gibbering aloud, though terror threatened to dissolve his bones within him.
Because Fray Jerónimo, sitting in a chair in simple cowled brown monk’s robes, was not a man.
He was, quite unmistakably, a Grey Angel.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The number of people who have helped make this book possible has only grown. I can do no more than hit the high points.
Thanks to my friends in the Albuquerque Science Fiction Society and at Archon in St. Louis for your love and support.
Thank you, again, to my fellow writers of Critical Mass, past and present, who helped me do this thing: Daniel Abraham, Yvonne Coats, Terry England, Ty Franck, Sally Gwylan, Ed Khmara, John Jos. Miller, Matt Reiten, Melinda Snodgrass, Jan Stirling, Steve Stirling, Lauren Teffeau, Emily Mah Tippetts, Ian Tregillis, Sarena Ulibarri, Sage Walker, and Walter Jon Williams.
Thank you to my agent, Kay McCauley; my editor, Claire Eddy, and her indefatigable assistant, Bess Cozby; and to Richard Anderson, for what Walter
Jon Williams called “the greatest cover in the history of the Universe.” And to Irene Gallo for signing off on it.
Thanks to all the folks at the Jean Cocteau Cinema and GRRM’s minions for your help: Raya Golden, Melania Frazier, David Sidebottom, Laurel Zelazny, and Lenore Gallegos. And a special thank-you to Patricia Rogers and Sage for riding to the rescue.
A big thank-you to Ron Miles, Webmaster Supreme, for resuscitating my website from the dead—in style! And to Theresa Hulongbayan and Gwen Whiting for creating and wrangling my Facebook fan page!
A heartfelt thank-you to George R. R. Martin, for so many things.
Thank you to my Dinosaur Army for keeping the faith.
And thanks to Wanda Day for all she’s done for me. Did you know—after my disclaimer that she was not the inspiration for the name of Rob Korrigan’s axe and everything—she actually dressed up as the damn thing for the Bubonicon Masquerade in 2015? Yeah, she did that.
And as always—thanks to you for reading.
TOR BOOKS BY VICTOR MILÁN
The Dinosaur Lords
The Dinosaur Knights
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Victor Milán, best known for his award-winning novel The Cybernetic Samurai, now brings us The Dinosaur Knights, the second book in his sprawling epic fantasy series that began with The Dinosaur Lords. In previous worlds, he’s been a cowboy and Albuquerque’s most popular all-night prog-rock DJ. He’s never outgrown his childhood love of dinosaurs and hopes you haven’t, either. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Maps
Epigraph
Part One: Colloquy in a Sewer
Prologue
Part Two: Rebirth
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three: Redemption
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Four: Crusade
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part Five: Dubious Battle
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Six: Just Deserts
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Tor Books by Victor Milán
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DINOSAUR KNIGHTS
Copyright © 2016 by Victor Milán
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Richard Anderson
Interior illustrations by Richard Anderson
Maps by Rhys Davies
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3297-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-6612-2 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429966122
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First Edition: July 2016