The Blood Knight

by Greg Keyes

  Neil stumbled, saw a bow bend and the tip of an arrow come down, felt the line drawn through the air to his eye. He knew his shield had dropped too low, that he would never bring it back up in time.

  Suddenly the archer dropped his weapon and reached awkwardly for the shaft that had appeared in his own forehead.

  Neil couldn’t afford the time to turn and see who had saved his life. Instead, he crouched deeper behind his shield, measuring the last few yards, and then—howling again—flung himself at the shield wall, battering boss to boss with the green-eyed boy.

  The fellow did what he ought to do and gave ground so that his fellow shieldmen could move up and put Neil inside the line, surrounding him.

  But they didn’t know what Neil carried. The feysword he’d taken from the pieces of a man who could not die lashed through the air, leaving in its soughwake the faint scent of lightning. It cleaved the lifted shield that hovered before him, through the metal cap and skull beneath, through an emerald eye, exiting finally below the ear before twisting to shear through the ribs of the next closest man.

  Along with his battle rage, Neil felt a sort of sick anger. There was nothing chivalrous about the use of such a weapon. To fight against overwhelming odds was one thing. To claim victory by shinecraft was another.

  But duty and honor didn’t always go together, he had learned. And in this case, it was duty that swung the sword he had named Draug.

  The simple fact was, feysword or not, this wasn’t a fight he was likely to win.

  Someone grappled with him at his knees, coming at him from behind, and Neil cut down and back, only to find another armored body in the way. Draug bit deeply, but the pommel of a broadsword smacked hard into Neil’s helm, and he toppled into the snow. Another man wrapped around his arm, and he couldn’t swing the sword anymore.

  The world flared entirely red as he struggled, waiting for the dagger that would inevitably work around his gorget or through his visor. He was suddenly and strangely reminded of sinking into the waves back in z’Espino, dragged down by his armor, his helplessness mingled with relief that his trials were finally over.

  Except that this time there was no relief. Anne was out there, in danger, and he would burn the last tinder of his strength to prevent her coming to harm. To more harm. If she wasn’t already dead.

  So he struck with the only weapon he had left, his head, butting it into the nearest panting face, and was rewarded with the cartilage crunch of a breaking nose. That was the fellow pinning his left arm, which he brought up now with all the strength of his battle rage, punching into the fellow’s throat. That sent him back.

  Then something slammed into his helm with all the weight of the world, and black snow fell from a white sky.

  When his head cleared, Neil found someone kneeling over him. He levered himself up with a snarl, and the man leapt back, gabbling in a foreign tongue. To his surprise, Neil found that his limbs were free.

  As the red haze parted, he realized that the man kneeling over him had been the Vitellian, Cazio. The swordsman was standing at a respectful distance now, his odd light weapon held in a relaxed ward.

  “Hush, knight,” a nearby voice said. “You’re with friends now.”

  Neil pushed himself up and turned to regard a man of early middle years with a sun-browned face and close-cropped dark hair plentiful with silver. Another shake of his head and he recognized Aspar White, the king’s holter. Just beyond were the younger Stephen Darige and the honey-haired Winna Rufoote, both crouching and alert in the bloodied snow.

  “Best keep your head down,” Aspar said. “There’s another nest of archers out that way.” He gestured with his chin.

  “I thought you were all dead,” Neil said.

  “Yah,” Aspar said. “We thought you were, too.”

  “Anne is where?” Cazio demanded in his heavy Vitellian accent.

  “You didn’t see?” Neil asked accusingly. “You were riding right next to her.”

  “Yes,” Cazio said, concentrating on trying to get his words right. “Austra riding a little behind, with Stephen. Arrows started, yes, and then, ah, eponiros come up road with, ah, long haso—”

  “The lancers, yes,” Neil said. Archers had appeared all along their flanks, and then a wedge of horsemen, charging down the road. The cavalry from Dunmrogh hadn’t had time to form up well but had met them, anyway.

  Neil had killed three of the riders personally but had found himself pushed farther and farther away from Anne. When he’d returned to the scene, he’d discovered nothing but the dead and no sign whatever of the heir to the throne of Crotheny.

  “Was trick,” Cazio said. “Came, ah, aurseto, struck me here.” He indicated his head, which was sticky with blood.

  “I don’t know that word,” Neil said.

  “Aurseto,” Cazio repeated. “Like, ah, water, air—”

  “Invisible,” Stephen interrupted. The novice priest turned to Cazio. “Uno viro aurseto?”

  “Yes,” Cazio said, nodding vigorously. “Like cloud, color of snow, on epo, same—”

  “A horse and rider the color of the snow?” Neil asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Cazio confirmed. “Guarding Anne, I hear noise behind me—”

  “And he hit you in the back of the head.”

  “Yes,” Cazio said, his face falling.

  “I don’t believe you,” Neil snapped. He hadn’t entirely approved of this fellow since he had helped persuade Anne to leave Neil to his death back in Vitellio. True, Cazio had saved Anne’s life on several occasions, but his motives seemed to be mostly salacious. Neil knew for a fact that such motives were untrustworthy and subject to violent change. He was a braggart, too, and though he was an effective enough street brawler—phenomenal, in fact—he hadn’t the slightest sense of war discipline.

  More than all that, Neil had learned to his chagrin that few people in the world were what they seemed.

  Something dangerous glinted in Cazio’s eyes, and he stood straighter, then put his palm on the hilt of his sword. Neil took a deep breath and dropped his hand toward Draug.

  “Believe him,” Aspar grunted.

  “Asp? You?” Winna said.

  “Werlic. There were three of ’em, at least. Why do you think I didn’t make it back to warn you about the ambush? They aren’t invisible, not exactly, but it’s as the lad said. They’re like smoke, and you can see through ’em. If you know where to look, you can tell they’re there, but if you don’t, they can give you quite a surprise.

  “The other thing is, if you kill ’em, they come solid again, them and their mounts, even if the mounts aren’t scratched. Near as I can tell—their trick aside—they’re just men.”

  Stephen frowned. “That reminds me of—I read about a faneway once…” He scratched his jaw, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  “More churchmen,” Aspar grunted. “Just what we need.”

  Cazio was still tense, focused on Neil, hand on the hilt of his weapon.

  “Apologies,” Neil told the swordsman. “Persnimo. I am overwrought and jumped to conclusions.”

  Cazio relaxed a bit and nodded.

  “Holter White,” Neil asked, “do these invisible men leave tracks?”

  “Yah.”

  “Then let’s kill those fellows over there and find our queen.”

  Their attackers had left more than two groups of defenders in their path, that became clear.

  Another few hundred pereci from where they found the knight, they ran into another bunch, though these were fewer in number. They didn’t last long, but Aspar warned them to expect more up ahead.

  Cazio was reminded of the nursery tale about a boy, lost in the forest, who came upon a grand triva. The triva turned out to be the home of a three-headed ogre who caught the boy and planned to eat him. Instead, the ogre’s daughter took a liking to him and helped him escape.

  Together they fled, pursued by the father, who was faster and soon caught up to them. The girl had her o
wn tricks, though. She threw a comb behind them, and it became a hedge through which the ogre was forced to tear. She flung down a wineskin, which became a river…

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Cazio realized with a start that the priest was only a few paces away. Stephen spoke Vitellian, and though he sounded very old-fashioned, it was a relief to be able to talk without so much thinking.

  “Combs and hedges, wineskins and rivers,” he said mysteriously.

  Stephen quirked a smile. “So we’re the ogre?”

  Cazio blinked. He’d thought he was being mysterious.

  “You think too quickly,” he commented wryly.

  “I walked the faneway of Saint Decmanus,” Stephen replied. “I can’t help it—the saint blessed me.” He stopped and smiled. “I’ll bet your version of the story is different from the one I know. Does the boy’s brother kill the ogre in the end?”

  “No, he leads it to a church, and the attish sacritor slays it by ringing the clock three times.”

  “Oh, now that’s very interesting,” Stephen said, and he seemed to mean it.

  “If you insist,” Cazio granted. “In any event, yes, we’re all turned around. It’s the ogre we’re pursuing, and he’s the one leaving obstacles. But I wonder why.

  “Up until now they’ve been trying to kill Anne. The knights who pursued us never made any effort to capture her alive. But if these melcheos had wanted to kill her, they could have done it easily, when they caught me napping.” He gingerly touched the wound on his head.

  “At least you saw him for a second,” Stephen said. “I didn’t even catch a glimpse of the one who took Austra. Really, it’s not your fault.”

  “Of course it is,” Cazio insisted, waving away the absolution. “I was with her—and I’ll get her back. And if they’ve harmed her, I’ll kill every last one of the purcapercators.

  “But that still doesn’t answer my question. Why didn’t they just murder her?”

  “There could be any number of reasons,” Stephen said. “The priests back in Dunmrogh wanted her blood for a ritual sacrifice—”

  “Yes, but that was only because they needed a woman of noble birth, and the one they had was killed. Besides, we stopped that business.”

  “It might not be the same business. We prevented the enemy once, but there are many more cursed faneways in this forest, and I’m willing to bet that there are more renegades trying to awaken them. Each faneway is particular, with its own gift—or curse. Maybe they need the blood of a princess again.”

  “The men in Dunmrogh were mostly churchmen and knights from Hansa. I’ve seen neither in this group we’re facing now.”

  Stephen shrugged. “But we’ve fought foes like this before, before we met you. There were monks involved then, too, and men without any identifiable standard or nation. Even Sefry.”

  “Then the enemy isn’t the Church?”

  “We don’t know who the enemy is, ultimately,” Stephen admitted. “The Hanzish knights and churchmen at Dunmrogh had the same dark goals as the men Aspar and Winna and I fought before—not far from here, in fact. We think they’re all taking their commands from the praifec in Crotheny, Marché Hespero. But for all we know, he’s taking his orders from someone else altogether.”

  “What do they all want?”

  Stephen chuckled bitterly. “As far as we can tell, to waken a very ancient and potent evil.”

  “Why?”

  “For power, I suppose. I can’t genuinely say. But these men attacking us now? I don’t know what they want. You’re right; they seem different. Maybe they’re in the employ of the usurper.”

  “Anne’s uncle?” Cazio thought that was who Stephen meant. In truth, the whole situation was a bit confusing.

  “Right,” Stephen confirmed. “He might still have reason to want her kept alive.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Cazio said.

  “You have feelings for her?” Stephen asked.

  “I am her protector,” Cazio said, a little irritated by the question.

  “No more than that?”

  “No. No more.”

  “Because it seems as if—”

  “Nothing.” Cazio asserted. “I befriended her before I knew who she was. And besides, this is none of your business.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t,” Stephen said. “Look, I’m sure she and her maid—”

  “Austra.”

  Stephen’s eyebrow lifted, and he quirked an annoying little smile. “Austra,” he repeated. “We’ll find them, Cazio. You see that man up there?”

  “Aspar? The woodsman?”

  “Yes. He can follow any trail; I can personally guarantee it.”

  Cazio noted that light flakes were falling from the sky again.

  “Even in this?” he asked.

  “In anything,” Stephen said.

  Cazio nodded. “Good.”

  They rode along in silence for a moment.

  “How did you meet the princess?” Stephen asked.

  Cazio felt a smile stretch his lips. “I am from Avella, you know? It’s a town in the Tero Mefio. My father was a nobleman, but he was killed in a duel and didn’t leave me much. Just a house in Avella and z’Acatto.”

  “The old man we left in Dunmrogh?”

  “Yes. My swordmaster.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “He’s a drunken, overbearing, arrogant—Yes, I miss him. I wish he were here now.” He shook his head. “But Anne—z’Acatto and I went to visit a friend in the country—the countess Orchaevia—to take some air. As it happened, her triva and estates were near the Coven Saint Cer.

  “I was walking that way one day and found the princess, ah, in her bath.” He turned quickly to Stephen. “You must understand, I had no idea who she was.”

  Stephen’s look sharpened abruptly. “Did you do anything?”

  “Nothing, I swear.” His smile broadened as he remembered. “Well, I perhaps flirted a bit,” he admitted. “I mean, in a barren countryside to find an exotic girl, already unclothed—it certainly seemed like a sign from Lady Erenda.”

  “Did you actually see her unclothed body?”

  “Ah, well, just a bit of it.”

  Stephen sighed heavily and shook his head. “And here I was beginning to like you, swordsman.”

  “I told you, I had no idea.”

  “I probably would have done the same thing. But the fact that you didn’t know who she was, well, it doesn’t matter. Cazio, you saw a princess of the blood in the flesh, a princess who, if we succeed in our quest, will become the queen of Crotheny. Don’t you understand what that means? Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Any man who looks upon a princess of the blood—any man save her consecrated husband—must suffer blinding or death. The law is more than a thousand years old.”

  “What? You’re joking.”

  But Stephen was frowning. “My friend,” he said, “I have never been more serious.”

  “But Anne never said anything.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t. She probably imagines that she can beg leniency for you, but the law is very specific, and even as queen, the matter would be out of her hands; it would be enforced by the Comven.”

  “But this is absurd,” Cazio protested. “I saw nothing but her shoulders, and perhaps the smallest glimpse of—

  “I did not know!”

  “No one else knows this,” Stephen said. “If you were to slip off…”

  “Now you’re being even more ridiculous,” Cazio said, feeling his hackles rise. “I’ve braved death for Anne and Austra many times over. I’ve sworn to protect them, and no man of honor would back away from such a promise just because he feared some ridiculous punishment. Especially now, when she’s in the clutches of—”

  He stopped and stared closely at Stephen.

  “There is no such law, is there?” he demanded.

  “Oh, there is,” Stephen said, controlling himself with obviou
s effort. “As I said, it’s a thousand years old. It hasn’t been enforced in more than five hundred, though. No, I think you’re safe, old fellow.”

  Cazio glared at Stephen. “If you weren’t a priest…”

  “But I’m not,” Stephen said. “I was a novice, and I did walk the faneway of Saint Decmanus. But I had a sort of falling-out with the Church.”

  “With the Church itself? You think the entire Church is evil?”

  Stephen clucked his tongue for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m starting to fear so.”

  “But you mentioned this praifec…”

  “Hespero. Yes, Aspar, Winna, and I were sent on a mission by Praifec Hespero, but not the mission we ended on. What we discovered is that the corruption runs very deep in the Church, perhaps all the way back to z’Irbina and the Fratrex Prismo.”

  “That’s impossible,” Cazio asserted.

  “Why impossible?” Stephen said. “The men and women of the Church are just that, men and women, as easily corrupted by power and wealth as anyone else.”

  “But the lords and ladies—”

  “In the king’s tongue we call them saints,” Stephen said.

  “Whatever you call them, they would never allow so deep a stain on their Church.”

  Stephen smiled, and Cazio found it a very unsettling smile.

  “There are many saints,” he said. “And they are not all pure.” He suddenly looked distracted. “A moment,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I hear something,” he said. “More men up ahead. And something else.”

  “Your saint-blessed ears, yes? Before, when they ambushed us, why didn’t you hear that?”

  Stephen shrugged. “I really don’t know. Maybe whatever saint-gift or dwemor it was that made the kidnappers invisible dulled my hearing, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to tell Aspar…and Neil.”

  “Yes,” Cazio said. “I’ll keep my sword ready.”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  Cazio watched Stephen trot his horse, Angel, up toward the rest, and, feeling somewhat glum, drew Caspator and rubbed his thumb along the deep notch that marred the strong part of the blade, a notch made by the same glittering witch-sword now carried by Sir Neil.