The Blood Knight

by Greg Keyes

  “And bloody wonderful ones, too,” Anne snapped. “One of them tried to rape me.”

  “Not one of ours,” the honey-haired faith said. Her voice, too, was honeyed. “Someone our servants hired without knowing enough about him. In any event—”

  “In any event, you proved to me that I can’t trust you. I never really believed I could, but now I know for certain. You have my thanks for that.”

  “Anne—”

  “Yet I’ll give you one more chance. Do you understand my predicament? Can you see that much?”

  “Yes,” the palest Faith answered.

  “Well, then, if you’re so interested in my being queen, can you show me a way out of this that doesn’t involve freeing the Kept?”

  “You can’t free him, Anne.”

  “Really? And why is that, pray the saints?”

  “It would be very bad.”

  “That’s not an explanation.”

  “He is a Skaslos, Anne.”

  “Yes, and he’s promised to mend the law of death and die. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is it?”

  But they didn’t answer.

  “Very well,” Anne said. “If you won’t help me, I’ll do what I must.”

  The golden-haired Faith stepped forward.

  “Wait. The woman Alis. The two of you can escape.”

  “Indeed? How?”

  “She has walked the faneway of Spetura. If you augment her power with your own, you can pass through your enemies unseen.”

  “That’s the best you can do? What about my friends?”

  The women glanced at one another.

  “Right,” Anne said. “They don’t matter.” She turned away.

  “Farewell,” she said.

  “Anne—”

  “Farewell!”

  With that, the glade shattered like colored glass, and the darkness returned.

  “Well,” the Kept said. “You’ve compared the wares. Are you ready to deal?”

  “Can you lift the glamour on the passage? The one that makes them unknowable to men?”

  “Once I’m free, yes. But only once I’m free.”

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear it.”

  “Swear that once free, you will do as you’ve promised: mend the law of death and then die.”

  “I swear it by all that I am, by all that I ever was.”

  “Then place your neck at my feet.”

  There was a long pause, and then something heavy struck the floor near her. She raised her right foot and brought it down on something large, cold, and rough.

  “Anne, what are you doing?” Alis asked in the blackness. She sounded frantic.

  “Qexqaneh,” Anne said, lifting her voice. “I free you!”

  “No!” Alis shrieked.

  But of course, by then it was too late.

  Their mounted foes were all dead, and now the remaining defenders of the outer waerd were swarming to protect the gap opened by Artwair’s ballistae. The hole was almost near enough for Neil to touch when something struck his shoulder from above so hard that it drove him to his knees.

  Neil looked up dully at a man standing over him, lifting his sword to deliver the death blow. Neil cut clumsily at the fellow’s knees. His weapon was too blunted from slaughter to slice through the metal joint, but the bones within snapped from the impact just as the strike from above glanced hard from Neil’s helm.

  Head ringing, he rose grimly to his feet, put the tip of Battlehound on the man’s throat, and leaned.

  He had no idea how long they had been fighting, but the early culling had been done. He and the eight men he had left standing were pitted against perhaps twenty warriors with sword and shield and perhaps another five defenders on the wall who had the proper angle to shoot at them. Reinforcements trying to reach them across the causeway were still being ground up by concentrated missile fire from the waerd’s engines.

  He dropped down among the bodies and held his shield over his head, trying to catch his breath. The defenders were being smart and conservative, staying in the gap rather than rushing out of it.

  Neil glanced around at his men. Most were doing as he was, trying for a rest despite the rain of death from above.

  He reached to feel his shoulder, found an arrow jutting there, and broke it off. That sent a sharp, almost sweet jag of pain through his battle-numbed body.

  He glanced at the young knight Sir Edhmon, who crouched only a kingsyard away. The lad was bloody head to toe, but he still had two arms and two legs. He didn’t look frightened anymore. In fact, he didn’t look much of anything except tired.

  But when he glanced at Neil, he tried to grin. Then his expression changed, and his eyes focused elsewhere.

  For a moment Neil feared a wound had caught up with him, for those who died often saw the Tier de Sem as they left the world.

  But Edhmon wasn’t looking beyond the mortal sky; he was staring over Neil’s shoulder, off to sea.

  Neil followed his gaze as a fresh rain of arrows fell. He was greeted by a wondrous sight.

  Sails, hundreds of them. And though the distance was great, it was not too great to see the swan banner of Liery flying on the leading wave steeds.

  Neil closed his eyes and lowered his head, praying to Saint Lier to give him the strength he needed. Then he lifted his eyes and felt a sort of thunder enter his voice.

  “All right, lads,” he cried, swearing he heard not his own voice but his father’s exhorting the clan to battle at Hrungrete. “There’s Sir Fail and the fleet that’ll put the usurper to his heels if we do our jobs. If we don’t, those proud ships will be shattered, and their crews will go down to the draugs, because I know Fail well enough to tell you he’ll try to get through, no matter the odds, whether Thornrath is in Bloody Robert’s hands or no.

  “It’s not far we’ve got to go. We’re eight against twenty. That’s hardly more than two apiece. Saint Neuden loves odds like that. We’re all going to die lads, today or some other. The only question is, will you die with your sword rusting in a sheath or swinging in your hand?”

  With that he rose, bellowing the raven war cry of the MeqVrens, and the other seven leapt up with him, some shouting, some praying aloud to the battle saints. Sir Edhmon was silent, but his face held a grim joy that Neil recognized as his own.

  They marshaled shoulder to shoulder and charged up the slope.

  There was no great shock of contact this time; the shields bumped together, and the defenders pushed back, cutting over their rims. Neil waited for the blow, and when it hit the edge of his battle board, he hooked his sword arm up and over the weapon. Edhmon saw that and cut the arm Neil held thus trapped, half severing it.

  “Hold the line steady!” Neil shouted. The warrior in him wanted to surge over the fallen man, deeper into the defenders, but with numbers against them, that would be foolish. Their line was their only defense.

  One of the largest men Neil had ever seen pushed into the enemy force from behind. He was a head and a half taller than the rest of them, with a wild yellow mane and tattoos that marked him as a Weihand. He carried a sword longer than some men were tall, wielding it with both hands.

  As Neil watched helplessly, the giant reached over his own men, grabbed Sir Call by the plume of his helmet, and yanked him through the shield wall, where the Weihand’s comrades hacked him to pieces.

  With a roar of impotent rage, Neil slammed his shield into the man in front of him and beat at his head once, twice, thrice. The third time the shield dropped, and Battlehound slammed into his helm so hard that blood sprayed from his nose.

  He pointed his sword at the giant and raised his voice above the din.

  “Weihander! Thein athei was goth at mein piken!” he roared.

  The result was remarkable: The giant’s face, already red, went perfectly livid. He charged toward Neil, disrupting the shield line he was supposed to be defending.

  “What
did you say?” Sir Edhmon shouted, panting heavily.

  “I’ll tell you when you’re old enough,” Neil shot back. “But saints forgive me for insulting a woman I’ve never met.”

  Before the Weihander could reach him, a new man filled the line in front of him and let his shield drop a little, perhaps as a ruse. Neil jerked his own shield up and then quickly chopped back down so that the pointed bottom of the board caught on the top of his foe’s guard and brought him down on one knee. Neil then clubbed the back of his head with Battlehound’s hilt.

  Howling, the warrior charged into him, and they both went sliding down the rocky slope made by the fall of the waerd wall. Neil hit him again but couldn’t get the leverage he needed for a lethal blow; his arms and legs felt as if they’d been poured of lead.

  He dropped his sword and felt for the dagger at his waist. He found it but discovered his foe had had the same idea a moment earlier as he felt the point of a dirk scrabble against his breastplate. Cursing, he fought his weapon free, but the moment had been enough; his breath went cold as steel slid through the joint on his side and between his ribs.

  Choking back his scream, Neil plunged his knife under the back lip of the man’s helmet and into the base of his skull. His foe made a sound like a short laugh, jerked, then stopped moving.

  Grunting, Neil pushed the limp corpse off him and tried to stand, but he hadn’t managed that when the giant reached him. He got his shield up in time to catch a blow from the fellow’s huge sword. It struck like thunder, and something in the shield cracked.

  The giant cocked his weapon for another try, and Neil straightened and struck him under the chin with what remained of his shield. The Weihand stumbled back and fell.

  Unfortunately, so did Neil.

  Gasping, he threw off the board and retrieved Battlehound. A few kingsyards away, the Weihand rose to meet him.

  Neil glanced back at the gap and saw Edhmon and four others still standing; the waerd defenders seemed to have all fallen. Sir Edhmon was starting down the slope toward the giant.

  “No!” Neil shouted. “Stay together; find the siege engines. They’ll be lightly guarded. Stay together; make sure you get at least one of them! Then move on.”

  The Weihand glanced at Edhmon and the others, then grinned fiercely at Neil.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the giant.

  His enemy paused. “Slautwulf Thvairheison.”

  “Slautwulf, I apologize twice. Once for what I said about your mother, the second for killing you.”

  “Just the first will do,” Slautwulf said, hefting his sword. “Silly bugger. You can hardly lift your weapon.”

  Neil pressed his left hand over the hole in his side, but he knew there wasn’t any point; he couldn’t stop the blood.

  Slautwulf charged then, his greatsword arcing out to cut Neil in half. Neil intended to outdistance the blow by a hairsbreadth, then rush in during the backswing, but he stumbled in the retreat, almost losing his footing entirely. The stroke missed by a decent margin, though, and the Weihand came again.

  This time Neil narrowly avoided the stroke, then charged in as he’d planned. Slautwulf, however, anticipated that. Rather than trying to swing the blade again when he didn’t have time, he brought the hilt down on Neil’s helm. Neil let his legs go and collapsed, bending with the blow as much as he could, tumbling forward and thrusting Battlehound upward with all his might. He lay on his back with Slautwulf’s surprised face peering down at him.

  “I only have to lift it once,” Neil pointed out.

  “Jah,” Slautwulf managed, spitting blood as the greatsword dropped from his hands. The warrior hadn’t any armor beneath his battle skirt or undergarments, for that matter. Battlehound had pierced straight up through his groin, pelvis, intestines, and lungs.

  Neil managed to roll away before the giant toppled. They lay there for a moment, staring at each other.

  “Never worry,” Neil rasped in the Weihand’s tongue. ”Saint Vothen loves you. I see his valkirja coming for you already.”

  Slautwulf tried to nod. “I’ll see you in Valrohsn, then.”

  “Not just yet,” Neil said. He put his fist into the ground and began to push himself up.

  But an arrow knocked him back down, and all the wind out of him.

  I’ll just lie here a moment, he thought, gather up my strength. He closed his eyes, listening to his ragged breath.

  The ships, he remembered, and he wanted to see them again.

  His eyes felt as if they had been sewn shut, but after what seemed like an unimaginable effort, he managed to open them, only to find himself still facing Slautwulf. Sucking a deep, painful breath, he managed to turn his head to face the sea.

  Another arrow thumped into his breastplate.

  Right, he thought. Stupid. Now they know you’re still alive.

  But he didn’t have to move anymore. He could see the ships, the Lierish ships. Had he saved them? If Edhmon and the others managed to take down even one of the siege engines, Artwair could risk another charge, and enough would get through to take the waerd. With the elevation of the waerd to provide cover, they could take down the Thornrath gate in a day. They didn’t even have to occupy the whole wall, just enough of it to allow ships to enter through one of the great arches.

  If…

  His vision blurred until the sails and sea began to melt together. He tried to blink it away, but that only smudged things more. Gradually his vision focused once more, but instead of the sea he now saw a face, high-cheekboned, strong, pale as milk, with eyes so blue that they seemed blind. At first he thought it was the valkirja he’d lied to Slautwulf about seeing.

  But then he knew who it was.

  “Swanmway,” he murmured.

  Brinna, she seemed to say. Remember? My real name is Brinna.

  He remembered kissing her.

  He knew he ought to be thinking about Fastia, but as the light faded, it was only Brinna’s face he could hold in his mind.

  STEPHEN SHIVERED as he stepped onto the ledge. His vision plummeted through empty space for what seemed the better part of a league before it reached trees and stone. It couldn’t really be that far, because he could make out the figures of the praifec and his men approaching a sort of cul-de-sac in the mountain.

  Still, he gripped Zemlé’s hand more tightly.

  “I think I’ll be sick if I stay out here,” he said.

  “You’ve stone beneath your feet,” she answered. “Just remember that. You won’t fall.”

  “If a strong wind comes—”

  “Not very likely,” she assured him.

  “Look there,” said Ione, the ancient Sefry who had led them to this high aerie. He pointed, flinching as his hand came in contact with the light. Fend and his warriors wouldn’t have any such worry; the westering sun had already filled the valley below with shadow.

  Stephen leaned a little farther and saw what the old man was pointing at: a pool of deep blue water. And as if on cue, the woorm—khriim?—suddenly erupted from it.

  “Saints,” Stephen prayed, “let me have done the right thing.”

  Aspar froze for an instant, then grabbed for the pack on his back, cursing his luck. Naturally he would have his best shot at the thing when his bow was unstrung.

  He fumbled out the watertight bag and pried at its fastening, but the wax made it tough to get the knot open, especially when he found himself glancing up at the woorm every few heartbeats. It grasped at the trees with its short forelimbs, dragging its tail from the pool, rearing almost as high as Aspar sat. A perfect target…

  He heard the whir of an arrow and knew suddenly that the woorm wasn’t the only easy target. He heard it skip off the stone behind him. That meant the only place it could have come from was…

  There.

  Fend and his companion were in the monster’s saddle, and the companion was taking aim at Aspar again. Cursing, he levered himself up just as a red-fletched missile struck his boot. He didn’t feel any p
ain, but the impact and his reaction sent him tumbling toward the edge. He threw his arms out to catch himself…

  …and watched his bow, the string, and the black arrow fall toward the forest floor.

  “Ah, sceat,” he snarled.

  He spent exactly one heartbeat deciding what to do next. Then he leapt for the nearest treetop, some five kingsyards below him.

  The presence of the Kept seemed to uncoil all about her, stretching vaster with each instant, and her bones hummed as if a saw were cutting through them.

  Free.

  The word struck her as if the Kept had somehow cast it into a lead ingot and hurled it at her. Her breath voided her lungs in a single painful gasp, and her heart felt as if it were liquid with terror. Confidence, command, certainty—all were swept aside, and she was a mouse in an open field, watching the hawk descend.

  Free.

  There was no joy in the word. No elation, no relief. It was the most vicious sound Anne had ever heard. Tears exploded from her eyes, and she trembled uncontrollably. She had doomed them all, ruined everything…

  Freeeee.

  Something cracked like thunder, so loud that her shriek was lost in it.

  And then…nothing.

  He was gone.

  It took what seemed a very long time to regain control of herself and her emotions. She heard the others weeping and knew she wasn’t alone, but that did nothing to ease the humiliation.

  Finally, after an age, Austra had the presence of mind to relight the lamp.

  Their eyes confirmed that the chamber was empty. It was much larger than she had imagined.

  “What have you done?” Alis asked weakly. “Dear saints, what have you done?”

  “W-what I thought was best,” Anne managed. “I had to do something.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Cazio said.

  Anne started to try to explain, but her breath caught, and she suddenly felt like crying again.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait a moment, and I’ll try—”

  Something suddenly hammered on the other side of the secret door.

  “We’re found!” Austra gasped.

  Cazio came to his feet and drew his weapon. He looked shaky, but it gave Anne heart. Screwing up her resolve, she determined to be strong.