The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

Bescanon pointed his wedge at the side of a swamp creature, couched his lance as if in the lists, and slapped down his visor.

  “Charge,” he called.

  Sauce saw the company banner and the charge. Bescanon—she knew his coat armour—vanished into the titanic melee to the west of the armoured brigans. She kept moving, trying to reach the banner—the Saint Catherine—and she prayed as she walked. She had the oddest position—a spectator in the midst of an enormous battle. Both sides seemed to have spent their reserves. Even Morgon Mortirmir merely glowed with protective energy. No more missiles rained from his fingertips.

  In the time it took to power a tired, armoured leg over a log, it began to change.

  Bescanon’s small force killed two hastenoch, gored by lances in their unarmoured flanks until they fell—and the war horses pounded the imps to red meat, although a few fell in turn.

  Then, suddenly, something gave—and the Faery Knight shot out of the melee and into the churned and boggy grounds behind it. He turned his great stag, red to the fetlocks, and began to harry the behemoth. And then the edges of the melee began to collapse, and men—who had been fighting savagely, hand to hand—came out of the trees to the left, with painted Outwallers amongst them, shrieking war cries.

  Arrows began to strike the behemoth, even in the pouring sheets of rain. And almost, the great monster might have been a victim—something from the art on the rocks at the edge of the inner sea, or perhaps some cave all in the south. Ringed by irks and men, it took blow after blow, and trumpeted its rage and sorrow—to die alone, far from kin, to be tormented by these tiny predators, to fall for so little gained—

  Its tragic trumpet-call pierced the rain and sounded for every creature that died in the mud that day.

  And then it fell, and the Faery Knight was free. Like the bursting of a dam, his Wild Hunt spilled over the ridge at last, and fell into the flank of the mounted melee where fully armoured Occitan hacked uselessly at fully armoured Galle. The Jacks—those that survived dragon’s breath and behemoth’s tusk and irk’s spear—found themselves in the flank of the Gallish knights and poured arrows into their horses… wet arrows from damp strings.

  The Galles began to die.

  The Faery Knight rode—almost alone, a vision of scarlet and white—across the back of the fight—he rode hundreds of paces, almost at arm’s length from his foes, along the back of their hordes, and his own household knights flitted at his side, faster than a breeze in the woods. The rain masked them, but Sauce thought she’d never seen anything so fine, and the Red Knight thought the same, and Ser Gavin, intent on his own fight, and Morgon Mortirmir, were awed even after everything they’d seen.

  The Faery Knight’s handful seemed to skim the ground—along the wide, shallow trough of the fight, and then suddenly, turning like a shoal of bright minnows, up and to the left—up, and into the rear of the cave trolls where they fought Flint’s people for the highest projection of the ridge. Up, and there was a flare of sorcery—and eldritch fire that played on the hills like holly in yule, white and red and green, as he sprung his last surprise, Tamsin’s fire stored against need.

  And Morgon Mortirmir made one last effort, running clear of the back of the company line, raising his hand, and loosing two workings…

  The cave trolls broke. Some fell broken to pieces, others ran, the earth collapsing under them, only to mire in the wet ground at the bottom of the valley and trap them to die there.

  Flint’s bears, and Mogon, still tall in her cloak of feathers, gathered their survivors. The Faery Knight and his remaining riders placed themselves between them, and together they crashed down into the valley, destroying the last hope Thorn’s Wild levies might have had.

  Everything else ran.

  Leaving only Hartmut.

  The brigans fought on, unshaken, and it seemed to Toby that they all must die—of broken hearts, burst lungs, and rain.

  He was no longer fighting with skill. He hit men with the haft of the spear, or simply poked at them, and they at him.

  The captain was still making parries and throwing blows. But even he was slowing, and his blows became more feeble. Finally Toby caught a glimpse when the captain’s sword went into an aventail—and came back, having done no damage.

  But the horns, and the roars, were different. Toby had the spear locked under another man’s arm, and he couldn’t reach his dagger, and his life was in peril—and there was cheering. The other man pushed him down, wrenching his arm—dislocating his shoulder—and Toby went down, face-first, into the mud. But the cheering went on and Toby was determined not to die, and in a paroxysm of exhausted muscles he rolled over, dagger in hand.

  The captain had put his sword in the other man’s eye. He pushed the corpse to the ground.

  And then, the Black Knight was there, mounted on a tall black horse.

  A space cleared. The brigans wanted no more fight, and yet were too proud to yield. But something had changed—the cheers were everywhere.

  “I am Ser Hartmut Li Orguelleus,” he said. “I challenge you—face me, or be thought craven.”

  Toby could only just see him—a huge figure in black armour. With a sword that burned like a torch, and made a faint sound, like running water.

  Ser Gabriel coughed. But then he sighed and raised his visor. “Ser Hartmut,” he said.

  “No!” roared Ser Gavin, and Ser Gabriel was thrown roughly to the ground. Gabriel looked up, somewhat surprised.

  Ser Gavin towered over them on a sweat-besmothered war horse. His small axe dripped blood.

  “My fucking brother has defrauded me of every worthwhile fight I should have had this spring,” he said. “I’m Ser Gavin Muriens, Ser Hartmut, and I insist on being the one to kill you.”

  Ser Hartmut growled. Behind him, his men were flinching away down the hill.

  Hartmut didn’t speak further. He reached up and pulled his heavy great helm off his back and over his head. Then, as his horse fretted, he took a heavy lance from his squire and sheathed his fiery sword.

  He charged.

  Ser Gavin had no lance.

  He charged anyway.

  Hartmut’s lance tip swooped down, and Gavin caught it on the haft of his little axe—his hand went out under the lance as the two horses crossed noses, and he caught the outside of his opponent’s bridle in his left hand.

  The black horse twisted, attempting to right its head.

  The reins snapped.

  Gavin’s axe shot out—and struck Hartmut in the helmet. The blow did not damage him, but the Black Knight fell straight off his horse.

  Gavin brought his mount around. Hartmut got to his feet—favouring his right leg—and drew his sword, which burst, again, into fire.

  “An attack on my horse?” he said. “What a cowardly act!”

  Ser Gavin laughed. “It is always comforting to take cover behind the rules, isn’t it?” he asked. “Especially if the rules always benefit you.”

  “Dismount and face me!” Hartmut called. “Or be branded a coward.”

  Gavin showed no sign of dismounting. “You mean, get off my war horse and face your magic sword?” he asked.

  The brigans were throwing down their weapons.

  “You make a mockery of knighthood!” Ser Hartmut said.

  Ser Gavin laughed. “I think, Ser Hartmut, that you killed my parents. I think that you have hidden behind a shield of pretence for your whole life. And now, I think you’re going to die, and no one is going to call me base, or coward, or knave—no one at all. In fact, I suspect only my version of this fight will ever be heard.”

  Gavin’s smile was terrible.

  Then, he dismounted.

  “I hold you in contempt—as a knight, and a man.” Ser Gavin tossed his reins to Jean, Bertran’s squire.

  The Black Knight raised his sword, and attacked.

  He struck air.

  Gavin was fresh, and he simply evaded the other man’s blows. Hartmut had fought for hours. Gavin let him swing. He ran�
��he skipped. He mocked.

  At some point, Gabriel turned his head away.

  Hartmut cursed, and cursed in Gallish, and swung, and swung, and stumbled. Behind him, De La Marche’s sailors surrendered, the last force still fighting in the whole of Thorn’s host.

  Someone—later, men said it was Cully—tripped the Black Knight. He fell heavily, and for a moment, he lost his sword.

  His great helm had tilted across his eyes. He roared his frustration, pulled the lace with armoured fingers and threw his helmet at Ser Gavin, who casually struck it to the ground with his little steel axe. Then he stood—a big man in black armour, wearing a steel cap over an aventail.

  “I thought of this fight a long time,” Ser Gavin said, conversationally. “It wasn’t you I wanted to fight. But you’ll do to make my point.”

  “Shut up and fight!” Ser Hartmut barked.

  “You want rules to protect you when you are weak, and no rules to slow you when you are strong.” Ser Gavin took a gliding, sideways step—

  Gabriel’s heart was in his mouth.

  The long sword licked out—a heavy feint, the false blow of a man who fears no riposte.

  Like the flight of an arrow, Gavin stepped into distance, flicked his axe, and buried the spike in the middle of Hartmut’s face.

  The Black Knight fell.

  Gavin turned to his brother. “It should have been de Vrailly,” he said.

  Harmodius felt the rain slowing with the tempo of the combat. He felt it when Mogon accepted the surrender of the survivors of the Dead Tree and Flint took the bended knees of the Big Nose irks. Down at Gilson’s Hole, the Hillmen pushed into the rear of the boglins—already hesitant—and broke them, and the little creatures melted away into the marsh and ravines.

  Harmodius was not searching for them. He was searching for why they were still fighting, and eventually, as Ash turned high in the air, so high that the aethereal was thin and the emperyeum began, and savaged the Wyrm of Ercch; as Hartmut fell dead; as Bad Tom stepped up onto the ruined north wall of the Royal Camp, and the last fighting tapered away…

  Harmodius found Thorn.

  Thorn was a small shadow—in the aethereal, he was merely the shadow of a shadow.

  “I knew you must still live,” Harmodius said. “Your bound creatures are still fighting.”

  The shade of Richard Plangere, once so powerful, merely whimpered.

  Harmodius took him, and tenderly—almost—entered into his palace. Thorn lacked the strength to prevent even that. Harmodius plundered his memories ruthlessly, in a single heartbeat.

  “Why?” Harmodius demanded.

  “I tried to escape him,” Plangere said. “Please—my boy—let me go. All I wanted was the Wild. And the freedom to study.”

  Harmodius studied the damage. “Yes, my teacher. What Ash did to you was terrible.” He frowned, and then hardened his heart. “But because of you, half the women of Alba are widows tonight. Go to hell, or wherever traitors go, and be accursed.”

  “You know the truth!” Thorn screamed. “I betrayed no one!”

  Harmodius shook his head in the real. “You betrayed us all,” he said. “And not just man. If it is any consolation: I will try and undo what you have done.”

  “You will merely become me, you fool.”

  “I think not,” Harmodius said. And then, like a creature of the Wild, he subsumed his foe.

  High in the aether, Ash felt his puppet die. His foe was mortally wounded, but Ash had to turn and let him flutter to the ugly reaches of earth. He considered it all—the fire, the rain, the ruin, and the death.

  He gazed upon Harmodius, who stood in the aethereal, untouched, and ready—deadly, powerful, and possessed of all Thorn’s knowledge, newly learned. And he looked at the others—the golden aura of the despicable Queen, tool of the false Tar, and the fallen Wyrm’s toys… He loathed them all.

  But blue fire still burned, and the Wyrm had struck him twice to the bone. And that sword—some child of man had struck him with something—horrible. Even an insect bite may fester.

  Ash had never been one for a reckless gamble.

  So he pivoted, so high above the battlefield that only a few could detect him, and let out a long shriek of triumph and derision.

  One of the two eggs, which Thorn had carried and nurtured for so long, burst open, and a cloud of black spores filled the muggy, damp air, and burst into leprous, malignant life. The other hatched.

  Ash would have chuckled, but breathing was difficult and he was too high. He turned west, and began to glide. He could do so, without effort, for a thousand miles.

  The Wyrm fluttered as hard as he could, with one wing mostly shredded and the other full of holes.

  It was a long way down. After a while, he spun, and lost what little control he had—lost consciousness—and fell.

  Harmodius watched the victor glide away into the shadows of the far west, even as the other fell. The fall was long—the heavens were very high.

  Higher than I thought.

  Gabriel was at his door, and then in his head.

  “He covered us, for hours. Can you save him?”

  Harmodius chuckled grimly. “Save him? I’ll dance on his grave.”

  Gabriel paused. “Listen—you are the closest thing to a teacher I have had in a long time. I want you to think of something. Today we are still standing because bear and irk and man stood together. Some irks and many men are deeply evil. What of it? We—whoever we are—we choose to believe that we can stand together. The bishop is no fool, Harmodius. This is murder.”

  Harmodius watched the dragon fall. “I did not kill him,” he said.

  “Are we an alliance of all the peoples of this sphere?” Gabriel asked. “Or are we just another set of Powers?”

  Harmodius grunted.

  “Save him,” Gabriel begged.

  Harmodius cursed. But he reached out, into the real, and gave without stint. He gave until trees died—gave more when Gabriel gave him his reserve.

  He poured in his ops, and then, daring, he used Amicia’s as well.

  Master Smythe awoke with his head on a linen pillow. He opened his eyes.

  And met the eyes of the beautiful nun. He had never met her in human form, but he knew her well.

  “I am not dead,” he said.

  Amicia smiled. “No,” she said. “We saved you.” She pushed a lock of hair back inside her wimple. “Only fair, as you saved us.”

  Master Smythe lay still for a long time, savouring that. He understood—with terrible clarity—what had been done to him. He had no right arm.

  Not in the real.

  At the next bed, another beautiful human woman stood by the bed of a tired, dark-haired man. Master Smythe knew him perfectly well. And his brother, who stood with yet another beautiful woman—dark-haired, where the woman by the Red Knight was pale.

  “Gabriel,” he said. “You lived. You won.” He sat up a bit—an odd motion, unsuited to human form—and then turned and smiled at Gabriel’s brother Gavin. “Who are all these beautiful women and what do they see in you two?” he asked.

  The blonde woman turned away, drawing a sharp breath.

  Gabriel extended a hand and caught hers. “This is Blanche Gold, and I have no idea what she sees in me,” he said. “Stay,” he said to her. “I have no secrets from you.”

  Gavin laughed. “Steady on, Blanche. I’ve never heard him say that to anyone.” He grinned. “Master Smythe, this is Lady Mary, once known as ‘Heart Heart,’ and now my betrothed.”

  Master Smythe managed a wriggle that might have been taken as a bow.

  The women sat. Master Smythe thought that they both had remarkable dignity, and made a note to court them. Perhaps one at a time.

  He smiled.

  Gabriel sat up. “I think won is too strong a word,” he said, ignoring his brother. “We are still standing.”

  Master Smythe took a deep breath and savoured the experience of being alive. “The first alliance of the W
ild and men,” he said. “That is a victory, is it not?” He paused. “Where is Ash?”

  There was a tiny shudder in the fabric of the aether.

  “Harmodius says he’s to the west.” Gabriel frowned. “That is what I mean. Nothing’s finished. The north of this kingdom is wrecked. Ten thousand are dead—and what of the Wild’s losses? Twice that.”

  Blanche put a hand over his mouth. “Stop saying such things,” she said. “We won.”

  “I can’t take any joy in it,” Gabriel said. “I thought it would be over.”

  Master Smythe sighed at the ways of men. “Nothing is ever over.” He smiled at the beautiful women, who ignored him. “We can do so much together,” Master Smythe said. He meant it to sound portentous.

  The other man raised the stump of his left arm. “We could buy gloves together,” he said.

  Master Smythe lay back, and laughed. “Humans are terrifying,” he said quietly.

  The next day, the Red Knight—the Duke of Thrake, and the Queen’s Captain—was dressed, carefully, by his leman and his squire, and then put—somewhat ceremoniously—into those parts of his armour that were still presentable and were light enough for him to wear.

  Armed, and armoured, he left the hospital tent raised by the Order of Saint Thomas, to where Ataelus, his war horse, untouched and unused through the great battle, waited for him with fondness and was rewarded with an apple.

  Then, with some help from Bad Tom, Toby and Ser Michael, he managed to mount.

  Tom rode by his side. He wore the full harness and surcoat of the primus pilus of the company.

  Out there, on the ground in front of the tents, waited the army.

  Gabriel didn’t flinch from his duty. He accepted the cheers, and then he rode slowly along the ranks. He felt curiously detached. He knew the butcher’s bill—but he still kept expecting to see men where they were not. Ser John Crayford, Count of Albinkirk, would never again lead the Albinkirk Independent Company. There was no company to lead, and the Captain of Albinkirk was dead. Nell was not by his side, and Kit Foliak would never buy another gold embroidered sword belt. The north Brogat levy was led by a man he’d never met, a northern knight. Lord Gregario was in one of Amicia’s wards, with the Grand Squire in the next bed.