by E. V. Greig
Althanor gaped at him. “Really, oh may I really come along, milord?”
“Of course you may! Why, that is the very best part of being a page: all of the grand adventures that one gets to go on!”
“Then why didn’t you, sorry, why did you not bring me along before?”
“Yes, well you see, Althanor, my dear niece has some very odd ideas relating to something that she refers to as safeguarding.”
“You mean she forbid it?”
“Yes, child, she did.” Ranulf sighed. “It is utter double standards on her part, mind you – she went on dozens of capers as a little girl!”
Chapter Six
Misericord was watching the Lady as she slept. It was one of his preferred pastimes: rarely was she ever so perfectly peaceful when prescient. Still, sleep seemed to soothe her. Save of course, when it did not. There were her nightmares too. Her stifled screams saddened him then. Tonight, however, all appeared auspicious.
“You’re staring at me.”
The witchfinder winced at her words. “Forgive me, my Lady.” He made to turn away.
“Don’t...please, Misericord. Don’t disappear. Not now.”
He hung on the pleasant patterning of her plea. “As my Lady likes, so shall I stay.”
Naomi opened her eyes fully and sat up. She patted the mattress next to her. “Then stay with me, Misericord. We have danced around it long enough.”
“That would be most improper, my Lady.” He would not meet her gaze.
“Why? Because you are a witchfinder – do such individuals never...?”
Misericord pressed his finger to her lips, silencing her speech. “No, not never: I myself am of a lengthy line of learned finders. It is impossible, however. We walk in different worlds, my Lady.”
She took his hand and cradled it in hers. “Explain it to me, Misericord. Please.”
“I am simply a seventh son of a seventh son, my Lady. My rank is too remote. I am unworthy.”
“Misericord, you have survived horrors that would have killed any lesser person! You have saved my life on more occasions than I can count! You are always there for me – how can you say that you are unworthy?”
“It would be an improper pairing, my Lady. And I have all too often failed to aid you.”
“What; do you mean with Efrym, or with that mad old priest yesterday? For those are the only two times that I can think of when you have not been there! And yesterday you had not had a choice in the matter.”
“I chose not to bother Bandhir,” Misericord replied. “I ought to have detected his deception, my Lady.”
“You kept away from us both, as I recall it. Grant me your reasoning.”
He had no skin, or he would have blushed at that. “I wished not to watch you waylaid by his wooing. His courting you caused me concern.”
“I wish that you had mentioned it.”
“He made you merry.”
“So do you.”
“So did Skegyl.”
Naomi went very pale indeed. “That was a cruel thing to say, and well you know it!”
“I am a witchfinder, my Lady. Cruelty is common to my craft.” He turned away from her then: lacing his long fingers in front of him. He would not will himself to watch her weep.
“You ought to know me better by now, Misericord. I’m not afraid of a few cruel words.”
“Do we still dance then, my Lady?”
“You seem surprised. Skegyl died, Misericord. I loved him, yes that is true. A part of me still loves him. That is a widow’s fate, provided her marriage was a good one. Nonetheless, he’s gone. He chose the path of an adventurer over his life with me, and it cost us both dearly. Now I can either mourn forever or live. It is not wise to attempt both.”
He shifted his weight uneasily. “My Lady is always wise.”
“Not always, my brave blade.”
“Perhaps then it is only proper that I persist in preserving our propriety.”
“Perchance are you being playful now?”
“If it be so, then surely have you skilfully tripped me with my own trick, my Lady.”
She stepped around him and stared resolutely into his eyes: her hands on her hips. “So where do we stand?”
Misericord reached forward and held her hands in his own unfeeling grasp. “Together, my Lady.”
Still she held his gaze. “We will have to find a means of replacing your equipment, won’t we?”
“I would personally prefer to procure it from that vexing vandreth, my Lady.” Misericord drew Naomi ever so slightly closer to himself.
“It means a lot to you, doesn’t it? It isn’t simply a matter of replacing your belongings.”
“No, my Lady.” He eased them gradually into their nascent embrace: liking that she would let him lead like this.
Naomi kept her eyes trained on his: never so much as glancing toward the rest of his scarred form. “It is a part of who you are, isn’t it?”
“They took my skin,” he murmured, ducking his head briefly to kiss her neck, before locking eyes with her once more. “They sought to open a dark door most dangerous, and to let in a creature most cruel.”
“Still you survived.” Naomi breathed the words. “And now you have a new skin: your armour, your silver mask.”
“Indeed: the self same stuff that those uncouth undead so very swiftly stripped away and stole from me, my Lady.” Misericord moved his arms to wrap them about her waist. It is difficult to judge what I am doing with such severely stunted sensations.
She buried her face against his chest. “So we must simply steal it back then.”
He raised his hands up and toyed with the shoulders of her gown. “A dangerous dance indeed, my Lady.”
“They are the best kind of all, are they not, Misericord?” She gasped as he traced his thumb across her newly healed collarbone. “Don’t stop – I didn’t gasp due to pain, I promise you!”
“But you are yet bruised, my Lady. I would wish to wait before continuing our waltz.”
Naomi leant against him, quivering. “Perchance some other time then, witchfinder.”
He kissed her softly upon the lips. “A time when we are both well, my Lady.”
“I shall hold you to that, my silver faced one.”
∞∞∞
“Sir Palos! Father Olwyn is missing again, and so is one of the pilgrims!”
Palos leapt to his feet, abandoning his breakfast. “Which one?”
“The scarred zealot was not in his cell and cannot be found anywhere in the monastery. His companion seems to be most upset.”
“Why did he depart without the woman? I thought that he was her servant.” Palos frowned.
“I did not think to ask her, Sir Palos. Forgive me, please.”
“It is no matter, Tomas. When was Father Olwyn last seen, and where?”
“Father Beren checked on him at first light. He was ensconced in the infirmary, and the door to his cell firmly bolted from the outside. He could not have gotten out unaided, Sir Palos.”
“I shall find them both, Tomas. Our Lord Anyo shall guide me.”
“I pray that it shall be so, Sir Palos.”
∞∞∞
Misericord eyed his capricious old companion carefully. “Shall we slay some restless revenants, Father Olwyn?”
“Of course we shall, my most pious friend!” The aged abbot smiled. “Praise onto our Lord Anyo! And may He bless you for granting me this final chance to honour His name with my deeds!”
“A clean death is all that any man may wish for, Father Olwyn. Mercifully free of madness and misery alike. Come now: let us deal finally with these ihldhyr.”
The witchfinder led the way back towards the court of King Ravin. Father Olwyn followed him happily: singing a half-forgotten hymn as he went. He would provide an ample distraction. Misericord melted into the shadow cast by the wall that surrounded the palace grounds. Father Olwyn continued to hobble along, still singing. It would be worse to wait for him to wither.
>
There was the tramp of boots and scraping of bones as a unit of skeletal foot soldiers marched into view. Father Olwyn uttered a bloodcurdling roar and limped into his best attempt at a charge. “For our Lord Anyo!”
He swung his staff at the ihldhyr. They splintered into shards beneath the fierce force of the blow. Misericord was most impressed indeed. Die dutifully and cleanly, cleric.
The witchfinder sprang lightly onto the top of the wall, and then dropped down into the depths of the shadowy shrubbery at its far side. Already he could hear yet more monsters converging upon the confused old clergyman. Father Olwyn sounded supremely pleased about this. “Into the light with you, foul creatures! In the name of our Lord Anyo – be still forever!”
A skull sailed over the wall and bounced past Misericord’s feet. Impressive indeed, for someone so senile! Much as Misericord had reckoned that they would, the restless revenants went racing to defend their dread master’s domicile. Which leaves the way back inside via the window utterly unguarded.
∞∞∞
“I want nothing to do with him, Isyl Kolbez!” The par’anth slammed her fists angrily against her mentor’s desk. “You promised me when you adopted me as a child that I would never be forced into marriage!”
“Tyras thinks that he can win your heart, Isylla Moonbrooke. He shall not force you into anything – let the fool seek to please you! If he attempts to force your consent, then I shall turn him into a squirrel. Provided that you do not beat me to it, that is.”
“Promise me that you shall stand by me, Isyl Kolbez?”
“My child, I shall always support you. Do not think so poorly of yourself: you are not a slave anymore! You are one of the finest teachers in the entire guild. You have won your rank as a noble three times over through your diligence and loyalty. The king himself admires you greatly. Sadly, that is bound to attract would-be suitors.” The ancient sylvanth smiled at his ward.
“They will spurn me fast enough once they have seen how ugly I am.” She reached up and touched the veil that covered her face.
“You are not ugly, child.” He patted her head, as he had done when he first found her cowering in an alleyway behind the Isylth guild. “You are brave, and strong, and very clever. I am proud to call you my ward, Lia.”
She sighed. “Thank you, Isyl Kolbez. I only hope that it will not be too long until Tyras loses interest in pursuing me!”
“He has always had a short attention span. I would expect him to be distracted soon enough, child.”
∞∞∞
“What do you mean that there is a priest of Anyo attacking the main gate?” King Ravin glared at the messenger. “Why am I being troubled with this?”
“It is your old nemesis, sire: the priest, Father Olwyn! The one that...!”
Ravin snarled and hurled the messenger aside. “I know what he did! Long have I awaited my revenge!” The vandreth strode out of his throne room, followed by all of his court.
Misericord stepped out of the shadows and crossed to where his armour and weapons hung on display. The witchfinder dressed swiftly, pulling his silver mask on last of all. Then he spun and raced back towards the window, drawing his blades as he went. “And now to bitter battle shall I bound!”
∞∞∞
“Ho there, you wretches! How very dare you take my griffin?” Ranulf shook his fist at the offending parties. “I suppose now you want help landing him, eh?”
Elharan nodded. “Well now it couldn’t hurt, milord! Given that according to Luath, that’s King Ravin’s palace directly below us just now.”
Gyrfalcon pointed towards the front of the main gate. “It looks to me as if there’s already a fight going on! Do you suppose Naomi’s tangled up in it somehow?”
Ranulf groaned. “More than probably: I have come to expect it of her, to be honest!” He whistled to both of the griffins. The great beasts screeched and dove towards the battle below them. Their master laughed and drew his sabre. “Why ‘tis been an age ‘ere since I last had so much damned good fun!”
Elharan pulled out his pistol and aimed it at the enemy with the fanciest looking garb. “Here’s hoping you’re their king!” He fired, hanging on to Gyrfalcon’s waist with his free arm. The Par’dath was standing up in the saddle: ready to leap into the very midst of the fighting. Tik-Tik had already jumped and was chewing enthusiastically on the arm of another of the assorted restless dead.
Luath yelped as Lord Von Rosenhof tossed Althanor to him as the griffins landed. “Mind the lad, my good fellow!”
“I – but I cannot fight!”
“Best learn quickly!” Gyrfalcon leapt from the saddle with a roar. “Briersburge!”
“Don’t panic, Luath: I’ll cover you.” Elharan pulled off another shot and began to reload. “Those monsters don’t seem to be very familiar with gunpowder!”Althanor and Luath were both cowering and covering their ears. “Huh. Sorry about the noise, by the way.”
Spellsnitcher shot out of the saddlebag with a yowl and sped to where a familiar black clad figure was whirling amidst the enemy. “Where be mine cousin, witchfinder?” He clawed out the eyes of an unfortunate ghoul.
“She is safe, beast, of that I may most absolutely assure you.” Misericord staked another of Ravin’s minions. “I left her in the cloistered confines of a monastery and came back to deal with this dreadful despot.”
“For Anyo!”
“And prithee, who is that, witchfinder?”
“That is Father Olwyn: the confused cleric. He is pursuing his final peace through pious purging of these restless ruffians.” The witchfinder back flipped over two vandrethir, landed on his feet, spun and neatly decapitated them both. “It has been a battle most brilliant, beast. But what brings you here?”
“I’m going to guess that they came to rescue us both,” snapped a voice. “Now watch yourselves!” They sprang aside just in time to avoid a rolling ball of corpses that moaned and grabbed at everything in its path.
“Cousin!”
“My Lady!”
“Misericord, we will have words about this later!” Naomi scooped up Spellsnitcher with one hand, and stabbed a zombie through the eye and into the brain with the other. Spellsnitcher purred happily.
“But how did you come upon this combat, my Lady?” Misericord staked another vandreth.
“Once Sir Palos mentioned that Father Olwyn was also missing, I guessed that you would come here to give him the chance to die in battle instead of suffering from dementia. So I insisted on tagging along.” She grinned at him and pointed with her dagger. “Look!”
“For the glory of our Lord Anyo – charge! Final death to the tyrant and his servants!” A dozen golden armoured knights galloped into the rear of the ihldhyri army. “Into the light of our Lord Anyo!”
Naomi surveyed the battle. Gyrfalcon and Tik-Tik appeared to have started looting the corpses. Snapper and Striker were fiercely guarding Elharan and the two hapless par’anthir. “What are Althanor and Luath doing here and why is my uncle going toe to toe with a horde? He’s supposed to be retired!”
“I am rescuing you and Misericord, my dear! Jolly nice day for a battle, is it not?”
“For Anyo!” Father Olwyn bellowed as he hobbled past in pursuit of some more skeletons. “By His light now be still forever!” The skeletons crumbled.
“Well, on the bright side, he certainly seems invigorated,” observed Naomi.
“Father Olwyn! I am come to kill you, priest!”
The voice of King Ravin echoed across the battle, and a wave of pure terror went with it. The griffins hissed and took wing, Elharan, Luath, and Althanor clinging on desperately as the beasts fled. Gyrfalcon shuddered and stepped back, and Tik-Tik cowered: hissing and spitting unintelligibly. Ranulf staggered briefly, and Misericord froze to the spot.
The Anyosian knights cried out and began to retreat: save for Sir Palos, who raised his sword in defiance. His horse squealed and pitched him off headlong into a small mob of vandrethir, before bolting
flat out into the wall of the palace grounds – snapping its poor neck. Naomi flinched at that but remained unafraid. Spellsnitcher merely yawned, and dropped languidly from her arms to lap at some of the blood that soaked the ground.
The abbot scowled and raised his staff. His voice was querulous with age as he replied, utterly unafraid. “It is past time that I send you to your final rest, unnatural one!”
