The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

Gavin was kneeling by his brother. He had not seen his brother cry—not openly—since the other man had been a boy, and it made him feel sick with old feelings of rage and weakness and bullying strength.

  But Gabriel’s tears were quick. Almost like a mummer or a vagabond actor at a fair, he raised his head, eyes still full of tears that glittered in the firelight, but his voice was suddenly steady.

  “Everyone run,” he said. “Now.”

  “Incoming!” shouted Adrian Goldsmith. The squire didn’t sound terrified—he sounded relieved. “It’s Ser Michael!”

  Ser Gavin froze.

  Something began to form at the edge of the firelight.

  “Run,” Gabriel said.

  He meant it. Perhaps he leaked ops into his command. But every man and woman at the fire broke and ran into the dark.

  Gabriel tried to rise. But he had nothing left—except the trickle of ops that had, against all odds, preserved him.

  He sighed. He heard horses on the road, heard voices.

  He got to one elbow.

  The heavy black shadow became material.

  Thorn emerged from the aethereal with a hiss of lost air and bite of incredible cold. He was no longer like a tree. He was now more like a shadow or a pillar of smoke, lit from behind by a red fire. Two eyes glowed high above the captain.

  A horse bellowed its fear.

  “Ahh!” Thorn intoned. The syllable was full of surprise and satisfaction.

  Gabriel lay and swallowed bile.

  Then Mag was there. She was a woman of middle height, wearing the cowled hood of a woman pilgrim. She didn’t even have a staff.

  In the aethereal, she wielded a pair of scissors made of light, and she reached to cut Thorn’s links to his home and his base of power. Her strike was faster than the flicker of summer lightning, and she did not guard herself, so decisive was she.

  Gabriel had time to register the shriek of Thorn’s disappointed rage, and the un-human magister was—gone.

  Just for a moment, Mag seemed to tower over the fire like an avenging angel, and then she was just an aging woman in a cowled hood.

  She leaned over the captain, who managed a very shaky grin. “I’m not having a good day,” he said.

  Mag kissed his cheek. “Stay with us, my dear.”

  “That was—” Gabriel struggled for words.

  Mag laughed. “I’ve been wondering when he might try a straight-up kill,” she said. “I’ve been working on that for months.” She was brimful of power—and pride. Until she saw Arnaud.

  She bent over him, but he was dead.

  Gabriel reached up and put a hand on her skirts. “Did you—hit him?”

  “No. He bolted at my first twitch.” She smiled. “I knew he had to.” Her smile grew shakier. “That is, I hoped he had to.”

  She sat suddenly. And then she put a hand on the dead priest’s hands, and cried.

  Chapter Two

  Albinkirk

  The company that rode into Albinkirk was sober, watchful, and grief-stricken. The company flags were furled, and the lead wagon held corpses—any observer could see as much.

  Ser John Crayford watched them come through the gate and rode immediately to the head of the column, instead of reviewing and saluting the entire company.

  The young sprig of last year was older. Much older. He wore a small pointed beard and his eyes were tired. His face was an expressionless mask of fatigue and unexpressed grief.

  “How can I help?” Ser John asked.

  Ser Gabriel took his offered hand. “Today, barracks. Tomorrow…” His eyes flickered aside. “Tomorrow, a priest you like and a church. We have a dozen dead.” His eyes held grief—actual grief.

  Welcome to growing up, laddie, Ser John thought. But he had kindness in him, too, and in fifty heartbeats his squire was riding for the bishop while his valet led the outriders to the barracks. The castle was still half-empty. With the company at a little over a third of its strength, he could put every man and woman in a bed, or at least on a straw pallet.

  Ser John got the tale of the ambush from Kit Foliak, who he knew from his younger days, as the tired squires and pages began to sort the packs and the leather bags and the wagons and the horses in the citadel’s courtyard, paved with uneven stones five centuries old.

  When he’d seen to the company’s basic comforts, he went with Ser Ricar Fitzalan—a thinner and fitter version of the King’s captain—into his hall and sent a boy for the Red Knight. The man came with his famous brother, and sat in a tall chair piled with cushions while his valet raised one of his legs, elevated it, and put it on a stool. The slip of a girl was quick, efficient, and apparently unconcerned by her master’s vague nastiness.

  “Stop that—fuck, you’re hurting me,” the captain spat. “Damn it, girl. Stop fussing. No, I do not want water. Get your hands off me.”

  Nell ignored him resolutely, following Mag’s orders.

  Ser Gabriel was out of his harness, and his fine velvet arming coat was filthy.

  The man seemed to come to himself. He sighed and looked at Ser John.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

  Ser Gavin shrugged and accepted a cup of wine. “You seem exactly like yourself to me,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ve been introduced. I’m Ser Gavin Muriens. This is my brother, Ser Gabriel.”

  Ser John rose and bowed. “Ser John Crayford. I know your brother, from the siege and all that followed.” He looked at the surly captain. “And for lifting my two best men-at-arms when he went past last time.”

  Ser Ricar laughed aloud. “Well, I don’t know either of you, but I’m Ser Ricar Fitzalan. The old king’s bastard. And captain of the bodyguard.”

  Ser Gavin bowed. “I saw you after Lissen Carak. Indeed, we were within a few beds in the dispensary of the sisters.”

  Ser Ricar bowed from his seat. “Of course. My apologies.”

  “Hah! One linen-wrapped body looks much like the rest,” Gavin said. “But Sister Amicia pointed you out.”

  Ser John leaned forward. “Kit Foliak says you were ambushed—beat the ambush—and that a certain former king’s sorcerer tried to clinch the bargain.”

  Gabriel played with his untrimmed beard. “Master Foliak is very free with his information. But yes.”

  Ser John shook his head. “I mean no harm and, by God, sirs, I believe we are of the same metal. If there need be factions, surely we are all King’s men? And all of us foes of Plangere and his ilk.”

  Gabriel’s smile was not friendly. But he sighed—a long exhalation. He looked at his brother, who twitched an eyebrow.

  “Ser John, I’m a churl today. I’m not at my best, and I beg your pardon.” He bowed slightly in his chair.

  Ser John reflected the bow exactly.

  Ser Gabriel looked out the window at the spring rain. They’d lost a day crossing the last stream before Albinkirk, the north branch of the West Kanatha. It was flooded to a roaring torrent by the spring melt. It had taken too long for tired men to get the wagons across.

  The captain’s tongue had been too active and too biting.

  He regretted it. He stared out the window and no one spoke. Finally he said, “I lost too many men. And a—a friend.”

  Ser John thought ahhh.

  Less intuitive, or simply blunter, Ser Ricar held out his cup for more wine and asked, “What hit you?”

  Ser Gavin’s voice was not much less strained than his brother’s. “Four wyverns,” he said. “Twenty daemons and a shaman. Something we’ve never seen before.” Gavin gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “We brought two corpses to show you. We call them imps.” He looked away. “We lost three men to them.”

  Ser John shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, Captain. And sorry you were attacked; I try to patrol my lands. Where were you?”

  “The Hole,” Ser Gabriel said. “Not in any way your fault.”

  Ser Ricar and Ser John exchanged a look. “So far south and east!” Ser Ricar said.


  “Thorn’s coming,” Gabriel said, and the name was like a curse. “You know, until now, I have not taken him seriously. Like a fool. Like a fool. I gave him a year to recover, and now look.” Gabriel’s face wore the same anger that the goodwife had worn. “He’s back.”

  “Brother—” Gavin said with a cautioning hand.

  Gabriel shook it off. “You have called a council,” he said to Ser John. “I’d like to attend with my brother. With Tom Lachlan, who is now the Drover.”

  Ser John nodded. “We’d be proud to have you, sir knight. The Abbess will be here, and most of our northern gentry will be here or be represented.”

  “I can represent the Emperor,” Gabriel said.

  Ser John’s eyebrows shot up, but he had heard the rumours.

  “And as Duke of Thrake, I think I deserve a seat at the table,” he added.

  “Or the whole table,” Ser Gavin muttered.

  Ser John frowned. “Well—you gentlemen will dominate my council, then, with your mother. She’s expected tomorrow from Ticondaga.”

  A difficult silence fell.

  Ser John wondered what he’d said.

  Finally, Ser Gabriel gave a laugh that had a sob in it. “Am I safe in assuming that the Abbess will bring Sister Amicia?” he asked.

  Ser John smiled. “Of course. She’s essential to our defences.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Perfect,” he said. He held out his cup. “I’ll need some more wine.”

  An hour later, Ser Gavin had his brother in a bed, in a clean nightshirt, and lightly drunken on wine and lots of water. “Brother,” he said.

  Gabriel smiled ruefully. “I’m well. Well enough. You go.”

  Gavin shook his head. “I’ll stay.”

  Gabriel raised his head. “I’m not a fucking weakling, brother. Trust me, I’ll weather this. And you’ve waited almost a year to see her. Go! At the very least, she needs to know that Mater might be here, and what that will mean.”

  “Sweet Christ, I hadn’t even thought—” Gavin smacked his head. “Oh, dear God.”

  “Exactly,” Gabriel said. “You must go. And I will stay here, and play the role. Come back—but don’t despair. The worst is over.”

  Gavin looked at his brother with too much understanding. “No, it isn’t.”

  Gabriel frowned. “I didn’t know how much I liked him,” he said. “I didn’t…”

  Gavin sighed. “I did. Ever since Kaitlin’s wedding. He was one of us as much as if he’d ridden with us for years. Christ, listen to me. I’ve only ridden with you a year.”

  “I have that effect on people,” Gabriel said. But he managed a smile. “I mean it. Go kiss the Lady Mary from me, too. Bring her if you think she’ll survive Mater. And don’t, if you don’t. We’ll ride south in five days.”

  “You still mean to go to the tournament,” Gavin said.

  Gabriel nodded. “Gavin, I’ve made plans and I’ve made other plans. Nell!” he shouted, and Nell appeared.

  “Nell, I would like to formally apologize for my behaviour.”

  “Apology accepted,” Nell snapped.

  Gavin laughed outright. “Just what you deserve.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Nell, I need the scroll tube. You know it, the ivory one.”

  Wordlessly, Nell went back to the outer room. And returned with a scroll tube.

  “If I die—this is the plan.” Gabriel shrugged. “Master Smythe told me that if we missed the tournament, we’d probably rue it. He’s so helpful that way. For what it’s worth—and my credibility is a little singed, I admit—Plangere just lost a powerful controlled mage and the daemon warband took heavy losses. I intend to advertise that he came—and he ran.” Gabriel’s smile had nothing of pleasure in it, and everything of predatory anticipation. “He lost four wyverns, too. That will hurt his credibility with them.”

  “So?” Gavin asked, holding the tube.

  “So I do not want to speak my plans aloud, brother. For various reasons.” He pursed his lips. “Read the scroll and give it to Tom and Michael, and then bring it back here so I can make it ash.”

  Drawn like a moth to a flame, Gavin was already reading. He whistled, and raised his head. “Holy Mary mother of God,” he said in shock. “Who else knows this?”

  “Gelfred. Ranald. Kronmir.” Gabriel shrugged. “To be honest, none of you know everything I know.”

  “You are so trusting,” Gavin said.

  “If I go down, it’s yours,” Gabriel said.

  “You almost died, didn’t you?” Gavin said.

  “I should be dead, right now,” Gabriel said.

  Bad Tom, missing his cousin’s calm efficiency, divided his herds in the fields south of Albinkirk. A flurry of messengers found him an Etruscan factor and one of Ser Gerald Random’s company clerks, and between them they took financial responsibility for a third of the herd and hired, on the spot, twenty of the captain’s men-at-arms, hurriedly placed under Sauce and Ser Gavin, and rode away west to the fair at Lissen Carak.

  Bad Tom fretted at the delay, but he had no choice. So he read the scroll that Ser Michael handed him, grinned at the captain’s former squire, and handed it back. He drank off a stiff cup of wine and looked at Ser Michael.

  “I’m sending Kaitlin to Lissen Carak,” Ser Michael said.

  Bad Tom poured a second cup. “He almost died, and I wasn’t there,” he said suddenly.

  Ser Michael nodded. “Me, either.”

  Tom met the other knight’s eye. They were suddenly within a finger’s breadth of being of a height. “I don’t want to be somewhere else when he goes down. I want to be in the shield ring. I want to swing the last blow over his corpse. I want the sword women to take me with him when they go.”

  “You’re not exactly a Christian, are you, Tom?” Michael asked.

  Tom gulped wine. Very quietly, he said, “Have you read yon?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Tar’s tits,” Tom said.

  Michael considered that for a long time. Then he smiled. “Yes,” he said, and went to spend a few last hours with his wife.

  Kaitlin was her usual self—buoyant and undemanding and centred on the needs of others. She wanted Michael to take her to the captain, but Michael was against it and, besides, he knew that Ser Gavin was riding in the morning. “Let the captain sleep,” he said. “You can see him in the morning, when we bury the priest and the children.” His voice was rough with forced nonchalance.

  Kaitlin, who had a clearer idea of what the chaplain might have meant to the captain than most of her husband’s peers, let it go, and spent the night curled in her husband’s arms. In the morning—well rested—she levered her growing bulk off the bed. “No longer the prettiest maid in the valley,” she said.

  Ser Michael knelt and kissed her hands.

  “He was a good priest,” she said. “He married us.”

  Michael smiled. “Cully says he died healing the captain. That—” He paused.

  Kaitlin frowned. “What?”

  “Cully—this is Cully, sweetie, not some pious croaker—Cully says a man in a ragged robe came and knelt by the captain, and he woke up.”

  Kaitlin crossed herself. “A saint?” she asked.

  Ser Michael frowned. “I’d hate to think so,” he said. “I enjoyed jousting with him too much.”

  The whole town came out in the spring rain. The rain fell in sheets, and made the turf—still frozen deep under—springy and squishy like a huge pile of wet wool.

  Every man-at-arms in the town came in his harness, and squires cursed them.

  And the Bishop of Albinkirk stood in the rain. The coffins were plain boards. One was empty, for the lost child, and there were only red scraps in poor Robin’s coffin, rushed and overwhelmed and devoured by imps after he lost control of the horses. The goodwife stood by the coffins of her dead children, and her eldest daughter stood with her, but now wore the scarlet tabard of the company, and even through the rain a distance could be seen between them. />
  The priest’s coffin had the banner of the Order of Saint Thomas over it, and no other marking but the dead priest’s crucifix, helm, and gauntlets.

  Like every man present, the bishop was soaked to the skin, and cold.

  He raised his arms.

  “What words can I say that will equal the deeds of these people?” he asked. “How can I express a mother’s grief? Or a knight’s impotence in the face of death?”

  The only sound was the rain. Gabriel flinched.

  “In the beginning was the word,” the bishop said. “Word” echoed. “Only the true word, the Logos, could speak for these. As the Logos was, in the beginning, so he will wait until the end, alpha and omega. And, we can only hope, wait patiently for all of us to come to him.” He stood, arms wide, his soaking vestments hanging from him and his face raised to the sky.

  Perhaps they expected a flash of lightning, or the acknowledgement of the heavens, but there was only an icy wind.

  Six knights—Ser Gabriel, Ser Thomas, Ser Gavin, Ser Michael, Lord Wimarc and Ser Alison—lowered Father Arnaud into the muddy hole prepared for him. Toby had a pile of earth covered carefully with oil cloth, and he’d done the same for every dead archer and page and squire and child. One by one, the soaked knights lowered their dead into the embrace of the mud, and then put fresh earth atop them.

  The goodwife stood and wept. When the last coffin passed her, she reached out to touch it, and then turned away.

  Ser Gabriel stood with the bishop. “You are a man of power,” he said.

  The bishop shrugged. “Today I am a man with no power to make a mother feel the love of God,” he said. “And no interest in pious mouthings.”

  Ser Gabriel nodded. There was cold water running down his spine. His arming coat had soaked through.

  “He was a great man.” Ser Gabriel surprised himself to say it.

  “You loved him, then?” the bishop asked.

  Ser Gabriel turned away. Then, very slowly, he shrugged. “He was a fine man-at-arms and my people loved him.”

  “And you?” asked the bishop.

  “Why must you ask?” Gabriel said. His shields were back up—a smile twisted his mouth. “I have some pious mouthings of my own to deliver, my lord bishop.”